Author's note: The boldface and italics are intentional, a form of concrete poetry that serves to augment the story. Apologies if it seems distracting, but once you've finished, you'll understand...=)
a Road lEss traveleD
Chapter 1:
99 Red Balloons
One thing Patrick Jane had observed very early on in his life was the fact that it was very difficult to keep a helium-filled balloon from floating into the sky using only the palm of one's hand.
Helium, being lighter than air, will find any imperfection, any crack, any bump or tremor to move its molecules upwards towards lesser densities, taking the latex with it. In just the same way, an ice cube held underwater will rise once released. It was simple physics, he'd always reckoned, with an amusing twist of anatomy thrown in for good measure.
Yep, helium-filled balloons were notoriously hard to keep down. Especially the red ones.
Now, this was not a fact he shared frequently with people, given the rather odd, mundane nature of the observation, but Patrick Jane was an observant fellow, and this was simply one of the many, many, many things he had observed in his life. Most of those things were odd, or mundane and on the surface, useless, having meaning only for him as he routinely pieced together the threads of people's lives using observations such as this. And therefore, like most of them, he concluded that this peculiar observation was meant for him, and him alone. Sharing would mean explaining, and sometimes explaining was simply too tedious, demanded far too much will and mental energy, and he was, after all, a firm believer in the conservation of energy.
pop
Another thing he had observed was the fact that a popping balloon sounded very much like a gunshot.
bang bang bang
His heart had stopped cold at that moment. Even once he heard her voice, heard her assure him that she was okay, he wasn't entirely certain that it had started up again. Wasn't certain it ever would. And that had set the balloon rocking.
Normally, with a dread sense of calm and unparalleled focus, he could keep that balloon under his palm for hours. Days, weeks, months, even years as the case may be. He was skilled in that regard, a master of biomechanics. Hell, he could probably juggle with the other hand, and jump on one foot while keeping that balloon down.
Interesting, he thought. The juggling, he'd also been doing for years.
But there were always imperfections. Imperfections that threatened to release that balloon, send it rolling out from under his hand and sailing up into the sky, quite likely never to return. Most balloons had a tether, a string keeping it in the hand and therefore, controlled. But his string had been snapped long ago. It had only been a serious act of the will to keep the balloon balanced and under control since then.
So, first there had been the popping.
And then there had been the man.
The man with red hair and red glasses. A newspaper opened to a huge Clearance sale, a bold slash of red against the black and white print. A devil without horns. A monster in a politician's suit.
The balloon had grown very wobbly then. It wanted to be released, to be sent soaring up, up, up to the heavens and so it had rocked against the imperfections in his palm, the minute tremor of fatigue, the slight twitch of indecision. But he had held it down until the bang bang bang of his own, a perfect counterpoint to the music started so long ago. The crescendo to the symphony of his miserable life.
And still, to his great surprise, he held the balloon down.
He'd sat, had tea, surrendered to the officers who had been too terrified to shoot. He'd allowed them to cuff him, frisk him, take him 'downtown.' He didn't know where exactly, nor did he care. It was all about the balloon now. Patrick Jane and his damned red balloon.
She said she'd been injured but would be fine. He believed her. She wouldn't lie about that. But neither would she be able to come, to bail him out, to chew him out, tear a strip off him. He needed her punishments. It was the only way he had stayed sane these long years. Teresa Lisbon and her moral compass. She had her own balloons, but those she kept hidden in a drawer in her desk. Or under her bed. She was good at hiding. Almost as good as he.
He was sitting now in an interrogation room somewhere. Not the CBI. Downtown. Once they had found his consultant's badge, they had ceased and desisted. Good thing. He wasn't sure he could speak. His eyes were dry and dull, and he wasn't certain if he could even blink. He wished they would bring him some tea. Tea healed things.
The door opened again, as it had many, many times. Familiar shapes moved into his peripheral vision, a large brown shape and a taller grey one, but for some reason, he could not focus. The balloon was taking up all of his reserves. He should just let it go, he knew, but something was preventing him. Something about the plan, something the red-haired man had said, and it bothered him to no end.
"Patrick?"
It was a familiar voice, low and gravelly and thick like mud. He remembered a little white dog and Hummel figurines and a very old bottle of Scotch.
"Patrick, can you hear me?"
He nodded. At least, that's what he thought he did. He couldn't be sure. He was so very tired.
The large shape moved in, a face like a peeled potato looked into his. The smell of dog shampoo, coffee and tictacs. He shivered, and it dawned on him that he was very cold.
The face moved away.
"His pupils are dilated," said the large shape to the taller one. "I think he's in shock.
"You don't think he's faking it?" said the tall grey shape. A pleasant voice in a medium timbre, controlled and conciliatory, like a politician. "He could be faking it."
The large shape sighed, a deep rumbling sound that rattled the floorboards. "Hm. Possible. He is a master at biomechanical feedback."
Yes, you simpletons, thought Patrick. That's why I still have the damned balloon. Buffoons, the lot of you.
The large shape pulled up a chair. The legs made scratching sounds on the floor. The seat creaked under a great weight.
"Patrick, can you look at me?"
He was cold and tired and Teresa Lisbon was injured but she would be fine. He wanted to lie down in a bed of sea grass by the ocean and close his eyes to the world. Instead, all he could see was gray floor and gray walls and a big ugly brown suit.
"Patrick? Please?"
He did as he was asked. It was only polite, and etiquette still mattered. He was trying so very hard.
"Thank you, Patrick. How are you feeling?"
He blinked, not understanding the question. At least his eyes worked.
"Patrick, you've done a very bad thing. Do you understand this?"
He nodded, understanding that.
"Can you tell me why you did this bad thing?"
He swallowed. His mouth tasted like metal. "I had to," he said in a quiet voice.
"You had to," repeated the brown potato man. "Alright, Patrick, why did you have to?"
He frowned. Of course. They had no idea. He hadn't told anyone, after all. Except of course, Teresa Lisbon, but she was injured somewhere and going to be fine. It made perfect sense.
"Patrick?"
"Red John…" he managed to say.
"What about Red John?"
Something that the man had said…
"Patrick? What about Red John?"
Something about the plan…
"He's insane," said the gray politician. "I told you that earlier. He said we were going to meet Hightower, that she was going to turn herself in—"
"We have Hightower now," said the brown potato man. "She was with Agent Lisbon under CBI guard. There's been a... situation."
"Yes, yes, I know that, J.J. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Jane has been using her as bait in some whack-a-mamie plot of his, involving hotel rooms and suspects and a Red John conspiracy. He drove me to that shopping mall. We were supposed to meet her there but then he began babbling about rope and Red John and I tried to convince him to get some help. He asked me point blank if I had killed Todd Johnson! Can you believe that, JJ? Point blank! Me? A killer? How could he even suggest something like that…"
The monologue had suddenly petered out on an odd note, so the potato man looked up. The gray man had sagged, ran a hand across his face. "God, J.J, he was carrying a gun. He had it in his pocket the whole time. What if he didn't believe me? What if he snapped then? He could have shot me instead of those windows..."
The potato man blinked slowly.
"He could have killed me, J.J. He asked me if I thought he was crazy and then said that maybe he was. I was having coffee with a crazy man and his gun. I'm lucky to be breathing, JJ. Damn. I am so lucky. I need to call home. I need to talk to my wife. I need to talk to my therapist…"
The gray suit slipped out the door and closed it behind him.
The potato man sighed again and turned back to Patrick Jane.
He stared at him for a long time.
"I don't know what to make of this, Patrick," he said after a while. "Clearly, you are not in complete control of your faculties…"
"I am," said Patrick Jane.
"So you say. But then again, you lie. You've lied to me ever since we met. In fact, you lied about Madeleine Hightower kidnapping you and crashing my car and finally, her whereabouts. You've lied about all of these things, haven't you?"
He nodded. He was very cold.
"She was never in that hotel room, was she?"
He shook his head. He was very tired.
"It was all one of your 'brilliant plans', wasn't it Patrick? For some reason, you thought Madeleine Hightower was being framed for Todd Johnson's murder, so you helped her escape. Didn't you, Patrick?"
He nodded. For some reason, he felt heavy, as if there were a heavy blanket draped across his shoulders. It was pushing him into the floor.
"I know that, somehow, you think there is a Red John connection here. A Red John connection to Todd Johnson. A connection that I am unaware of. Is that correct?"
He nodded. The balloon squeaked under his palm. He tried desperately to keep it quiet.
"A connection you have never disclosed."
Something about the plan…
"Why would you not disclose this, Patrick?"
It was like swimming in the ocean. The waves kept hitting harder and higher.
The potato man stared at him a while longer.
Sat back in his chair.
Sighed.
"The names. The names on my list. They were your suspects as well, weren't they, Patrick? That's why you had Donny Culpepper break into my house."
He nodded. There was nothing else to do now.
"So that would mean that those four people were, in your mind, accomplices of Red John somehow. Either Brenda Shettrick, Oscar Ardiles, Craig O'Laughlin or… Director Bertram."
"Or you, " said Jane in a small voice.
"Of course," said the potato man. "Or me." He cleared his throat, looked at his thick hands, folded them across the table. "You know that Agent O'Laughlin is dead, don't you, Patrick?"
He nodded.
"That Agent Lisbon has been taken to Sutter General for emergency surgery?"
He nodded.
"And that you are going to be charged with discharging an unregistered weapon in a public place?"
He blinked. Frowned. Blinked again.
"Patrick, why did you discharge an unregistered weapon in a public place?"
"I…What?"
The balloon was laughing now, mocking him, trying desperately to slip out from under his grip.
"Patrick?"
"I…"
He needed to stop it. He needed the control.
"I didn't…"
"Yes, Patrick. You did." The big man shifted his weight. "In fact, we have it on video. After Director Bertram left, you spoke on your phone, then you changed tables, stood, and fired a weapon from your pocket into the crowd."
The balloon slipped. He made a grab for it. Caught it by the little latex knot in the bottom.
He stared at it a moment. It looked like it was filling up with blood.
He pushed his fists deeply in his pockets.
"No," he said evenly. "I shot Red John. I shot him three times. He said my daughter smelled of Strawberries and Cream. It was her favourite shampoo. And I shot him three times in the chest and watched him die."
The potato man blinked slowly.
"Would you care to rephrase that, Patrick? I'm not certain I've understood what you are saying."
"I shot and killed a man whom I will prove to be Red John in a shopping mall this afternoon."
"No, Patrick. You did not."
"Yes, JJ. Yes, I did."
"We have witnesses to the contrary."
He clenched his jaw. "They're lying."
"And we have that video from mall security."
"It has been doctored."
"There is no body, Patrick. You shot out two store windows and a fake palm, but there is no body."
"His people. Red John's people. They cleaned up after him."
"Why would someone do that, Patrick? Why would anyone do anything like this?"
"Red John has people everywhere. He can do anything. He can—"
He stopped cold, like a popping balloon. Like the sound of a silenced Glock.
"Patrick?"
Something the man had said…
The sound of the silencer *pop*
"Patrick?"
When O'Laughlin told me of your little trap, I was so happy… **bang**
"Please talk to me, Patrick. I can't help you unless you talk to me…"
The perfect opportunity to teach you one last lesson in humility…**bang bang**
"Patrick, please."
But you prevailed for once. **bang bang bang**
The potato man pushes the chair back and stands, sending a long gaze down before pulling out his cellphone.
Brava. Sincerely. Brava.
**pop**
"This is LaRoche. I need the department psychiatrist down here immediately. Yes, yes. For him. Yes, I'll wait here, Thank you."
The world has suddenly shifted, and he understands. Understands perfectly how he has made it to this place. He has made a huge miscalculation and because of it, he will lose. He will lose it all.
Red John was never there
"What was that, Patrick?"
He realizes that he has just spoken out loud. Interesting that he never noticed.
"Red John was never there," he says again, pronouncing every syllable.
The potato man turns back to the table. "That's right, Patrick. Red John was never there. But you saw him, didn't you?" His face is sad, his voice is gentle. This man is big and has a little dog.
"Yes. I saw him. I spoke to him." And Jane looks up, nodding, blue eyes glittering and bright. "I thought it was Bertram. I set the trap with Bertram as the bait. Red John would have shown up because Bertram had called him. But the assassin needed the rope to climb down one floor, meaning it was O'Laughlin. Not Bertram. Not Bertram at all. Bertram wasn't Red John's man. So he wouldn't have called Red John, would he? He couldn't."
The potato man frowns, not understanding the winding trail of thought, the stream of consciousness from this admittedly broken man.
It breaks his heart.
"So he wouldn't have been there, would he? Red John would have no reason to go to the mall if Bertram wasn't his man. I completely missed that. I wasn't paying attention. And then I heard the gunshot – the first one – I thought Teresa— I thought—"
He pauses, not sure what is happening with the balloon. He can't feel it anymore. It has slipped from under his fingers.
"Yes, Patrick? You thought something bad had happened to Agent Lisbon?"
"Her name is Teresa. It means 'late summer.'"
"Yes."
"She was going to be a bridesmaid. Did you know that, JJ?"
"No. Patrick. That is something I did not know."
"She was wearing the dress today. It was very pink and very pretty."
"I'm sure it was."
"In fact, she looked beautiful. Really…quite beautiful."
The potato face smiles at him. It actually looks kind.
"She's a beautiful woman," he says softly. Looks down at his hands. "I wish she were here."
"She is going to be fine, Patrick."
"Oh yes, I know. I'm simply being selfish, that's all." He smiles, shrugs. "I need her."
"You make a good team."
"I got her shot."
"Lisbon is a state Agent. She puts her own life on the line."
"You sound like her. They train you to speak like that, yeh?"
"Hm. Yes."
"I thought I was two steps ahead. I wanted to win, so very badly."
He begins to find it difficult to breathe.
"Patrick, perhaps we shouldn't—"
The weight is crushing his chest. "Just once. I wanted to win. I wanted to Prevail. I wanted to show him. Just once…"
"Patrick. You should stop now. This is not helpful."
"I'm a selfish bastard, JJ. But you know that."
The potato man sits down. His face is concerned.
"We all have our ghosts, Patrick. Yours are simply…louder…than others…"
"I just wanted to win. I always want to win. I need to win. It's one of my flaws."
"You did win, Patrick. A very bad man is dead. He may very well have ties to your Red John—"
Jane begins to smile. The balloon rises from the floor, unheld, free. It is bobbing in front of his face now. It is indeed filled with blood, and this time, there is a smiley face on it.
"Oh yes, JJ. Everyone has ties to Red John. I know that now. He wins. I lose. I need to let it go."
"Yes, Patrick. This quest for revenge, you do need to let it go."
"Oh no," he says and his smile is both brilliant and bright. "Not that. Never that. My balloon."
"Your…balloon?"
"Yes. Lisbon's not here and I can't hold it anymore. I need to let it go."
And he does. And suddenly the room is filled with balloons, as 99 Red Balloons float up, up, up into the sky, taking the roof and Patrick Jane, with them.
To be continued…