Title: Black Rock Bound
Author: Avelynn Tame/ficcingwitch
Disclaimer: It pains me to say it, but I don't own anything to do with The Mentalist. If I did, I'd ensure that Lisbon had plenty more kickass moments, not to mention hot love interests.
Summary: Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. When danger forces him into exile, will she be able to keep herself from killing him? Or keep her hands off him?
Author's Notes: First and foremost, credit has to go to my fantastic friend and beta, B, for: a) coming up with the idea for this fic; and b) putting up with all the subsequent ranting/madness that accompanied my writing it.
This fic was heavily – and I mean heavily – inspired by the film Smoke Screen, starring Currie Graham (ahh, yes, my motivation for watching it is becoming clear, you see?). He plays a man who was once accused of murder; although the accusation was false, his reputation was destroyed and he now lives the life of a recluse in the woods. Certain aspects of this story are based on the events of that film. I'll be sure to point them out to you as and when they pop up ;-)
One final note - the title of this fic comes from the first verse of the Edgar Allan Poe poem To The Lake, which goes like this:
In Spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound
And the tall pines that towered around.
It has some relevance later in the story, I promise!
Happy reading!
It was beyond the pale. They couldn't do this to him - no-one could do this to him. Putting a leash on Walter Mashburn was equivalent to holding down a tiger to receive an injection - he did not want. He really did not want.
It wasn't as though he couldn't understand the reasoning behind it. This 'concerned acquaintance' guy, whoever he was, obviously meant serious business. Walter wasn't stupid; he knew where his strengths lay, and trying to beat a guy who could apparently defeat even the most rigorous security system - by himself - was not one of them. Involving law enforcement had been his only recourse. Of course, that had come with a few rather important restrictions...
The CBI agent in front of him rubbed a hand over his weary face. "The thing is, Mr Mashburn, this is not a problem that we can solve overnight. And since you've refused to accept a safe house - "
Walter made a noise of indignation. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Well, we weren't, and that option is still on the table if you want to consider it."
His only response was a look of impatient scepticism.
"Anyway," Agent Heckman continued, "this is the next best thing."
"Really? The next best thing?" Walter leaned forward, his gaze so focused it was boring a hole in Heckman's head. "Plan A was to hole me up somewhere in California. Plan B, the 'next best thing', is to... hole me up somewhere in California. Am I missing something here?"
"The safe house is not acceptable to you, clearly. But you yourself mentioned that you have this house - not registered in your name, no-one knows you own it, completely isolated... it's a good bet, Mr Mashburn. I really think you should go along with this."
Walter sat back in his chair, suppressing a sigh. "If it were just a matter of going to live someplace else for a while, do you really think I'd argue with that? Agent Heckman, this is not about alternative accommodation, it's about the fact that you want me to be under house arrest at all times. No contact with the outside world. No communication with my employees, my board of directors - no business activity whatsoever, in fact. In short, I have to drop off the face of the earth. That's what you're asking of me, right?"
Reluctantly, Heckman nodded. "You wouldn't be totally cut off - one of our agents would come and visit you on a daily basis, make sure you're safe and well." He hesitated, and pushed on. "I really wish you would reconsider your objection to having one of our agents stay with you."
Walter shook his head. "Not going to happen. Bad enough that you're persuading me to consider this at all."
"All right." Heckman gave up. "As soon as you're ready, we'll arrange transport."
"Great," he muttered. "But remember what I said, okay?"
"Yes, sir." Heckman could hardly forget - on this one particular point, Walter Mashburn had been very clear. "Under no circumstances are any members of the SCU, most especially Teresa Lisbon, to find out about your situation."
"And if they do?" Walter prompted.
Heckman sighed, and recited the words that had been so vehemently spoken nearly an hour ago. "I'll be living in a box, fighting for scraps with the pigeons."
"Yes, you will."
Part of him had thought it would be fun. Like camping.
He had a few friends who liked to do this sort of thing - seal themselves away, live on nothing but bread and their own thoughts.
Walter Mashburn? Not so much. He liked his creature comforts.
Which was why his Sequoia National Park residence was the natural choice for his CBI-imposed retreat. Truthfully, it wasn't so much in the National Park as next to it - he owned a small patch of woodland, a mere seventy-three acres, which was as near to perfect as he could imagine. The trees were densely packed, and stretched up high around the house, enclosing it safely. There were a few well-trodden paths, but for the most part it was all-natural terrain. Only one road in. And the nearest town was twelve miles away.
Every other property he owned was not only traceable to him through paperwork, but also available for public scrutiny as a result of the numerous interior design and architecture magazines to whom he'd allowed so many liberties in terms of access and photography. His Sequoia house had been a secret gift for Marie Bajoran (nee Jarret, at the time) while they'd been engaged. It was intended as a wedding present, but her apparent insanity had put paid to that whole notion. Unable to stomach seeing her name on the papers, and too full of self-loathing to change it to his own, he'd simply invented a persona.
Six years later, 'Billy-Joe Korsakoff' was about to do him a huge favour.
The bloom was soon off the rose.
At first, it had been wonderful – the peace and quiet, the beautiful scenery, the feeling of being completely safe and unobserved. His solitude had been interrupted only by the daily visit from one of Heckman's team. Walter had fought hard against this intrusion, but Heckman had fought harder, and eventually he'd been forced to admit that it might be kind of useful to have someone stopping by to check he was still alive.
It was late summer. Most days, he left the glass sliding doors – the ones that led out to the patio, with its small reflecting pool and attractive stonework – wide open, letting the breeze drift through the house.
The boundaries of his patch of land were separated from the national park by nothing more than sturdy wooden fencing, but he didn't let that stop him. He was out in the forest every day; he often walked for miles, sometimes plotting out circular routes that would take him through some of the most picturesque areas. About a mile from the house, for example, there was a deep pond in which the water was surprisingly clear. On inspection, he'd found that it was supplied by a small, trickling stream from a ragged slope that led up to the edge of his land.
He'd wasted no time at all in stripping down to his birthday suit and taking a swim. The water was cold, but so clear that he could see the bottom of the pond, and the uneven rocks that jutted out below the waterline.
He could almost forget about the maniac who'd decided to make his life a living hell.
By day he walked and swam; by night he attempted to cook, played a little basketball in the yard, and plotted business takeovers from the charming office that overlooked the hills that sloped downwards toward the road.
And for the first four days, that was fine.
Day five onwards, he started to lose it.
It was quiet. And isolated. And he was bored out of his mind.
His cell phone had been confiscated by the CBI and his landline disconnected; he had no internet access, and his TV picked up only a smattering of terrestrial channels, most of which were showing painfully embarrassing reality TV shows and a handful of passable dramas. The Spanish telenovelas were fine at first, but since he only really understood anything when the characters were talking about food, he quickly lost interest.
Having said that, he held a particular fondness for Love's Throbbing Flame. The heroine, Trisa, was feisty and strong, not to mention incredibly beautiful.
He was a smart man. He didn't delude himself into thinking that he was genuinely interested in Trisa's tumultuous affair with Carlos, the sheriff with a hidden past, or her quest to find her real parents, or – the latest storyline – her fight to prove her innocence after being wrongly accused of murder.
The fact was, no matter how hard he tried to get her out of his mind, Teresa Lisbon was not budging.
He really hoped Heckman hadn't done something stupid, like tell her what was going on. For a start, he didn't even know how she would react anymore; six months ago, she would have been worried. Now... who knew?
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that maybe he should have fought harder to keep the relationship - such as it was - alive. He regretted his foolish words at the start of their courtship: "Let's just... try this. You and me. It doesn't have to be a lifelong commitment - all I'm talking about is a date. And if you change your mind about me, that's fine. But... you won't."
But... she had. Looking back, he couldn't believe how confident he'd been - going straight to her apartment after arriving back in the country, his arrogant smile as he'd offered her an out, his assumption that she would do no such thing. The truly frustrating thing was that it had been going so well between them. The dates, the sex... god, the sex...
He shook his head. Near the top of his list of 'stupid things to do while stuck in the woods' was 'fire up the libido with no way of actually using it'.
In any case - it had been her wish for privacy that he'd lost out to. He wasn't exactly some A-list celebrity, but he was a handsome, unmarried billionaire. To the tabloids, he was fresh meat, and that meant occasionally being accosted outside his house, or his office, or a restaurant. He was used to it, even enjoyed the attention to a degree, but for Teresa it was an unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable situation. Her life was small and insignificant - as far as she was concerned, anyway - and most of all, private.
Maybe, she'd said to him on the day they broke up, if she was working in a dead-end job with no career ladder to speak of, it wouldn't matter so much. But she was a Senior Agent in one of the premier law enforcement agencies on the west coast. She dealt with the public every day, and a large number of higher-ups who could crush or nurture her career on a whim. If they thought she'd become someone's trophy girlfriend, they'd no longer take her seriously. And everything she'd worked so hard for - the effort she'd had to put in to be better than the men, the long hours, the sabotage attempts, the crap - would be for nothing.
He hadn't known how to argue with that. He just... let her go.
In the last six months, he'd done his best to bounce back. Parties, galas, charity benefits, and a different date for each one. He reverted to type - selected his usual brand of brainless bimbo. They were more than happy to be the focus of his attentions, to worm their way into his bed. And most of the time, he was fine. He went on as though everything was normal, as though he'd never dated a cop who ate her own weight in pizza and didn't mind taking him down a peg or two.
But she still wouldn't get out of his head.
And now, he was going stir-crazy in the woods, and all he seemed to be able to do was think about her; remember her smile, her soft skin, the flush of surprise and exhilaration on her face when he slipped his hand into...
No, Walter, he told himself sternly. Get the libido in check before you rupture something.
Boredom. That was it. Sheer, relentless boredom. He'd had no real intellectual stimulation for days. He could plot mergers and acquisitions all he liked, but he couldn't do anything about them. And while he was confident that his organisation was in good hands during his absence, it struck him that the longer he was away, the less he trusted certain employees. As far as they were all concerned, he was on vacation, but if this continued longer than planned…
He needed to get the hell out of here. He wanted to see people, to eat food that didn't come in a can or get burnt when he tried to bake it, to talk to someone other than Heckman's agents, to experience the sights and sounds and smells of somewhere else.
'No,' they continued to tell him. 'Not yet.'
And one day, eventually, he got tired of waiting.
They hadn't allowed him to have a car, but he'd noticed through the window in his office that, about half a mile away, there was a main road with frequent buses.
He hadn't been on a bus in years. It was all so anonymous. He shared the bus with about three other passengers, none of whom gave a damn about him. How awesome.
At least, it was until he put his hand on the seat and encountered a piece of wet gum. Then he decided it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He spent the rest of the journey holding his hand as far away from his body as he could anatomically achieve.
Kernville was small, but that didn't matter to Walter. They were used to unfamiliar faces in the stores and restaurants because of the nearby campsites; he didn't sense any unusual scrutiny when he sat down in the diner and ordered a burger with fries.
The waitress batted her eyelashes at him and flirted clumsily. His libido was rearing its head again, and for a brief moment or two, he contemplated asking her out. But he knew it would be a mistake. It would end badly, just as every other 'relationship' he'd had in the last six months had crashed and burned within a very short space of time.
He knew exactly whose fault that was. Damn her for ruining every other woman on the planet for him.
He wondered what she was doing right now. He glanced at his watch – it was nearly one o'clock. She probably hadn't gone for lunch, he decided. He remembered having a nightmare of a time prising her away from her desk for a lunch date one day. Eventually they'd compromised on walking to the deli, getting subs, and bringing them back to eat in her office.
He grinned involuntarily. He'd wheedled his way into staying with her for the rest of the afternoon, lying on her couch and dozing. Although she'd been typing up a couple of reports, she'd still talked to him, albeit distractedly. Sometimes she would break off mid-sentence and he would know that she was deep in thought about her work. What surprised him was her ability to pick up exactly where she left off – even half an hour later.
The burger was greasy and hot, and he devoured it like a sacrifice. The waitress had been patrolling his corner of the diner for the last twenty minutes, trying to catch his eye, and when he flagged her down she had a gleam of triumph in her eyes.
Of course, it faded when he briskly ordered a large ice cream sundae, extra whipped cream, extra hot fudge sauce.
When all the food was gone, and his belly was groaning, he heaved himself out of his seat and went for a walk about town. The sun was bright and hot; there was a large group of kids laughing and screaming in the park, playing near the fountain, splashing each other. Summer camp kids, maybe.
There was a little grocery store hidden in the shade of the town hall. It was air-conditioned, and he sighed with relief as the cool air hit his face as he walked in. He hadn't done his own grocery shopping for a long time; it was like an art form, he discovered. Look at food item. Like or dislike? If like, then consider brand, quality, price, etc. If any of these factors unacceptable, replace item on shelf. Consider different brand or forget altogether. Repeat until cart full.
He reached the freezer section and realised that he'd acquired more than he could physically transport back to his – oh, crap.
It was two-thirty. One of Heckman's agents usually came around two.
He was torn for a moment. Heckman had been very clear on the dangers of leaving the secluded house. He'd also been very clear that if Walter left without authorisation – without a bodyguard, for crying out loud – that he would reconsider the idea of sending an agent to stay with him.
But Walter Mashburn hadn't taken orders from anybody in a long time. He wanted his freedom – he deserved his freedom. It wasn't as if he'd wandered off down a dark alley – he was in a busy(ish) little town. There were people. It was fine. It's just fine. He repeated this in his head several times until he'd convinced himself.
He contemplated the freezer food for a while, but it was sure to melt before he got back to the house. The bus journey had taken nearly an hour, and who knew how long he'd have to wait for the next one?
He put some things back before he went to the register. The bill seemed modest for the sheer volume he'd bought, but he'd long ago lost any sense of what was 'normal' for other people. Frankly, any amount under a hundred bucks was a freakish anomaly as far as he was concerned. He paid in cash, juggling his bags on his way out of the store until he achieved equilibrium.
His first instinct was to go for the bus, but rebellion tugged at his brain, and he made an abrupt turn into the park, taking the scenic route around the lake. It was cooler in the shade, and he stopped to rest on a bench for a while. The group of kids had gone. On the other side of the lake he could see some teenagers throwing a Frisbee, yelling and laughing at each other. A family having a picnic on a blanket. A couple walking hand in hand, giving the Frisbee-players a wide berth. Another couple near the knot of trees, also on a blanket, draped over each other.
He liked being here, he decided. Here, he was totally anonymous. Nobody was looking for him, nobody wanted anything from him, nobody was harassing him by phone, or in person, wanting a statement or a signature or a meeting.
It was peaceful. Nice.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The sun was glinting through the canopy of trees overhead, and it was creating a dappled pattern on his eyelids.
He was just about to doze off when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
He jumped, and with a jolt of panic, opened his eyes to find Agent Moore glaring down at him. "Mr Mashburn," he said, through gritted teeth, "what the hell do you think you're playing at?"
Teresa Lisbon was having a good day. A really good day.
Her usual coffee place had been shut that morning. She'd had to detour across the city to get to her other 'pre-approved' coffee shop, only to find that they had a new trainee who got her order wrong. Still, caffeine was caffeine – she could live with it, she thought.
Mid-morning, she'd been summoned to see the Attorney General. He, like Bertram, enjoyed reminding her that she was replaceable, that there were plenty of people out there who would like a shot at her job, and that she was playing too close to the edge for his comfort, as far as Jane was concerned.
She knew this dance. Since Jane had been given his full-time contract, she and the AG averaged about three meetings a month. Jane didn't know about them; nobody did. She went upstairs often enough on other business, why should anybody give it a second thought?
In fact, she'd only ever told one person about her meetings with the AG – the same person whose photo she'd seen splashed across the front cover of 'Like, Hello?' on the AG's secretary's desk.
It had been a shock – a brief, heart-stopping moment, and she'd done a double-take involuntarily.
"Oh," said the secretary, oblivious, "he's cute, isn't he? Too bad he only dates supermodels." She'd turned the magazine so that she could look at it the right way up. "Miss USA 2011 –can't beat that, I guess. Although, I heard she was caught fooling around with a judge right after the award ceremony…"
It wasn't the first time Lisbon had seen him with a girlfriend since they'd broken up. If, she thought, it could be considered a break-up, after only a few weeks.
What had she expected, really? For him to be broken-hearted, living a life of celibacy in her absence? Hardly. Walter Mashburn was a very attractive man who had no problem finding a date – or five. She had always known that he would move on and do exactly what he had done before.
And… she cared about him. A lot. She wanted him to be happy – to find happiness with the right woman.
Of course, whether Miss USA would prove to be Miss Right remained to be seen. A woman who believed that deodorant and a new hairstyle would be the key factor in improving the lives of the 'socially disadvantaged' was not, in Lisbon's eyes, a good match for Walter.
Not that she'd thought about it in any way. She certainly was not upset or hurt by the fact that Walter had clearly moved on so easily, and so quickly.
In fact, she was fine with it. Absolutely fine.
And now, her extremely good day was about to be made even better, because Agent Heckman from Personal Crimes was standing in her doorway, and he didn't look happy at all.
"Heckman," she greeted him, surprised at her own brightness. "Why don't you sit down before you fall down?"
He shut the door behind him, looking almost queasy. "Lisbon, how long have we known each other?"
"Five years," she supplied. They'd each been promoted to Senior Agent around the same time; the two of them used to meet up at the coffee cart outside and bitch about leadership. "Why?"
"You know I don't like to give up. I especially don't enjoy giving up so soon..."
"Spit it out, Heckman." She leaned forward, her brows knotting with concern. "Everything okay?"
He paused, deliberating for a moment or two. His hand was constantly fidgeting, moving from his temple to his mouth. Whatever it was, she figured it was really causing him trouble. "We've got this guy," he said eventually. "He's been getting threats. I mean, they started out mild, so he didn't report them, just tossed them on the pile with a bunch of other ones, apparently. But lately they're getting worse. Violent, to be specific. And now it's escalated to breaking and entering, petty theft and vandalism, and... assault."
She nodded. "Did you get Grayden to look at the threats?"
"Yeah, his team did a full profile, the works. He calls himself a 'concerned acquaintance', but Grayden says he's out for revenge - that's what we're looking at here. We're pursuing a few leads, but our guy has a whole bunch of enemies he's not even ashamed to admit to."
"Okay." She sat back, relaxing in her seat. "So how long do you want him for?"
He blinked. "Huh?"
"Jane," she clarified. "You want to borrow him, that's fine. You know I'm gonna make you look at my PowerPoint presentation, right?"
"Oh, good lord, no..." He grimaced. "That's not what I'm talking about. Finding who's doing this is not the issue – it's the victim that's giving us the trouble."
She tried to process that one in her mind, and came up blank. "Sorry, what?"
Heckman sighed. "This isn't easy for me, Lisbon. For a number of reasons. Let me boil it down for you – when it comes to the suspects, we're all over it like a rash. This investigation is hot to trot. But for our guy's own safety, we made him lie low for a while, and now… he's going crazy. I'm talking cabin fever." He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and for the first time, Lisbon noticed the exhaustion that lined his face. "My agents have been checking on him – they kept telling me he seemed pretty frustrated, but I didn't think about it. And then yesterday he went AWOL. He was fine, but I don't mind telling you, Lisbon, I was close to crapping myself for a while there."
Lisbon sympathised. Heckman was a good guy, but he'd always preferred to play his cards close to his chest. Things must be bad if he'd been inspired to revisit their days of bitching and complaining.
She blew out a breath. "Sounds like this guy'd be better off in a CBI safe house, Heckman."
"Tell me about it!" He leaned forward. "But he won't go for it, Lisbon. And y – this guy, he's not the kind of guy you can really order around."
There was a silence. His words had had an incomplete feeling to them; he was looking at her expectantly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"Heckman," she said slowly, "did you come here just to shoot the breeze or what?"
He hesitated nervously, but didn't drop her gaze. "Lisbon, I need your help with this guy."
She narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, because the Serious Crimes Unit is just a front for a secret babysitting club – what have you been smoking, Hec -?"
"It's Walter Mashburn," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a hurry.
Her breath froze in her throat. She was still and silent; paralysed in her seat.
"I wouldn't be asking this if we hadn't tried everything," he continued. "If we can't get a handle on him, he'll do something stupid. And then it's just a matter of time before this 'concerned acquaintance' tracks him down." He fixed her with the most earnest, desperate stare she'd ever seen. "But I think he'll listen to you."
She found her voice at last. "And what makes you think that?"
He laughed uneasily. "Come on, Lisbon – everyone around here knows you're like the 'crazy whisperer'. You've got that guy Jane on a leash, and Mashburn –"
"Yes?" she asked, a dangerous edge to her voice.
"Well…" He shrugged. "He respects you. He… likes you. He'd listen to you."
"You're wrong," she replied, tonelessly. "Mr Mashburn and I have no connection to each other. Sorry, Heckman, but I can't help you."
"Lisbon," Heckman said quietly. "Please."
Author's Notes: I anxiously await your reviews with a fluttery heart and a trembling bowel! (Um, ew.)