A/N: Ok, this is a huge achievement to be able to post a new story. I haven't been able to write out my ideas for aggggeeees. And it's been really frustrating. But here it is. My new story. I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review at the bottom.
And before you ask, no, I don't own the Mentalist. Although I like to think I do...

Set after the Season 2 finale. As will mention in story.

1. The First Letter.

If you had been stood in my room as I slept that night, you would have thought that I would be having happy dreams. My breathing was steady, calm, and my skin was clear, with no sweaty sheen to make the streams of moonlight sparkle as they poured through the window. But truthfully, there was nothing to be found in my dreams except terror and violence, that I would never be able to rid myself of. I was cursed, and had been for the past eight years. I wasn't about to deny that it was my fault, because it was. All mine. Nobody else contributed to the state I was in. But the thing was, the recently past events, where my sorry life had been saved by the person who I most resented, the person who had put me in this misery to start with, Red John, hadn't at all managed to divert my thoughts as I dreamt. Kristina Frye's disappearance... I just thought that maybe it would create enough of a puzzle to take my mind off my troubles for awhile. But I guess that was wishful thinking. My life wouldn't be a punishment if I could take my mind of those things.

So as the dream, or nightmare, as that would be the more fitting name, proceeded, I looked nothing more than the pure state of peace, and I never knew why. I never woke up with my duvet tangled around my limbs, sticking to my skin like wet paper towel. Never awoke to the unbearable heat leaking from every inch of my body, like I was a radiator. Maybe it was the fact that I had hidden my insufferable pain for so many years now, that I couldn't even show it when I was unconscious. I barely slept at all because of the wounds I had sustained all those years ago. But this was one of those rare nights, where I would drift reluctantly into a deep sleep, because I just could not carry on any longer without recharging my energy. But energy came at a price. Each of these nights, I would be taunted, haunted, by these nightmares. It would cause tears to roll down my cheeks as I awoke to the early morning sun. It would cause the scars to tear open and sting for days until I relapsed back into the person I usually was. I knew it all too well as I drifted into these sleeps...

I could see my wife, my daughter, in the lens of that camera, which was pointing at my face, parading me to the world through a small piece of glass. Yet I couldn't stop the words from falling from my lips. I felt like I was being sick, choking over the syllables as they forced their way out.

'He's an ugly...

-CRACK-

... Tormented...

-CRACK-

... Little man...

-CRACK-

...A lonely soul...

-CRACK-

...Sad, very sad.'

And the camera lens shattered into a thousand pieces, showering glass fragments in all directions, slicing my face, punishing me. My tears were of blood, and every beat of my heart rang inside my head like a shot from a gun. I knew it was all over. And as I was suddenly transported to the bedroom, the room which I was asleep in right now, I saw them. I saw Angela sheltering our daughter, trying to protect her. I could see the tears pouring down both of their faces as the madman drew in closer, drawing his knife. It glinted in the moonlight as he waved it tauntingly.

I could hear Charlotte's screams, the frightened noises of a small child facing death. I could see it all. Every inch of panic in their souls, every ounce of evil that weighed down Red John's heart, not one iota of sympathy. Kristina Frye's words meant nothing, my daughter was awake. She did wake up. She knew what was happening. Yet I could not move, could not do one thing to save the two most precious people in my entire world. I was pressed and tied back to the wall with my own words. The mocking, insulting words that I had shot straight at Red John's heart surrounded me, glowing like embers and leaving crisscrossed scars across my body. I heard my tears drip, drop, on the floor beneath my feet. As their screams began to fill the air around me, I could feel my soul burning away like a wicker man...

And as I burst apart, my lungs aching and my heart being crushed, I awoke, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide. The familiar tears began to crawl down my cheeks, brushing past my ears as they sank into my hair, dampening the curls. I shut my eyes as they stung, pushing out another flow of fat salty tears, hot against my clammy skin. I sat up, hurriedly clearing them away as if a crowd of people were watching. My face was striped by the early morning light steadily forcing its way through the gap in the curtains, making the streams of fresh tears twinkle gently. I sniffed, brushing the back of my hand across my sodden cheeks once more before getting to my feet. I knew that if I let myself lie in bed, curled up under my duvet, I would think about what I'd just seen and make myself ill with longing that things could have been different. So I had to get myself moving. Attempt to divert my mind.

I achieved a quick shower, only letting myself think about the hot droplets of water pummelling my back, massaging away the achiness of the night, before changing into my suit and sauntering downstairs. I saw a meagre pile of post underneath the letter flap, but couldn't be bothered to sort through it right now, going straight round to the kitchen where I posted a couple pieces of bread untidily into the toaster. Pushing it down, I turned and slid down the smooth glass cupboard front to the floor. The cold of the tiles began to work their way up my spine as I sat there. I crossed my arms on my knees and rested my forehead on them. I took deep breaths and shut my eyes gently, feeling a soft throb inside my skull. I probably could have made serious use of a couple of paracetamol tablets, but I didn't have any. I didn't have anything to be honest. Nothing but a few pieces of cruddy food and the top most things which were vital to my survival, and somehow, after years of continuous headaches and migraines, I never thought of pain killers as a necessity.

I jumped as the toaster popped behind me, the scent of fresh toast reaching my nose. I pushed myself up and grabbed the pieces, slapping them on the side. Staring down at the two mildly browned pieces of bread, I snatched one up, leaving a small square of heat rippling on the work surface until it disappeared. I took a bite out of the dry toast and leant back on the side, resting my head back on the cupboards above whilst I worked the mouthful into a wad of warm dough inside my jaw. I didn't know why I was eating. I didn't feel like it. But I guess it was my common sense that was making me eat so I didn't starve myself. I'd had enough of that in rehab. I was not going back. But either way, I still couldn't bring myself to eat the rest of that toast, so I threw it aside along with the other piece to be sorted out later. I swiftly moved out into the main house and slipped into my shoes, scooping the post from the floor before making my exit.

Slipping into the old Citroen, I threw the envelopes into the passenger seat and twisted the key in the ignition, bringing the old timer engine to life with a small choke.

I pushed the handbrake down and slid down in my seat fractionally, breathing out heavily. I looked up at the CBI Headquarters before sighing and turning to the three letters in my car's passenger seat. Rubbing my eye, I picked up the top envelope, surveying the front and concluding it was junk before throwing it in the back. The same with the second. But the third was different. It was handwritten. The writing...somehow looked familiar to me, but I didn't know why. The slightly stained paper was only marked with 'Patrick'. I was curious now. My fake psychic senses were tingling. I flipped the small rectangular envelope over in my hand and ran my finger underneath the seal. The bright morning sun peeked over the top of the CBI building, twinkling on my Citroen's windshield as I slipped out the folded sheet of paper. Pushing the letter open, I began to read the softly faded writing. I think it was quite clear from how my stomach was doing back flips, followed by sickening twists that the colour was draining from my face as I read. I swallowed, finding my throat was parched and dry. My heart thumped, the rhythm like a full speed steam engine. I swallowed again, beginning the letter again.

After the fourth read through, I jumped out of the car, just about keeping balance on my legs, which had seemingly turned to jelly. I wobbled on the spot and slammed the door, shoving in the key and twisting it until the lock was rammed home. I sped across the car park to the entrance to the looming building before me. The letter was clutched tightly in my hand, the grip causing the paper to crumple slightly. My clothes seemed to fit tighter than they did this morning when I'd put them on, starting to compress me and cause discomfort. As I stepped into the elevator, pressing in the button for floor 3 a few too many times, I breathed in and out heavily. I shoved in the button once more as my impatience began to control me. The doors finally shut themselves and I was pulled upwards. My foot tapped the thinning carpet on the floor. I scratched the back of my neck, the speed of my short, slightly rough edged nails on the skin sending weird tingles down my back. I shook it out and marched out of the doors as soon as they pinged open, heading straight past the bullpen, where I would usually end up first thing, and made my unannounced entrance into Lisbon's office.

'Morning Jane,' she greeted me, without looking up, as she scrawled on an official looking piece of paper.

I didn't bother to reply, simply stepping forward and pushing the letter on top of whatever she was working on.

I heard her sigh as her pen disconnected with paper and she looked at the folded letter.

'What's that?'

I stepped forward impatiently and unfolded the letter for her, making it even easier for her.

'Read.'

She looked up at me questioningly, but when I gave her nothing more than an urgent look, she raised an eyebrow and settled her eyes on the page before her. I watched her, her jaw rested on one hand and a pen caught between her fingers, which slowly moved through her hair. Her green eyes went from left to right and back again, while my heart was beating out a heavy baseline. Without really registering it, I had begun to pace back and forth across her office, waiting for her to finish reading.

'Oh God,' I heard her mutter.

I recalled the words which I had read only moments before her.

Dear Patrick,

For saving your life, I think I deserve something in return. So I went ahead and chose for you. And I must say, you've got good taste. I would get Kristina to say hi, but it's not nearly as effective when written. That and her hands are...tied.
So what do imagine she'll look like with a few thick, warm, droplets of blood running down her cheek? Maybe her neck...no, that would make things too short...
Hey, maybe if you make it to us in time, I'll let you choose. What do you say? You'll have to be quick though. I might not be able to stop myself...

:)

I didn't know what on earth we were going to do. There were no clues included in the letter, no hint as to what we should do to find him in time. My heart was pounding in my ears.

'Liiisbon,' my voice rang out nervously, 'Say something useful! What are we going to do?'

'W...Well, we should get this to forensics. See if they can get any prints off it, apart from ours.'

I groaned. I knew, and she should by now, that Red John didn't make mistakes as simple as fingerprints. He would be wearing gloves the whole time.

'That's not gonna get us anywhere,' I complained.

'Well I don't know what else to do. This is all we've got,' Lisbon told me, quickly pulling out an evidence bag from her desk and slipping the letter inside, 'Was there an envelope?'

'Yeah, it just said 'Patrick'.'

'Where is it?'

'In the car.'

'Go get it,' Lisbon commanded me, sending me reluctantly from the office with a single look.

It had been a week since the events in Salinger Mill, and over a week since I'd last seen Kristina. Why did Red John wait so long to contact me? Had he been clearing up loose ends? Bringing the knife closer to Kristina's neck millimetre by millimetre for the past week?

I found myself at the car again, unlocking the door and snatching the envelope from the seat. I probably should have handled it more carefully, considering how Lisbon was about evidence, but I knew they'd find nothing. There would be no fingerprints, no hairs to scan through DNA. Red John was too efficient.

I took the envelope back to Lisbon, like a loyal retriever puppy, except I didn't want a pat on the head when I got there. I stepped inside her office again, and her phone began to blare through the space around us. I dumped the envelope in the open bag that Lisbon held out for me before she sealed it and gathered up the phone with one swift motion. I moved towards her couch while she replied to the other end of the line. I looked back over my shoulder as she said 'hello' more than twice, followed by 'Is anybody there?' And I knew it had to be Red John. I knew from the look on Lisbon's face that the only thing she could hear was the heavy breathing on the other end. I hurried back over and snatched the receiver.

'Hello?'

I ignored Lisbon's glare.

The line crackled with a snort of laughter.

'Hello...Jane,' my name was uttered as a whisper that sent chills down my spine. I could feel my limbs begin to quake softly. Whether it was the cold that was running through my body, or the anger I felt at the man, I didn't know.

'Enjoying...life?'

'Where's Kristina?' I butted in.

Another soft crackle of laughter.

'Now, now...let's...calm down.'

I gritted my teeth to stop myself from saying the wrong thing. His slick, smooth voice was edging its way between my bones, grinding them in a way that sent goosebumps creeping along my skin. I took a deep breath in, waiting for a reply.

'Good...now. Listen carefully,' he whispered into my ear, 'Thirteen, Five, Nineteen, Seven, Zero.'

And then all I could hear was a series of clicks...and the dial tone.

A/N: Reviews much appreciated :) Need to know whether it's worth continuing!