All morning, Lisbon and Cho exchange looks. Lisbon makes phone calls that go to voice mail.
Kim wanders the bullpen braying her displeasure at Jane's lateness.
Speak to the management, lady, Lisbon thinks. Send the soup back. File a form FB-27-Z with headquarters. Write a letter to The New York Times. That should work.
Around noon, Cho leans over Lisbon's desk. "I'm gonna swing by the Airstream."
Lisbon nods. "I'll have Van Pelt ping his cellphone."
Cho looks at her questioningly.
"No need to get the feebs all worked up until we're sure there's a problem."
Cho grabs his keys and jacket and leaves.
Kim places herself in front of Lisbon's desk and arches an eyebrow.
Lisbon keeps it light, "I have no idea. He could be anywhere."
tmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmt
Cho picks the lock of the Airstream. He's always had the skill but observing Jane has improved his technique.
The place is trashed. All the cabinets are open. The cups and saucers are smashed. The bathroom and kitchen taps are wide open. The electric burners are turned on high.
Tea bags are scattered over the burners. The scent of burnt tea fills the air.
The empty kettle is on the stove. It glows red hot.
A large knife is embedded in the mattress. Feathers and foam float through the air.
A pair of shears lies atop a pile of what used to be a closetful of suits.
Cho turns off the stove and the taps and calls Lisbon.
tmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmt
Patrick comes to. He blinks his eyes. He's lying on a rickety bed.
His head is killing him. Feels like a combination of drugs and blows to the head. He knows because he's had experience with both.
Not much in the room. The narrow bed. A wreck of a sofa. A goose neck floor lamp. A small window set high on the wall. A basement room. No rug, no phone. No sound.
From the look of the light filtering through the window, it's almost sundown. Last thing he remembers is drinking a cup of tea in his trailer this morning. So he's likely been here twelve hours.
The drugs must still be in his system, he can't move. His wrists and ankles hurt. He realizes he's bound with plastic ties to the headboard and foot of the bed.
Either it's getting dark fast or the drugs are overtaking him.
tmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmt
Amazing how quickly the FBI can mobilize.
As soon as Lisbon and Cho sound the alarm, Abbott picks up the phone, goes woof-woof-woof and boots hit the ground and helicopters whirl all over the country.
The Bureau in Southern California is in Jane's Malibu house in twelve minutes.
FBI agents in Sacramento storm the old CBI headquarters, now occupied by an ad agency, and drive five hundred people with cool haircuts and quirky senses of humor out into the parking lot.
Every felon that Jane ever sent away is grilled and then raked over the coals for good measure.
Meanwhile, the Venezuelan Police Department is busy rounding up everyone in Venezuela.
The agents of the Bureau in Brooklyn are out scaring the crap out of hot dog vendors just to keep their hands in.
Cho and Lisbon visit the few places they can think of that Jane might go in Austin. A tea shop, three diners, and a drycleaner. They even check his old detention cell.
They sit in Lisbon's car. She rests her forehead on the steering wheel. "You should get some rest, boss. We both should." Cho says. "There's nothing more we're going to learn tonight."
tmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmt
A door creaks open. Jane wakes at the noise. Cranes his neck but can't see who's behind him.
A large heavy piece of paper is lowered in front of him. A sentence is typed in the center of the page. "There's a reason for what's coming next. Are you smart enough to figure it out?"
He hears the sound of something, a garbage bag maybe, being hefted behind him.
Ice. Ice cubes. Hundreds of them cascade down on him. Another bag. Again and again until he's buried.
So cold it burns.
