After Red John
Chapter 1 - Paradise
South America
White. Brilliant white light. Traffic. Chickens cackling, people talking. Clatter of cart wheels. Heat radiating from the windows. Temperature just becoming oppressive.
Jane groaned and turned away from the window, but the light reflecting from whitewashed walls was still too bright. He woke and lay in bed trying not to think. He didn't feel like reading and, after a moment, rolled to his feet, resigned to starting another day.
Jane brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, combed his hair with his fingers, and dressed in shirt, shorts and shoes. He took his other set of clothes to give to the senora who did laundry for a few Bolivares. Monday. He picked up yesterday's discarded big city papers from his friend, then stopped at a small storefront restaurante for breakfast. Finding the section with puzzles, he fished out a pencil and solved half of the crossword puzzle before tossing it aside, bored. When he first arrived crossword puzzles were mildly engaging. Their appeal sharply fell off as his Spanish and knowledge of local customs and history improved. Only the major foreign publications offered puzzles difficult enough to hold his interest. Breakfast and tea absorbed an hour, then he was at loose ends again.
Jane hiked down to the sea. The beach was deserted this early in the day and he walked along the shore till tired enough to sleep again. He found a shaded, sandy nook between large rocks and lay down. Unbidden, he again dreamt of waking after the explosion at his house. Lisbon was standing by his hospital bed, achingly beautiful, concerned, sympathetic. His pleasure vanished as he fully woke to a flood of unanswerable questions about what Lisbon and the others were doing now. He suppressed a wave of loneliness, which was growing more intense with time. Frowning, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the waves. Despite the heat, the water was cold, bracing. Swimming had the desired effect. The demanding physical effort precluded thought. After an hour, the sting of jellyfish tentacles drove him back to shore. A few raised welts burned with pain–a welcome distraction from the sharper pain of remembering.
By the time he hiked back to the village It was late enough for dinner. He unfolded a couple of Sudoku puzzles and worked them out while waiting for his dinner to be served. Afterward, a few miles of walking completed the day. He hoped he was tired enough to sleep. A typical day.
The next day was similar, as was the following and the one after...
California
McAllister, Bertram and Cordero were killed. Jane disappeared.
Journalists broke the story. Lurid headlines and specials blasted from every media outlet. The FBI attempted to manage this news tsunami and, to its credit, only partly failed. Exposure of the Blake Association meant a steady stream of arrests among California police, CBI agents, FBI agents, judges, and even some DA's/ADA's. The law enforcement and legal systems were strained to their limits and beyond with FBI agents reassigned from all over the US and retired judges pressed into service. Some local PD's were decimated, creating a mini-boom in hiring for law-enforcement. But only for people who had never worked law-enforcement in California.
Bertram's involvement tarnished the reputation of every former CBI agent, no matter that some–like Lisbon's team–had discovered and exposed the corrupt network. Lisbon tried to give Abbott the benefit of the doubt. To her credit, she only partly failed. She realized Abbott's safest course was to assume guilty until proven innocent, but still resented having two decades of honorable work summarily dismissed. It took him two months to conclude there was no BA connection to her team, including Jane. Abbott didn't bother pursuing the four former CBI agents on minor charges, deciding he had far more important targets. Jane was a different story, despite his role in uncovering the corruption. By all the evidence, Jane had killed McAllister with his bare hands. The FBI would recommend charges be filed, once the media storm died down a bit.
During that time, Lisbon ducked publicity as much as possible. She was grateful that Minelli was cleared of any BA links and asked for his help in finding a new job. Her friend managed to finagle her an interview in Cannon River, Washington. Once the county board decided she wasn't corrupt, her education, record, and interview made her a shoo-in for the position. She gladly accepted the generous offer.
Rigsby and Van Pelt started a detective agency, specializing in surveillance. Lisbon was sure they could make a go of it. Rigsby was solid, credible, and trustworthy and communicated such through every pore. Van Pelt's attractiveness would help get their foot in the door, at which point she could wow potential clients with her intelligence, computer savvy, and detective skills.
Cho was personally offended by the corruption, especially among former CBI colleagues. He was only too happy to accept Abbott's offer to help get him into the FBI training program as an agent, eventually to be assigned to work with Abbott. More than the others, he took no personal offense at Abbott's hard-nosed attitude. Cho would have done the same were their roles reversed. He eagerly looked forward to helping finish cleaning up the BA mess, given the chance.
Lisbon was grateful to be getting out of California, to start fresh. She could afford a house in the much less expensive Washington housing market and was looking forward to the calm and sanity of a straightforward position as police chief in a small town and county. Anything more would be a bonus. She was busy enough she didn't think of Jane more than several times a day. Minelli's back-channel info told her Cordero's gun killed Bertram. The gun found in McAllister's hand killed Cordero and wounded McAllister. Since McAllister surely didn't shoot himself, it must have been Jane, meaning McAllister was Red John. McAllister died by strangulation. Lisbon had no idea where Jane fled, but was grateful his body hadn't been among the dead. After killing Red John he had chosen life. She took it upon herself to salvage his books from the CBI and his suits from the extended stay motel. She figured out the storage locker key was for things he wanted to keep but would lose since the FBI had frozen his assets, and decided to pay the rental herself. It was two months post-Red John. She and all her worldly goods were on the way to Washington.
South America, two months after Red John
October, 2013
Dear Lisbon,
I trust this finds you well and happy. Since you're reading this, my friends found a way to pass along my letter. There will be more. I hope the message left on your phone kept you from worrying.
The flight was long and exhausting. It delivered me to the most remote place I could find on short notice. First impressions? Brilliant sunshine. Heat. Sand. Alien culture. It is so different from my previous life it still feels surreal.
I'm sorry I didn't write sooner. It is taking time to assimilate all that happened. At first, I must have slept 16 hours a day–ironic given how elusive sleep was in the past. I would walk or swim until tired enough to sleep again. Even now, every morning upon waking it takes a moment to realize: I no longer have to think about how to hunt down and kill some guy I can't even identify. That realization comes faster each morning. Some day I won't think about the past unless I want to. That will be a welcome day.
In my better moments, I succeed in living in the present-in simply "being." Despite my best efforts, the rest of the time I wonder how you and the others are faring. Please understand. I wish you all well, I just don't want to think about it. Freeing me must have caused trouble for you all. I'm grateful you willingly brought that upon yourselves to help me. But there is nothing I can do about any of it. As inflexible as your antagonist is, by now he has to have realized your team wasn't corrupt. Perhaps he has enough other challenges to forgo pursuing charges against you. That is my hope. Beyond that, I'll let it go. There is nothing I can do from here. (The new, improved version of me surely will be less obsessive.)
Enough about all that. The past is gradually fading into the background. I am starting to enjoy my surroundings. The water and sky are beautiful. Swimming in the sea is a joy–except for the jellyfish. The strong waves are challenging but not dangerous. I'm fascinated by the play of light on the twisted, eroded rock formations at the beach. Monet did many paintings of the exact same field of haystacks to capture the effects of changing light. It's like that.
I'll post this now so it goes out today.
Miss you.
Me
Washington State, October 2013
Lisbon had settled in as police chief of Cannon River, Washington. There really wasn't much crime and she intended to keep it that way. The regular hours and free weekends provided ample opportunity to set up and decorate her house. Maybe she could even manage to have a personal life, that is, if she could find anyone suitable.
She left work at 5 p.m., getting into her county-owned SUV to drive home. She was just about to pull onto the highway when a beat-up pick-up sped past her and made a sudden left hand turn without bothering to signal. Wide-eyed in amazement at the blatant traffic violations in front of the PD building, Lisbon turned on the siren and light and zipped after the truck. She pulled it over a few minutes later on a side street. Hand on the butt of her gun, she approached the driver's door from the rear.
"Keep your hands on the steering wheel, where I can see them. Now!"
The big, gray-haired man complied. There was something familiar about him, but Lisbon wasn't going to be distracted.
"You were speeding and made an illegal left turn. Please get out of the vehicle and stand with your hands against the roof, legs back."
"Yes ma'm." The big man followed her instructions meekly, maybe even with a hint of a smile.
Lisbon looked at his face again. "Pete? Pete Turner, is that you?"
Pete looked around, not moving his hands, "Miss Lisbon. Yep. It's me."
Dumbfounded, after a moment, "Well, put your hands down and turn around. What's going on, why are you here?" she asked. Then, "You did that deliberately," and added, "There are no coincidences," before remembering who she was quoting.
"Mis–Chief Lisbon, I have something I'd like to give you. Can I get it from the glove box?"
She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah, please, Pete." He handed her a slightly wrinkled feather-weight airmail envelope, the kind where you write on one side then fold it up and seal to create the envelope. Her eyes watered as she recognized the handwriting. "Is this from–"
"–Yeah," he interrupted. "But he wants to keep under the radar, which is why I'm here."
"Oh, Pete. It's hundreds of miles. Thank you. Come join me for dinner."
"Thank you, Chief Lis–"
"Teresa, please. We're friends and you're doing me a huge favor."
"Thank you, Teresa. But I...arranged this traffic stop to avoid attracting attention. I appreciate the offer but I need to head back."
Impulsive for once, she gave him a quick hug. "You'll tell Sam, 'Hi" for me?" He nodded. "And do you think you'll be back, or will there be more–"
"Yeah, I think around once a month if I read correctly."
"Pete, how can I thank you? It's a long drive and–"
"It's for Paddy, Teresa. We're all family here."
She looked away, eyes suddenly betraying too much emotion.
"Well, if it's okay, I'll get going now." She almost gave him another hug, thought better of it and merely shook his hand. She swallowed the lump in her throat, watching him slowly drive away.
~.~.~.~
Lisbon slid into the SUV driver's seat and turned off the flashing light. She tucked the precious envelop into her purse. Hands trembling and eyes still suspiciously damp, she carefully drove home and locked the door behind her.
She examined the envelope in her hands. Venezuela postmark. I'll have to look up about extradition treaties. She walked over to the sofa in her home den, sank down, and carefully slit the edges to unseal the letter. A quick skim revealed nothing awful, no injuries or horrible problems. She got a glass of wine and returned to read it leisurely, for tone and nuance.
So Jane escaped by plane. He must have planned in advance. No wonder he didn't want me involved. An escape for two would be impossible to pull off if he hadn't planned on it. It sounds like he went immediately. Of course, once he's in the air, he's safe so long as it's non-stop and there's no extradition treaty.
Venezuela. You can put what I know in a thimble. Have to look it up. Sounds like he's on the coast. But then he always liked the beach and swimming. Sixteen hours a day! Making up for ten years of strain and sleepless nights? Or, depressed and escaping what he doesn't want to think about? I never thought about him waking up every morning, thinking about how to get Red John. Thank God he doesn't have to do that anymore.
Oh, I wish I could tell him Abbott finally gave up and let us all go. We're good, Jane. And you got Red John. And we did, too. It was my unit's case. I really, really hope you don't have to be so obsessive any more.
Typical Jane. Mix in Monet and the beach. Damn. I miss you, too.
Lisbon sniffed the envelope, but it just smelled like paper. Too far away and who knows how long it took Pete to find out where I went and drive up here? After thinking a moment, she rose and took a stationery box down from a shelf, removed the last few blank sheets and unused envelopes, and put Jane's letter inside. She moved to return it to the top shelf, then decided a lower shelf would make more sense. I'm gonna be re-reading this. It might as well be convenient.