Strokes Of Red

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of The Mentalist and do not want to make money or any other profit with this story. The content may be a little tough this time; it is different and darker than the other two stories I wrote.

Chapter 1: A weekend off duty

It was night, a few minutes to three in the morning. The sky was dark although it was summer, and maybe it would start to get gray somewhat in an hour. One proverb says: The darkest hour is the one just before sunrise. How true this could be…

She stared down at the cell-phone in her hand, without dialing. She only sat there in the dark room, in the middle of her bed. Everyone around must think that she was still sleeping, and that nothing had happened. Nothing at all. It was dark and quiet. But that wasn´t true…

Something had happened, but it was over – or at least she hoped that. She really did not know how long ago it started and when it came to an end, but it was all silent, so low at noise that none of her neighbors had noticed anything. If there would have been something strange, they would have called Nine-One-One, and there would be police by now.

But she was still alone in the room, and the only remarkable movement she´d done was the to get her cell-phone. And now she did not know whom to call. It was as if she was frozen to immobility, unable to sort out her thoughts and hardly recognizing her own breath and heartbeat. It was as if a dark thick wall started to surround everything, and this was good, really good. This would be the best thing to do. Just forget it.

Then there was the other side. She herself was the evidence, the only thing that could be used by the police; maybe help to find the person who did this to her. No, this must have an end; it would be the best to clean up here.

The urgent desire to jump out of the bed and take a long, long shower to wash it all down was tempting, and maybe it would help her a little bit, but there was still, her professionalism that kept her back from doing this.

She knew that every move she´d make would probably destroy evidence. If she would look at a person – at a stranger! – who´s in her situation, she would try to persuade her to offer the police all the help that the victim could do. Let them take the traces of evidence of her body and in the room. But it was difficult when she herself was the victim, sitting there with no clear memory, but frightening thoughts. She could not sort them out, but one thing came back to her again and again. What happened to me? This was the main question.

She could not remember, but a trickling and itching spot on her right shoulder told her a story… a story of being taken out by an electric shock. She could not remember what happened next, but she could see the result.

She did not know for sure what this meant to be, but it was nothing good. She had no reason to be happy that she was still alive, because she was convinced that she could also be dead now, and maybe – god yes, I really think this! – it would be better to be dead. She must be in a major shock state, to think like that – or she wasn´t, and was as clear as seldom before. But why did she hesitate to call then?

The movement felt like as if it was not her own arm, but she raised it and looked down at it, there were still the red lines on her skin, the longest one tracing her artery at the wrist and almost up to the elbow. There were those lines all over her body, at least the parts she could see from her current place, and she had not left the bed to go to the bathroom, to have a look into the mirror. She was not hurt along these lines; it was only red ink, from a thick felt-tip pen.

The lines were painted on her skin, but the effect was the same as if the person who did this to her had used a knife. It was the mere possibility that this person had had so much power over her to draw those lines on her body – it would have been as easy for the nightly visitor to kill her in that state of unconsciousness. Why was she still alive then? Was this kind of a gruesome game? And the next thing was the drawing at the wall next to her bed. It was exactly at the side of the room someone would look at first when he stepped in through the door. It was smiling face, also drawn in red; not with blood, but with the same pen that was used on her body. It was unmistakable.

She looked down at the telephone again. Slowly she seemed to regain the ability to sort out her thoughts. Yes. She must call the police, and inform them what happened; they must collect the evidence, at all costs. But the costs were high, higher maybe than she was able to cope with, possibly higher than she could imagine now.

No! There was this other voice inside her brain that started to cry louder than the others. She was a law enforcement agent, and must do everything to secure the evidence, whatever may be rolling at her with it. Ok, she tried to convince herself with loud thoughts. I have to do this. I must call the police. With this new courage she dialed nine-one… and stopped again.

Would it be better to inform the team instead of the local police? No, of course not, they were too close. But they are friends… no. They must not know. But if they got the news somehow they would be worried, how could she conceal this from them? They were the Red John experts of the CBI, maybe the only real RJ experts in California. And the face at the wall looked like his doing. Even if this was the work of a fare-dodger, it could be some kind of evidence. They had not heard from him a long time. But could she stand the worries and suspicions of her colleagues, the uncertainties and the doubts? Should she tell them the truth right now to avoid that? And again she cancelled the call. Everyone would know somehow and she would have to learn to accept the situation. It would be easier… no, it would not be easier.

She closed her eyes. Again and again she tried to remember, to recall anything that had happened during the time that she missed. But that was the crucial thing about being knocked out: You are done; out of order. She could feel no explicit pain, but that meant nothing at this time. She knew that she was in shock and that one part of her brain blocked in denial. In a fine, calming, smooth denial; like that all was a bad dream.

How hard could a fight with oneself be! She shook her head fiercely and dialed again nine-one-one. This time she came close to the first ringtone, then she hung up.

Shaking her head, she put down the phone again. What if this was only a joke from a person who was seeking popularity? They hadn´t heard from Red John for a while, he had disappeared. If this was the start of a new killing series? There was no reason why she should be the victim. Or was it? She was sure that this had not happened by chance. She was the target. So it was her investigation! Yes, mine! She would need all of them here, and with them the whole investigation unit. Forensics, photographers… this was a new case, a thing they had to solve. And by all means, they would! Hell, yeah!

No matter that she was the main victim now… this was an investigation as every else! And maybe this was finally a trace to someone who admired Red John´s murders; or to him himself… Her brain started to work properly while she dialed the number of the CBI almost automatically. She let it ring for a few times. Then she hung up again, what a difficult decision. What should she tell the night-shift in the CBI? Her team was not there, and if, then only Jane. She hung up a second ere some sleepy Agent could get answer the call.

There must be more to that than a mere fare-dodger. Why should she be alive, if this was a person who wanted to be like RJ? If anyone would try to copy RJ´s style of attack, she should be dead, like the poor student a few years ago, who was the victim of two crazy young movie freaks. Why should anyone who is only a "make believe" and admirer of Red John let her alive, instead of killing her and take joy out of it?

And why choose exactly her? Ok, many people knew by now that she was the Agent that had to do with the Red John murders. Anyone could try to come on her like this, for whatever cause. Why now, and never before?

And second to that, or should she better say: How the f… was this person able to find her here? If this happened somewhere she was more often, at home, maybe, but here? In this motel room next to the Tahoe National forest, where she retreated for a free weekend? She was here the second night, it was going to get Saturday, the day that she wanted to go for a long walking trip through the woods of the Nature Preserve. No one knew where she was, the whole team split up to this free summer weekend when the Director had granted them Friday as a free day too, so she had started into their short vacation on Thursday after work, and used the first day of her stay for relaxing and a short look around in the small town Cisco, that was nearby. But she´d never counted on this; being attacked out here.

Probably she should try to call one of them, Cho perhaps, to help her to round up the others, so she chose his number and was disappointed, when only the answering machine of his phone was in the line. Of course he had switched it off; it was three in the morning! How could she ever think that he would be willing to answer a call now?

And what about Rigsby? He maybe was somewhere with his girlfriend Sarah and she had no intention to call him. Van Pelt? Of course she could call her, but she had overheard some words she had changed with the team, she wanted to go home for the weekend; she would be also very unpleased if she was disturbed. So better choose the night-shift team in the HQ? They were a complete other team and maybe far enough away from their case. She dialed again, but hung up ere the line was open. It was Senior Agent Carew's shift this weekend, and she could find someone better than him to work this case.

A few minutes passed in silence, and she used the strength that she had gathered out of the thinking-time to switch on the light and look at the paintings on her skin more closely. It was frightening, the nightly visitor set the red ink lines exactly as if he had hurt her with a knife; some longer lines like painful cuts, some short lines only as long as a knife´s blade was wide, as if they were caused by vertical, mighty stabs. She must call the police to get this crazy person. This time she really connected herself to the next police station. It was a small sheriff´s office in the near town, and the only person who had night shift here was a female officer. Her voice was tired: »Cisco Sheriff´s office, what´s your problem?«

In this minute it was clear that she could not inform the police, and this realization shut her up completely. Red John was dead! Jane shot him! If there was any doubt about that, Jane was in trouble. He was called not guilty of all charges because the jury believed that he shot that serial killer. And since then RJ had kept silent, as if he really was dead, although Jane himself insisted that he shot the wrong man. If he was still out there, alive, it would backfire at her consultant. So no more words!

»Hello there, is there anyone?« the officer asked. »If this is a joke again, Denny, I´m really going to kill you, boy.« The night-shift-officer cleared her throat: »Denny, you know that those nights make me crazy. Or…«

She ended the call and sat back motionless. No one must ever know. If they´d start to work on this case, it was very likely that the truth was revealed, when they started to investigate this case. If anyone would know that Jane lied to the jury and that would bring him into jail again. And maybe this was the real thing behind all that.

Would he ever forgive her if she did not inform him about this? He would be furious if this really was some evidence for an activity of Red John, and she´d conceal it. But could she stand it, if he knew? Would he understand why she only wanted to forget this?

No, she could not call anyone. She must forget it, take a long bath and re-arrange the room to a smooth, proper state. Maybe she could get the smiling face down the wall somehow, buy some paint in the morning … it was nerve-racking.

Worse, it was tearing her into more than one direction at once, as if it slowly would rip her into pieces. One part of her longed for the chance to get this bastard down; to prevent any more attacks, to get him charged for this. The second part only wanted to forget it, take a shower, wash the marks off her body, put paint over the face on the wall, and never to ask her again what happened to her when she was unconscious. The third part wanted to talk about it; maybe that would make it better. And the fourth part she could think of right now wanted to protect Jane so that this case remained closed and no one spoke of Red John ever again. She wanted to keep him safe, but would he like that?

She was a little bit uneasy, maybe afraid. He would be disappointed when she would keep that information for herself. Of course he would want to know if RJ showed up again. Should she betray him to keep him safe? What if this was a remarkable track for them to finally get this serial killer? And could she live with the knowledge that she destroyed that evidence? Yes, she had to; somehow. Her decision was made. She would clean up here now and never speak of it again.

In the next moment she startled in shock and longed for her gun in reflex – for usual she kept the spare weapon in her bedside table, but of course she had not taken it with her on holidays. Why should she! There was someone at the door, trying to get in. Was the attacker back to complete his murder? Or was it another one, an accomplice maybe? A shudder ran over her body. What if the markings on her body were only the beginning, maybe some kind of sketch, or plan, where to set the real knife cuts and stabs? What was this game, maybe a silly or bizarre "scary movie part x" by some impostor?

That made a wave of fury rush through her body. You won´t get me. Never, you… whoever you are. And it made her somewhat easier, if this all was really some disgusting joke of a fare-dodger all her real fears were meaningless. No one was in danger, this was not Red John´s doing, he was "dead", Jane would be safe without a lie; finite! Ha!

She could go after those impostors with all her abilities. One problem solved; the other still to go. Whoever was going to come through this door would not get a nice welcome. For sure not! There was no time now to turn off the light, to get this intruder or group of intruders by surprise, so it was only one direction she would go. Directly at the first one who stepped inside her room; get him on the floor, and then she would be on the next one. For sure someone would hear the fight and she could order this witness to call the police. Now it was easy.

The door lock clicked, someone has opened it without the key, the knob moved, there was no sound except the fine, almost not audible screeching of the metallic parts of the door knob, and her heart that seemed to thump so loud that even the intruder must hear it.

The door opened, first slowly, as if hesitating, but then fast and the intruder came in…