The Mentalist: Red Specter

by Donnamour1969

NOW CONCLUDED! Patrick Jane is a psychic and a conman, his life untouched by tragedy until he makes one fatal mistake. With Red John plotting revenge, Jane seeks protection from retired CBI Agent, Teresa Lisbon, whose personal loss makes her Jane's perfect ally. AU. Rated T/M for adult language and content. Thanks to whomever made this awesome cover for me!

1. Part I, Ch 1-7

A/N: Hi! Many of you may remember this fic from about a year ago. I stopped writing it and deleted it from my list of stories, mainly because I was really blocked about it and was unhappy with where my mind was taking it. Still, it has always bothered me that I never finished it, and a reader recently messaged me about this missing story. I went back and re-read what I had written, and I'm now able to see this story with new eyes. Since I am between projects right now, I have some time to come out of retirement and work on finishing this. I've reposted the first 7 original chapters as Part I. I can't remember if I ever posted chapter 7, but I included it here because it was part of my original story. Part II will pick up with chapter 8, and I'll post each chapter individually now, as I write them. I hope you will welcome the return of this fic.

Original A/N: This story is a bit more serious than my usual fare, which is as it should be, I think, considering it partly centers on Red John. In this universe, there is no Angela or Charlotte, and Jane has evolved into the man you would expect without real love in his life. Conversely, without Jane, Lisbon has had far less joy in hers. But don't worry, this won't be a total downer, because I believe fate will always bring these two lost souls together, no matter what universe...

Red Specter, Part I

Chapter 1

"Dear God," whispered Teresa Lisbon, as she stared at the crime scene photos. A man with beautiful blonde curls, matted with blood, lay on expensive marble tile, his throat cut, his torso eviscerated. Blue-green eyes stared sightlessly into the camera.

"Thought you'd want to see these," said CBI Special Agent Kimball Cho. He took another drink of the beer she'd given him and sat back against her couch. Her apartment was just like the last time he'd seen it—boxes still stacked against one wall, impersonal beige furnishings. She didn't spend much time here, even now.

Lisbon looked up from the disturbing images, and the pair of former coworkers exchanged a meaningful glance. The photos brought back painful memories for both of them.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Malibu PD says it was a case of mistaken identity," added Cho.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. Red John never made mistakes. That's why he hadn't been caught yet, even after sixteen grisly murders.

"Who was the intended victim?"

"Patrick Jane."

Lisbon's eyes widened. The dead man did look oddly familiar. "The pyschic?"

Cho's grimace of distaste was barely perceptible, but Lisbon had known Cho for ten years, and recognized the expression immediately.

"Yeah. The victim was Jane's bodyguard," he continued, "Matt Denney, specially chosen to look like Jane to divert the paparazzi and the hoards of groupies who follow him around."

Patrick Jane was host of his own syndicated TV show, Crossing Over, With Patrick Jane. For an hour every day, he came into the living rooms of millions, impressing them with his psychic abilities, connecting people to their lost loved ones on the other side. Giving them hope that death was not really the end. His movie star good looks made him a media darling, and he'd graced the cover of every magazine from Woman's Day to Gentlemen's Quarterly. If you believed People, he was the sexiest man alive. What's more, he had an Emmy and a People's Choice Award to lend him some respectability, lifting his show above the Jerry Springers of the talk show world. His showmanship skills swayed even the most skeptical to at least give some credence to the possibility of communication with the dearly departed.

But no awards or honors could sway Lisbon or Cho from their opinions. They'd seen too many conmen in their long careers in law enforcement not to be skeptical.

"Why does Red John want to kill Patrick Jane?" Lisbon asked.

Cho reached down to the leather messenger bag he'd brought with him. He opened it and brought out his tablet, before turning it on and pulling up a video.

"Here," he said, pressing the play arrow on the touch screen.

It was a scene from Jane's show, and the man himself was standing onstage in one of his trademark, three-piece Italian suits. Lisbon was struck anew by the man's incredible looks, and she marveled how his rich voice and penetrating eyes captivated even her-appealing to the woman's heart she worked so hard to ignore. No wonder he had such a devoted following, she mused.

It was near the end of his show, where Jane took questions from the live audience.

A nervous looking woman in a blue blouse stood at the microphone between the rows of comfortable chairs. (Ever since Jane had mentioned in an interview his favorite color, his audience always looked like a veritable ocean of varying shades of blue).

Patrick, she began rather breathlessly. I've heard that you've worked with the police in the past, helping them to solve tough cases where they are at a dead end. Have you received any revelations about the identity of the serial killer, Red John?

Jane hesitated, tapping his bottom lip thoughtfully with a long, graceful index finger, calculated no doubt to draw one's attention to the sensual fullness of his mouth.

I have, Elizabeth, he replied after a moment, pleasing her and the audience with his usual shtick of appearing to magically know her name. Red John has killed several women-terrible, sadistic crimes, and such evil always disturbs the peace of the psychic realm. True demonic evil burns like fire, it burns with a cold, dark flame. I've forced myself to look into that flame, and I've seen the image of the evildoer. Red John is an ugly, tormented little man, a lonely soul. Sad. Very sad…

Lisbon gasped at his audacity—taunting a serial killer like that on national television probably hadn't been the best idea. He continued heedlessly on, speaking about how the police had once asked for his input on the case. Red John's identity was slowly taking shape in his mind, he said, but his face was still in the shadows.

Yeah, right, thought Lisbon sardonically.

The video ended amidst enthusiastic applause.

"Well," said Lisbon, "we know now Jane's not really a psychic, or he would have stopped his bodyguard from being killed."

That sounded unkind, even to her, and Lisbon shook her head. "Sorry," she said sheepishly.

"Looks like he's in need of a new bodyguard," said Cho casually.

Lisbon paled, her back stiffening. "No. This is Red John, Kimball. I—I can't do it."

"You should be on this case," he said, moving to the edge of the couch. His dark eyes were even more serious than usual. "I can't be, but this is a way now that you can."

She rose jerkily from the couch and began pacing before the coffee table, the crime scene photos of Patrick Jane's doppelganger taunting her from the coffee table. Cho watched his former boss, feeling a twinge of pain as he too remembered that day a year and a half ago, when they'd found Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Sam Bosco murdered by Red John because they'd gotten dangerously close to the killer.

"I was pretty messed up afterwards," she said softly, stopping her nervous movements to stand in front of him.

"I was too," Cho admitted.

But no way had the stoic Cho fallen as far as she had, thought Lisbon. She remembered the drinking binge she'd gone on after their deaths, a binge that lasted a good three months before she finally hauled herself to an AA meeting. By then, her job with the CBI was in the toilet, and she wasn't sure she'd ever have the stomach to go back to working homicide.

"Yeah, but you stayed on at the CBI. The shrink cleared you for duty—"

"But they took me off of the Red John case anyway. Whatever Bosco had found that day had been a major breakthrough, I'm sure of it. If Red John hadn't had a mole in the CBI…"

There were a lot of unanswered questions, a lot of what-ifs. They had never discovered who the mole was, and Sam's new information had died with him. Cho was now in Lisbon's old position as lead agent of the Serious Crimes unit, and while he no longer worked the Red John case, the new agents who had taken over did him the professional courtesy of keeping Cho (quietly) apprised of any new developments. This was how he'd obtained the grisly photos of poor Matt Denney.

"It would only take a phone call, a recommendation from the CBI to get you on Jane's private security detail. Red John made a mistake—you know this will make him want to come after Jane even harder. This is our chance to get him."

"By using Patrick Jane as bait?"

Cho shrugged. "You'd be there to protect him."

"I'm not sure I'm up to it," she whispered, her eyes glistening down at him.

"Yes you are. It's been almost two years. And I'll do whatever I can to help you."

She still appeared hesitant, uncertain, and her lack of confidence was hard for Cho to watch, after the strong, no-nonsense cop she used to be. But she'd built a successful security business all on her own in the intervening year, pulled herself up by the proverbial bootstraps. He admired her for that, and he wouldn't have come to her home with this if he hadn't thought she could handle it now. They couldn't pass up this opportunity, a twist of fate that had re-opened the door for both of them. The only thing that would allow either of them to move on would be getting Red John—dead or alive.

Cho played his trump card.

"Don't do it for us, Boss…do it for them," he said shamelessly.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eight hours earlier…

Patrick Jane got out of his borrowed BMW and strode up to his Malibu home. His own car, a red Porsche convertible, was parked in front of him in the circle drive. Matt Denney, his bodyguard/personal assistant, had only been an hour ahead of him from Los Angeles, driving Jane's car because Jane had mentioned there might be something wrong with the brakes. Matt took his job of protecting Jane very seriously, and because of this, among a multitude of other things he did for him daily, Jane had come to think of the man as more than just an assistant. He was probably the only true friend Jane had in LA.

Fingering the correct key on Matt's key ring, Jane walked up the front steps leading to the door, the moonlight glinting eerily off the glass walls. Odd that nowhere could he see a light shining within the house, and Matt hadn't even left the porch light on for him. Not like Matt at all.

Jane's senses tingled; something wasn't right.

He felt for the key hole and inserted Matt's key, but found that the door was already unlocked.

He thought briefly of returning to Matt's car and retrieving the gun he kept in the glove box, but the house seemed quiet, and Jane hated guns (though he certainly knew how to use one). His comments about Red John from the show yesterday flitted through his mind, but he put them resolutely aside. Instead, he pushed open the door. It moved inside the house about a foot and stopped. Something was blocking it.

Jane had a sickening feeling he knew what was preventing him from opening that door, and his heartbeat accelerated alarmingly.

"Matt?" he said aloud, his voice breaking with his fear.

He pushed harder on the door, managing to open it enough that he could squeeze inside. He slipped on something wet on the marble tile, fell heavily against the foyer wall, gasping and struggling blindly for balance.

Nearly brought to his knees, Jane reached up to flip a switch with a shaking hand.

In the glaring light, he cried out his shock, horror suffusing him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane poured his second glass of scotch of the evening, and settled into the overstuffed leather couch in his dressing room. He leaned his head back into the butter soft cushion, closing his eyes, but the image of his carved up friend was still as clear as if he were there in the room with him.

For the first time in years, Jane felt deep regret and guilt at his own actions. From Boy Wonder in the carnival to celebrity Psychic, he'd successfully suppressed that weak side of himself, the side for marks who allowed themselves to be guilted into doing what they really didn't want to do. Thus, Jane had built his career on the pretense of caring, of feigned empathy. He wasn't faking now, however. Too bad no one would ever be able to tell how much Matt's murder had truly affected him.

His own arrogance and audacity, inciting a serial killer as he had, put the blame squarely on Jane's head—there was no denying it. Indeed, public opinion likely shared in this belief, as every media outlet replayed those fateful last three minutes of yesterday's live show, over and over, before extolling the virtues of his late bodyguard. There had even been some rumblings that maybe Jane himself had been the murderer, that since anonymous sources stated that Red John hadn't left his usual bloody face calling card, it couldn't have been the serial killer. His publicist was going crazy, releasing a statement of deep regret that Jane hadn't actually written, trying desperately to curtail the damage to his reputation.

Needless to say, Jane didn't feel much like filming any more shows anytime soon, despite pressure to get back on the horse and put a positive spin on this whole terrible situation. For the first time in his life, show business seemed infinitely unimportant while the specter of Red John still loomed over him. Jane knew in his heart the madman wasn't through with him yet. Red John's mistake in killing the wrong man would have only outraged the killer further. It would seem to Red John that Jane had made him look like a dupe yet again, and that wouldn't sit well with an arrogant psychopath.

Jane downed the rest of his scotch, jumping out of his skin at the sudden knock on his door. Pulse pounding, he tried to calm himself by remembering that the local police, in conjunction with the CBI, had left two armed guards outside his door for protection. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to set down his glass on the end table and rise shakily to his feet.

He went to the door.

"Who is it?" he asked, pleased he sounded his usual confident self.

"Your new bodyguard is here," said one of the policemen through the door. Funny, he'd sounded almost…snide.

Relief coursing through him, he unlocked and opened his dressing room door. He had to lower his gaze at least a foot to meet the eyes of the woman standing before him, and he felt his eyebrows rising in surprise before he could help himself. He took her in in one quick glance, thought he would have liked to linger on her russet brown waves of hair at her shoulders, her deep green eyes, and lower, on the tantalizing fullness beneath her black t-shirt, the seductive curves within her jeans.

"Agent Lisbon I presume?"

The woman's Irish complexion grew slightly whiter still.

"Not anymore," she said, and he could tell she was forcing her voice to remain clipped, professional. Interesting. "I'm Teresa Lisbon, Lisbon Security."

"Oh." He shook her proffered hand, finding it cool and dry. He had the strange desire to warm it between his two much larger hands, but he released her after a polite moment.

She continued to stand uncomfortably in the doorway between the two policemen, who seemed amused at Jane's reaction to the diminutive woman.

"We'll return your weapon before you leave, Miss Lisbon," one guard said, making a show of putting her Glock in his uniform pocket.

Her expression remained stern, but she nodded her understanding. They were just doing their jobs, after all. It had been a good idea to search her before she came in.

Jane stepped aside, belatedly finding his manners. "Please, come in."

After he closed and re-locked the door, Jane's brain kicked back into gear. He turned to his guest, his face a pleasant mask.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lisbon, but there seems to have been a mistake," he said, indicating that she sit on his couch. He grimaced at his own words. There had been many unfortunate mistakes lately. Lisbon remained standing, and he found himself smiling inside at her obstinacy. Maybe this hadn't been a mistake after all, he thought wryly.

"No mistake on my part," she said. "Agent Cho called me, said he'd recommended my personal security services to you, so here I am."

"He said you were a former CBI agent, a weapons expert, incredible in hand-to-hand combat, a black belt in Karate—"

"Yes. All true. You seem to be a man of the world, Mr. Jane. Haven't you heard the old expression about books and their covers?"

"I apologize if I've misjudged you, Ms. Lisbon, but under the circumstances, I was hoping for someone a bit more…imposing. You have been apprised of what happened last night…"

She considered him blandly, and Jane had the feeling she was the one sizing him up, not the other way around, which is usually expected when one is interviewing a prospective employee.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, with the first sign of real emotion. But then her jaw hardened again as she continued. "I was once lead agent on the Red John case, Mr. Jane, so I understand the intricacies of your position, the gravity of your situation. Because of my personal experience, I can offer an insight that no one else can. You need protection now—I think you realize that-which is why you took Cho up on his offer to contact me. I can protect you. You won't find anyone better."

He was at once shocked by her revelation and duly impressed by it, but he still found himself skeptical. Matt had been deceptively strong and skilled, himself, so Jane should have known better than to make snap judgments, but then, look at what had happened to him. But Jane realized that there was definitely more to Teresa Lisbon than met the eye, and as he focused on her more intently, he began to get a better read on her.

"Red John killed someone you cared about," he stated.

A shadow crossed her face, but she held her determined little chin high. "Yes. Colleagues with the CBI."

"Ah," he said, seeming to understand everything now. He could tell she was annoyed by that.

"That is the kind of arrogance that will get you killed," she said weightily.

He visibly blanched, but recovered quickly. She too was good at reading people. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Ms. Lisbon. That is what I do."

"Offend people? So I've seen." She returned to business. "Now, I suggest we get you to a safe house I know about—no stopping to retrieve any personal items. My car won't be familiar to anyone, so if we disguise you well enough, go out a back way—"

Jane held up a hand. "Wait. I don't believe I've hired you for the job."

She surprised him yet again by joining him on the couch. Her small hand rested lightly on the cushion beside his knee, as she looked seriously into his eyes.

"You may not realize it, but you need me, Mr. Jane, and you don't have time to interview a bunch of muscle-bound nannies. I've been in law enforcement for twenty years; I know what I'm doing. You'll just have to trust me."

Like he'd imagined doing just minutes before, his hand covered hers, and he surprised himself with his own honesty.

"I'm not very good at that," he said softly, and he had the not unpleasant sensation that he was falling from a very high cliff.

Her lips quirked wryly. "Neither am I." Her dimples abruptly disappeared, and a compelling intensity burned in her eyes. "But I can promise you this, Mr. Jane: if Red John gets within a mile of you, he'll be dead before he takes another step."

"Not if I kill him first," said Jane, his voice deadly serious.

She nodded. They understood each other perfectly.

Jane sighed in resignation, gave her just a hint of his devastating smile.

"So, tell me more about this safe house. Does it have a comfortable couch?"

Chapter 2

"You could have told me the safe house was in Sacramento," said Jane in annoyance. He'd always hated feeling handled, had never allowed it by anyone, from agent to publicist. That's one of the things he'd liked about Matt, he realized sadly. He'd never tried to control him.

"I flew down here from Sacramento and rented this car," Lisbon was explaining, as they traveled through the night in the nondescript, black sedan. "I figured we should get you out of LA for awhile. Your habits and hangouts are too well-known around there. I bet you could by a map with your home on it from any corner vendor. And an airport is way too public—you have to show your ID."

He supposed he could see the logic in that.

"Still, you could have told me, Ms. Lisbon."

"I didn't want to run the risk of your freaking out on me, wanting to go by your place and get things for the trip. Everything you'll need is at the house."

He looked down at the navy blue t-shirt and blue jeans he'd donned at her insistence before they'd left his dressing room. His suits would have been a dead giveaway of his identity—so to speak. At least she'd let him keep his lucky brown shoes.

"I don't freak out," he said. "Although, I might break out—in hives. I don't think this shirt is one-hundred percent cotton. And these jeans are way too long. I actually had to roll them up like a teenage girl."

"Sorry. You look much taller on TV," she said with a smirk.

He realized he was sounding a bit like a diva, the stereotypical demanding celebrity. He sighed. He was just tired, still somewhat in shock over finding Matt's mutilated body. He wished he'd thought to grab his bottle of scotch.

"I apologize, Ms. Lisbon. I know you're looking out for me. I'm just not myself…"

She understood completely. She'd been the one to find her coworkers, shot, then butchered, the vivid smiling face of blood on Bosco's office wall. For the second time that day, she wished for a drink.

"It's just Lisbon," she said, changing the subject.

"What, you mean one name, like Madonna?"

She felt her lips quirk in spite of herself. "I've been in law enforcement a long time, Mr. Jane. Last names always seem easier to remember."

"More impersonal, you mean. Call me Patrick, then."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't do that-occupational hazard."

"Well, leave off the mister. I'll just be Jane."

Her hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel as she tried not to smile. "Fine."

Jane looked at her delicate profile, saw how hard she was suppressing her emotions. She was so tense.

"It's okay to smile, Lisbon," he said quietly. "Even laugh, if you want. No one's going to see but me."

"It's unprofessional. And inappropriate, under the circumstances."

"Hmm."

They were both quiet for a few miles, and then Jane's stomach growled audibly. He realized he hadn't had anything but scotch all day.

"Look, you think we're far enough down the road to stop for a sandwich or something?"

She glanced at him sidelong, considering. She wasn't too keen on stopping for anything, but neither could she avoid making a pit stop or two. It was a long drive.

"We can drive through somewhere. And you'll have to put your hat back on, or lie down in the back seat."

"Oh, come on, Lisbon. I've got other needs to tend to besides an empty stomach. Don't tell me you're wearing adult diapers or something."

She didn't dignify that with an answer.

They passed a spot-lit billboard advertising a diner famous for its homemade pies, one mile ahead.

"There," he said, pointing. "That's the place. I could do with a piece of apple pie al a mode. And I bet you could too."

She couldn't deny her love for anything apple, but that wasn't the point.

"Okay. But no more than thirty minutes, tops. Anyone makes you, and it'll be all over social media before you can blink."

Jane nodded. He knew from personal experience how very true that was.

"Deal," agreed Jane.

And Red John would know even quicker, thought Lisbon, if her past experience with the killer still held water. He had lots of eyes and ears out there, which made the man even more dangerous.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was difficult not to be amused by the debonair Patrick Jane, clad in his cheap clothing and bad baseball cap/attached black wig ensemble. He'd done a fairly good job of stuffing his blonde curls inside the hat. At least he'd agreed to the disguise. While he wolfed down a club sandwich and then the pie and ice cream, Lisbon sipped her coffee. She wondered what his legion of fans would think, seeing their idol slumming in a greasy spoon.

"Eat your pie, Lisbon," he ordered, as if he knew her. She thought about refusing just for the principle of the thing—he had ordered it without her consent after all. She watched as the melting ice cream formed a puddle beneath the warm pie in her bowl. It looked amazing.

She sighed. It had been a long time since she'd eaten. She picked up her spoon, and Jane grinned. She felt like punching him.

She was tense and tired, and very wary about sitting there for any longer than they had to, especially when she noticed a couple in a booth near them, the woman whispering to the man while nodding surreptitiously toward Jane.

She carefully set down her spoon again. "You need to hurry up," she murmured to her charge.

"What?" he asked, mouth full of his dessert. "Why?"

Lisbon accidentally made eye contact with the woman, who took that as an invitation. She groaned internally. The woman rose to her feet, bringing with her a napkin and a pen she'd borrowed from her husband. It was too late to move.

"Oh, God," she said. "We've got company."

Jane froze, kept his eyes averted, and pulled his hat down lower over his forehead. Years of playing the con allowed him to fall easily into his role.

"Hey," said the middle-aged woman, her red curly hair bouncing around her shoulders. She wasn't even looking at Lisbon now. "I'm sorry to bother you, but…are you that actor from that detective show?"

Jane stared at Lisbon for a split second, before his amused grin split his handsome face. He looked up at the woman with a charming sparkle in his eye.

"Yes," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But you have to pretend you don't know who I am, and any pictures would ruin the surprise. I'm researching a story for my show."

"Ohhh," she said, as if that explained everything. "Sure. Of course. That explains the hat and wig." She set the napkin before him. "Would you mind…?"

He took the proffered pen. "No problem. What's your name, dear?"

"Lilian."

Lisbon watched in awe as he wrote his best wishes and signed the name, Simon Baker. He returned Lilian's belongings, dispatching her quickly with the repeated warning that he was under cover for his role.

"Well, thank you for the autograph," she exclaimed, sotto vocce. "You are just as nice as you seem on TV. And I have to say, you and that Robin Tunney are adorable together!"

"Thanks, Lilian. I'll be sure to tell her."

The fan went back to her husband and Lisbon let go the breath she'd been holding.

"She almost gave me a heart attack," she said, hiding her grimace behind her coffee. She signaled for the waitress to bring the ticket.

Jane chuckled softly and took another bite of pie. Lisbon's eyebrows knit.

"Simon Baker?"

Jane shrugged. "I get that a lot. Personally, I think I'm much better looking…"

"Well, that was too close. No more stops, okay?" Next time, someone might really recognize him.

Jane merely raised an eyebrow.

He finished his pie and took out his wallet to pay the tab. She didn't protest, even though he laid down a hundred-dollar bill; she was anxious to get back on the road.

"Let's go," she said tightly. Lilian and her husband smiled at them as they passed their table on their way out of the diner. Jane adjusted his hat/wig and winked.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I saw the video of your show yesterday," Lisbon said after another hour of driving. Jane had been staring out the windshield into the blackness, eyes wide open. She felt him stiffen in his chair, though she didn't actually see him move.

"Probably the stupidest thing I've ever done," he said gravely.

She didn't comment.

Jane didn't know if he should be pleased or insulted that she didn't try to comfort him, didn't try to placate his guilt by saying Matt's death wasn't his fault, didn't say that there was no way he could possibly be to blame for the actions of a murderer. He longed to have absolution, but in his heart, Jane knew he didn't deserve it. The truth was, he was to blame.

"Was it true what you said?" she asked now. "That you were consulting with the police about Red John?"

"Yes," he replied cautiously.

"What could you tell them?"

"I'm really not a psychic, Ms. Lisbon." As if that was some earth-shattering confession.

He almost missed her small, derisive snort. "Oh, I know that. But you must be pretty good at deduction, or profiling people-something to that effect, otherwise the police wouldn't have given you the time of day." She wondered why Cho hadn't mentioned this information. Maybe he hadn't known about it either…

"Police often talk to psychics. It's more common than you think," he said a bit defensively.

"Yeah, okay."

"Scoff all you want, but it's true. You were a cop, right?"

"Yes. But I personally never enlisted a psychic. When I was with San Francisco PD, I saw it happen—once. And it was only because the woman had been a witness to the crime. I'm afraid you watch too many detective shows. That Simon Baker one, maybe?"

He ignored the barb. "Well, I've been a consultant on several cases for the LAPD. Helped solve a few too."

"Because you're famous," she reasoned. "And you must be good at reading people, like I said. And like you said, you're not really a psychic. What did you tell the police about Red John?"

"What's the point in saying now? It's obviously made no difference in capturing him. If it had, Matt would still be alive."

"It matters to me," she said softly.

His eyes zeroed in on her face, pale in the light from the dashboard.

"I can see that," he said meaningfully. He was quiet a moment, considering.

"It was about two years ago, actually," he said, his elegant voice filling the rental car. "A man from the CBI came to the studio, to my dressing room. He told me flat out that his boss was making him talk to me, that he thought it was a waste of his time talking to a psychic. His boss had heard that I had given valuable insight to the San Francisco PD about the San Joaquin killer, which had led to his capture. The police agreed to leave my name out of it in the press. Anyway, the guy brought pictures from some of Red John's crime scenes, asked me to take a look."

Lisbon's mind was racing. Two years ago, the Serious Crimes Unit at the Sacramento branch of the CBI had been in charge of the Red John case—her unit. She suddenly froze, her heart giving a squeeze that made her breath seize in her throat. She'd never known the CBI had enlisted a psychic.

"What was the man's name?" she said, her voice coming out in a strangled squeak.

Jane thought a moment. "I don't remember—I guess it wasn't important enough to me at the time. I didn't like the guy, that much I do remember. Thought he was a bit of a bully, quite honestly, and I probably told him so, knowing me. He obviously didn't like me either. Called me a clown, if I recall, which was ironic, since he reminded me a bit of one himself, actually. But that's about all I remember about him…"

She swallowed, struggling to slow her breath, her hands tight on the steering wheel, her neck tense with the strain of keeping herself together. She wanted a drink more than life itself.

"Lisbon," he said softly, reaching out tentatively to touch her arm. She didn't seem to feel it. "You knew that man who came to see me." It wasn't a question.

"I—I think it was Sam Bosco," she said haltingly. "I worked with him in Sacramento."

Realization had dawned for both of them.

"He was one of your colleagues killed by Red John," said Jane. "Because of what I told him."

Her head whipped toward him, and the car swayed a little toward the other lane. Jane just resisted grabbing the wheel before Lisbon righted the car again. Abruptly, she moved into the far right lane and pulled over to the shoulder, the sedan jerking to a stop. Lisbon flipped on the hazard lights and turned to face him.

"What did you say to him?" she ground out, her voice gravelly and demanding, her eyes intense. When a lumbering semi-truck made their car shake, Lisbon showed no concern; her world narrowed down to whatever Patrick Jane was about to tell her.

Jane watched her as closely as he could in the dark car, gauging how much she could handle. He wondered what she was expecting to hear. He himself couldn't imagine how his telling her now would help anything. The man was dead.

"I told him I thought Red John was in law enforcement."

"What?" she gasped. "How could you possibly know that?"

He felt slightly offended. This was what had made him a multi-millionaire, after all. He sighed condescendingly, then began ticking off his suppositions like he was ordering from a restaurant.

"Red John likes control. He likes giving orders. He's a narcissist, though he's pretty ordinary looking. Thinning hair. He probably lives with his mother, or a sister. He's methodical and tidy, keeps himself very clean. Likely has some serious issues with paranoia or some unusual phobia…"

Jane's voice trailed off as he suddenly began paying attention to his own words. His opinion hadn't changed from his initial viewing of Bosco's file, but now, his reading of the serial killer was more than just an emotionless reading, more than just his showing off. He realized that these were actual clues to Red John's identity, characteristics that he'd seemed to know instinctively. Had people died because Red John had known there was truth to them?

Lisbon stared at the professed psychic, her mind racing with the implications of his conjectures. Whether or not this was all just bullshit speculation, even the great skeptic, Sam Bosco, had taken at least some of it seriously. Maybe Jane's words had triggered a connection in her dead friend's mind; maybe he'd been able to match some of his clues with Jane's reading. Who knows? The day Red John struck down her friends, Bosco had been prepared to share what he knew, and knowledge, as she was beginning to discover, could be a death sentence. It had only been dumb luck that she and Cho had been running late to that meeting; otherwise, they'd have been part of Red John's growing pile of bodies.

"It makes sense that Red John is in law enforcement," Lisbon said, as if to herself.

She sounded much calmer now, as her detective instincts kicked in and she began making her own connections, sifting through the Red John files in her mind. When she had worked for the CBI, she'd made personal copies of those files. There had been a lot of them, and it was against Bureau policy, but she'd made them and kept them nonetheless. Even now they were in her closet in her apartment, stacked beneath quilts and linens that had been her mother's. She needed to start looking at those files again, with Jane's new insights in mind. Perhaps that's what Bosco had done…

"Yes," agreed Jane. "How else would he have known what I told Sam Bosco?"

A blinding light shone now in their rear windshield, and Jane and Lisbon both looked in the rearview mirrors.

"Shit," muttered Lisbon. It was a state patrolman. He approached the driver's side, heavy black flashlight in hand. Lisbon rolled down the window, and the young officer directed the light briefly at her face. She squinted in annoyance, though she knew the purpose of the training behind everything he did.

"Everything all right, ma'am?" he asked politely, though in his position, she knew he must be incredibly edgy every time he approached an unknown vehicle on the side of a busy freeway.

"Yes, Officer," she replied. "We were uh, just having a conversation that needed my undivided attention."

Jane got the spotlight treatment, and he wished he hadn't tossed his hat/wig so far back into the backseat. When the man's eyes widened in recognition, Jane's heart skipped a beat. If Red John was indeed in law enforcement, this could well be a disastrous turn of events.

"May I see both your identifications," directed the patrolman. He watched their moves carefully, his hidden hand no doubt on his sidearm. Jane withdrew his wallet from his jeans pocket, and Lisbon took her driver's license from her small wallet on the center console.

"I should notify you, Officer," said Lisbon calmly, "that I have a registered weapon locked in the glove box. I'm former CBI and currently a licensed security expert. My permit is in with the gun." She could feel the man's tension increase tenfold at her announcement, but to an untrained eye, he would seem unruffled. That she was armed was news to Jane as well, and he decided immediately he was pleased with the information.

By then, the patrolman had glanced at her ID, then Jane's, confirming his identity.

"You're a long way from home, Ms. Lisbon," he said.

"Business," she explained.

He shone the light briefly in the backseat, then again on the pair in the front.

"Well, it's pretty dangerous to stay parked on the shoulder for long. I suggest you drive to the next town or rest stop to continue your conversation."

"Yes, sir," said Lisbon obediently.

Then he looked toward Jane once more. "Mr. Jane," he said, grinning widely. "My wife never misses your show."

"Please give her my best, Officer," he replied with a pleasant smile.

The patrolman nodded. "Well, you two have a good night. Drive carefully."

He gave the side of the car a friendly pat and went back to his vehicle. She had no doubt he was noting her license plate number as he got back in.

"Shit," she said again, putting on her blinker and preparing to merge back into the relatively light, late-night traffic.

Jane didn't add anything to that statement—it summed up his feelings exactly.

They drove on in silence for a time, each absorbed in their own thoughts and fears. Another question occurred to her, this time involving Jane himself.

"How was it you didn't hear of Bosco's and the other agents' deaths two years ago? It was all over the news for weeks."

"Since you told me about it, I wondered that myself," he admitted. "When Bosco visited me, I had just finished filming the last show of that season. I usually go to Europe for a couple of weeks on vacation, and to do a few foreign ads and commercials. I'm not one for social media and much of anything to do with computers, and sadly, California crime isn't top news in Paris. Somehow I missed it, I guess. What happened, exactly?"

Lisbon hadn't spoken of the details of that day since the CBI shrink had forced her to either talk about her feelings, or it was strongly implied she would lose her job. She had lost it a week later anyway, when she'd been found passed out on the floor in her office.

Her hesitation annoyed Jane. "Look, I'm obviously part of this whole mess, unbeknownst to me. I think I have a right now to be filled in on what I missed."

"Bosco had called a meeting. Cho and I live on the same side of town, and we were both caught in morning traffic. Our colleagues"-here, her voice shook slightly—"Rigsby and Van Pelt, made it in before us. It was an early morning meeting, called before most of the rest of the building had arrived. When we finally made it there, Cho and I walked in with Bosco's secretary, who was just coming in herself with coffee and muffins for the meeting."

She shuddered, her heart racing as if she were once again back in Bosco's office. She forced herself to finish the horrifying tale.

"They were already gone. All three of them. The blood…so much blood."

She remembered how she had stepped in it before she'd realized what had happened. Grace's blood, she'd realized later. The road ahead swam briefly before her eyes. She blinked hard, taking a breath.

"And there was a smiling face on the wall, so there was no doubt who had done it."

She swallowed, trying to focus on the present, to present the information analytically. "The security tapes of that morning were mostly blank, and some were substituted with footage from a month ago. That's how we knew it was an inside job."

Lisbon's description took Jane to his own horror of just that morning, seeing Matt's blood staining his Italian marble floor. He closed his eyes briefly, willing away the dreadful image.

"And you never caught anyone? Never found a witness?" He asked.

"No."

"What about the secretary? Seems to me she'd be Suspect Number One."

"Cho and I both questioned her. She seemed just as distraught as we were. And she'd known nothing of any new Red John developments; she'd thought the meeting was about some drug trafficker case. She was transferred to San Francisco after that, I believe. Post-traumatic stress, I heard…"

"Hmm," he said. Something about this woman nagged at him, though he had never seen her before in his life. He wondered if it would be possible to speak to her sometime…

"It was a big mess for us in the media," Lisbon continued. "A tragedy. A horrible mystery. The public ate it up. The CBI was vilified, of course, for not being able to prevent something like that from happening in their own house. At least my frien—my colleagues-were lauded as heroes, which is what they were…"

It was easier to call them colleagues rather than what they really had been: her friends, her family even. Their golden stars were hung now on the wall of the CBI lobby, adding to the solemn rows representing agents fallen in the line of duty. She bit her lip to stifle the sob that had welled in her throat.

The day after the ceremony, Minelli had quit, but by then her own life had already begun to spiral out of control.

"What do you suggest we do now, in Sacramento?" he asked. "I can't hide forever."

"No," she said.

Here was her opening, and now, with all of these new revelations, it was imperative in Lisbon's mind that they use this opportunity, placed in their laps like a gift. Cho had been right about seizing the day, but this might take some finessing.

"I was thinking…how would you like to help me set a trap for Red John?"

And, with the keen insight she was quickly coming to recognize, he gave her his answer.

"Yes, I would. And yes, Lisbon, I'd be happy to be the bait…"

Chapter 3

At about two in the morning, they arrived in Sacramento. Lisbon exited the freeway and turned into a quiet middle class neighborhood, the streetlights dotting the curving lanes of bungalows and seventies era split-levels. On the corner of one of those streets loomed a small, beautiful Catholic church, its stained glass windows eerily dark, though its steeple was lit up by the moon, pale white against the night sky. She kept one eye on the rearview mirror, checking to see if someone had followed them off the freeway.

Jane was surprised when she pulled around to the back parking lot, and while he had noticed the gold crucifix at her throat, a church was the last place he'd expected her to take him.

"Feeling the need to confess something?" he asked, only partially kidding.

"Not yet," she said.

Jane chuckled softly, then gave an inadvertent gasp when she leaned across him to retrieve her gun from the glove box. She smelled faintly of citrus and vanilla, and her soft hair brushed his bare arm.

"Excuse me," she said belatedly, sitting back in her seat to make sure a bullet was in the chamber. Only then did she emerge from the car. His hand had just alighted on the door lever, when Lisbon stayed it. "Wait," she said quietly. She shut the driver's side door and stood in the cool evening air, looking around in the brightness of the corner streetlight. She walked around the car, looking at the quiet street they had just left. Her quick tap on his window made him jump.

"Come on," she said. He got out of the car and she locked it with the remote on her keyring.

She punched in a code on a keypad by the door and she walked in, resetting the security system when they were both safely inside.

The back of the church had been converted into a two-bedroom apartment, complete with kitchenette, bathroom and small living area. What Lisbon liked most was that there were no windows in this part of the church. It was simply furnished; the only indication that it had once been used by the church was the red carpeting. Jane raised an eyebrow.

"This is your safe house?"

"Can you think of a safer place?" she asked, setting down her duffle bag on the small bistro table.

"I guess it depends on the strength of your faith."

She touched her cross absently. "My point exactly."

She did a quick sweep of the apartment, and then he watched, fascinated, as she set her Glock down beside her bag. A dangerous woman, in more ways than one.

"I used to go to this church," she explained, "but then they built a larger one a few blocks away. I quietly bought this one through the priest. The front is still a chapel like it always was."

"A good cover, as far as that goes," he said in admiration.

She nodded, then inclined her head toward one of the bedrooms. "Why don't you get some sleep? We'll discuss tactics tomorrow. Cho said he'd come by."

"Cho," said Jane thoughtfully. "I imagine he wants to get Red John as badly as we do."

"Yes," she said simply. "Rigsby was his best friend."

There was nothing he could say to that, though he felt sincere empathy for the man.

"What about you?" he asked her. "I bet you're exhausted after that long drive."

"I'll be all right. I'm riding on three cups of coffee. When Cho gets here, I'll try to catch some sleep."

He took a moment to look closely at her. He didn't like the deep circles beneath her tired green eyes, though his own concern for this lovely stranger gave him pause. He couldn't remember the last time he'd mustered anything but fake compassion for anyone. But since he'd discovered Matt's body, he'd felt an unsettling shift in the walls around his heart.

"Okay," he said. "But I'd be happy to take this in shifts."

She smiled a little at him from her place on the living area couch, and the way it transformed her face did something strange to his stomach.

"You're the client, Jane, remember?"

He didn't smile in return. "After our conversation earlier, I'd like to think we're partners." If he was going to help them catch a killer, he'd like equal say in how he was going to risk his life.

Her expression sobered to match his, and she gazed at him for a heavy moment, considering.

"Fair enough," she relented.

He smiled then. "Good." He took a few steps toward the bedroom.

"Jane." He turned back to look at her. She moved to the locked drawer of a nearby desk and withdrew a small handgun. He stood completely still as she walked over to him with the weapon.

"Do you know how to use one of these?" she asked him.

He hated guns with a passion, but his father had taught him to shoot when he was a kid. On the carney circuit, they had always had a gun in their trailer for protection—a necessary evil, unfortunately. Despite his reticence, however, Jane was an excellent shot. He held out a steady hand for the weapon.

"Yeah," he said, and then the cold metal was in his hand.

"Be careful; the safety's off."

"Not much good with it on."

She nodded in silent agreement. "You should have everything you need here—toothbrush, razor, a change of clothes. The fridge is stocked. If there's something else you want, I'll have Cho bring it with him later."

"Thanks. Good night, Lisbon."

They hadn't moved apart since she'd handed him the gun, and she looked up at him from her much shorter height. She was the kind of woman who at first glance appeared to need protection herself—petite and fey, her skin delicate porcelain. But the guns and the tragic wisdom in her eyes told a different story. She was strong, had seen too many things to be considered in the least bit delicate. In fact, she was so different from the women he had been with in the past that the contrast was jarring. He didn't find that unattractive; on the contrary, it was even more so.

"Good night."

And there it was, the fleeting flicker of feminine appreciation before she turned away and settled on the couch. Jane watched a moment as she used the remote control to click on the small TV and tune in to a twenty-four-hour news channel.

"…Patrick Jane seems to be mysteriously off the grid for now, and his publicist said he could not be reached for further comment. The family of Mr. Jane's murdered assistant, Matthew Denney, gave a statement today, thanking everyone for the outpouring of love and support, and refusing to believe the rumors that Patrick Jane himself was the serial killer, Red John…"

"Damn media," Lisbon muttered, defiantly changing the channel. She felt Jane's eyes still upon her as he stood in the bedroom doorway. "Don't pay any attention to that crap," said Lisbon. Shaken, Jane moved past her and went into the kitchen. She would have thought he'd be used to that kind of thing by now. She could hear him opening and closing the cabinets. After a moment, Lisbon joined him.

"Tell Agent Cho to pick me up some single-malt, will ya?" he said, frustration lacing his voice as he slammed the last cabinet door.

"Let me fix you some tea," she said, going to the cabinet over the sink. "I'm having some. It'll help you relax."

Jane looked skeptical. "Tea? Really?"

"Really," she said, putting on the teakettle.

Lisbon had discovered tea when she was in rehab. When she'd really wanted a drink of whiskey, just the act of preparing the tea gave her hands something to do, and the brew itself would calm and comfort her. In those first days of her recovery, she probably drank a gallon of the stuff a day. But she wasn't ready to tell Jane something so personal. Instead, she set a variety box of teas before him on the counter, beside his discarded gun.

"Choose your poison," she said.

Jane flipped through the small packets like a Rolodex, alternately frowning or cringing at the names he saw.

"Red zinger? Hibiscus? Wuyi Oolong? African Rooibos? These sound like tropical diseases," he mused.

Once again, Jane caught sight of the illusive hint of her dimples. He felt strangely triumphant at the sight.

"They're all very good," she said, turning back toward the nearest drawer for a pair of spoons. She seemed embarrassed at her own amusement, and Jane resolved to see her smile full on, and maybe—heaven forbid—get her to laugh.

He came across chamomile, which was the only name he recognized, and he had a vague memory of his mother drinking it when he was a child. He removed the teabag from its wrapper and dropped it into the blue teacup she set before him.

"Coward," she muttered with a smirk. Not quite a smile, but he would take it.

They stood for a few more moments in the kitchen, the old saying about a watched pot holding true. Lisbon stared off into space, lost in her own thoughts, while he used that time to do what he did best—observe. He was struck by Lisbon's understated beauty, and he knew himself well enough to know he would have overlooked such a woman as too plain had they been at a party or club. He tended to go for buxom blondes or mysterious brunettes with an air of sophisticated ennui about them. But something about this small woman with the large eyes fascinated him.

She was wounded, just as he was, though her wounds had had much more time to scar over and become a deeper part of her. She wore them like old war metals, and he found himself admiring her stoicism. He wondered if he would share her battle weary expression one day, if his face would hold similar lines of tension around the eyes and forehead. If he would also find it too painful to smile.

The whistling kettle moved Lisbon to action, and she poured steaming water into each cup. She had selected Hibiscus, and she dunked her teabag efficiently. Jane followed suit, and after he had let it steep a minute, took a tentative sip. He made a face.

"Needs milk," he told her, going for the refrigerator.

"In chamomile?" she said. It was her turn to cringe.

"Milk helps you sleep too, right? I'm going to need all the help I can get." In truth, he was afraid to close his eyes this night.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He poured the milk and tried the new concoction. "Much better."

He followed her to the living room, and they sat on either end of the couch. Neither of them spoke, and the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. Despite his skepticism, the tea was actually pleasant, and the soothing herbal infusion began to have the desired effect. The last thing he remembered was leaning his head back against the couch, his cup resting on his chest, his eyes drifting shut for just a moment…

Jane held Lisbon's gun, pointing it into the shadows of his own living room. The copper scent of blood was strong in the room. He looked down and was horrified to find he was ankle deep in a thick warm pool of bright red. He waded through it, wondering how so much blood could have come from his dead friend. He felt the sorrow of that fleeting thought, but then his fear took over, and he spun toward the staircase as a sound came from above.

He was terrified of what he might find, but he couldn't stop himself from climbing the stairs, from grasping the doorknob at the end of the landing. His other hand tightened around the gun, and he felt an overwhelming sense of impending doom. He pushed open the door to see a ghastly face on the white wall, dripping with Matt's blood. He heard the swish of a knife being thrown through the air, felt the blade drive painfully deep into his chest, the impact of it pushing him backwards onto the landing. He got off a shot, but it ricocheted wildly into the bedroom, and then he felt himself falling backward into space…

"Jane," said Lisbon, trying to still his thrashing arm.

He woke with his hand on his heart, his breathing harsh and ragged in the stillness of the old church. Still half asleep, he grabbed Lisbon's hand, needing desperately to hold onto something before he hit the floor at the bottom of those stairs.

"Shh…" she said gently, as if to a child. "You're having a nightmare." His hand in hers was painful, but she squeezed back as hard as she could, hoping to jar him back to reality.

"Shhh," she said again, more forcefully this time. "Wake up, Patrick."

It was his first name that did it, and he opened his eyes to peer blearily at her. Her face was calm, her cool hand soothing on his fevered brow as he brushed back his damp hair. He realized he was lying on the couch, his head resting on its padded arm, a throw blanket covering him from the chest down. He realized Lisbon must have helped him lie down on this couch, had likely taken the half-empty teacup out of his hands while he slept. He could remember none of it.

Lisbon had watched him struggle in his dream, debating whether it was her business to wake him. But then he had called out in his sleep and she couldn't bear to see him suffering. She knew what it was like, the nightmares. More like night terrors, they seemed so real it took several minutes to get her bearings when she awoke, to recognize that she had only been dreaming. They'd been a common occurrence for her two years before, and still woke her occasionally, her body drenched in cold sweat.

Lisbon had comforted her little brothers once upon a time when they had awakened, terrified in the night from unseen monsters that haunted them. But their monster—hers and Jane's—was all too real. She told herself it was a sisterly instinct that had her moving from the easy chair in the corner, kneeling on the floor beside her anguished client.

"I'm sorry," he was saying, though one of his well-manicured hands still clutched his chest, the other, her small hand. "I was dreaming."

"Yes," she said, not bothering to point out his understatement.

He looked about his surroundings, the lack of windows allowing no clue of the time.

"It's six a.m.," she told him, as if reading his thoughts. "You should go to the bedroom, try to get some more sleep. Cho will be here in a couple of hours."

"No," he said, still disoriented. He swung his feet over the side of the couch, but he didn't let go of her hand. "I don't think I could go back to sleep," he said with a shudder. She knew what that was like, too.

It was Lisbon who gave his hand a squeeze to draw his attention to the fact that he still held hers. He glanced at their laced fingers sheepishly, and abruptly let her go. Lisbon rose to her feet. She made no comment about the dampness of his t-shirt, or the paleness of his skin. One look in her eyes and he knew she understood. He took a deep, shaky breath, willing himself to relax.

"Would you like some breakfast?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, though he had no appetite. Then: "You have any eggs?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Agent Cho arrived and Jane felt a little better, having showered and changed into a clean t-shirt he found hanging in the closet of his temporary quarters. It was of the plain white variety, but at least it was one-hundred percent cotton. Beneath his borrowed jeans he wore a new pair of boxer shorts from a package he'd found in a bureau drawer. His ass hadn't seen Fruit-of-the-Loom since he was a teenager, but he figured a little humility wouldn't hurt him at this point.

He shook hands with the man he had only met on the phone, feeling oddly comforted by the somber face and firm handshake, the unshakeable air of calm.

"You sure you want to do this?" asked Cho, his stiff pose making a mockery of the easy chair. "We can't guarantee your safety. If you want to lay low until we capture Red John ourselves—"

"And live my life like a prisoner? No thanks. And, no offense, you guys have been after this man for-how many years? I'm of the mind that something radically different needs to happen to shake things up, take this bastard off guard for a change."

Cho and Lisbon exchanged meaningful glances, then nodded as one at Jane. Nothing like the desire for vengeance to make a man willing to risk life and limb.

"Everything I do has to be unofficial," said Cho. "I'm not even supposed to be within ten feet of this investigation. Lisbon neither. But she told me what you'd told Bosco, and things are making a little more sense to me now. It also explains a secondary reason why Red John is out to get you. He must have been watching you after he murdered Bosco and the, uh, the others, waiting to see if you'd press the issue of his possible identity. You haven't, so up until your statements on your show the other day, he's left you alone."

Jane grimaced, accepting his part in Red John's reappearance. Even more reason to do whatever he could to stop him from killing again.

"What we need to do is plant a controlled leak of your location," added Lisbon. "It has to look legitimate enough that Red John doesn't question it, has to come to him through the right channels. Then, we wait."

"Any ideas on how to do that?" asked Jane.

Cho nodded. "Several. And they could all either get me fired, Lisbon arrested, or all of us killed. You still in?"

Jane's eyes fell on Lisbon, and he could read the earnestness there, a desire so strong to get the serial killer that it scared him a little. He thought it probably scared her too. Well, he might be new to this game, but he was more than willing to play.

"Yes," said Jane. "I'm still in. And I have an idea or two I'd like to contribute."

"Okay," said Cho, but Jane could tell, even by the agent's blank expression, that he was just humoring him. Cho shot a glance at Lisbon.

There was that unspoken exchange between the former coworkers again. They didn't know him, didn't trust him, doubted his abilities. Well, they only knew the persona he'd created on air the past ten years, the celebrity psychic who wore expensive suits. They had no idea who he was and where he had come from. Few people really did.

Matt had known.

The thought of his murdered friend confirmed his resolve. Jane used to be dangerous himself; his fame, his enjoyment of the sweet life had made him forget.

"There was this time in Stockton," Jane began conversationally. "A fellow conman was trying to cut in on my action, but I put a stop to that very quickly." His expression turned ruthless, a far cry from the sparkling smile that lit up the small screen. "After I was through with him, no one ever heard from him again…"

Chapter 4

"Why not San Francisco?" Jane asked Cho.

Lisbon frowned, countering: "Why San Francisco?"

Cho merely sat in his chair, face a blank mask.

"Bosco's secretary was transferred to your CBI offices there, right?"

Cho turned to look at Lisbon. "What does Rebecca Anderson have to do with this?"

Jane answered for her. "I don't know—maybe nothing. Just a feeling."

"You're not a psychic," Cho stated flatly.

"No. But something in your story about that day you lost your colleagues—if it was an inside job, who better to have orchestrated the whole thing than Agent Bosco's secretary?"

"I interviewed her—" began Cho.

"But you didn't eliminate her completely, did you? There was something about her, right? Something that stuck in your craw, something you've never put a voice to…"

Cho couldn't deny it.

"She was a very good liar then," said Lisbon. "If she was working with Red John, she fooled us completely. And Cho is the best interrogator I've ever seen."

"What did you think, Agent Cho?" asked Jane, his eyes gleaming. "What was it that didn't sit right with you? I know there was something…"

For the first time, Cho looked uncertain. Memories of that day, of trying to tamp down his roiling emotions while he investigated his best friend's murder, flooded painfully into his mind.

"She was hiding something," admitted Cho. "And I couldn't get it out of her. I thought it was because I was so—" he struggled silently for the word—"invested in the case that I wasn't thinking clearly enough to see it."

"Cho," said Lisbon softly. She could blame herself for this—she'd been the leader of the unit—but Cho had done nothing wrong except be held up in traffic.

"It's okay," Cho said. "He's right. There was something off about her. I should have been more persistent."

"Now's your chance then, "said Jane. "Move my safe house there. Plant the information about my hideout to your San Francisco office-a heads' up out of professional courtesy."

Jane could almost hear the proverbial crickets as the pair before him stared at him, silently evaluating.

"Look," he said, trying a slightly different tack. He leaned in closer, sitting on the edge of the couch. "You have to choose the place with the most likely leak. Do either of you have a better idea?"

Neither of them immediately replied.

Jane was beginning to become a little irked at the looks that passed between Cho and Lisbon, but he supposed he didn't blame them for questioning him. He was an admitted fraud after all, but he'd wanted them to trust him, and he didn't have the luxury of time to prove himself. So he'd invented an origin tale of sorts, an embellishment of the truth that had made him seem stronger, edgier, willing to do what it took to get his revenge. So what if the story was actually about an old conman friend of his? Lying came very easily to Jane, especially when that's what it took to get what he wanted. And he wanted Red John dead, no matter the cost.

In the end, it was Lisbon who broke the charged silence.

"If we try San Francisco, this may be our only shot. If Red John sees we tried to trick him and fail, there could be dangerous consequences that none of us could foresee," she said ominously. "Cho, what were your other ideas?"

His brow furrowed. He had to admit that the fake psychic had made a very compelling argument, especially when he'd brought up Rebecca Anderson. Bosco's secretary had been a question mark that Cho had long buried, probably because it had been too painful to consider that he had screwed up that interrogation two years ago. Now that someone else had voiced similar doubts, Cho knew he wouldn't be able to rest until they had at least looked into it.

"I think this idea is worth pursuing," Cho said simply.

He met Lisbon's eyes directly, and after a moment, she nodded. Cho felt the weight of his former boss's trust, and he silently prayed he wasn't making a deadly mistake. Cho ignored Jane's slight smile of satisfaction the moment the conman realized he had won.

"Okay, then," said Lisbon, slapping her thighs with finality. She rose purposefully from the couch. "Let me make a call. I know of a place we might be able to use. Unless you have an idea, Cho?"

"Well, while you two are working that out," said Jane, "I'll get my hat."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thirty minutes later, Cho had left for work at the CBI office, and Lisbon and Jane left the old church to head for San Francisco. Jane watched closely as she entered the code again to lock the security system, looking quickly away when she glanced at him. He stored the code safely in his memory palace. Cho would call his contact in the San Francisco office, just in case they needed backup, he would tell them.

Lisbon didn't like travelling in the light of day, but time was of the essence, and she comforted herself with the fact that Jane was wearing his disguise. Unfortunately, the wig looked obviously fake up close, so Jane would have to keep his distance from the rest of humanity, though he didn't complain when he complied with the necessity of keeping the scratchy cap on all the time. It wouldn't do for someone to recognize him and announce his location to the world, endangering their mission.

"Tell me about my new digs," said Jane conversationally.

Lisbon stared straight ahead, seeming to focus on morning traffic, though Jane could tell she was only deep in thought—confirmed when she didn't respond right away.

"Huh? Oh. It's the second home of a friend of mine," she told him.

"Second home? So this friend must be very wealthy."

"Yes." She didn't feel the need to mention the other six homes (that she knew of) scattered in other great cities across the world.

She wasn't being very forthcoming, but Jane was determined to get her to open up, to relax a bit, in spite of their situation.

"A boyfriend?"

She turned her head toward him in startle. "What? No. Of course not." A week-long affair five years ago and a continuing friendship didn't count as a boyfriend, did it?

"Of course not?" he repeated, gently mocking her. "Why shouldn't I assume you would have a boyfriend, Lisbon?"

He was pleased to see he'd flustered her, but at least she was focusing on him again. Childish, he knew, but Jane found he liked being the center of her attention. He thought of earlier that morning, when she'd held his hand after his nightmare, and a small thrill raced up his spine.

"Because I don't have time for boyfriends," she replied, surprising herself with the admission. "Not that it's any of your business," she amended quickly.

Jane didn't hide his smile, ignoring her censure to take up her first contention.

"You should make the time, Lisbon. Everyone needs a bit of love and affection in this cold, cruel world." And they both knew exactly how cold and cruel life could be.

Lisbon didn't know why his words made her feel so defensive, but she did. She heard herself making excuses in spite of herself. "There are more important things in life than personal relationships, Jane."

He couldn't very well argue with that—his priority most of his life had been making money.

"True," he conceded, "but it's at least in the top five. If by personal relationships you mean a gratifying roll in the hay."

She blushed, and he was delighted.

"That's not what I—never mind. This conversation is highly inappropriate." She was having a lot of those conversations with this man.

She gripped the steering wheel and stared resolutely ahead once more.

"Still," he continued, undaunted. "Sex can be a great stress reliever. It can clear the mind, release endorphins to help uh, dull the pain." He hadn't intended to sound so wistful at the end of his little speech.

Perceptive Lisbon caught his change in mood immediately. Her eyes left the road to look at him.

The pain of what? She wondered to herself.

From what she'd heard of Patrick Jane, he was never lacking in female companionship. He was rich and famous, a self-made man. Were there actually hidden depths to this con man? She mentally shook her head. It was none of her business.

"But you don't have to worry about me, Lisbon," said Jane, covering his momentary pensiveness by more of his compelling flirtation. "For the first time in years, sex is the very last thing on my mind."

"You could have fooled me," she muttered.

Jane pretended he hadn't heard, but he looked out his window and grinned.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon drove into the prestigious Marina District, redolent of new money and what used to be called yuppies. Many of the houses had been constructed in recent years, though they were made to look like the classic Victorian homes on other, more historic neighborhoods.

"Nice," commented Jane as Lisbon pulled into the driveway of a three-story structure. At the end of the street, they had passed the classical Greek rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts. Lisbon cut the engine and commented that she would put the rental car in the garage later. If someone was watching them, she wanted them to get a good long look before she hid the car.

The plan, of course was to lure Red John, and by now Cho had planted the information of their whereabouts. Still, it went against Lisbon's every instinct—she was used to protecting and hiding people, not offering them up as bait.

"Let's get you inside," she said. "You can take off your wig."

"Yes ma'am," he said, complying, then sighing with relief as he ruffled his hair. She watched, fascinated, as his deft fingers sifted through the golden curls. She swallowed and got out of the car, heart racing a bit, her cheeks warm.

Lisbon entered the code her friend had given her on the keypad by yet another door. She turned the knob, at the same time reaching inside her jacket for the gun in her shoulder holster.

"Wait," she whispered, when they booth stood in the foyer. She did a quick room-by-room sweep, climbing the stairs to the third level, then back down to the first. She joined Jane again where she'd left him on the second floor.

"All clear?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He had to admit that it was pretty damn sexy, watching the former cop at work. The way she held onto her Glock with such confidence and power left him oddly aroused.

She holstered her weapon. "Make yourself at home," she told him, oblivious to the effect she'd had on him. She double-checked the lock on the door, but this time, she didn't engage the home security system. They were locked in, but with no alarms, it was like presenting the serial killer with a nice, big welcome mat.

Jane surveyed his immediate surroundings, finding his new safe house to be much more to his taste than the Spartan surroundings of the old church apartment. A white baby grand piano was the focal point of the living area, lit by the morning light from the curtainless bay window. He moved closer to check out the view. In the distance, he could just make out the Golden Gate Bridge, its familiar orange spires still partly concealed by slowly dissipating fog.

The rest of the house was furnished expensively, and mostly in stark, modern white.

"Do you play?" Lisbon asked from behind him. He'd absently touched a few keys on the piano.

"Oh, uh, no. Well, a little. My mother was very proficient, but a piano was difficult to fit into an Airstream," he finished with bittersweet irony.

She didn't ask any more questions, and Jane didn't volunteer.

Lisbon moved closer to the window to admire the view, and he silently inhaled her scent. She wore no cologne that he could detect, and he wondered how she could smell so clean and fresh after a mostly sleepless night. Her hair was smooth and shone slightly auburn in the weak sunlight from the window. She must have felt his gaze upon her, for she turned suddenly to look at him, her sage green eyes widening at the unmistakable admiration she saw there.

She looked hastily away.

"I'll see what there is to eat in the kitchen for lunch later," she said quickly. "It's usually kept well stocked by the maid, in case Wa—my friend has to come suddenly for business. I believe there is a library upstairs if you need something to do…"

Jane made a noncommittal hum, still a little shaken by his sudden attraction to his new bodyguard. He wandered up the stairs to the third floor, peaking in the master bedroom. The king-size platform bed was covered in white mink, a contrasting black rug of the same hapless animals on the hardwood floor beside it. The walls held original paintings by modern artists, and the view there was even more amazing than downstairs. The bare window beautifully framed the distant marina and the iconic bridge. Jane whistled under his breath.

He bypassed the master bathroom and its sunken tub built for five, in search of the library Lisbon had suggested. Instead of the white of the other rooms, it was furnished with black leather chairs and ottomans built for a reader's comfort. The walls on all sides contained shelves of books, running the gamut of the classics to current bestsellers and business tomes. There was a cocktail cart (well-stocked), and the room smelled faintly of expensive cigar smoke. Smiling to himself, Jane chose Machiavelli's The Prince, and settled happily into soft leather.

He reached up to turn on the reading light. It was then that he noticed the framed picture on the lamp table. It was of Lisbon and a man on a yacht, Lisbon holding up an extremely small fish while both of them laughed into the camera. It was jarring to see Lisbon so happy and carefree, her dimples seeming to wink at him. He noted the man's arm about her waist and frowned. Then he realized whom it was that had made Lisbon so happy.

He tossed down his book and rose, taking the photo with him. He found Lisbon in the kitchen, preparing tea.

"This is Walter Mashburn's house," he said, almost accusingly.

She turned to see him holding the familiar picture, her eyes lighting briefly in remembrance of that wonderful day five years ago.

"Yes," she said. She'd forgotten the picture was there. So much for keeping the owner's identity a secret.

Jane had met the billionaire once in LA at a party. He was a notorious playboy, a collector of expensive cars, and Jane had enjoyed chatting with the man immensely. They'd had an odd connection—both of them self-made men with similar life philosophies and wry senses of humor. He'd liked him. It was disconcerting to think that Lisbon had known this man so well.

"You're obviously lovers," he said. "No man would give a woman his alarm code otherwise. That's the equivalent of a diamond ring in some circles."

He was surprised she didn't deny it. "We were together—once. Now, we're just good friends."

Mashburn had been the first one to tell her she'd needed help two years before, had paid for her expensive rehab facility after she'd finally realized it herself, had invested in her new private security company when she'd sobered up. She owed him her life.

Jane felt at a loss. Perhaps it was the recent shock of seeing his own friend dead that had caused him to misread her so totally. Before her colleagues had been murdered, Teresa Lisbon had led a much more interesting life than he'd given her credit for. She hadn't always been the staid, serious woman he saw today, evident by that picture. It was amazing to him to discover how deeply such tragedy could change a person, could make them into someone so radically different than who they had been before. So different, in fact, that his ability to read her had been thrown off completely. While it was still early days beyond his own personal tragedy, Jane wondered how Matt's death might change him too.

He held up the photograph again. "You seemed very happy with him," he said softly, sincerely.

Her expression turned wistful. "That was a good day."

She turned back to her now boiling water, and that, Jane knew instinctively, was the end of that conversation.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, her back still to him.

"Please," he said politely, and he stood, watching her thoughtfully as she got down another teacup.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You know, Red John's M.O. isn't to attack during the day," said Jane, setting down his empty teacup on the white leather topped coffee table. "You could take a nap; you must be exhausted."

She considered his suggestion, and to his surprise, she nodded. "I think I will. But you wake me up the moment something seems off to you. Anything—don't hesitate, I mean it. And don't let me sleep more than two hours. I'll set my phone alarm—"

"Teresa," he said, testing her first name on his tongue. He seemed to say every letter of the word, extending it out until it almost had a Spanish lilt to it. It made her tremble a bit inside. "You should sleep as long as you can. I'll wake you if something is amiss, I promise. And there's a big screen TV to watch and roomful of books-I'll be perfectly content."

She looked skeptical, but she knew she should catch some shuteye while she could. It wouldn't do to be less than one-hundred percent if Red John should come that night. Cho would drive there from Sacramento after work later. It was Friday, so unless he was working a case, he would stay the entire weekend to provide backup.

"Okay," she relented.

"Sleep well," said Jane, watching her walk with easy familiarity to a guest bedroom down the hall.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

When he was certain she was asleep, Jane snuck into her room with well-practiced stealth, stealing her phone to shut off her alarm. She'd be mad, but she needed her rest. He hated how dark the circles were beneath her eyes, how she seemed too tired to muster a smile. He stood a moment in the dim light of the room, watching her breasts rise and fall beneath the throw blanket she'd taken from the end of the bed. Her Glock rested on the nightstand beside her phone and car keys, and she'd lined up her low-heeled boots neatly beneath a chair. She'd draped her blazer jacket over the back of it.

This room was decorated in muted shades of gray and pale lavender, and the cool colors suited her. He'd love to see her in purple, or perhaps any jewel tone, so long as it wasn't the harsh black that she wore now.

She shifted in her sleep and her mouth opened a little, her breathing deepening as she slipped into REM sleep. Good, he thought, tenderness softening his eyes as he looked at her. She needs this. He found that his fingers itched to touch her, to soothe away the fine lines on her brow, prominent even in sleep. But he resisted, and backed dutifully away, taking her phone with him.

Just outside her door, it buzzed in his hand. Cho's smiling face appeared on the screen, a photo also taken long ago. Jane hadn't realized the man had dimples.

Jane walked into the kitchen, hoping she wouldn't awaken as he spoke.

"Lisbon's phone," he answered.

"Jane?"

"Yeah. She's taking a much-needed nap. May I take a message?"

Cho was quiet for a moment, like a robot processing new information, thought Jane in amusement.

"Just checking in," Cho said finally. "Tell her I'll be over later this evening as planned. Depending on Friday night traffic, I should be there by eight."

"Okay. Will do."

"Everything all right there?"

"Yeah. No sign of him. I take it you planted the information?"

"Yes. Interesting to find that my contact there has a new secretary. I recognized Rebecca Anderson's voice when she patched me through to him."

"And you gave her your name?"

"Yeah."

"How did she sound to you?"

"Surprised," Cho replied. "But she didn't acknowledge that she knew me. And I could have sworn that she stayed on the line even after I was put through to her boss."

"Hmm," said Jane. Both of them realized the significance of that.

"Maybe I should come early," said Cho, feeling the first twinge of trepidation regarding their plan.

"I don't see the need," said Jane, and he repeated his hunch that Red John would attack at night, under cover of darkness, especially in such a populated area.

"Okay," Cho relented. Jane felt relieved at the new tone of trust he heard in the agent's voice. "I'll see you this evening. Call if you need anything."

Their call disconnected, Jane set down Lisbon's phone on the counter, resisting the temptation to snoop through her contact list and old text messages. It was an honorable decision that he might not have made three days ago. He wasn't used to delaying any sort of gratification, even curiosity. Perhaps he was seeing the first changes in himself since Matt had died.

He couldn't decide if this was a blessing or a curse.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

After four hours, Jane found that he was starving, so he did what he hadn't done in years—he went to the kitchen to cook a meal. He knew how, having done the cooking as a kid on the carnival circuit with his father. When his mother died, it was either learn or starve, since his dad was of no use around a stove, and Jane wasn't a huge fan of boxed macaroni and cheese or TV dinners. Since he'd become rich and famous, he'd hired maids and personal chefs to do his bidding, only occasionally making his own breakfast eggs on the help's day off.

Jane was pleased to find all the ingredients for a lemony chicken picatta, down to the capers and white wine, and as he began to cook, he found the simple actions therapeutic. He wondered why he had ever quit. He became completely absorbed in his task, his only extraneous thought being a growing anticipation for the meal, and how much he hoped Teresa Lisbon would enjoy it. When he put the pasta on to boil, he went to her room to wake her.

He grabbed her phone on the way, planning to return it to her table, Lisbon none the wiser. With the sun directly overhead, the room was considerably darker, and he walked softly to her bed. Her breathing was still deep and steady, and he was reluctant to wake her up, but his excitement at sharing his meal with her had him reaching gently to shake her small shoulder.

"Lis—" he began, but before he could finish the second syllable, she had jerked his arm, and he stumbled onto the bed. Before he could react, she pinned him beneath her lithe body, her strong little hands holding his wrists over his head with one hand, her bottom resting on his crotch. Her movements to subdue him made him moan in spite of himself, but then he froze as the cold metal of her Glock pressed hard into his temple.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lisbon growled.

Chapter 5

Though Jane's heart was pounding for a number of reasons, he forced himself to take a breath and speak calmly.

"Lisbon, It's me, Patrick Ja—"

"I know who you are, you idiot," she said, and he felt the pressure of her weapon at his head abruptly disappear. "You should know better than to sneak up on a cop."

He felt it wise not to point out that she was no longer a cop, but then she set the Glock carefully on the nightstand once more. Fear of imminent death assuaged, he took advantage of her momentary distraction to grab her arms, rolling her expertly to her back, his heavier frame covering hers and effectively pinning her to the bed beneath him. His hands held her wrists above her head in a mockery of his own recent position, and, painfully aware of the vulnerability of his groin, he moved out of the way of her struggling legs.

"Now," he began quietly, dangerously, his face hovering just above hers. "You should know better than to invite a man into your bed unless you really mean it."

His breath was hot and sweet against her cheek, and she shivered. He was intimately close and his cologne smelled divine, distracting Lisbon from the beating she should be giving him.

Her soft breasts were rising and falling rapidly against his firm chest, and Jane had no doubt she could feel his other firmness rising against her stomach. She had stopped struggling, though Jane knew instinctively she had the power to overcome him and hurt him badly if she chose. He wondered vaguely why she didn't. Instead, she met his eyes, hers sparkling green fire in the light from the doorway.

"Get the hell off me," she said, from between clenched teeth.

He stared at her, the charged sensuality of the moment compelling him to lean closer, to inhale her scent with closed eyes. He could feel her pulse beating rapidly where he held her wrists. He could have her now, if he wanted, he realized. And she would let him. A few deep kisses, a few expert caresses, and she would succumb just as easily as had every other woman he'd ever desired. He could have her now, but she would hate him for it later.

Jane rolled off her and lay on his back, looking blindly up at the ceiling, willing his body to relax. His eyes drifted closed.

Released from the cage of his warm body, Lisbon abruptly rose from the bed and grabbed her phone.

"Shit! My alarm didn't go off!"

Jane hid his grin.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

He shrugged. "You needed your rest."

She suddenly sniffed, her gaze turning toward the door. "Is something burning?" she asked in alarm.

Jane's eyes flew open. "The pasta!"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Nothing had burned. In fact, the meal was perfect, and Lisbon reluctantly enjoyed it, despite her annoyance with the chef. She ungracefully refrained from complimenting him, secretly pleased when his expectant expression turned to a frown. But he wouldn't beg for her praise.

So, she thought morosely, we are both equally stubborn. That doesn't bode well for—well, for anything.

The debacle in the bedroom had left her seething with both anger and arousal, and she avoided his eyes as she took their dishes to the sink. She should have kicked his ass, or at the very least made it questionable whether he'd ever bear children. Why hadn't she?

Because he's a client, she told herself. And I need him to get Red John.

Satisfied with that reminder, she began rinsing and loading things into the dishwasher, not commenting when he joined her and began clearing away the mess he'd made when he'd cooked the best meal she'd had in weeks.

They worked side-by-side in the kitchen, and she tensed when they accidentally touched a time or two near the dishwasher. He definitely picked up on it, and his amusement at her reaction made her even angrier.

Jane noticed her pouring her entire untouched glass of wine down the sink.

"You don't drink," he said, his smooth voice startling her in the silence. His eyes narrowed on her. Why hadn't he seen this before? The upheaval of the last two days really had affected his perceptions. "You're an alcoholic," he stated.

"Recovering," she replied simply, but with meaningful finality. Jane wasn't very good at leaving things alone, however, as she was swiftly beginning to learn. She glanced up at him to find that he was staring at her in that critical, disconcerting way of his. He leaned his back against the counter, arms lightly crossed over his chest in thought.

"You used alcohol to deal with the loss of your team," he said perceptively. "You must have had a parent who drank," he continued. "Your father?"

"Let's keep this professional, Jane," she said tightly. "My personal life is none of your business, and I'd appreciate it if you lay off the psychic act for ten minutes."

He chuckled softly, and for some reason it reminded her of how sexy his voice had sounded so close to her ear earlier.

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," he told her, but then his voice grew serious. "But I think I have the right to know if my bodyguard is in danger of falling off the wagon and getting me killed."

Lisbon shut the door of the dishwasher none too gently. She rounded on him, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

"Then by all means fire me, if you have any doubts. Good luck surviving the night with Red John out to get you."

But he seemed unfazed by her threats. He shrugged. "I'm not afraid of Red John. After what he did to Matt, he should be afraid of me."

"Then what the hell are we doing here?" Lisbon said, throwing up her hands. "Use those famed mentalist skills of yours and find him yourself, or, better yet, just go hang out on a street corner and he'll find you soon enough. I'd appreciate not having to put mine and Cho's lives in danger to protect your ungrateful ass."

Jane's sudden grin made Lisbon feel like she had emotional whiplash. He held up both hands in surrender. "All right, all right. Simmer down, Teresa. As beautiful as you look angry, I'd like to call a truce. I believe you aren't in any immediate danger of going on a bender; I just needed reaffirmation of your commitment to my cause."

She glanced over at the Glock, which had had its own place at the table earlier.

"I'm so committed to your cause, Mr. Jane, that I nearly shot you for it earlier. I will protect you to the best of my ability, but stay out of my way while I'm doing it, will you?"

She moved closer to him, her eyes intense as she bravely brought herself to look up into his face. "And the next time you mess with my phone, I'll feed your fingers to the fishes in the bay."

She tossed the damp sponge she'd been using into the sink, and left him to start the dishwasher. A slow grin spread across his face.

"I think she's beginning to like me," he said to the empty kitchen.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the doorbell rang an hour later, Lisbon motioned Jane to get out of sight.

He looked toward the door, his eyes narrowing. A feeling of dread washed over him, horribly reminiscent of when he'd opened the door to find Matt's body.

"Don't open it," he said quietly. Something in his eyes made her hesitate, but she wasn't quite ready to trust him beyond her own basic instincts. She was the bodyguard here, not the other way around.

"Have your phone ready to call 911," she whispered.

She grabbed her Glock from the table and went to the front door. She peaked through the peephole and saw a tall, mustachioed man wearing a Napa County Sheriff's uniform. He was armed, of course, and she could see his official vehicle parked on the street in front of the house.

This was a quandary. Jane's insight was that Red John had been in law enforcement. Cho had notified the CBI office in San Francisco that Jane would be staying here. How would a county sheriff know Jane's location, unless he too had contacts inside the CBI? What the hell could he want with them?

The doorbell rang again, startling Lisbon out of her racing thoughts. The sheriff punctuated her thoughts with a loud knock.

"Sheriff's Department," he announced through the door. "Police business. Open the door, please."

Lisbon took another peep through the small hole, and when the sheriff leaned his head back a bit, she could see his face more clearly under his wide brimmed hat. She realized with a start that she recognized the man. She squinted at his small metal name badge, confirming it: Sheriff Thomas McAllister.

It all came back to her now. Years ago, redheaded women were being murdered, and Lisbon and the Serious Crimes Unit had suspected the beginning hallmarks of a serial killer. McAllister had been the local sheriff. It had taken them weeks of investigation, stake-outs of motel rooms, and the loss of six young women before they finally caught the demented couple—restaurateurs with a strange duct tape fetish. McAllister had been very helpful and supportive, though he'd creeped Van Pelt out a bit.

Lisbon's hand stayed tight around her Glock as his knock came again. She could almost feel Jane's eyes on her back from the stairway where he waited, could hear his slight, indrawn breath as she put her hand on the doorknob.

She had to trust her God-given instincts. For one thing, Patrick Jane was just a glorified fortune teller; she was the trained professional. Besides, she'd never known Red John to kill during the day, let alone show up on a victim's front doorstep.

"Sheriff McAllister," she said. "What can I do for you?"

The sheriff was surprised to see her, but he'd recognized her immediately. His mouth beneath his thick, mostly gray mustache gave just a hint of a smirk.

"Agent Lisbon," he said. "It's been a long time. I didn't expect to see you here."

She didn't correct him about her change in title.

"How can I help you, Sheriff?" she asked, her right hand out of sight behind the door.

He looked beyond her shoulder into the living room, his cool blue eyes latching on to Jane. He hadn't hidden like she'd told him. Though she was the one with the gun and expertise, Jane's masculine instinct was still to protect her, especially when he believed she'd made a mistake in opening that door. He moved closer to the foyer.

"I got word from a friend in the CBI that you might need some backup protecting Mr. Jane here."

Dammit, Jane, she thought, her heart sinking to her stomach. McAllister had seen him.

"Why would they send a sheriff from another county?" she asked suspiciously. "Why not someone from the CBI, or even San Francisco PD?"

"The universe works in mysterious ways, Agent Lisbon," replied Red John, just before he pressed a stun gun beneath her ribs. The house filled with the sound of crackling blue electricity, the smell of burning cloth and singed flesh filling their nostrils.

Lisbon cried out in pain as she tried to fight it, but he increased the pressure and she dropped to her knees in the foyer, the gun slipping involuntarily from her hand. McAllister moved the stun gun and got her again in the shoulder, holding it there much longer than would be necessary to fell an ox. At the same time, Jane sprinted the last few yards to them, but McAllister stepped away from the incapacitated Lisbon and removed the pistol from his holster, pointing it squarely at Jane.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided. "Stay where you are, or I'll shoot both of you in the head, starting with her." He nodded toward Lisbon. "And that would be a shame. I have other…plans for you, Patrick. The pretty Agent Lisbon is just an added bonus."

Jane, heart pounding, stopped short, his eyes on Lisbon, as she knelt before the killer, her head down, her body twitching and trembling with the aftershock of the millions of volts that had coursed through her system. McAllister holstered the stun gun and brought out his handcuffs, then kicked Lisbon's Glock away, sending it sliding across the hardwood floor, out of reach.

"Cuff her," he instructed Jane.

Jane felt a rage within him, so pure, so intense that he was shaking with it. Everything in him wanted to resist, to do something heroic that would save them both. But he knew taking action in this state of mind could lead to Lisbon's death.

Stay calm, he said to himself. Think.

He complied with the sheriff's wishes, squatting down by Lisbon, nearly feeling her pain himself as he pulled her hands gently behind her back. She moaned, and he literally saw red.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, securing the manacles around her delicate wrists.

"I'm okay." He followed her eyes to her discarded Glock, several feet away.

"Don't even think about it," said McAllister, as if reading their thoughts. "She'll be dead before you lay a finger on it. Now get up, both of you."

Lisbon struggled valiantly to get up, but her knees buckled. Jane easily took all of her weight, holding her beneath her armpits to support her.

"Now, this is what's going to happen next," said McAllister. "We're going to walk out of this house to my patrol car, and you two are going to get in the back seat."

"Where are we going?" asked Jane, managing to keep his voice level, almost conversational.

Red John waggled his eyebrows in amusement. "To my secret underground lair," he replied, his voice mockingly sinister. Then his face became a benign mask. "Now shut up and let's go. And I warn you- not a yell, not a sound of any kind, or you're as dead as disco." He motioned with his gun to the door. "After you."

Lisbon was so shaky on her feet that Jane feared she wouldn't make it under her own steam. And so he picked her up in his arms, holding her like a baby against his chest. Then he stepped out onto the porch with his feather light bundle.

"Jane—" she protested weakly, her cheek against his clean t-shirt.

"Shhh." And she felt the press of his warm lips against the top of her head. She relaxed in his arms.

Red John glanced around the quiet neighborhood, but he didn't protest Jane's actions, instead, he noted Jane's affectionate display with keen interest. He followed his captives down the front steps, then opened the back door of his car so Jane could set Lisbon inside. He buckled her in and she sat back against the seat, her eyes closed, her breath coming in shallow pants.

"Now, turn around," McAllister ordered Jane when his head came out of the car. He reluctantly complied, and soon he felt the hard plastic of a zip tie digging into his wrists. McAllister followed Jane to the other side of the car, where he opened the door and pushed on the top of Jane's blond head to get him inside. McAllister leaned in to buckle Jane's seatbelt, no doubt more for his own security than for Jane's.

Up close, McAllister smelled of pine and earth, and Jane wondered if he hadn't been exaggerating about his hideout being underground somewhere. Jane felt sick to his stomach.

"All nice and snug," said McAllister with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

"This is between you and me, Thomas," said Jane, his tone reasonable. "Why don't you leave Lisbon here and let's you and I settle this like men?"

McAllister chuckled and leaned his hand against the car's door frame. "But Patrick, Agent Lisbon and I go way back. Actually, come to think of it, she's one cute little loose end I've been meaning to tie up. I'm going to take great pleasure in making her pay for her years of harassment."

Before Jane could reply, McAllister had shut the car door and walked around to the driver's side. Halfway there, he paused, noticing coldly that one of the neighbors had been watching them curiously from their window. McAllister smiled and tipped his hat, and the woman disappeared self-consciously behind her curtains.

Beside Jane, Lisbon was unnaturally still, her head lolling forward on her chest, her silky hair a dark curtain around her face. She'd passed out.

"Lisbon?" he said, nudging her with his leg. She didn't respond, but with relief he saw her breasts gently rising and falling. McAllister must have modified that stun gun somehow to have affected her like this. Jane's jaw tightened further with fury.

When they were on the road, McAllister driving leisurely through San Francisco traffic, Jane engaged his captor once more. He needed to get a better read on the monster, to find out what made him tick, what his weaknesses were.

"You took a big risk, coming here in broad daylight. Not your usual style."

Through the grated metal divider between the back and front seats, McAllister met his eyes in the rearview mirror. His smile was arrogant.

"Just keeping you on your toes, Patrick. And I haven't actually been sheriff for years, so if anyone reports one of my description, there'll be quite a bit of confusion back at the Napa sheriff's office." He chuckled at his own brilliance.

"Why didn't you just kill us at the house?" Jane asked with genuine curiosity.

"I'm afraid all this killing has become rather boring of late. Ennui, I think the French call it. But I've been watching your show religiously, Patrick. You're obviously a fake, but it fascinates me how good at it you are. Almost as good as me."

"I'm flattered."

"Unfortunately, your reading of me was highly inaccurate. I couldn't let you have the last word about me, now could I?"

"So you killed my bodyguard?"

Jane saw the quick flash of anger in Red John's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Even I can make a mistake," said Red John tightly. "Edison failed what—1000 times before he perfected the light bulb?"

"And if at first you don't succeed…"

Pleased to be understood, McAllister smiled. "Precisely. And my failure with you will soon be rectified, I promise you. Plus, with Agent Lisbon an unexpected though pleasurable addition to the mix—I will create my finest masterpiece."

"And how, may I ask, will Lisbon and I be able to help you with that?"

"Oh, you'll have a front row seat, Patrick."

"The suspense is killing me," Jane said, with dry sarcasm.

McAllister became annoyed, his good humor vanishing. Jane smiled to himself. The man didn't like to be belittled. Someone in his past had put him down, had underestimated him, had made him feel small. His mother, perhaps?

"It won't be the suspense that kills you, Mr. Jane; remember that. Now pipe down; I need to focus on my driving. Rush hour traffic is killer around here."

And with that, Red John pressed a button and a glass partition rolled up between them. Only then did Jane release the breath he'd been holding. He turned to his silent companion, jostling her knee again with his.

"Teresa?" he whispered. "Please wake up. I need you."

Her low moan gave him a surge of hope, and it was then that Jane wished he'd at least kissed her when he'd had her pinned on her bed earlier. He tilted his head forward until he could just see her soft lips. If it was the last thing he did—and he silently prayed it wouldn't be—he would know what those lips felt like beneath his, would intimately know their taste, would hear her quietly moan for a completely different reason.

He glanced up at Red John. As he turned his head slightly to check a side mirror for traffic, Jane saw that his lips were pursed.

The bastard was whistling.

Chapter 6

They drove for two hours without stopping, and Jane had time to calm down, to clear his mind and focus on what was happening. He took heart in recognizing that Red John could have just murdered him and Lisbon both, leaving Cho to discover the macabre bloody smile on the wall of Walter Mashburn's vacation home. The killer had said that he had plans for them. He and Lisbon were to be his playthings, and Jane tried not to think about what sort of perverted torture they were about to endure. Well, not if he could help it.

Jane could hold his own physically if he had to—wrestling in the dirt with other carnie kids as well as occasional scrapes with local teens who thought they were better than him had toughened him up. He hated guns, but knew how to use one. He knew tricks with knives too, but the sorry fact of the matter was, he had nothing but his wits now to fight against a monster. Behind his back, he worked at releasing himself from the barlocks at his wrists.

As miles of highway passed by, Jane reviewed what he'd deduced about Thomas McAllister.

First, and foremost, the man was arrogant. Jane certainly understood arrogance. When it came to his own cleverness, to the perfection of his act as a psychic, Jane was good and he knew it. He had found that women appreciated a confident man, and arrogance was in part what made him seem so. With McAllister, arrogance had risen to monolithic proportions. For one thing, he walked about in a sheriff's uniform, brazenly drove a police car, and even kidnapped his latest victims in broad daylight, for anyone to observe. He believed he was just too smart to be caught, mainly because he hadn't been so far. This trait alone would be what led to his undoing, Jane had no doubt.

Secondly, Red John was extremely sensitive and defensive about his faults and mistakes. It angered him to be called out on anything. Mommy issues, clearly, and he was probably ridiculed and bullied by his peers as a child, as well. Somehow, Jane needed to find a way to use this insight against him, to manipulate the manipulator. Given their precarious circumstances, Jane realized what a Herculean task this might be. But he had to try.

They passed through the small town of San Angelo, then continued driving east out of town, traveling on a two-lane state highway. Abruptly, McAllister turned off the paved road to one of dirt and sparsely spread gravel. The jarring of the car's shocks jostled Lisbon awake and she emitted a small groan. Jane's heart gave a thump of gratitude.

"Lisbon," he whispered, glancing at the back of Red John's head. He'd been listening to public radio for the past hour, and seemed almost to have forgotten his captives in the back seat behind the glass divider. She lifted her head, smoky green eyes bleary at first, until they focused on Jane. Despite their dire situation, Jane gave her his brightest smile.

"Welcome back," he said.

She became instantly alert, wriggling her hands to find them handcuffed behind her. She flinched at the pain the movements caused her shoulder and side, but she set her jaw and took in her surroundings inside and outside the police car.

"Where are we?" she asked Jane hoarsely. She cleared her throat.

"We are a few miles outside the town of San Angelo," he told her.

Her brows knit. "Has he said where he's taking us?"

"Something about an underground lair," he replied. "Doesn't sound very hospitable, if you ask me."

She ignored his dry humor. "He didn't kill us."

"No."

"I'm surprised."

"Yeah, me too. Pleasantly so."

Although both of them couldn't help thinking about how there were much worse things than death.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," said Jane soberly.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have opened that goddamn door."

"No," he agreed wistfully, but he left it at that.

Just then, they passed beneath an old archway that stretched high over the road. It's faded letters spelled out: Sparrow's Peak Farm. Another mile down the road and they came to a white wooden fence with a long, locked gate. A driveway stretched beyond it to an old farmhouse. McAllister stopped the car and climbed out to open the padlock with a key from his keychain.

"You have anything we could use as a weapon, or do you have a cell phone somewhere? I might be able to get it if I can turn the right way. I left mine by the bed."

"Me too," said Jane, thinking of his own cell phone back at Walter Mashburn's place.

No one would have the slightest idea where to look for them. Not even Cho. They were alone in this. Their eyes met as the enormity of this dawned.

"Look," he began, just before McAllister got in the car to drive through the open gate. When he went out again to close it behind them, he continued at a clipped pace: "It's just the one of him and the two of us. He's capable of making mistakes. We'll know it when we see the next one, and we'll find a way out of this."

She was skeptical but she nodded, summoning her innate strength of will. She was a woman of faith at heart, though that faith had been sorely tested in recent years. She knew faith was all they had right now. Faith, and their combined intelligence. Before she could take it back, she found herself smiling at him, just a little.

Jane felt that smile warm his blood immediately, giving him hope in this incredibly frightening situation. What's more, it was as if a new understanding had passed between them, and they recognized that they must forget their differences and work together to save their lives.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The farmhouse seemed extremely dilapidated from the outside. The once white paint was gray with age, and part of the roof appeared sunken in. McAllister would take them inside one at a time. Starting with Lisbon.

"Aw, Sleeping Beauty has awakened," said the serial killer upon opening the car's back door. He leaned inside to release her seatbelt. Red John softly kissed her cheek. She recoiled violently, hissing as the sudden movement pulled at her injured side.

"First chance I get, I'm going to kill you, you bastard," said Lisbon evenly, venom clouding her eyes.

McAllister chuckled and glanced at Jane conspiratorially. "I love a spirited woman. They tend to put their whole heart into everything."

Jane's face clearly registered his disgust—but Red John ignored it and latched instead to the tinge of fear he saw beneath the loathing, just before Jane artfully hid it.

He pointed his weapon at Lisbon, gesturing with it for her to get out of the vehicle. He locked the door once more, while Jane watched helplessly, alone, as he marched Lisbon to the house. Jane began working at the plastic bar lock around his wrists once more, ruining his expensive manicure in the process. But he was making no progress, and vainly he wished for his old MacGyver days, when he used to have a means of escape hidden in every pocket or sewn into his clothes. He'd gotten too complacent over the years, too soft in his luxurious lifestyle.

After a few minutes, McAllister returned to escort Jane into the old house.

"While I've got you alone," said Red John, "I just want to reiterate that Miss Lisbon's life is in your hands. I know you think you're the smartest man in the room, but here, that is no longer the case, so any rash thoughts of pulling one over on me to escape will surely lead to her instant demise. Not yours, mind you but hers. I know you must be feeling incredibly guilty about your responsibility for your bodyguard's death—"

"And you must be feeling incredibly stupid," countered Jane.

The cold hard barrel of McAllister's gun suddenly pressed into the back of Jane's head. Jane could feel the man's hot breath near his ear as he whispered harshly.

"I could just shoot you now, then go blithely into that house and rape Teresa while I bludgeon her to death with my trusty knife."

Jane's heart jumped in his chest. "But you won't," he said with daring confidence. "That would ruin all your plans, right? And nothing you hate more than being thwarted."

"Aw, but I can be flexible, Patrick. As I'm sure can the lithe Agent Lisbon. So I suggest you kindly shut the fuck up."

Jane smiled to himself. It was a risky proposition, angering a serial killer, but therein lay his weakness; Jane just needed to figure out how to exploit it.

The inside of the farmhouse was in just as much disrepair as the outside, the smell of mildew and dust strong in the air. Red John marched them to the kitchen.

"Lift up the panel in the floor," McAllister ordered, and Jane did so, the smell of fresh earth replacing the aged scents of the house. Wooden steps descended into darkness, but Jane stepped down into the abyss at McAllister's command.

Once standing upon the recently installed industrial tile of the floor, McAllister surprised him by flipping on a light. His so-called underground lair was wired for electricity. They were in a sort of common area, with newly painted drywall covering the rock walls. In one corner lay a stack of lumber—pine, Jane deduced from the smell. Two heavy steel doors lined one wall, each with a small window at eye level. There was a light shining from within each chamber.

"Welcome to my hideaway," Red John was saying. "Pardon the construction—it's still a work in progress. I've tried to make the accommodations here as comfortable as possible. I hadn't intended for Agent Lisbon to join us, so I'm afraid you'll have to double up. But I'm sure you won't mind that, will you?"

"Who's in the other one?" asked Jane suspiciously, ignoring his innuendo.

"Oh, a guest of a friend of mine. You'll meet him later, I'm sure." It wasn't clear whether he meant he'd meet guest or friend.

McAllister took his keys and unlocked Jane's new accommodations.

Lisbon looked up from her place on a small cot where she sat, still rubbing her wrists from where the handcuffs had dug in. Jane was thankful McAllister had removed them for her. He didn't release Jane, however, just nudged him inside with his gun.

"Make yourselves at home," said Red John brightly. "I have a few chores to see to, so you have time to rest and recover from our trip."

The heavy door shut and locked behind them, and Jane and Lisbon were alone.

Jane turned his back to Lisbon, presenting his bar-locked wrists. "Think you can get me out of these damn things?"

Lisbon looked at Jane's hands, held together by the bar lock, and her eyes couldn't help but rest briefly on the sexy way his behind filled out his jeans. She cleared her throat and forced her attention on his plastic restraint. The little buckle where the strip of plastic locked upon itself was impossible to release once engaged, which was one reason they were so popular with law enforcement.

"He didn't exactly leave me a knife or a pair of scissors handy," she said dryly.

"You could use your teeth," he suggested, only halfway joking, the words sounding unintentionally erotic. Lisbon swallowed and felt her cheeks flush.

Then he felt her small hands against his skin, hers cool with nerves. She manipulated his wrists within their confines, and he gasped in pain as the plastic dug more deeply into his skin.

"If I can just move your hands a little this way…you can slip one out, I think…"

A few seconds later (accompanied by much quiet cursing) Jane was able to extract one hand, though he felt like he might have sprained his wrist in the process.

"Thanks," he said, shaking his hands out gingerly to restore the circulation. "Houdini's career would have been ruined if he'd had to go up against the bar lock."

He evaluated their surroundings, grateful he wasn't prone to claustrophobia. The room still had rock walls, and measured perhaps eight by eight feet. It contained only the cot, a small table with a single chair, and a sink and toilet in the corner, which made Lisbon turn red in the face every time she looked at it.

It was exactly like a prison cell.

Jane went to the door and peaked out the small window. He couldn't see McAllister anywhere, only the dimly lit common area.

Lisbon tried to rise, hissing a bit as her bruised and battered body protested. Jane turned from the door to go to her.

"Hey," he said, pushing on her uninjured shoulder to get her to sit down again. "Relax." Before she could protest, he'd raised her t-shirt at the bottom hem to examine the damage done by Red John's stun gun. The area beneath her ribs was an angry red, a combination of bruising and electrical burn. Jane reached out and gently touched her heated skin, rage filling him once more. He pulled the shirt away from her shoulder and saw similar marks. She met his eyes, touched by the compassion she saw there.

He went to the sink and wet a small towel that hung on a hook, bringing it back to press against her inflamed skin. She caught her breath at the coolness of the water, then held her hand over his gratefully, feeling instant relief.

"I'm going to kill him for this," said Jane under his breath, surprised that his anger over her injury seemed just as profound as when he thought of Matt. She pressed his hand beneath hers lightly in commiseration.

"I had to get stunned in my academy training," she said, "but it's a little different when someone really means business."

Jane willed himself to calm down, the better to think his way out of this, though he had to admit some of his earlier hope had dissipated with the reality of their prison.

"According to McAllister, there's someone in the room next door," said Jane conversationally.

"Who?"

"I don't know, but I had the strange feeling it was a woman. Anyone gone missing that you know of in connection with Red John?"

"It's hard to say. He's never left anyone alive that I know about."

"Could be he covers his tracks well when he abducts someone; doesn't even leave his calling card on the wall." He used blood from his dead victims for that.

"Every year there are many missing persons," Lisbon said sadly. "Any of them could be in Red John's hands."

It remained unspoken that the two of them had just been added to that list. Jane lifted his hand from her side, the intimacy of the moment becoming uncomfortable. He went back to the sink to cool the towel again. This time, he merely handed it to her; she nodded her thanks. Restlessly, Jane went to the wall that divided the two cells.

"Hey!" he yelled suddenly, causing Lisbon to jump in her place on the cot. "Anyone else in here?"

"They might not be able to hear you through the thick rock," Lisbon suggested in annoyance.

He slapped his hand on the wall experimentally. "Hello?"

He was quiet a moment, then he heard the faint sound of metal upon metal. He looked at Lisbon with a triumphant grin.

"Can you talk?" he called again.

"They might be afraid to," Lisbon whispered. "You might be getting them into trouble." Not to mention us, she added to herself.

There came two distinct clangs.

"Aw," said Jane. "Once for yes, twice for no?"

Lisbon shrugged, then grimaced at her remembered shoulder. She put the cool compress there for a bit.

"What if they're thinking the opposite and they mean two for yes?" Lisbon mused.

Jane frowned.

Then the door to their cell opened abruptly, and Red John stood before them, familiar gun in hand.

"None of that," he warned them, inclining his head toward the neighboring cell. McAllister met Jane's eyes, a wicked gleam in his. "Besides, it's playtime, Patrick."

"What do you mean?" he asked, stalling as his palms grew damp.

"You'll see."

Lisbon's face grew white with fear, and Jane gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He walked resignedly toward the open door.

"Aren't you going to kiss Teresa goodbye?" asked McAllister. "I mean, you never know if this is the last you will ever see of each other."

"We only just met," protested Jane, pulse leaping.

McAllister pointed the gun at Lisbon, his expression turning cold. "Humor me."

Jane went over to the cot, then bent and kissed her fleetingly on the cheek. He vaguely registered that her skin was soft beneath his lips.

"She's not your sister," stated Red John in annoyance, the warning clear in his tone. "Either you do it, or I will."

Jane's earlier vow of tasting her before he died flitted through his mind, and he realized that Red John might be right: he might never get this chance again. He met Lisbon's frightened eyes, large and green in her elfin face. She swallowed hard and nodded her permission.

Then, he lowered his mouth to hers. The instant their lips met he felt a jolt that rivaled any stun gun. His hand came instinctively to her cheek as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, swiping his tongue briefly over hers. She couldn't help but kiss him back, despite her keen embarrassment and anger at their audience. He pulled away too soon for both of them, but he pressed a last, sweet kiss of farewell on her slightly parted lips.

"Now that's more like it," he heard Red John say, as if from a great distance.

"I'll be back," said Jane calmly. They were both trembling inside, and it was less to do with their circumstances than with the intense connection they had just felt from that incredible kiss. His last thought before he was forced by gunpoint to leave her, was that he was happy at least to see a bit of color in her pale cheeks.

"You're a sick bastard," said Jane as McAllister locked the door behind them. He didn't seem offended.

"My dear Patrick, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

He pressed his gun to Jane's back, pushing him forward toward another tunnel that led deeper into the earth.

Chapter 7

The tunnel opened into a large room, which, unlike the rest of the underground bunker, seemed completely finished. A long ebony table dominated the room, resting upon alternating black and white marble tiles, like a chessboard. The drywall was painted a stark white, and several expensive paintings hung upon the walls. Jane noted at least one he knew had been stolen in recent years. Recessed light emanating from the low ceiling gave the room a soft glow.

The table was set for dinner.

"Sit, please," said Red John politely, though it was definitely an order, given the gun.

Jane sat before a fine china plate filled to the edge with an expertly broiled steak and a salt encrusted baked potato. A salad plate held fresh greens, and a glass of red wine rested to the right of the plate. The napkin beneath the silverware was of fine linen. Across the table, McAllister's place was exactly the same, though the serial killer's steak was swimming in its own blood.

Jane's expression became tinged with barely disguised horror.

McAllister laughed. "Don't worry, not a fava bean in sight, I promise."

Jane didn't laugh.

"We try to be civilized, even in our little hole in the ground," Jane's host continued, sipping his wine. "Dumar brought these back from a quaint little steakhouse in town. Their food really is surprisingly good. Please, eat it while it's hot."

Jane wasn't hungry, but he did what he was told.

"Will Lisbon be fed?" he asked, his mind awhirl with possibilities as he picked up the steak knife. It was heavy and sturdy in his hand.

"Of course. A steak just like ours. Though I took the liberty of cutting her steak for her," he replied with a grin.

McAllister inclined his head toward the lethal looking steak knife. Jane wondered if he had enough time to reach over the table and jab it into Red John's carotid artery before the man got off a shot. The space between them seemed too small to throw it accurately…

"Don't get any heroic ideas, Patrick. Enjoy your steak. Let's get to know each other a little better. I'd like to see the real you—you know, the man behind the stage persona."

"I'm not sure you would like the real me," Jane said ominously.

McAllister dove into the tender beef with gusto. "Don't sell yourself short," he said around his mouthful.

"Are you fattening us up before the kill?" wondered Jane, the meat tasting dry in his mouth.

"I'm insulted, really," Red John protested, though his tone was still pleasant. "You're my invited guests."

"Invited isn't exactly the term I would use." Jane's eyes rested meaningfully on the gun on the table within McAllister's easy reach.

"Pish. Semantics. I told you I have plans for you, and those plans entail building a certain level of trust between us. I realize that might take a while, but soon you will see I'm really a very reasonable, and even generous guy."

Jane raised an eyebrow, then carefully set down his knife.

"Don't tell me. You want me to join the dark side, and together we can rule the galaxy as—"

McAllister's smiled dimmed at his mocking sarcasm. "As I've said, I've been watching your show lately, and I have to say, Patrick, I see a lost soul, someone whom I deeply pity. You know, if you could only find the real you, release yourself from the prison within your mind, you could visualize a new life for yourself. A pure life, a life without artifice, without—"

Jane laughed in disbelief. "A life without artifice? You go by the name, Red John. You murder people with box cutters, and you call this pure?"

Red John stood up and plunged the sharp point of his steak knife into the beautiful table. Jane didn't even jump. Jane had made him angry. Red John made mistakes when he was angry. It was a fine line Jane was walking, but he wanted to push McAllister to the very edge, then draw him back as if he were on a short leash. Soon McAllister wouldn't even realize how much control Jane was exerting over him.

At least, that was the hope.

Jane continued passively eating, chewing methodically without really tasting. McAllister seemed to come to his senses and returned slowly to his seat, appearing slightly embarrassed now at his outburst. It annoyed him when he lost control.

Good, thought Jane.

"I apologize, Patrick. You are certainly correct in pointing out some of the contradictions in my behavior."

Jane's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't comment.

"The people I put down—they are expendable because they have no self-awareness." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "You know what I ask them before I plunge my knife into their guts?"

Red John's fingers glided almost sensuously up and down the handle of the steak knife, still embedded in the table.

Jane swallowed a bite of potato. "No," he said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice.

"I ask if they can see beyond this moment, if they can see the light of knowledge from within their mind's eye."

"And?" said Jane tightly, feeling a coldness seep into his spine, radiating out into his hands, into his heart. He imagined Matt, lying there at this psychopath's mercy, being asked this nonsensical question while his life hung in the balance.

Red John shrugged, removing the knife from his expensive table with some effort. He wiped it carefully on his napkin, then employed it once more on his bloody steak.

"They never give the right answer."

"Because there isn't one," Jane surmised.

He was pleased with Jane's insight. "Exactly. If they say yes, I know they are lying. If they say no, then they have no vision, no idea of the inner workings of their own minds, no concept of the knowledge the universe has in store for them."

"So, it's their fault you kill them."

"Not their fault exactly. They are lost forever to the true reality, so I'm doing them a great favor. I am giving them the peace in death that they will never experience in life."

Jane said nothing, though he wanted to proclaim that everything Red John had just said was bullshit. This, he realized, would be pushing the man too far. You didn't insult someone's religion—no matter how crazy or fanatical it sounded. Neither could Jane determine whether or not this was an act. He'd watched McAllister closely as he spoke. There was honest conviction there; he believed in what he was saying wholeheartedly. Sometime in his past, this cultish belief had captured his mind, twisted what on the surface sounded like a peaceful, new-agey religion into a perverted excuse to commit murder.

Jane was saved from further comment by the arrival of a young man dressed in a sheriff's uniform. Beneath his arm he held a laptop computer.

Red John really must have infiltrated law enforcement, thought Jane. The man was stocky but otherwise average in appearance. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Medium height. Clean cut. He seemed completely ordinary, except for the fact that he was an associate of a serial killer, and he looked as though he'd been in a physical altercation—very recently. His nose was red, his nostrils packed with toilet paper to staunch the blood, the skin about his left eye was mottled and beginning to swell, and he walked with a painful limp. "What the hell happened to you?" asked McAllister.

The younger sheriff grinned sheepishly. "That filly was much more difficult to break than the last one," he said, his voice a little breathless.

Jane stiffened, his heart pounding with dread. He grabbed his steak knife and rose to his feet. "What have you done to Lisbon?"

McAllister picked up his gun and trained it on Jane. "Sit down," he said, his voice dangerously low.

Jane sat.

"And the knife please?"

It took everything in Jane not to throw it at the bastard, but he knew if got shot because of it, there would be no one to save Lisbon. He reluctantly slid the knife across the table.

"You didn't injure Agent Lisbon now, did you Dumar?" asked McAllister.

Dumar shook his head. "No, sir. But she certainly is a spirited little thing. I had to slap her once, but I don't think it'll leave a mark."

McAllister nodded. "Good."

Jane felt his face flush hot with anger.

"The little bitch got in a sucker punch though," Dumar continued, touching his cheekbone gingerly, "and kneed me pretty good in the babymakers before I could take her in hand. But in the end, she became docile as a lamb."

McAllister chuckled. "Sounds like a fun time. Sorry I missed it."

"If you hurt her, I'll kill you both with my bare hands," said Jane.

McAllister waved a dismissive hand. "Settle down, Patrick. Miss Lisbon is fine, for now. Show him, Dumar."

Dumar took the laptop and set it on the table before Jane. He opened the computer and immediately the feed from four different cameras quartered the screen. One camera showed the outside of the farmhouse. Another showed the common area near the holding cells. A third showed the interior of what Jane assumed was the cell next to his and Lisbon's. In it, a young girl huddled on her mattress, staring blankly at the rock wall.

The fourth camera's feed made Jane gasp aloud. Lisbon was still in their small prison, only now she was lying on the bed, each wrist and ankle tied to a corresponding corner of the metal frame. Her body was alarmingly still, as if she were deeply asleep or drugged. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair splayed over the pillow. On the floor was the wreckage of the meal Dumar had brought to her.

Lisbon's jeans had been removed, and her t-shirt barely covered her stomach, where, squinting, Jane thought he could see a new mark from a stun gun.

Jane's breathing became audible in the dining room as he stared in fear at the scene before him. Had Dumar stunned, then raped her? He felt sick to his stomach.

"Teresa's continued good health depends entirely on you, Patrick," Red John was saying dispassionately.

Jane looked up dazedly from the computer, willing his breathing to calm.

"What do you mean?" he managed, his voice breaking.

"I've watched your show, as I've said, and I've noticed that you hypnotize people on occasion, to help them remember where they put something, or to remember events more clearly. I heard you even used that skill to help a witness solve a crime for the police, isn't that true?"

"Yes."

"Well, I would like the privilege of hypnotizing you."

"Why?"

"Curiosity, I suppose. And, I admit, to test my own skills. I'm pretty good at hypnosis myself. I'd consider it a personal accomplishment to successfully hypnotize a master like you."

Jane was quiet, his eyes falling back to Lisbon in that cell and the perfectly toned muscles of her alabaster legs, along with the mottled marks the sadists had left on her delicate skin.

"You must realize I'm not very suggestible; I'm too aware of the process." He heard himself say, as if from a great distance.

"An even greater challenge," said McAllister almost gleefully. "Then what have you got to lose? Well, except Agent Lisbon's virtue, of course."

His meaning was ominously clear. This snapped Jane to attention, and he pushed his fear and disgust away. He could do nothing for Lisbon now save whatever the hell Red John asked of him. He must survive this ordeal so he could find time to kill the bastards later.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know. You don't need to hurt her, or to hypnotize me."

Red John smiled gently. "Aw, but this is the fun I was telling you about. Don't worry, Patrick, I won't make you quack like a duck or suddenly cause you to go all Manchurian Candidate or anything. Just a harmless parlor trick, I promise."

Hypnosis wasn't always harmless, as Jane well knew.

"And if it doesn't work on me? Do you punish Lisbon for that? Do you punish me?"

McAllister gave a slight nod to Dumar, who promptly closed the laptop and cleared the table of their dishes, gathering up silverware and piling it on the dishes, his body just touching Jane's.

"Dumar," Red John said in annoyance, as a drop of blood from the young sheriff's nose fell on a white tile. "Clean yourself up. Blood has germs in it, you know."

"Yes, sir," he replied, and Jane could hear the slight tremble of fear there. The young sheriff's ingratiating smile had disappeared. Despite McAllister's outward show of a reasonable, even affable host, Jane couldn't forget that he was sitting across from a psychopathic killer. Dumar scurried away like a frightened mouse, leaving Jane alone with Red John.

"Let's cross those bridges when we come to them, shall we?" said Red John in answer to Jane's questions.

This didn't leave Jane with much of a choice. But he could draw on his skills as a conman, honed to perfection his entire life. He gave a sigh of what he hoped sounded like resignation, as he slipped his purloined fork beneath the table into the waistband of his jeans.

"Fine," Jane said, thinking of Lisbon tied to her bed down the corridor. His jaw tightened. "Let's get this over with."

McAllister's lips formed a small smile of triumph, then his pale blue eyes focused completely on Jane across the ebony table.

"Just relax, Patrick. I'm not going to harm you. Just close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice. Let is soothe you, wash over you like warm water, all your cares and worries drifting away with the tide."

Jane did as he was bidden, and it was as if he had no will at all to resist, not even halfheartedly. His eyes fluttered closed. He did feel like he had sunk below water, but not with the violent sensation of drowning. It was more like he imagined someone felt when they were freezing to death. His limbs became numb to all sensation, and just as a freezing man will feel on the brink of death, he felt only welcoming warmth as the rest of the world slipped away…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho double-checked the address Lisbon had texted him earlier, the same address he'd given to Rebecca Anderson. It appeared to be the same rental car Lisbon had been driving, parked now in the steep driveway. He pulled in beside it. Yes, this was it. He got out of his CBI issue SUV and walked to the front door of Walter Mashburn's house.

He'd texted and called Lisbon several times throughout the afternoon, and with no reply, he was becoming concerned. By five o'clock he was out the door of the CBI and on his way to San Francisco.

He rang the doorbell. After a full minute, he rang again, then stepped back off the porch to look up at the windows above him. No curtains or blinds rustled, and he had no sense that he was being watched. He didn't hear footsteps or sounds of any kind coming from inside the house.

He tried calling again. From a distance, he heard a phone ringing. He trotted back up the steps and pressed his ear to the door. He glanced down at his phone as the ringing stopped and Lisbon's voicemail picked up. He tried the number again, and found that it had been no coincidence: that was definitely Lisbon's phone ringing somewhere inside the house.

Cho pounded on the door now, a feeling of intense trepidation coursing through his veins. On a whim, he turned the doorknob.

It wasn't locked.

Cho drew out his weapon.

The immaculate house seemed undisturbed inside, though he could still smell that food had been prepared recently. Gun held tightly before him, he called out for Lisbon, then even for Jane. There was no reply, and the house felt empty. He nearly tripped over Lisbon's Glock, the same shining metallic gray as the marble tile of the foyer. He squatted down and lifted it with a pen through the trigger guard. It didn't smell as if it had been discharged lately, but there were scratches on one side of it. It had likely been kicked along the floor, Cho thought.

His desire to protect the crime scene ingrained within him, Cho set Lisbon's gun back down where he had found it. He began moving through the house with long-honed caution and efficiency, searching for his former boss and her psychic charge, room by room, floor by floor. He found two beds that had been slept in, but they were long cold, as were the stove and the leftover food that had been prepared in the kitchen. Lisbon's car keys lay alongside her phone on one of the nightstands. He had seen Jane's phone on another.

"Dammit," he cursed aloud.

Both phones were password protected, so he couldn't access them to see if they'd received any unusual calls or texts.

He returned to the foyer, looking more carefully for clues. He noticed some scuff marks on the marble near the door that might have been made from black soles. Lisbon wore boots with black rubber soles that might leave marks like this. Other than that and the placement of her gun, there was no physical evidence of any kind of struggle that he could discern.

It had been the plan to leave the security system off, and there were no cameras in use anywhere that he could see. Nothing to help him solve this mystery.

He wondered if they might have had to leave the house suddenly, to run away in fear of their lives. Perhaps they would return when they felt the coast was clear. Maybe they needed to find a phone. Cho needed more answers. He would start with the neighbors. If Lisbon and Jane had left in a hurry, or if someone had abducted them, chances were someone had seen something.

If nothing panned out there, his next stop would be Rebecca Anderson.

She and Cho had some unfinished business.

A/N: So, this ends what I wrote before. I know many of you have read this before, so I certainly understand if you don't review again. Still, I'd love to hear if you are game for my continuing this story. Hopefully, I can finish this up in a few more chapters. Thanks for reading/revisiting this long lost fic.