Author's Note: Brett Partridge is a CSU for the CBI, appearing in two episodes of "The Mentalist", including the pilot in which he incorrectly identifies a murder as the work of Red John. His glee at finally seeing RJ's work "in the flesh" earns him one of my favorite Mentalist quotes:
"You know what your problem is, my friend? You enjoy your work a little too much—you're a ghoul. If you don't get horny reading 'Fangoria', I'm Britney Spears . . . I'm sorry. He irks me. He's irksome."
Number 5 in the Holiday/Next Time Series
A MERRY HUNT
He had been lying on the bullpen couch for about five minutes. Having left the attic to stretch his legs, he'd inadvertently come to find himself here in the company of the people he had resolutely decided he needed to stay away from as much as feasibly possibly. Well, three of the four people he needed to stay away from. He spent more time in the attic these days, working on his journal, trying to tie together bits and pieces of evidence and theory in an effort to get a little closer to his prime objective. He knew it bothered Lisbon, but if their last evening out on St. Patrick's Day had taught him anything, it was that he needed to distance himself from . . . from what? From her? From that "normal life" he didn't think he could ever have again? Whatever. Distance from everything and everyone but the journal and all it represented was for the best, he had decided.
It was Saturday—the Saturday before Easter to be specific. They had all come in early to finish up a case they were working on before heading over to the capitol building. The governor of California, along with the state legislature and the mayor of Sacramento, was sponsoring the first annual State House Egg Hunt, and the CBI was one of several law enforcement and government satellite agencies that had been called upon to provide volunteers. In a couple of hours, they would all head over to the capitol to start their security assignment.
"Have you ever stopped to consider what an amazing life we lead?" Jane mused as he lay on the couch looking up at the ceiling, fingers entwined over his chest.
Cho opened the deep file drawer of his desk and peered into one of the folders, sighing when he came up empty and looking over at his fellow agent. "Yeah, it's a charmed existence. Rigsby, you got any CR8269's?"
"I'm filling out the CR8269. I thought you were taking care of the IM443."
Not caring that his comrades were on nowhere near the same wavelength, Jane continued. "Yesterday, we arrested a man for torching his house with his wife inside, drugged and unconscious, in a bid to collect both homeowner's and life insurance. Today, we're working a government-sponsored egg hunt for the children of Sacramento."
Grace smirked at his sarcasm—or was it facetiousness? She always got those two mixed up. Jane had made no secret of the fact that he thought helping to provide security at an egg hunt was a poor use of his skills. She suspected that secretly he was a bit excited. She had seen him in the company of children enough to know that he loved them and even identified with them on some level. She was sure he would actually enjoy playing outside on such a beautiful day, surrounded by happy children, teasing them over the hunt, unhindered by schedules or investigations or interviews. She was just getting ready to tell him so, too, when the alarm sounded.
It reminded Jane of the police sirens in Paris (the ones he'd heard in movies), only higher pitched and faster. Couldn't be a fire alarm—he'd heard enough of those in the seven years he'd worked in the building. This was something more ominous and insistent. He rolled to his side and looked up over the arm of the couch at the others. Grace was looking back and forth between Rigsby and Cho, who were both looking up at some vague, undefined thing in the air. He wondered briefly why people did that—looked up when they heard an alarm. Like they thought there was something written on the ceiling that would tell them what the loud and annoying noises were warning them about.
"What is that?" Grace finally asked, unable to tamp her curiosity any longer.
"Hazmat," was Cho's succinct answer.
Jane sat up and stretched. They all knew what a Hazmat—Hazardous Materials—warning meant, though neither Jane nor Grace had experienced one. Somewhere in the building, probably downstairs in the lab or mail room, a potentially dangerous contaminant had been released into the air. The affected area would be sealed, and within minutes, a team specifically trained to handle such occurrences would arrive, quarantining possibly exposed persons, taking samples, scrubbing everything from said persons to surfaces to the very air.
Hightower came out of her office above them and stepped to the rail.
"Agents, there's been a release of a biochemical substance in the morgue that's set off the alarms. That area has been sealed, and we're all to remain where we are until Hazmat arrives and does a thorough evaluation of the situation. I'll call the state building and let them know we may be late for security detail."
Jane's eyes were on Cho. As soon as Hightower had mentioned the morgue, Cho had gone on alert, concern furrowing his brow. He attempted a call on his landline, punching in what Jane knew was a department number within the building. Frowning when he received no answer, he tried a call on his cell. No answer there had him rising from his chair with intent and making for the bullpen door.
"Agent Cho. Did you not understand me when I said we're all to remain where we are until Hazmat gives the all clear?"
Cho stopped abruptly and looked into the open hallway as if he was mentally still moving forward. His hand came to rest on his holstered weapon, fingers tapping it. Hightower looked down over the railing where her hands rested, fingers curled loosely around the white-painted metal, obviously intent on winning what she saw as a battle of wills. Apparently coming to the conclusion that he wouldn't be making it down that hall anytime soon, Cho looked up.
"Lisbon was headed down to the morgue. I couldn't call through, and she's not answering her cell."
Hightower seemed to lose composure for just an instant, her jaw clenching and her hands tightening on the railing.
"I'll make some calls. Cho, please return to your desk."
She turned and headed back into her office at a brisk pace. Cho stood looking up at where Hightower had been standing for a few seconds then turned and walked back to sit at his desk. He didn't resume work but instead stared at his phone as if willing it to ring.
"I'm just going to make some tea. Anybody want anything?" Jane inquired, standing and pointing toward the break room. None of the team looked like they had even heard him. "No? Okay, then."
He turned and walked calmly to the break room and put on the kettle, pulled a cup and saucer out of the cabinet, made his selection from the tea caddy Lisbon had bought for him and fished a spoon out of the silverware drawer, laying it next to the cup and saucer just so.
Then, he leaned his hands against the countertop edge, straightening his arms and pushing all of his upper body weight against his palms as he willed his abdominal muscles to relax so he could inhale. When Cho had told Hightower that Lisbon was in the morgue, a rush of fear had rolled over him causing his stomach to wrench so forcefully that a wave of nausea followed hard after. He must have stood like that for a few minutes, unthinking and unmoving, because the next thing he realized was that the kettle was whistling. He looked at the offending thing for a moment, not comprehending just what he was to do with it. But long years of habit took over, and he turned off the stove and lifted the kettle only to place it on a cool burner and walk out leaving cup, saucer, tea bag and spoon where he had placed them.
He went back into the bullpen and sat stiffly on the couch, too distracted to respond when Rigsby commented on the fact that he had no tea.
Fifteen minutes later, Hightower emerged from her office, relief etched plainly on her features as the slightest of smiles hovered on her lips.
"Hazmat has identified the substance. It poses no significant threat, but they will have to do a scrub. Agent Lisbon should be able to rejoin us in about one hour."
Jane laid down on the couch, relief washing over him, and the mood lightened perceptibly in the pen. It was, however, short lived.
"Cho?" Rigsby's voice held a note of something stronger than apprehension, approaching dread. Jane rolled to his side again to look at them over the couch's arm.
"Damn." Cho's lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Suddenly he spun in his desk chair and leaned forward toward Rigsby, elbows on his knees, hands tightly clasped in front of him.
"She'll be up in an hour. That'll leave us about fifteen minutes until we have to go to the capitol building. Then we'll be around the bigwigs for about an hour before the public starts showing up." Jane thought it was very telling that Cho referred to children eager to hunt Easter candy as "the public".
"Right. With the actual hunt and activities, that's about two hours with all those kids. She won't do anything in front of the kids, right?"
They sounded like they were trying to deal with a high threat-level situation, somewhere in the range between orange and red, Jane guessed.
"No way to know," Cho responded to Rigsby's hopeful question. "I never thought I would've heard her tell Minelli to shut the hell up. I think the only thing we can be sure of is that she'll be highly unpredictable. Best thing to do is get our work done in the next hour and fifteen minutes so we can leave right after the detail." He turned back to his file drawer, fished out an IM443 and started writing like his life depended on it.
"Uh, guys? What's going on?" Grace didn't even attempt to hide her alarm, uncertain of what had the two more experienced agents so shaken.
"Lisbon. Getting scrubbed," Cho replied as if that were answer enough.
"What about it?" Grace still wasn't getting it. Wayne took it upon himself to explain, hoping he wouldn't make too much of a mash of it, wanting to get the job done with as few words as possible.
"When Hazmat comes in and decides to do a scrub, it doesn't matter if the substance poses a threat or not. A scrub is a scrub. They use high-powered filters to scrub the air, solvents to scrub all surfaces, and brushes to scrub any people who may have been exposed."
Grace was looking at him as if she was sure he hadn't finished his explanation yet.
"They scrub the people . . . with brushes . . . thoroughly."
"Oh . . . oh gosh!"
"Yeah. Every nook and cranny."
"Oh gosh!" Van Pelt's forehead furrowed, and her face drew up in a horrified grimace as if her own crannies were being violated vicariously.
"This has happened before?" Jane had gathered that from the two men's near-panicked conversation. Cho looked at him where he still lay looking up over the couch's arm and continued the explanation.
"Just over seven years ago, before you started here. Lisbon was in the forensics lab with Brett Partridge and another CSU tech. The other guy dropped a vial of something. Alarm went off, room sealed automatically, all three of them got quarantined and scrubbed. The vial dropper doesn't work here anymore."
"Lisbon got quarantined and scrubbed with the ghoul?" Jane knew he shouldn't, but he was on the verge of laughter, partially—he was sure—because of the overwhelming relief he was experiencing.
"Yeah. With the ghoul."
"No wonder she always looks at him like she wants to squish him like a bug. I take it Boss wasn't happy about it." Jane could hear the barely suppressed laughter in Van Pelt's voice now.
"Are you kidding? She was royally pissed. Couldn't form a complete sentence for nearly two hours." Rigsby was getting into telling the tale now. Cho's rejoinder was more succinct.
"Except when she told Minelli to shut the hell up."
"What'd he do?" Grace was torn between disbelief that the boss had committed such a breach and wanting to hear the details.
"As he was told," Rigsby answered, snickering at the memory of Minelli retreating to the safety of his office.
"Why'd she get so mad? Boss is usually fine with going along with protocol even if she doesn't like it."
"Something to do with the fact that the three people-scrubbers were all men."
"Oh, gosh!" Grace's crannies were offended again.
Rigsby's mind was back to trying to weigh through circumstances, attempting to assess just how bad the fall-out was going to be. "Who's in the morgue today?"
"Hilliard," Cho responded.
"That's good. At least it's not Foreman. We would've heard shots by now."
By unspoken agreement, the three agents returned to their work. Jane rolled to his back and listened for the ping of the elevator.
Nearly an hour later, their work finished, Cho was reading, Rigsby was playing toss with a large paper wad, and Van Pelt had just started a game of on-line Scrabble.
"What the hell is going on?" There was no warning ping. Apparently, in an attempt to shed some irritation-fueled energy, Lisbon had elected to use the stairs.
"I'm out for a few minutes, and you all decide to take a vacation? Van Pelt, if you like, I'm sure I can arrange for you to have all the time in the world for computer games. And you two—where are your reports? Cho, I needed that IM yesterday. Rigsby, where's yours? Have you been up here eating all morning? You haven't? Not even a little bit? Too bad. At least that would've been something productive.
She had walked into the room during her verbal assault and now stood just a few feet from Jane. She rounded on him, ready to rip into him next, not seeing who had sauntered in after her.
"Well, well, well. Agent Lisbon-n-uh."
Jane had sat up on his couch as she had gotten closer, ready to flee if the occasion presented itself. Her angry scowl altered just barely—around where her bottom jaw hinged to the rest of her skull. Strange how such a slight, almost imperceptible change can turn a person's expression from merely angry to plain murderous, Jane mused to himself.
She turned slowly to face Brett Partridge. Her hands hung by her sides, and Jane watched as they clenched into fists then unfurled again, her right fingers hovering over her holster then stretching far apart just like a gunslinger in an old western. Partridge should run—Lisbon wouldn't want to shoot a man in the back.
"What do you want, Brett?" She didn't even bother to try to keep the snarl out of her voice.
"Just wanted to see how you're doing after your . . . encounter."
Jane eased himself forward to the edge of his seat and planted his hands flat on either side of him. He pulled one foot back, bracing the toes and ball of the foot against the floor, his heel against the couch, like a runner positioning himself in the starting blocks.
"You didn't do so well with it the last time, and Hilliard tells me Hazmat hasn't recruited any women in this area in the last seven years. He did say they had three rookies working the scrub. Said they were very eager." He smirked at her before he turned to walk away, still speaking as he headed out of the room to catch the elevator.
"Hope you made good use of the talcum powder. Wouldn't want you to chafe."
Catlike, Jane sprung from the couch and caught Lisbon from behind as she was in mid-lunge, his left arm encircling her waist and holding her against him as his right hand firmly grasped her upper right arm.
"Temper," he spoke softly into her right ear. "Imagine the paperwork."
He could feel her body pulsing with rage, and she trembled against him. All at once he was overcome with a scent of memory—Lisbon dancing in his arms, laughing up at him, her eyes shining—and the fingers of his left hand splayed across her upper abdomen, fingertips digging into her skin through her clothes. Unaware of what he was doing, he turned his face into her hair and inhaled. Too late, he realized the others were watching him, eyes wide and mouths open. He drew his fingers back together, but took a firmer hold as he pulled to the side and tilted his head to look down at her.
"Well, that explains it then."
"What?" she barely managed through clenched teeth as if she were daring him to say.
"The three guys in space suits outside leaning against the building smoking cigarettes."
Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head to look at him, the fury sparking in her eyes even as they narrowed at him.
"I . . . hate . . . you."
Hightower walked out of her office and looked down to see the five of them frozen in the bizarre vignette. She took in the scene, briefly considering a course of action. Apparently opting for obliviousness, her face went blank and unreadable, her thoughts betrayed only by the impatient resignation in her tone.
"Get yourselves together. It's time to head up to the state house."
She turned away too soon to see Lisbon elbow Jane hard in the solar plexus before striding away to the elevator. The movement did, however, jar the other three agents into action. Rigsby and Cho each grasped one of Jane's upper arms, propelling the gasping man forward as Grace followed behind, snagging a water bottle from the break room for him.
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Time with the bigwigs and the hunt went off without a hitch. Lisbon wasn't friendly with anyone by any means, but she managed to rise to new heights of professionalism. Guarded and wary, she observed the comings and goings of the individuals around her like a tightly wound hawk. Careful that she not catch him watching her, Jane couldn't help but smile. Heaven help anyone who tried to commit a crime against the egg-hunting offspring of the voters of California on this bright April day.
It was a beautiful day, and though she didn't want anyone to detect it, she found herself relaxing as the event went on. She watched Jane running around the lawn, spying out candy and toys for the smaller children so they could scoop them up and into their baskets before the bigger kids could get to them, laughing at their surprised smiles and clapping his hands in congratulations when they "found" the treats he pointed out. She had accused him of being childish many times in the past, and sometimes that was true. But today, he was a man happy to join in children's games, finding enjoyment in their delight. She wondered which Jane this was. It wasn't Jane before Red John. She knew something of what kind of man he had been. Maybe this was Carnie Jane. Somehow she didn't think that could be right either. The wreckage was more than what could have been produced in one night's evil and bloody work. Where did this happy man come from? And where did he so often hide?
He looked up at her right at that instant. Tilting his head, he regarded her for just a moment until a small impatient hand reached up and tugged at his jacket. He looked down at the little boy crowned with an unruly mop of red curls and grinned, nodding at the child's inquiry. Looking back up at Lisbon, he winked just before he spun around, motioning to the boy to follow him to a part of the lawn that hadn't been picked over yet. Some of the other children had noticed his direction and eagerly followed as well. Just like the Pied Piper. Resisting the desire to let her gaze follow after him, too, she resumed her walk around the perimeter.
Though her eyes were no longer on Jane, she couldn't keep her thoughts off of the man. She had been so disappointed that he had begun retreating back into himself lately, isolating himself from the team—from her. She had thought everything was going so well. He had seemed to be more open to spending time with them and really being a part. They had gotten closer during a series of sometimes planned and sometimes impromptu evenings out. "Not out out." She smiled to herself remembering that first holiday. She had said no to his invitation to supper that Christmas Eve just four months ago, but that's what had started it. He had hugged her from behind, and, though she had dismissed it that night, when she had thought about it since then she was sure he had dropped a kiss lightly on her shoulder. She knew Jane used acts of physical intimacy the way he used every other weapon in his arsenal of schemes and cons, but it had been so barely there, so easy to dismiss. Surely it had been genuine. But genuinely what?
She had kissed him on the cheek, wishing him Merry Christmas. She didn't use such acts the same way. She really didn't consider herself as having an arsenal, either offensive or defensive as it turned out. She was just as capable of being hurt as she ever was. And the distance he had reestablished between them was hurting her now.
He had really seemed to enjoy himself the last time on St. Patrick's Day. She knew he would love Ginger Jack's, and the music that night had been exceptional. It had been something new, and while pulling a rabbit out of a hat was more his specialty than hers, she thought she had managed to surprise and entertain him more than a little. They had danced and pretended at flirting—Jane's idea—to ward off the pub owner's unwanted interest in her. Jane had seemed fine with it all. More than fine. He had definitely gotten into the part. She shivered thinking about it. That was a mistake—thinking about it. When they had parted for the evening and she had gone home alone and turned out the lamp and laid her head down on her pillow, she had thought about it . . . and shivered. That was enough to persuade her to put it firmly out of her head, and she had done so, just as Jane surely had the moment after it happened.
For the first time, she thought about what he had been like on the ride back to the CBI that night. She hadn't thought about those long minutes—they had been too unpleasant, she guessed. He had sat in the seat, quiet and so still, looking down at his hands. She had thought she might have done something wrong, and when she reached over to touch him in an attempt to gently bring him out of his thoughts, he had jumped and pulled away from her as if she had burned him. It took him a while to recover, and once they were back at the CBI he had seemed like his usual self, but the strain was still there. Since then, he had been back up in the attic, growing farther and farther away from her.
The hunt ended, the governor thanked everyone for coming, and the parents applauded in appreciation. The crowd quickly thinned and, her duty done for the day, Lisbon turned and walked away, not really feeling the need to say any farewells.
"I seem to have gotten some Jolly Ranchers mixed in with my Tootsie Rolls. Wouldn't want to take them off my hands, would you?"
She tensed, slightly startled, and huffed at him, trying to hide the hint of a smile she just couldn't seem to control.
"Throw in some Skittles, and I'll think about it."
"No, I like the Skittles. You can have the Starbursts, though. I can't be bothered with separating them out. Here. Just hold out your hands."
She did as he said and watched him as he emptied his right jacket pocket, dropping three handfuls of sweets into her upturned palms. There were exactly two Jolly Ranchers in the mix of Starbursts, Reese's Cups, pastel foil-wrapped chocolate kisses, four packages of Skittles and some stray jellybeans. When she thought her hands couldn't hold anymore, he reached into his left inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small chocolate bunny and dropped it on top of the mound. Between her full hands and her laughter, she had to cradle the candy against her chest to keep from dropping it on the ground. He then reached into his trouser pocket and produced a plastic bag, which he opened with a snap and held so she could drop the sugary loot in for easier transport.
"Did you leave anything for the kids?" she asked him, almost breathless with laughter.
"They can't complain. I thought a ninety-ten split was more than fair."
"Jane! You did not charge those little children a commission for helping them find candy!"
"Only the bigger little children. Don't underestimate those munchkins, Lisbon. They're a tricky lot, and I deserve everything I was able to come away with."
They walked back toward the CBI, Lisbon fishing out a chocolate kiss. As she unwrapped it, Jane pulled a candy necklace out of another inside jacket pocket and took it out of its plastic wrapping. She pulled out a second kiss and offered it to him as he slid the necklace over her head, leaving her the job of pulling her hair through the elastic band. He looked at the chocolate she had handed him then back at her, tilting his head and seeming to consider something. She was engrossed in sorting through and cataloging the bag's contents. He decided against teasing her over the kiss and simply unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth, unaware for the moment of the three pairs of eyes taking in their every move from across the street.
"Well, whaddya think?"
"I think this could be very good or very bad."
"Yeah. Maybe both . . . Probably both."
"I think it's sweet . . . in a weird way."
"You know, they're not really like normal people."
"That's a terrible thing to say."
"You know what I mean, Grace."
"He's right. They're not like normal people."
"What I mean is it might not mean anything."
"Rigsby. He was smelling her."
"Well, she smells good sometimes."
"That's because you think she smells like food."
"I do not."
"Do too. When she wears the cinnamon stuff."
"It smells like pie."
"It's more like Cinnabon."
"Ugh. Would you two stop?"
"Sorry, Grace, but you gotta admit—she does smell like pie sometimes."
"Shut up, Wayne!"
"He thinks you smell good, too, Van Pelt. Just not like food."
"Shut up, Cho. That is not funny, man."
"Can we get back to . . . where'd they go? Great. Just great. You two are talking about what Boss smells like, and we've lost them!"
"Mocha latte, double foam and a Seven-Spice Chai!" the barista sang out.
"Here!" Jane answered, taking the drinks and walking to the table Lisbon had snagged for them in the post-hunt crowd.
He handed her the latte, wrinkling his nose at her, silently wondering how she could drink the stuff. She pursed her lips back at him, wondering why even in silence he couldn't seem to keep his opinions to himself. He sat down across the small table from her, and as they each enjoyed the first taste of their respective drinks, something outside the window caught their attention.
"What in the world do you think is going on out there? They look like kids trying to figure out what to do now that school's out."
Cho was smirking up at Rigsby, who was pointing at him angrily while Van Pelt was looking up and down the street, her eyes scrunched nearly closed against the bright sun.
"Probably trying to figure out where we've gone."
"You think they were following us?"
"I know they were following us."
"Since the hunt?"
"Probably."
Lisbon frowned down into her latte.
"Don't worry. You didn't do anything for which you could potentially suffer any embarrassment."
"That is not—"
"Sh, woman! Don't deny. It's pointless, and you know it."
The flame that had suddenly sprang to life in her eyes softened to a gleam.
"I know I didn't do anything. It's just the thought of them following us."
"Why? I know you don't like mixing personal with professional, but we weren't doing anything even remotely personal. Just walking back to the office after a work-related event."
"That's right." When he said it like that it sounded so harmless.
"With you offering me your kisses."
And there was that flame again. "You are insufferable, do you know that?"
"So you're always telling me."
"I take it back."
"You take what back?"
"The kiss."
He laughed at her incredulously. "You can't take it back, Lisbon. I already ate it."
"I take back the offering of it then."
"Take back the offering of it? What does that even mean?"
"I don't know. I just want it back." She was really starting to get worked up over a little joke.
"I can't give it back, and you can't take it back. Let's just forget about it. I shouldn't have teased you over it. I had no idea you'd take it so."
"So what?"
"That's the spirit."
"No, I mean—ugh. Never mind."
They sat in silence for a while, watching as Van Pelt finally gave up and walked off, the two men following after, Cho pausing as he looked toward the coffee shop before continuing on toward the CBI parking lot.
"So . . . are we okay?"
He looked at her, trying to decide if he should feign ignorance.
"Is there something floating in your latte?"
"No." She scoffed and looked up at him like he had just said something incredibly stupid.
"I just wondered. You keep looking at it like there's a foreign object of great interest in there." She rolled her eyes at him. "And yes, we're okay."
She wanted to ask him why they hadn't been but thought maybe it was best left alone. He felt immensely relieved and terribly disappointed at the same time. These glimpses of "normal life" he was experiencing with Lisbon weren't frequent enough to be considered habit, but he certainly was beginning to find them habit forming. He wondered what the difference was. He'd seen her nearly every day for years and had felt absolutely nothing like what he had come to feel after less than a handful of "next times".
It came to him in a rush. Touch. He touched her more. Not more. He touched her a lot during work. He used to anyway. Before he'd started going up to the attic to get away from her—from them. But this touching was different. He realized all that was needed was firm resolve. He could do this. He could keep this. They could keep having their "next times". All he had to do was not touch her. He inhaled deeply and sighed.
"We should be getting back." Sensible Lisbon. Always putting him back on track.
"Give me your Skittles first." Right now, he wasn't quite ready to comply.
"Nothing doing. No take backs. You said."
"That was candy I'd already eaten, Lisbon."
"Still applies."
"You're being childish."
She looked at him stunned then burst into laughter. When the sound of it ended, he could still see it there in her eyes. He had never seen someone look so . . . merry. It was an old word—archaic really, out-dated and romantic. But it fit. He found himself wanting to touch her, which he was fairly certain would be a bad idea.
"What happened in the morgue today?" There. That should put things right.
"I went down to get the final report on our vic from Hilliard. He was starting an autopsy for another case, and when he made the initial incision, a white gas sort of erupted out of the body."
"Erupted out of the body?"
"Like Old Faithful."
"Ick."
"That's exactly what Hilliard said. Before the alarm went off and the doors slammed shut."
"Were you frightened?"
"Not until I saw the scrubbers. They were a lot bigger this time."
He chuckled at her, glad she was able to have a sense of humor about it.
"I'm glad you're all right."
"Me too . . . Here." She handed him the four packets of Skittles. He sorted through the candy in his left jacket pocket and offered her his Reese's Cups in return. Drinks finished and candy exchange completed, they left the coffee shop and walked slowly back to the bureau, eating their candy as they went. When they got to the parking lot, Jane turned to Lisbon hesitantly, not exactly sure what to say. Lisbon motioned him over to her car where she opened the door and fished a plastic bag out of her glove compartment.
"Put your candy in this." He emptied his pocket and made to take the bag from her grasp, but she pulled it back out of his reach. "Promise me you won't eat this all at one time. I don't want you sick or riding a sugar high all night."
He reached for the bag again, but she pulled it farther away.
"Lisbon, give me the candy. I'm not a four year-old,—"
"That's debatable."
"—and I'll probably be up all night anyway, Mom."
"But eating the candy will definitely keep you up. You'll get antsy and wander around the building, and you'll get into trouble, and when I come in Monday morning, I'll have to clean up after you. If you can't eat responsibly—"
"They're Skittles, not Scotch!" He couldn't quite believe she was serious about this.
"Still."
"Lisbon? Give me. My candy."
"What's the magic word?" He realized she was stalling, putting off saying good-bye for the day. Something suddenly occurred to him. Without meaning to, without planning it, even deciding against it, "next time" had somehow happened anyway. And he was glad of it. So glad, in fact, that as he looked down into her stubborn, irritating face, an honest-to-goodness real grin bloomed and spread across his features, bright and shining.
She drew back and turned her head slightly to slant a wary look at him.
"What?" she asked as if she didn't really want to know but didn't think she could afford not to. But he just kept grinning, rocking forward and backward, toe to heel in that way he did when he was excited about being on to something, raising his eyebrows at her in that way he did when he knew something she didn't. She wondered if this was one of those things where he couldn't tell her but it would be best to show her. She suddenly felt the need to hedge. She held the plastic bag by its handles just within his reach.
"Just say the magic word, and you can have the candy."
He thought a moment, remembering back to his earlier thoughts, to other days and evenings and, deciding to throw caution to the wind, leaned down to whisper in her ear. When he pulled back to see what effect he'd had, she looked at him round-eyed in that way she had that gave her eyes—her whole face really—an almost other worldly luminescence. She was silent for a moment then she swallowed and, looking down, gently slid the handles of the bag from her fingers onto his, turned to get into her car and drove away without a backward glance or a word.
She thought about what he had whispered in her ear and a shiver ran down her spine as she tried to bring her breathing under control. What he'd said was not what she was after, but the words definitely held some kind of magic.
Next time.
END
The next holiday for the U.S. is our Memorial Day, which began as a remembrance of those fallen in war in defense of our country. It has become a time of remembering all of those we've lost: family members, friends, those dear to us.