Chapter 1—Blind Memory
The roughness of the bandage wrapped around his eyes did nothing to make Patrick Jane feel better. He didn't even really understand why the nurses had put it around his head anyway. His eyes were physically fine, no cuts or abrasions, so why dress him in a bad imitation of Boris Karloff? Jane felt himself frown in irritation. Lisbon and Cho had left just moments before.
The scent of bad coffee and astringent wafted into his room as the door opened, heavy footsteps headed to his bed.
"Good morning, Mr. Jane," a cheerful female voice said, "Just checking on your IV. Is there anything I can get for you?"
Jane grunted and turned away from the voice. He flinched when the nurse started to adjust his pillow. He waved his arm out blindly and solidly impacted a warm body with sudden force.
"Hey," the nurse uttered in surprise.
"You should know better than to startle a blind man," Jane snapped. "Just because you have a god-complex."
"What?" the nurse sounded a little irritated.
"You heard me," Jane growled, batting away the person he couldn't see. "You became a nurse because you want to feel powerful, in control. Having someone helpless completely depend on you gets you off in the morning. "
"Mr. Jane, that is completely uncalled for," the nurse snarled after a moment.
"No, you scaring a helpless blind man is what is completely uncalled for. Now go away!" Jane's voice dripped with irritation.
Angry silence, and then the sound of angry footsteps and a muttered insult reached him as the nurse slammed his room door closed. Patrick contemplated the inky blackness of his world. The muffled sounds of people walking by his room and the drone of some inane daytime soap opera on the TV reached his ears. In sudden frustration, he pulled the bandage off his head and threw it in the general direction of the wall. He hated this, hated being helpless and hurt, this feeling of being useless and not in control.
Four hours later, he had managed to insult just about everyone on the floor, annoyed three nurses with his cantankerous demands, and made a harmless woman who was just passing by cry. The horrid mess they had tried to tell him was food was on the floor, and he lay in bed sulking slightly after that insufferable doctor had come in to reprimand him for his behavior. He finally tore himself free of his blankets, felt his way toward his clothes and got dressed. The world remained dark, and he tried to ignore the unsettling sensation of feeling his eyes moving without sight. He fumbled for the walking stick the physical therapist had given him. The nursing staff gave only a token effort to keep him from leaving.
A quick conversation with Officer Powel led to a ride back to CBI headquarters, and Patrick Jane immediately felt a little better, more in control when the elevator doors opened and the familiar scents and sounds reached him. He didn't even mind when Lisbon called him out for his behavior. He'd never admit it out loud, but the fact that Lisbon caught on to so many of his stunts delighted him. He craved a clever audience, and even when she was mad at him, Lisbon could be counted on to appreciate his performances.
Later that evening, Van Pelt was running his client list against the Lynch-Halstead records when a name from his past drew him up short.
Carol Gentry.
The name conjured the image of red hair and over large, sad eyes. A woman about 20 pounds overweight, but still attractive in a homey sort of way. When Jane stood up, he felt the blood rush from his head too late to do anything more than wilt to floor. A soft grunt escaped as he crashed to the ground, and he never even heard Van Pelt calling out his name.
But even passing out didn't spare him from the ghost of Carol Gentry.
