2. FAR AS THE CURSE IS FOUND
- "Joy to the World"

"I can't stress enough, Agent Lisbon, the importance of solving this case, putting this matter to rest with as much haste as possible. The people of California were just starting to breathe easy, and here we are, back to the same horrendous nightmare."

Director Bertram sat on Lisbon's couch, legs crossed at the knees, hands in his lap, one palm nestled in the other. He was using his posturing-for-the-media voice, feigned put-upon patience with a slight whine. Lisbon always cringed inwardly when she heard it, and she had come to wonder if her occasional fanciful disappointment that he had not been Red John's mole made her a bad person.

"Sir, I assure you we're doing everything possible. We're waiting on the forensics and autopsy results, Cho and Rigsby are meeting the Carlisle's plane at the airport, Van Pelt's running the victim's records and e-mails, Tech's going through her cell phone and laptop. We canvassed the dorm residents yesterday, and Chelsea's boyfriend and best friend are coming in later this morning."

"I've had a word with the coroner and labs. I want this case given top priority. Everything else has been pushed to the back burner. Anything you need, just say the word."

Lisbon wasn't sure how she felt about that, torn as she was between appreciating the help and irritation at any case getting preferential treatment over another. She couldn't help thinking it would be a big help if he left her alone so she could get back to putting the case file together. Making an effort to pay attention, she came back to the director in mid-sentence.

". . . fortunate this isn't Red John but a mere copycat. Should be easier to catch."

She shuddered before humming uncomfortably in agreement, glad Jane wasn't in the room to hear what Bertram had just had the audacity to say. It was amazing sometimes how insensitive the publicly consummate politician could be. As she finished that thought, movement through the blinds caught her eye. Jane stood in the hallway outside the break room and a few steps toward her office, teacup and saucer in hand, dipping a teabag up and down, his eyes trained on her. She realized he was waiting for some kind of sign from her, any indication that she might need or want him to join the conversation. She gave the slightest shake of her head, glad Bertram was too caught up in his own droning to notice. Jane's hand stilled, the teabag suspended over the cup as he maintained eye contact with her, considering a course of action. When he turned and walked into the bullpen, she relaxed with relief that he at least respected her evaluation of her own limits and turned her attention back to the director, only to stiffen again in apprehension.

". . . all we had was Jane's word. Lucky for him, we found evidence that it was, indeed, Red John. Lucky for us as well. And his acquittal of course."

She caught both the insincerity and the uncertainty of his tone. She had always known that in spite of their close rate, even for the very difficult and very public cases, her unit didn't enjoy the complete confidence of the director, due in large part to his annoyance with Jane's manner as well as the consultant's refusal to toe the line of professionalism and propriety. Suddenly, the more rebellious side of her wished she hadn't been so quick to dismiss Jane's subtle indication of his desire to be of support, and her eyes drifted back almost wistfully to where he had been standing. A shift in the timbre of Bertram's voice made her aware that she should at least make a show of listening to what he was saying when the drift of his comments wrenched her full attention back to him.

". . . can't help thinking that it may be a good idea for this particular case to be handed off or at least shared with another unit. Extra hands and heads couldn't hurt. Plus, it would give you a break from the stress that must surely come in the wake of the Red John fiasco."

She had no doubt that the director would want Jane—and the rest of the team for that matter—as far away from the point position on the current case as possible, but she also knew firsthand what happened when the Red John investigation was handed off to another unit. And while she was absolutely certain this was a copycat, she wouldn't delude herself into thinking the counterfeit would suffer Jane's removal from the case any better than the original had. Near panicked at the thought, her eyes shot again to the space where Jane had stood, only to find him back in place, his gaze intent on her, his observational skills brought fully to bear. The sudden tensing of her posture as well as the agitation in her expression had him instantly and smoothly heading for and through her office door.

"Ah, Bertram. How are things up at the State building?" He leaned across the threshold, hand holding the door open behind him as if he didn't mean to settle into the room or leave its occupants as he'd found them. Not bothering to wait for an answer to his question, he turned his attention fully to Lisbon, leaving no doubt of his opinion of the director's worth in any further discussion. "Lisbon, your presence is requested in the bullpen. Van Pelt didn't want to interrupt, but I assured her you would want to have any and all information from the labs as it came in."

Lisbon rose from her chair fluidly, shooting her boss a look that said, "If you'll excuse me", and Bertram waved her away as if to say "By all means", not realizing until after Jane had escorted her out and closed the door behind them that he had been effectively and smoothly dismissed. Not caring for and completely unaccustomed to being a part of the nuts and bolts of an investigation, he decided to cut his losses and make a dignified retreat, assuaging any misgivings by assuring himself that he had stated his concerns and subtly made known his preferences. Hearing his footfall moving away behind her, Lisbon spoke to her consultant without turning to him.

"Are there actual reports from any of 'the labs'?"

"Meh. Somebody handed Grace a file folder just before I walked out. I thought it a logical assumption."

Not for the first time, Lisbon was at a loss as to what her appropriate reaction to his behavior should be. Several options came to mind, but she settled on sending him a combination of feigned glare and appreciative half-smile before walking across the bullpen and dropping squarely onto the middle cushion of his couch, hoping for a bit of peace before she had to face Chelsea Carlisle's grieving parents.

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"Had she spoken or written about any acquaintances, probably someone new? Mentioned anyone strange watching or following her?"

"No," Cynthia Carlisle had considered the question and responded with certainty. "There was no one." It was obvious Mrs. Carlisle was the heart of the family, keeping lines of communication open with daughter and son as well as between them and their father who now sat lost and listless at her side.

"She ever say anything to indicate she was uneasy or uncomfortable? With a person or in her surroundings?"

Lisbon already knew the answer to her questions, the same as she had received earlier from Chelsea's boyfriend and best girlfriend. The scant information CSU and the coroner had been able to come up with was enough to prove they would get no further in this investigation than they had on any Red John case. As a matter of fact, the reports had only confirmed what they had already known and suspected. The wound patterning was the same, there were no fingerprints or other clues left behind by the murderer, nothing that connected her to any of Red John's victims or—thankfully—to Jane.

"That's all for now, Cynthia," Lisbon softly ended the interview, her voice a study in calm and comfort if any of either were to be given or found. "If we think of anything more, we'll call you. It will be a day or two before we can release Chelsea. Until then, if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call. I'm sorry—," she swallowed against the sudden spasm in her throat, "—we're all very sorry for your loss."

Both parents nodded wordlessly and rose from the uncomfortable chairs in the bleak interrogation room, and Lisbon watched them go, escorted out by Cho. At the last moment, Jeff Carlisle turned back to look at Lisbon, something disturbingly familiar flaring hot and hard in his eyes.

"You'll find him. The man who did this. You'll find him and he'll pay for what he did to my little girl."

She felt Jane tense at her side and answered quickly before he could have the chance. It was easy enough—she'd given the answer hundreds of times. Something definite but noncommittal, a truth but not a promise. But something in her brain as well as her character roiled against the pat and professional response.

"We will."

He accepted her answer and reaching out, rubbed his hand down his wife's back and drew her to him to place a kiss on her bent head before walking out and down the hall. Cho hesitated, still holding the door, gave his boss a hard look, whether of challenge or agreement she couldn't tell, then turned to follow the bereaved parents.

"You sound certain." Jane's voice was low, balanced on a razor's edge of control.

"I don't know why I said that," her voice was a shaking whisper.

"Don't you?" he asked her softly.

"I have to . . . We've got to . . ."

She suddenly pushed herself away from the table, chair grinding against the cold hard floor, and strode to the mirror. Looking into his eyes in the deceptively reflecting glass, she made her confession.

"I can't do this again. Living from one murder to the next. Giving the same standard answers. Waiting—hoping that the sadistic son-of-a-bitch we're chasing makes a mistake and just swallowing it when he doesn't and all we can do is promise ourselves and the victim's family we'll get him the next time. I won't do it again."

Her voice had become stronger in spite of the continued shaking until the last words came out harsh and defiant. Her eyes never left his as he crossed the distance between them to stand just behind her and put his right hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words came, his eyes shifted quickly to the glass and back. Uncertain of how alone they actually were and knowing there was nothing he could say that he would be willing for anyone else to hear, his hand squeezed through the oxford cloth of her button down and into her soft flesh. Her head dipped toward his hand, the movement so quick and minute as to be nearly indiscernible, before she turned and left the room, knowing he would know better than to follow. That brief allowance, the stolen permission, was all she could give him in this moment.

Hands stuffed into her front trouser pockets and face crumpled into a hurt frown, she strode to her office glad she didn't encounter anyone else along the way. She only wanted the safety and shelter of the steel and glass enclosure, another symbol of her authority, her control, surrounding her. Once inside the door, she circled the room, closing the blinds in the same pattern as Jane had maneuvered them the day before. Returning to the door, she leaned back against the frame, nearly ashamed at the comfort she still took in the gesture. Her chest rose in deep inhalation, and she chastised herself for the emotionality that had led to her breath being stolen away over the care he seemed to be taking with her, both in yesterday's despairing aftermath and the morning's visit from Bertram, all the while minding his distance. Only Jane could achieve such balance and at the same time cause such upheaval.

She pushed off the metal frame even as she threw off foolish thinking and moved to her desk and sat in front of her laptop. Three keystrokes in, and her thoughts were back to the same subject. She often remembered Jane's words as he lay in the hospital bed after his fall on Thanksgiving Day, his system flooded with pain meds. She had tried to resist the pull of that particular memory but simply couldn't help herself.

"You know, in many ancient cultures, when one person saves another person's life, the sav-ee belongs to the sav-er until death or the debt is repaid."

She hoped the way he was acting wasn't just his skewed version of paying a debt. He owed her much, and she knew he was aware. While she didn't know exactly what was going on with him, and frightening as her farthest suspicions might be, she knew she couldn't bear it if that's all there was to it.

"Only yours," he had whispered.

"Guess I'm owned." He had almost seemed happy about it.

She groaned and covered her face with her hands then dragged them down until her fingertips rested across her bottom lip and jaw. Memories of other holidays, other times, both planned and impromptu, flooded her thoughts. Jane's comforting presence on a lonely Christmas Eve, the thrill of fireworks, shared chocolates and champagne and couch (as well as his darkest secret), a clandestine getaway, his care for her hurts, dancing in his arms, his hands on her, his face in her hair . . .

She inhaled deep again, breath stolen once more, and felt her lips bow and brow crease in a frown. This had to stop. She was no teenaged school girl with a secret crush. Oh, god, she hoped it was secret, whatever it was. Taken as a whole, Jane's actions during their "next times" certainly evidenced the things he had said, even if heavily medicated during the time, might have some truth to them. Besides, drugs like that were more likely to break down the defenses that enabled people to lie. She would get a more accurate picture if she didn't isolate the "next times" but instead took into account Jane's behavior on the whole of their acquaintance.

He had lied to her, used her, never shown her any more attention than any other woman in his sphere. She sighed in defeat. Even she had to admit that wasn't completely true. He had baited her, teased her, taunted her nearly to the point of torment, argued with her, called her bluffs, tried to protect her—was adamant about protecting her—in his own warped way, and at times there was something so close to outright possessiveness . . .

She didn't even try to wipe away the small smile that she realized had come to play at her lips or question why she was now chewing on the nails of her little fingers. All she could do was lower her hands to clasp them in her lap and shake her head at herself. Her mind was firmly on one track now, and she knew any attempt to derail it would be futile. Another flood of memories washed over her that had nothing to do with "next times" but rather all of their times together. Hundreds of favorite pastries and special coffees, dozens of inside jokes, intimate moments of conversation and shared looks in a sea of people, the first time she noticed she was number one on his speed dial, his pleasure at her agreement to ride in a car she claimed not to like in the care of driving she claimed not to trust, and countless mindless touches and soft smiles and whispered words . . .

She could think about it all she wanted, secure and accepting that regulations would take care of keeping it in bounds. Again, whatever it was. And it had to stay in bounds. Nothing could happen on that front. It would be disastrous—for both of them. Still, the idea that nothing could come of it . . .

She had a case to solve. A murderer to catch. A serial killer in the mold of Red John. And she had promised that she would catch him. If it took her another seven plus years, whatever it took. She had gone the distance before, and she would again. After all, she came from a long line of women who did what needed to be done. And Jane's focus would be different this time. He would be different. And together, all of them together, they would catch this damned copycat.

She only hoped she wouldn't have to eat her words.