Chapter 2: Rescue
A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.
The slight, black-clad woman sat shivering in the drafty waiting room of SacGeneral's trauma center. It was almost empty. Teresa Lisbon didn't notice. She looked down, thinking how the synthetic fabric of her pants was damn near indestructible. Blood washed right out. The wet fabric plastered uncomfortably to her skin would dry without wrinkles if she sat long enough.
Tap ... tap ... tap ... tap ...
She looked around. Her jacket dripped dirty pond water on the tile floor. Her hands fisted as she instantly was back at that damnable nature area.
"Jane? ... Jane, you out here? ... Jane, come on!"
I was annoyed. Nighttime and he wanders off when we're trying to wrap up. Deserted, pitch black, trees blocking the moonlight. We hadn't secured the area! Policing 101 and I screw up by letting him go. Alone. Goddammit, Jane.
She caught sight of – something – floating on the moonlit pond. A log?
"No!" Her heart stopped and body turned to ice. Jane! Motionless. Half-submerged. She plunged into icy, waist-deep water. Reaching him with a few great lunges she wrapped her arm around his chest and pulled him toward shore.
Screaming, "Paramedics! I need help now! Please!"
Not breathing, no pulse. He looked dead. I saw their faces when I said how long he'd been out there. Jesus, then the shocks. Nothing. Nothing again! God, I'll do anything, just let him live. Please, please, I can quit, make Jane quit, he can't die not like this, it's not even Red John just some stupid routine case and hasn't he paid over and over, deserve a chance? God have mercy! Please.
A strong, compact Asian man sat down next to her. He put a styrofoam cup on the table to her right.
"Lisbon."
She looked over, mentally back in the waiting room again. "Cho. Status?" Her hands were stiff from being clenched. She flexed her right hand, pried the lid from the cup and gratefully sipped the hot coffee. She nodded her thanks.
"Paul Satterfield was murdered at shift-change. We interviewed the 20 firemen and EMT's from both shifts. Van Pelt said tomorrow she can use that new software to track movements for each of the 20 based on the interviews. So far as we can tell, no one unaffiliated with the firehouse was around–"
"Except possibly the murderer."
He nodded. "It's a possibility. But with 20 firemen trucking around we're unlikely to salvage any evidence. Rigs and Van Pelt stayed to finish up." He waited a moment in case she wanted more detail.
Tiredly, "We'll pick it up tomorrow."
"How is he?"
She shook her head, affect flat from emotional exhaustion. "Haven't heard anything yet."
Somehow his impassive face communicated compassion and concern. "I'll stay."
She shook her head. "Nothing you can do. I'll call you three once I know something. I have his medical power of attorney so they'll talk to me."
Cho started to speak twice but didn't. His Ranger experience cured him of empty platitudes. Not about something like this. He stood. "Sure?"
"Go home, Cho. You'll know soon as I do."
He squeezed her shoulder in comfort – flagrant emotion for him – and left.
Lisbon finished her coffee. Her chair now sat in a puddle from her pants, jacket, and the plastic bag at her feet.
The EMT's were ready to leave when she had arrived. One of them handed her a black plastic bag from the ambulance: Jane's clothes. They'd stripped off his wet clothes on the way to SacGeneral – standard procedure when there was risk of hypothermia.
She rose tiredly and took jacket and bag with her to the women's room. After using the facilities she squeezed as much water as possible from her jacket. It still smelled like pond scum. She'd wash it when she got home. She considered the bag with Jane's clothes. The team had just gotten back from an out-of-town case and Jane hadn't returned his go-bag to her CBI SUV yet. After a moment, she dumped Jane's clothes into the washroom sink. After removing his wallet and other paraphernalia she rinsed them till the water ran clear, then squeezed them as dry as possible. She turned the bag inside out and put the rinsed clothes inside. He'd need something to wear when he left. Let him be okay so he can go home tonight.
Waiting was torture. Vicious "what if's" battered her defenses, wore her down. The most final, the non-negotiable one was death. Thanks to the EMT's he likely had cheated death. The one that lurked at the edges of her mind, that came screaming into her thoughts when she let it, was worse. He'd drowned. Not breathing. Howlong? She was terrified of the "three's." Three weeks without food. Three days without water. Three minutes without air. How long was it, why didn't I search sooner, WHY DIDN'T I FUCKING KEEP HIM FROM WALKING OFF? She could hardly breathe. Her brilliant, mercurial, polymath pain in the ass and joy of her life might have suffered devastating injury to his most fundamental self.
She clutched her cross and prayed every prayer she knew to God and every saint she could remember. She flung out an agonized, incoherent, emotional plea that there be justice in the vast, indifferent universe, at least this once.
"Agent Lisbon?" Louder, "Agent Lisbon."
She rose, blinking back tears. "Yes?"
"Mr. Jane is going to be admitted."
"How is he?"
"He's doing well. The doctors want to check some things out further."
"Can I see him?"
The nurse glanced toward the treatment area. "He's being taken up to the neurology floor and should be settled in after about 15 minutes." Lisbon's sick fear shone in her eyes. "Don't worry, he really is doing well."
She started breathing again. "Good. Um." She looked around and lifted the bag. "I have his things. From the EMT's."
The nurse reached out a hand. "I'll put them under his bed so they'll make it to his room."
Lisbon took a step forward as she turned to leave. "Wait! Where do I go?"
"I'll come tell you as soon as I know the room number. It's past visiting hours but we're flexible for law enforcement officers, especially when someone was injured on duty."
She hung on by hope and a few offhanded words. 'Really is doing well.' Wonder if that's the doctors' idea of doing well or mine? Stop it, just stop it. I'll see him soon."
Twenty minutes later Lisbon was searching for room 521. No one was around as she quietly walked the corridors, mindful people were asleep. She wouldn't let herself even think of sleep. Not till she saw Jane.
At last! Lisbon cracked the door. Once sure he was alone she pushed it open and stepped in.
Quietly, "Jane?"* Looks asleep. He stirred and blinked groggily. She walked over and perched on the edge of the bed, knees weak with relief. Thank God, alert and present. "How you feeling?"*
"Excellent, I think."*
Subdued. Of course he's subdued after tonight. "It's good to see you breathing."* She allowed herself a smile.
"It's good to see you, period."* His glance took in her whole figure.
ThankGodthankGodthankGod. "We're doing everything we can to find your attacker. –You didn't happen to see a face, did you?"* She allowed herself to relax into normal investigative mode. Doubt we'd be that lucky but have to ask.
"N-o-o. Not that I can remember."*
Something's 'off.' Indirect, guarded – what? "What's the last thing you do remember?"*
Jane motioned her closer. Hesitantly, "Are we sleeping together?"*
"Excuse me?!"* Why's he messing with me now of all times?
He leaned back. "Well, you're a cop, that's obvious, but you're not treating me like a suspect. And I can't see any other reason for a police officer–"* he chuckled at the thought, "to come to my bedside unless we're – unless we're sleeping together."*
The hair on her neck rose. Every mental alarm went crazy. Shocked, "You don't ... know who I am."* Worry came roaring back. What's wrong with him? Neurology floor. Did he hit his head?
"Please don't take it personally. I'm sure you're quite memorable."* Lisbon reined in a knee-jerk reaction to a line so over-used it was a cliche. "I just – I – I've been through a lot ... apparently."*
And that sounds sincere. Whatever, we are not going down this road. "No. We are not sleeping together."* She was so at a loss she could only follow where he led.
"We're working toward it, though, right? So I haven't missed anything? –What's your name?"*
The irritating, charming Jane she was used to came through so strongly she wanted to punch him. If he's goofing me I swear I'll shoot him in this hospital bed! She tilted her head and let herself grin, "Are you putting me on?"*
"I wish I was."* Jane was unmistakably sincere.
Lisbon exhaled and squared her shoulders. Oh, God. This is real. "Um, I'm Teresa Lisbon with the CBI. I'm a homicide detective. You're my consultant."*
Eagerly, "I catch bad guys? Wow, that sounds like fun. I always wanted to pit my psychic skills against criminals."*
"You're not a psychic. You used to pretend to be one, but you–"* She stopped dead. Jesus, he doesn't know!
"But what? Teresa?"*
Gotta get out of here, no way I can drop that on him. He almost died. "Uh, I'm sorry. I should have talked to the doctor before I came in here-"* Get out and find his doctor.
"-Whoa, whoa. Teresa, wait. I saw something during my attack."*
"What did you see?"* A clue?
"A light."*
"What kind of light?"*
"White light. Intensely bright."* That sounds like a near-death experience. It scared her because it could have been exactly that. He almost died. She refocused on what he was saying."And I walked toward it. There were people, lots of people gathered around, reaching out with their hands to me. There was a woman – a woman who knew you. Your mother."*
Dammit, what's he playing at? I know this is crap. Quietly, "Jane, I'm not impressed. I told you my mother died when I was a girl."*
"Well, did you tell me that she gave you that cross? You touched it just like that when I was unconscious. It's what led her to me. And now I can lead her to you."*
My mother's not going to be used for a fake psychic reading. "You want to put me in touch with my dead mother."* When hell freezes over!
I'm a psychic, Teresa. That's what I do."*
She closed her eyes and grabbed her wild emotions by the throat. He. Almost. Died. He's exhausted and messed up. Give the man a break. "Jane, you've had a helluva night. Whatever is going on, we'll sort it out. You need to rest." She had to add, "For God's sake, do what the doctors say and don't give them crap." She looked directly into his eyes, "I'll be back tomorrow before work, okay? Promise you'll stay here?"
Jane tiredly agreed and at last she ended the Through The Looking Glass conversation. She leaned against the wall outside his room, took a deep breath, then exhaled.
"Nurse, I was told Dr. Miller is Patrick Jane's doctor. If he's around may I talk to him?"
"Just a moment and I'll get him for you." She pointed, "You can wait over there."
Lisbon used the wait to call SacPD and request an officer be posted at Jane's door. He'd been attacked and almost killed. If he was going to stay the night she would make sure he was protected.
Dr. Miller walked up five minutes later. "Agent Lisbon, you wanted to talk to me?"
"Patrick Jane is a consultant on my team and I have his medical power of attorney. Please tell me how he's doing. He, um, he isn't making much sense. –He doesn't know who I am,*" she said with a desperate edge.
"He doesn't know who he is, either. It's called dissociative fugue – the temporary loss of personal identity. It can last for hours or months, and in rare cases, years."*
"But he remembers some things, like he used to be a fake psychic. He just did a cold reading on me. –It was a good one."*
"Has he had any previous traumas?"*
"His wife and daughter were murdered."*
"There you go. His subconscious mind is protecting itself from further trauma by blocking out that pain. As far as Patrick knows, his family never existed."*
"Their death is what brought him to us."*
"And that's why he doesn't know you. But it sounds like you're just what he needs to get back on his feet."*
Lisbon looked down and tried to gather her thoughts. Looking back up, "Dr. Miller, there are no physical injuries – it's all a, a psychological reaction to the attack?"
"Yes. But don't underestimate the impact of losing his identity. From his perspective, he's missing ten years of his life. He doesn't know anything about what he's been doing, any friends or – did he remarry?" She shook her head. "Dissociative fugue is profoundly isolating and disruptive. Blocking trauma comes at a high psychological cost in other ways."
"Is there treatment, should we tell him about his life?"
"No. No, there's no specific treatment. Being surrounded by people and locations from his present life will hasten regaining his memory. But it's important for him to regain his memories on his own, when his subconscious determines he can deal with the trauma."
"When will he be discharged?"
"As you can imagine, it may not be safe for him to go about his life missing so many years. Since he isn't married, I think the best approach is to release him into the custody of a responsible adult during the day while returning here each night. I do want to monitor how well he adapts to his unusual situation."
Lisbon puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled and nodded. "That's what we'll do then. I'll be back tomorrow for him." Miller shook hands with her and walked off.
Lisbon nodded to the cop now sitting near Jane's door. She peeked into Jane's room before leaving, reassuring herself that he was alive, physically okay. After finding him deeply asleep she left and drove home. She called Cho, then Rigsby and Van Pelt. It was incredibly more positive than it might have been. A few days or weeks and Jane would be the Jane they knew – and who knew them! – again.
She showered and got ready for bed. Before turning in she knelt with her rosary to offer the deepest prayers of thanks she could. He was alive. She would continue to enjoy the presence of this fascinating, capable man in her life. Thank God.