Patrick manages to shake his head enough to dislodge the ice over his face. His breathing accelerates. His pulse races. He's shivering so hard, it feels like his bones are about to shatter.
This is the first stage of freezing, he thinks. Hypothermia. It's agony but it will soon get worse.
Whoever did this is gone.
He looks around the room. Dark except for a circle of light where the gooseneck lamp is pointed at the ceiling.
Painted across the cracked plaster is the word "Bastard."
His limbs grow numb. He knows he's approaching severe hypothermia.
His muscles are paralyzed. His lips are frozen. He's terribly cold but no longer shivering. That's not good.
He shouldn't sleep but he has to. So cold.
"Bastard," he thinks as he blacks out. What does that mean?
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Teresa wakes in a panic.
What if Jane is dead? He could be dead.
She runs to the bathroom and pukes. Dry heaves. She hasn't eaten since this morning.
She looks at her clock. 3am.
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The next day proves that yesterday, the FBI had not even begun to investigate the disappearance of Patrick Jane.
The Visualize building is on lockdown. The senior FBI agent on site is considering having sharpshooters take out that spooky eye on the roof.
Sean Barlow has been compelled to conduct a séance with Kristina Frye to gather information.
All traveling carnivals on U.S. territory have been ordered to stay in one place.
Shirali Arlov, with a canvas sack over his head, is sitting in the hold of an FBI plane on its way from Moscow to Austin.
Sean Barlow bangs on the two-way mirror of the room he's in with Kristina. He accuses the FBI agents of inhuman cruelty. Having observed her themselves, they let him go.
Cho and Lisbon spend the morning questioning Pete and Sam who've been flown in first class to Austin. Neither sheds any light on Patrick's disappearance.
Lisbon and Cho go back to the bullpen. Lisbon throws herself on Jane's couch.
Kim throws her a disapproving look.
Cho bends down near the couch. "Whoever has him doesn't want to kill him, boss. We would have found him already."
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Patrick wakes.
He's wrapped in a down comforter. He's dry and warm.
No evidence of ice in the room.
He smells like soap and shampoo.
He's wearing a shirt and a three-piece suit. He doesn't recognize it as one of his old suits.
There's a tray table next to his bed. On it, a thermos bottle, a teacup and saucer, several tea bags and a perfect club sandwich.
The plastic ties on his wrists have been loosened just enough so he can make a cup of tea and eat the sandwich.
This is one conflicted kidnapper, Patrick thinks as he pours another cup of tea.
Then he notices the gift box across the room. Large, square, white with a big silver bow.
He dabs his mouth with his napkin.
Written on it are the words, "Wish."
"Wish?" Patrick studies it.
He couldn't make any sense of ice and "Bastard."
Now a gift box and "Wish."
Hmm. I wished for something and what's in the box is what I wished for. Is that it?
He's not thinking very well. His brain is full of cotton balls.
There was something in the tea.