Chapter 1.3: Teresa Lisbon
I knew Jane well enough to know he was very nervous about returning to his former family home. For more than two years – if not more than twelve by now – it had been standing in dust, inhabited and empty, all memories fading away as time passed by.
I was quite curious what we would be seeing. Would the house even look like a house anymore? Would it be a pile of bricks with dust covering it from the inside out? Would it even be sellable? I wondered about all of this as he drove quietly, blindly taking the correct way. There was no GPS in the car but he didn't need one, knowing LA by heart.
As we took the coast road leading us straight into Malibu, we passed the point where he had dumped me that night, before heading out to meet his nemesis. I would never forget though what he had said, how he had hugged me and held me tight. That moment had been one of the most beautiful moments in my life, even if he did what he did later on, dumping me there so he could go up to the house by himself, leaving me out of the dangerous zone. I understood why he did it. He had always said that this was not my fight and that he would refuse to involve me, knowing it might cost me my life.
Oh, how things have changed since then.
He smiled briefly at me, remembering that moment too and just said, "I meant every word I said to you, Lisbon. And I am sorry for dumping you like that."
"I know," I replied.
Then he smiled. "The look on your face was priceless though."
I kicked him. "Shut up, Jane."
About twenty minutes later, we arrived at the house. Driving up the long lane, going up that hill, heading towards the private, secluded house only the rich could afford, I felt a sense of loss and sadness. What a shame to have such a beautiful, architectural building go to waste like that. But I knew how it must have felt. I wouldn't have wanted to keep on living there either. That house was the constant reminder of what his arch enemy had done to him, punishing him for mere words, for mockery.
I let Jane get out first. He stood before his front door, taking deep breaths as he held the keys in his hand, staring at his house. I knew him well enough to see the tension in his features. Even standing with his back towards me, I knew how stressed out he was right about now. Nothing would convince me that he had forgotten his wife and child. Nothing, not the sweetest revenge, could remove the sight of two mutilated bodies, being found by a husband/father.
As I left the car, I stood next to him, waiting. He turned to me with a strange sense of surprise and shock. "They're gone, Lisbon. They are really, truly gone. I am free." And he smiled the broadest smile I had ever seen him smile. He meant every single word he said. He was finally free.
At that exact point I knew it would be alright.
He stepped forward, pushed his key into the hole and walked in to the dusty front room of his old home. To our left stood a table with white sheets covering it, next to it were couches that had been modern twelve years ago, also covered in blankets and sheets. Everything here was a reminder of his past; every single object standing here had been picked by his wife. At one point he had covered everything – or someone had done that for him – trying to cover the memories. He lingered there, his fingers touching the sheets. Then he pulled them away, revealing that the dark leather couches were still in one piece, withstanding the test of time.
As he walked through the main front room, moving further into the living area and dining room, he pulled away sheets everywhere, dropping them on the ground. I was shocked to find a beautiful, open living room that actually looked cozy and modern.
Then he started with the windows, pulling up the blinds and pushing the windows open, allowing the California sun to enter the room. Immediately the house took on a completely different feel. If you would have told me tomorrow a new family would move in, I would have believed you.
Next we walked into the kitchen area, a huge modern kitchen that could be used by any family just as it was. It was white and shiny with a huge cooking island. I had never seen it. The only thing that needed replacement was the electronic devices. After all these years they would not work anymore, I was certain.
On and on we went, uncovering the entire downstairs floor. I picked up all the sheets and blankets and folded them into small heaps, placing them in one of the utility rooms. Apart from the stack of dust everywhere, you could move in immediately. All it needed was a good cleaning and that was it.
"This is a beautiful home, Jane," I said admirably. "I never realized how gorgeous it is."
"Thank you. Angela designed it," he replied, happy that I commented like this.
"She must have had quite an eye for detail. It's stunning."
He smiled. My compliments obviously did him well. He felt a pride only a proud husband could have felt. "It's such a shame, isn't it?" he then continued quietly. "Such a waste. But I couldn't live here anymore, Lisbon. To me, this house was cursed."
"I can believe that," I replied. "To be honest, I would have done the exact same thing."
He turned with a mischievous grin. "Take your revenge on the bloodiest serial killer of California?"
"Well, that part I would have handled different," I retorted, punching him again. "Jane, seriously, are you still making jokes?"
"That's what I do, Lisbon."
Then we stood before the steel staircase leading up. I knew this would be the hardest part. The last time he had been here, was on the night of the bombing. He had gone into his former bedroom, had lain down on the bald mattress on the ground underneath the bloody smiley made by her blood and had vowed to end it all. He had told me that after he was released from the hospital. He had sworn, or so he said, to finish it forever. He had kept his promise to his family.
The stairwell was dark and gloomy since all the doors upstairs were closed, refusing to let the sunlight in. There were no lights we could switch on as there was no power. He had apologized for that earlier, saying he didn't have the time to arrange for electricity to be switched on again.
"Do you want me to go first?" I asked troubled, seeing a ton of emotion on his face.
He shook his head. "I have to do it."
He walked upstairs, into the hallway and opened doors, one by one. The spare rooms, the adjoining bathrooms, Charlotte's room with her playroom and bathroom linked to it, the master bedroom with the huge dressing and separate private bathroom … Walking in, he refused to look at the smiley face and walked straight up to the windows, opening them for the first time in twelve years. Sunlight came in and you could see the beach from here. There was a private terrace with two old lounge chairs and a deck table on it. It was a beautiful room, magnificent even, but empty, except for the filthy mattress he had slept one when he punished himself by remember the gory details of that fateful murderous night.
He turned his back to the windows and looked at me. Then he looked aside, at that wall, staring at the smiley face. One single shiver ran down his spine. And that was it. It didn't do him anything anymore. That part of his life was closed off as well. I could tell how he folded open his hands and looked at their palms. His fingers actually trembled. Did he remember the way he had killed McAllister at that point?
The moment passed as quickly as it had arrived. "How are your painting skills?" he asked, smiled at me and left the room.
I took a deep breath, happy that it was over and followed him as we left the master bedroom.
Downstairs, Jane grabbed his car keys. "I'm going to pick up some groceries," he said. "Will you be okay on your own for a while?"
"Sure," I replied, eager to explore the house further.
"Okay. The nearest supermarket is a five minute drive. Why don't you go out on the beach? It's private, well, except of course for our sparse neighbors but they won't bother you. Everyone keeps to his own around here."
"That sounds great. Don't worry about me, Jane. I'm a big girl."
"Take your gun with you."
I pulled a face. "Do you think that it'll fit into my shorts?"
He snorted. "Somehow I don't see you with shorts, Lisbon."
"You'd be surprised."
After he left, I changed into lighter clothes – no shorts, he was right about that – closed all the windows, locked the door and walked around the back towards the path going to the beach. I stopped at the guest house, standing before its ruins and staring at it. The last time I'd been here, we had been picking up bodies here and there.
I couldn't move at that moment, frozen to my very core. That house, this place, was my main reminder to what had happened to us all two years ago. I shivered, recalling every single second of it, from the moment Jane dumped me at the ocean side until I found him again, believing he was dead.
I recalled stealing that car, driving like crazy towards the house, knowing in my gut I would be too late. It was like one of those dreams where you know you're going to be too late and can't do anything about it, you know?
I recall running up to main house, realizing Jane and his five suspects weren't there, rushing towards the guest house, seeing the lights on inside, going towards it and praying Jane hadn't gotten himself killed yet, then watching it explode and falling backwards, blown away by the blast. Picking myself up, staring confused at the arriving police and paramedics. Demanding a flash light, going in by myself, seeing the shattered debris and mutilated body parts, feeling my fears grow as I couldn't find Jane, hoping and praying that the human parts I had found weren't his.
And then I saw Smith, the tattoo on his arm, reliving the way he tried to shoot me, seeing Bertram crawling and then Jane lying on the ground next to him, deadly still. I remember being so scared when Jane wouldn't move. I thought for sure he was dead. He was so far gone the doctors said it was a miracle he hadn't slipped into a coma.
I stayed with him as the paramedics came in to help us. I grasped his hand as they turned him around gently, prodding and poking him, setting up an IV, giving him oxygen, lifting and strapping him onto a gurney, driving – speeding – him to the nearest hospital. I was in the back of that ambulance and heard them discuss his condition.
I stayed with him in the ER until they ordered me out to clean him up and to examine him, feeling a major relief when they said there were no major injuries and that we just had to wait until he woke up. That took forever, or so it seemed. He was shaking, even in his unconsciousness; he would stir, groan and move so many times that I was certain he were reliving it all. It tore me apart, watching him like that, unable to do anything. If it weren't for Cho, I would have gone insane for sure.
And then Bertram came. I could still feel the chills run down my spine as I remembered him. He was so cold, so demanding. There was something off about him and at that exact moment I couldn't place my finger on it or I would have arrested him. But the way he spoke to me, ordering me out of that cubicle so he could be alone with Jane; well it gave me the cold shivers. He would have killed Jane in cold blood and we would never have known that he too was part of the Blake Association. Nobody would have believed it.
I had never told anyone about my feelings towards that night, besides from my shrink, that is. I had been sent to a psychiatrist on request of my boss before. Well, that was not exactly a success as my shrink turned out to be a murderer. This time however, I had chosen someone myself, a woman whom I had trusted from the start. At first I hadn't wanted to talk to anyone, too busy picking up the broken pieces and ignoring the fact I had horrible nightmares of finding Jane's mutilated, decapitated body over and over again. But once I moved to Washington and the nightmares continued, I knew I needed help. She was tiny, just like I am for that matter, had very open, beautiful eyes and a broad mind. She didn't prod, allowed me to speak on my own terms and listened so intently that she didn't even need my file during our next encounters. She knew every detail by heart. And she was discrete. Nobody even knew I went to see her.
When Dennis James Knowles came into the picture, she was concerned and met with me three times per week, not even charging for it. We were talking as if we were friends. She kept me sane throughout it all. She was the first one I had told about Jane's return. She was the one who told me to take the FBI's offer. "You are way too good to be spending the rest of your life here, Teresa," she had said. "You have to go back into the field. Imagine all the lives you could save. You have to do it."
I called her three times a week now – or she called me – and we chatted. She was the only person I truly missed living in Austin.
If she were here now, she would say that I had to face my demons. And so I did.
I moved forward and pushed the creaking door open, walking into the mangled rooms. Someone had boarded up the windows. I tore at them, allowing sunlight to enter. Of course all the body parts were gone, as well as the bullet shells and whatever reminder there was of that bombing and shooting, leaving nothing but grease and dust all over this once-beautiful small house. There was the table I had hidden behind when Smith tried to shoot me, there was the exact spot where I had found Jane. I walked through my memories while I walked through that room.
It hardly looked the same now though. All the ghosts had left the building. Jane was right: This place needed to be tore down completely. It was a cursed place.
I turned and shut the door behind me, taking deep breaths as I walked over to the path leading towards a wooden staircase heading down towards the almost empty beach. Here and there I saw people walk, some with dogs and some roaming about as couples. There were no children.
On the sand I removed my shoes and held them as I started my walk, able to forget the past and move onto the present.