Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway.
AN: Yikes. This one was hard to write, and I'm very sorry it comes so late in the day. On another note, thank you very much for all your reviews, follows and favourites It makes me very happy. Enjoy this chapter!
Chapter 04 - Lies
Of course, as soon as Jane disappears up the slope, she calls for assistance.
This is standard procedure – and as sharp can be the twinge of guilt she feels as she grabs her phone, she's the one with the training here. She won't ignore basic safety measures for the sake of keeping to Jane's non-interference wishes. There's a serial killer in there – and a crafty one, too. And if police assistance can prevent Jane from killing again... well... she didn't promise him anything.
Patrol will be there in fifteen minutes, they tell her.
Then the waiting game begins.
It doesn't take long before the jitters and self-doubts start. Everything is too quiet, and this isn't even a proper stake-out. Her partner – the most important person in her everyday life really, someone who's not even a cop, just a civilian – is right in the line of fire, and she's out there waiting for...
For what exactly?
What if they band together and overpower him? What if they kill him?
The moment she decides enough is enough and starts walking towards the house, a loud noise echoes in the night.
She starts running. That noise – it sounded a bit like a gunshot. A very big one. From a shotgun? Did Jane shoot someone? She skids a bit on the dead leaves scattered on the ground. Hands on the bay window, she peers through the glass – everything is dark. Where are they? There's light in the backyard. No movement. Did they turn on him? Running again, hoping against all odds she can get there before lasting damage is done – how much time before patrol arrives again?
She comes to a stop as she turns the corner – the door to Jane's outside study is open.
Someone walks out.
For a second she stays put, squinting, trying to identify who it is. But in the end, there's really only one thing to check out in this situation.
It's not Jane.
And that means whoever it is could be Red John.
"Stay where you are!" she says, drawing her gun.
- You'd shoot an unarmed man without provocation?"
The man stops in his tracks, hand against the wall to keep his balance. She comes closer, but not too close, just in case – but he doesn't move, seemingly content to wait after her.
"Sheriff McAllister," she says, finally recognising the uniform. "What happened?
- Somebody in there hid a stun bomb," he answers in an unusually loud voice between short breaths. "The others, they're out cold."
From up close, she can see his scrunched eyebrows, the deep lines around his panting mouth, his short hair in disarray. All signs of pain, all signs of vulnerability that makes her want to drop her weapon and help him, but – no. If she learned one thing from Jane's antics, it's how easily he always manipulates her using her compassionate nature.
"How come you're not?" she asks, suspicion colouring her voice.
"Saw the device before it exploded. I knew what it was from my time in the army. Jumped behind the couch."
She frowns.
"Who had the bomb?
- Didn't see. You gonna lower that weapon, Agent Lisbon?" answers McAllister in an annoyed tone.
And for a second she's really tempted to obey. McAllister has been nothing but non-threatening and helpful in his answers, but somehow – somehow, something doesn't sound right. And that gut feeling is the one Jane is always nagging her to listen to.
"Show me your shoulder first," she says, eyebrows raised.
McAllister sighs loudly.
"Oh, there's no need for that," he says, pushing himself from the wall.
And suddenly there's a gun in his hand – still facing her, he walks backwards, slowly, toward the corner of the house. Dread fills her mind, for she knows how steady that man's hand is. Still, she has to do something.
"Stop! Drop your weapon or I'll shoot!
- You know, you and Patrick got it wrong," he says, stopping as she asked, but keeping his gun lazily trailed on her. "The tattoo – you don't know what it means. I'm not Red John!
- I don't care. Drop your weapon."
And finally – finally – she hears the loud wailing of police cars coming on the road. McAllister stays still, features slack, darkened eyes boring into hers. For a split second she can read conflict in those eyes, that same expression every cornered criminal sports right before arrest – and the hand on her weapon tightens.
"I will shoot," she promises, voice calm, steady and deadly serious.
In that moment, they understand each other perfectly. She knows if she shoots, he will shoot back. She knows he'll probably kill her. And he knows she will shoot anyway – ready to lay her life at his feet to stop him.
"Impressive," he whispers, before lowering himself very, very slowly – and dropping his gun.
She cuffs him and reads him his rights – just as two men from Santa Monica PD show up. She gives them quick instructions to set up a perimeter, call an ambulance and make sure to keep an eye on McAllister – and once that is taken care of, she doesn't waste a moment more before running back to the garden house.
"Jane!" she screams, worried out of her mind. "Jane! Where are you?"
Smoke from the flashbang is still filling up the place, and she nearly trips on Reede Smith as she tries to get through it. The man groans – and she would ignore him in her haste to get to Jane if his arms weren't bare, and if there wasn't a tattoo on his shoulder.
"I need back-up in here!" she yells – pointing her gun on Smith, who barely looks conscious.
She used her cuffs earlier on McAllister and she's starting to regret not picking up at least one more pair before setting foot inside. But once again Santa Monica PD comes through – picking up and cuffing them all, as she asks, because if McAllister refused to show her his arm and Reede Smith did have the tattoo on his shoulder, that means something fishy is going on and she has to take every possible precaution. Any one of them could be Red John, but moreover, any one of them could have set the stun bomb.
And then at last she finds Jane on the floor, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Out cold.
Is that blood trickling from his ear?
"Jane," she whispers, crouching near him to check his vitals. "Jane? Can you hear me? Come on, wake up. Jane!"
Soon they haul him up in the ambulance, and she hops in, glaring at whomever would try to boot her out. She's not leaving him alone one more minute if she can avoid it.
Or possibly ever again.
Tomorrow's prompt: Dream