4. IN HOPE OF SURVIVORS

Driving across the maze that was the combination of state and federal complex, Lisbon had opened the SUV windows, wisps of long chestnut hair blowing out on her driver's side. It was a beautiful day, warm sun and slightly cool breeze, most welcome after the wet winter had finally released them. Under other circumstances, she would have been tempted to blare the radio. But she hadn't put the windows down to let the fineness of the day in. She needed the fresh air for another reason.

Those damn boxes.

She wished she could just set fire to the lot of them. She was sure if she got close enough to smell them, they would stink. Earl and Javier had carried them down for her while Tom and Craig had moved the couch. She smiled half-heartedly to herself, remembering their hesitant but determined smiles when they had turned away from the car to head back into the building. We won't say a word.

LaRoche had been surprised to say the least when she had called him. But given the crucial timing of the matter, his answer had been to the point with little consideration. It helped that he had always been somewhat leery of Jane's agenda and rationality. She hadn't mentioned Madeleine's letter. The irony of her secrecy didn't escape her.

"And you think Minelli told you everything?"

"Yes, sir. I don't think there was that much to tell." It was the weight of the words, not their number. "It's best if I get it out of the building. Otherwise, he won't stop until he finds it."

"And you trust her?"

"With my life." And more.

It was bitter for her to have to face defeat, but LaRoche needed to hear it.

"I thought I had the matter in hand, and to a point I did. I just didn't realize there was so much . . . It just needs to be handled, and I think this is the best way. It can't go on like this." I can't go on like this.

Having heard what was spoken and what was not, LaRoche sighed heavily into the phone.

"I think you're right. Make it so. And, Agent Lisbon . . . for what it's worth, I think you've gone the distance."

"Yes, sir, I'll keep you informed . . . Thank you, sir."

Yes, she had gone the distance. And then some. She just hoped she wasn't at the end of the line. The federal building loomed up in front of her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Why was that? Had she expected Jane to come racing after her as if he knew where she would go? She wondered for not the first time that day if she hadn't lost her own grasp on reality just a little. She hoped he could cool down before she had to see him again. She had seen what he was like when his temper was up and heard the murderous note in his voice when he spoke of killing Red John. How far would his anger push him after what she'd done—what she'd been forced to do? She only knew she wouldn't be so sure of his sanity right now and wondered how much ill will the darkness of his heart could harbor against anyone who simply got in his way, even her. Madness maddened. Where had she read that?

She phoned ahead, engaged in a good-natured give and take then snapped her phone shut. As promised, two FBI agents waited outside the front doors to help her carry up the small but heavy cargo. They looked like they worked for the Matrix. Feebs always looked alike to her.

Except for one.

Eleanor Bradley wasn't really an agent, though she had done more than her share of sifting secrets and wrangling confessions. Pretty handy with a weapon, too, for a female suit. Eleanor was a psychiatrist. Lisbon had met her years earlier when they both worked for the SFPD. The older woman had helped Teresa through a couple of rough patches having to do with both past and present events at the time. If Jane had known about that," she mused to herself. The beloved shrink had left the department two years after Teresa joined, finally acquiescing to pleas from the FBI to condescend to working with them. Eleanor had always despised the Feds, but she couldn't pass up the opportunity to widen her scope. Teresa knew she owed her current position in part to Eleanor's recommendation. If the woman could help her now, she would owe a lot more.

"Teresa. Good to see you. Yes, just put those over there, boys." As she motioned to the floor near the couch, Eleanor turned and winked at her behind the "boys'" backs. The "boys", grown men about Rigsby's age, didn't seem to mind, both of them grinning at her over their shoulders as they left. The shrink then motioned Teresa to the couch and they took a seat facing each other, both leaning back into the cushions, completely at ease. She felt safe on this couch, and she could almost taste the relief of being in the older woman's presence.

"It's been a while. You look haggard, dear."

"Don't hold back, Ella."

"I never do. That's one of the reasons we get along so well."

"And one of the reasons I hated you at first."

"I get that a lot."

"But you improve upon acquaintance."

"Sometimes I get that, too."

It was easy talking to Eleanor here among her plants and books and collection of artifacts.

"Is that a shrunken head?"

Eleanor turned and looked at it over her shoulder. "It was a gift."

Teresa raised an eyebrow at her, and Eleanor shrugged.

"You have some weird friends."

"They're the best kind . . . Is that enough small talk?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Let's get to it."

It had not escaped Teresa's attention that while they made inane conversation, Eleanor's left hand had lowered to the box at her feet, her index finger trailing back and forth over a brown leather book that rested on top. Jane's journal. He wrote all of his thoughts out in paperbound diaries, but the distilled theories, the pieced-together bits of the puzzle, everything he deemed truly significant went into that journal. At Teresa's words, Eleanor had hefted the box up and placed it on the couch between them. She opened the journal, and Teresa stifled the urge to reach for it and grab it from her prying fingers. Ella noticed the slight twitch, and smiled reassuringly at her.

"Don't worry. I won't hurt him anymore."

Teresa watched her, stilled by what she had said. That was exactly what she had unknowingly dreaded in this. He's already been so wounded—please don't let him be hurt anymore. Had she prayed that, convinced she was doing him perhaps the second greatest injury of his life? When and if the anger subsided, the sense of betrayal would overwhelm him. That was how he would play it at any rate. She knew only friends could betray. She really wasn't sure now just what they were to each other.

Ella reached around the box and squeezed her cold hand while closing the journal softly in her other.

"We'll just save this for later, shall we?" She turned and placed the book gingerly on an end table behind her then delved back into the box.

"Well, well, well. What have we here? Looks like a 'Predilection Systems Analysis of Crime Patterning blah-blah-blah for Red John'. My, my, your Patrick Jane must have had quite an effect on Dr. Montague to tempt her to commit such a breach in emotion. I wonder what data sets she ran."

"You know her?"

"Yes, I've worked with her a few times. Lovely girl. Very well behaved. Smart as a whip. Does good work. Very useful stuff," all said as she perused the numbers. She closed the report with a sharp intake of breath and looked at Teresa.

"Dr. Montague. She spent quite a bit of time with your Patrick Jane?"

"He took her around with him and showed her how he does things."

"Hm. That would explain the new broach."

"And don't call him that. He's not my Patrick Jane. He's not my anything."

Eleanor looked at her kindly.

"And don't look at me with your 'don't-lie-to-me-you-poor-little-lamb' eyes."

"Sweetie, anyone who has the good fortune to capture someone else's attention in this life belongs to them, even if only in part and for a little while. If not yours, then whose? Don't lose sight of what's most important here."

"What's most important is stopping Red John."

"And yet, you've brought me not a single Red John file," she pointed out in a high-pitched voice of mock wonder. She ignored the use of "stopping" rather than "catching". Teresa Lisbon had changed in more ways than one over the last few years.

"I've brought you what Jane has on Red John, stuff I didn't know he had, some stuff I didn't even know existed. Now do what you do and pick it apart and put it back together."

"It may not be possible to do that with his evidence without doing it to the man as well."

"Then so be it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Eleanor Bradley inhaled deeply. She could not deny the tiny thrill she had gotten when Teresa first called at the prospect of getting her hands on Patrick Jane, psychiatrically speaking. What a puzzle. She was so tired of fighting paper crimes. They seemed to be all that came across her desk anymore. Perhaps she could even help him. And if she could help the girl in front of her come to terms with a few things as well, all the better. Her only regret in leaving the San Francisco Police Department all those years ago had been the unfinished business of Teresa Lisbon.

"All you have to do is get him here."

"Any suggestions?"

Eleanor motioned her hands over the boxes surrounding her as if she were weaving a spell.

"Just let him know where he can find this . . . but nothing too obvious!" She cautioned after a thought. "You'll have to be sneaky."

"I learned from the best." Teresa replied with a smirk.

"I won't ask to whom you're referring."

The older woman paused then asked, all serious now, "Teresa, . . . you're sure?"

"Sure of what? That this is the right thing? That this might make a difference? Eleanor, the only thing I'm sure of is that I have no other choice." Or hope.

She knew Eleanor understood and was grateful when her friend merely gave her hand another squeeze before she pulled her up from her seat on the couch and showed her the door.