Hi! I put this work on hold to work on some other things, but I've had some chapters filling up my docs for a few months and I figured that I'd get them posted before the season finale. Sorry about the wait!
Disclaimer: I do not own Mentalist or any recognizable pop culture references you see within.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. –dante's inferno
Red Tiger Hymn
His fingers are slippery with blood. It makes holding the knife rather difficult but he manages, cutting here, slicing there, all done with the utmost control and precision.
He pauses for a second to wipe sweat out of his eyes. Blood wells up from the cut, drips off the edge of his knife.
A drop of that precious liquid falls and splashes on the floor.
He breathes, and continues his work.
It would be so easy to kill this woman. A quick, clean slash to her throat, really, just a small movement, a second in motion. Her skin would give like butter.
So easy.
He presses the blade down again, steady, focused. He's nearly done.
"Clamps," he says, and other hands come in, quickly sealing off the intricate network of veins and arteries that pour blood throughout the body. Carefully he pulls at a piece of metal embedded in this woman's right lung, gently, almost tenderly.
Finally, after two hours of surgery, the piece of metal comes free. This woman is going to live.
After the metal comes out, it's just a matter of cauterizing and stitching and putting her ruined chest back together, and no one in the entire state puts bodies back together better than he does. Within another hour all of the woman's lovely blood is sealed back inside her body, and the surgery is complete.
The other doctors clap him on the back, amazed, admiring.
He smiles modestly, shaking off his fellows. He strips off his red-stained gloves, then his splattered scrubs, then his smeared cap. Red swirls away down the drain as the woman is wheeled away and the room sterilized.
Another surgery successful. Another life saved. A miracle.
He smiles. He likes creating those.
He prowls down the clean white hallways, hands behind his back. His eyes are sharp and blue, and everyone, from doctors to nurses to patients, smiles when they see him.
He waves.
As a trauma surgeon, he sees death every day. People come in wrecked, shattered, broken nine ways to Sunday, and sometimes it's damn near impossible to put them back together, but he tries.
Once, he got one of his own, a young woman who had been attacked in her home and left nearly for dead, bleeding from a dozen deep, gashes.
That was a surprise, seeing her, since he had been at her house only an hour previously, etching each and every one of those cuts himself. Her neighbor had found her, only minutes after he'd left, and her case had come under his skillful hands.
She died after twenty minutes on the table. He didn't fight too hard for her life, not really. After all, what was the point of undoing one's own work?
He's pretty sure Patrick Jane would throw a fit if he knew just what his archenemy did during the day. They've gotten to know each other better, yes, but poor Patrick probably likes to imagine he's some kind of villain or criminal even during the daylight.
No, that's not true. Patrick isn't an idiot. Hopelessly stubborn, of course, but not an idiot, not his Patrick.
He smiles, stepping into his darkened office. He wonders what it must feel like to be Patrick Jane, to be someone that angry, that determined, that intelligent when everyone else in the world is small and mundane and boring.
Frustrating, he imagines, and smiles.
He doesn't think Patrick has quite caught on yet. He's still a little stuck in the early stages of their relationship, one of hatred and vengeance and white tiger teeth. He'll grow out of it eventually, of course, but still. It's time the man broadens his horizons.
He traces the wood of his desk fondly. Patrick is growing. Already he's seen that his enemy can sometimes be an ally—he gave Red John the San Joaquin Killer to play with. That was fun.
The doctor sighs, settling in his chair. Sooner or later there will be another surgery to rush off to, another idiot mangling himself and needing repair. Sooner or later the Hunger will grow again and he'll 'lose' a patient, or he'll wander the streets and find a playmate.
Or he'll call up his newest tiger and set the young one on the hunt. He smiles. He likes that idea.
He flicks on the news and there the story is, leaked by some small-town coroner. A serial killer stalks the streets of Rio Linda. They haven't named the killer yet—that will come later, after the second ritual killing, or the third, or the forth.
And there will be more. This young tiger is particularly Hungry. He can respect that.
Red John reaches for his phone and punches in his student's number.
The stuffed animal is mocking them.
It sits, perched on the edges of Jane's couch, with its cute little face and cute little red bow, and its paws are crusted in blood.
The killer is taunting them. Taunting Jane. Hurting him, because Grace has seen the way he looks at the toy, sneaking, nervous glances when Lisbon isn't watching.
Grace won't have it. Patrick Jane is a good person. A little mean, sometimes, and a little crazy, but a good person. He doesn't deserve to be hurt like this. Grace won't let him be hurt like this.
(After Craig, Jane called her every day. He didn't offer her platitudes or sympathy, no, not Patrick Jane. He told her that yes, she should have seen it coming, and then he hardened her grief and guilt into anger, and he let her go.
Patrick Jane put her back together again.)
"Maybe we should take it away," she says, looking at Rigsby expectantly.
Rigsby shrugs, looking up from his phone. He's probably texting Sarah, if the little smile on his face is anything to go by.
"You think?"
Van Pelt nods, eyeing the thing. "It's just wrong, you know? A kid's toy in here, after being used for something like that?"
"It doesn't seem to bother Jane," Rigsby says reasonably. She rolls her eyes. Rigsby's a sweet guy, and some part of her will always love him, but he's just a little too oblivious sometimes.
So she tries manipulation. (Working with Jane has taught her something, after all.) "Imagine how you'd feel if that was Benjamin's toy," she says. "I mean, that's a kid's thing, and you know how Jane is with kids."
And Rigsby does know. He'd brought Ben in last week, and Jane had been smitten.
Wayne's face loses all of its color.
"We should move it," she repeats.
"We shouldn't," Cho shoots back. He's reading, face carved from stone. Which is sad, because he'd been warmer, these last few months with Summer. Grace is sorry that it didn't work out.
"Why not?"
"Because then Jane will find it and take it upstairs, and at least down here we can keep an eye on it and make sure he's distracted."
That, actually, is a good point, and Van Pelt grudgingly subsides. At least down here, they can watch out for Jane. They can protect him.
They will protect him. Van Pelt will be damned if she lets Red John or one of his pet killers hurt Jane again. He's been through enough, she thinks. They've all been through enough.
"Hey, what's that doing out of evidence?" Lisbon snaps, striding in. She looks frazzled, and a little worn ragged, but her eyes are bright and she has a cup of coffee in one hand.
"Jane got it from them," Cho says. "They've checked it over twice. There's nothing on it but old blood and dust."
"Where was it bought?"
"At a gas station, two blocks away from Adam Wright's motel room. It was bought this morning by a single mother of two. She dropped it on the way out, and by the time the manager went to pick it up, it was gone."
"We got video footage?"
"Nothing concrete. We saw the mom drop it, but whoever picked it up was out of the frame."
"Damn," Lisbon mutters. "We're dealing with someone who's smart."
As much as Grace hates to admit it, Lisbon's right. After four years in this job Van Pelt's lost a lot of illusions as to why people kill. When she first started, she thought all of their murderers killed because of petty things, like jealousy or anger, or because they didn't know anything else.
While she's been largely right, there are the others.
The ones who have other means, who are intelligent, who kill because they want to, because it's fun.
They're dealing with one of those killers now.
"Has anyone seen Jane?"
"He's upstairs," Van Pelt says helpfully. "I think he went to try and sleep."
It's nearly two in the morning, after all. Normal people are sleeping.
But Jane's not normal and she worries about him, all alone up there with his demons. He needs their help and he won't accept it, and Grace is afraid they're going to lose him.
She glares at the stuffed tiger on Jane's couch. Her fingers curl into fists.
"Go home," Lisbon's saying, scrubbing her own face tiredly. "Get some sleep. In the morning we're going back to Rio Linda and hunting this monster down."
"Yes, boss," they all say dutifully, packing up their things without any protest. Lisbon leaves, presumably to shut herself in her office and not sleep like she's telling them to.
Van Pelt looks up the darkened stairs, frowning.
She pauses for a minute, and then carefully makes her way up them, knocking on Jane's heavy door gently.
"Jane?" she calls. "Hey, you in there?" She pushes the door open, and Jane looks up from where he's packing his duffel bag on the bed.
He smiles tiredly. "Grace," he says.
"Hey." She tries to smile back. "Lisbon told us to go home. We're going back to Rio Linda in the morning."
"Marching orders," he says with a curving grin. "Thank you, Grace."
"You're leaving, right?"
"Yes," he hums. "I should at least try to rest. Wouldn't want Mother Theresa to get her panties in a bunch, now would we?"
It's an act, Grace knows it's an act, but she can't help but grin anyway. "Need any help?"
"No, thank you, Grace. I'll manage. See you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Night," she says, turning and heading back down the stairs. He follows her, handling his bag and shutting the door gingerly.
"Good night, Grace."
She loses him in the bullpen when Rigsby stops to ask her if she wouldn't mind watching Ben over the weekend, and when she turns back around Jane is gone.
The stuffed tiger sits on his couch, its paws bloody, a red ribbon tired around its neck like a challenge.
Lisbon rubs her forehead, blinking in the harsh morning light, and wishes she had another cup of coffee or three.
"What do you mean," she says, with gritted teeth, "the story's been leaked?"
Detective Rowcliff tugs at his color, looking both annoyed and ashamed.
"There was a leak in the office," he mutters. "Somebody—we think Sam Peters, the coroner—started flapping his lips where he shouldn'tve and some reporter got wind of it."
"Damn it," Lisbon hisses, glaring at the TV where the details of the Tiger Killer are exploding, sweeping across California and ruining the element of surprise. "Do you know what this will do to our investigation? The killer knows we're hunting him now! He could get scared and bolt, and we won't see him until he kills another three people!"
"Or," says Jane, cutting in smoothly, "he could get arrogant. They've named him now, they're giving him attention. That will feed his ego."
Rowcliff snorts. "The hell do you know about this psycho?"
"I know enough," Jane says, baring his teeth in a grin.
"We have to contain this," Lisbon mutters. "I want Peters out. He doesn't get case notes, he doesn't get to keep his autopsy records, nothing."
"Done," says the detective.
"I also want you to send all press to our liaisons at the CBI. We've got people there who are more experienced with this sort of thing. They can handle it."
Rowcliff nods again, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "That be all?"
Lisbon nods, and Jane waves.
"This is a mess," Lisbon says, rubbing her forehead. "What're we going to do, Jane? Peters blew it."
"We'll do what we always do," he hums, studying the board thoughtfully. "We need a pattern. Something that ties these victims together and brings them under his criteria."
"He's killing them for a reason?" Lisbons says incredulously. "He has a—a type?"
"Our killer's not a psychopath," Jane mutters. "A sociopath, probably, but he has a purpose, and a goal—he's not just killing randomly. He's organized, methodical. Why's he killing?"
"I want to know where Red John finds these people. I mean seriously, does he just walk outside and pick them up off the side of the street?"
"Madness is like gravity," Jane says with a crooked smile. "It attracts more madness. Someone like Red John will always find others."
"How, though?"
Jane shrugs. "Sociopaths are good at reading people, right? They can't comprehend normal emotion but they can recognize it in others. It helps them blend in. An empty person will always find other empty people."
Lisbon snorts, staring at the glossy pictures, showing each body in sad, stark detail.
"Four victims. All male. Different ages, races, and methods of killing. Damn."
"All found in out of the way or quiet places," Jane adds. "With the exception of Wright, of course, but even his motel was secluded from the main roads."
"You said this guy is smart?"
"Very."
"So we'll just have to be smarter," Lisbon says grimly, throwing back her shoulders. "We can use the media. Feed them false information, get the killer to relax."
"That's my girl," Jane chuckles. "Can't hold you back, tiger."
She rolls her eyes. "C'mon. Let's go revisit the murder scenes. Maybe we'll find something there."
They don't.
The first two scenes, under a bridge and a dirty little alley, are so filthy and contaminated that getting new evidence after all this time is impossible.
The motel room is picked clean already, only rusty, still slightly-damp bloodstains left as reminders of what happened there.
The warehouse has even less. They've taken the body and the blood off the walls, leaving only a few dark splotches and the farmer's tools.
"Nothing," Lisbon mutters hours later, tired and sore and frustrated. "We have nothing to go on."
"Not true," Jane counters mildly, studying the walls and the lines and lines of tools. "The killer was meticulous cleaning up, but we have enough to start looking. He has religious delusions and he knows the Bible. He's young, just starting out. He prefers knives."
"He knows who you are, and he's taunting you," Lisbon says.
Jane stills, but smiles anyway, reflexive like he does when he doesn't want to talk about something.
Well damn it, they're talking about this anyway.
"Yes," he says.
"Jane," Lisbon starts, then stops and starts again. "Jane, you can't let yourself get caught up in this case, you understand?"
He flaps a hand, dismissing her, but she won't have it.
"I'm serious, Jane. You can't get like you do, focusing just on this and on nothing else."
"I work better that way," he argues, but she plows on.
"This man—this murderer—has already shown that he knows who you are. He'd dangerous, Jane, and I can't have you so focused on this you miss someone coming after you."
"No one's coming after me," Jane assures her. "Red John loves me, remember? Our games are fun for him. He won't let me die."
"Are you sure? What if he's testing you? What if he's pitting his students against you to see how you match up, and if you don't, they'll kill you?"
"He wouldn't," Jane says, but she knows him well enough by now that she can hear the tiny, trembling note of uncertainty.
He looks tired. They all are, but he clearly didn't sleep last night, for all he went home to try. He's thinner, too, than he was at the start of the year. She can see the bones in his wrists and he's starting to lose some of the softness around his jaw. When he moves, he's all angles. Even the cut of his suit can't hide them.
He's losing it, and she's terrified of what will happen if—when—Red John tired of their little game.
"Jane," she says. "Please."
He pauses, pale blue-gray eyes flickering over her face. And then he nods once, shortly, and smiles again. "I'll take care of myself," he promises her.
"Good. 'cause I will lock you in basement, if I have to."
"Ooo, kinky," he says teasingly.
Lisbon smiles, but it's interrupted by her phone going off, harsh and jarring in their contained little world. Cho's number flashes across the screen, and she frowns.
"Cho?"
"217 Reva Ridge Road," Cho says shortly, his voice tense. Her heart sinks. "Get over here now." He hangs up.
"Jane, we have to go," Lisbon murmurs.
He meets her eyes, his own unreadable. "Let's go," he says, and they do.
217 Reva Ridge Road is another warehouse, smaller than the first one but even more isolated. The lock, like before, has been broken clean off and pale-faced rookies in PD blues sweep the place, wrapping it in tape and shooing away curious passerby.
Rowcliff is standing by the door and he ushers them in, stone-faced and silent.
It's a bad one, then.
Together, Lisbon and Jane cross the warehouse, dodging cops and medical personnel. The familiar chaos of a new crime scene, before the shock fades and the weariness, the disgust at how one person could do this to another, sets in.
They see the blood first, pooled around a chair and splattered off into whimsical arcs around the body.
The body itself is awful. Lisbon takes one quick look and turns away, stomach rolling.
"Jane," she says, faintly. Her voice sounds very dim and far away.
"I know," he says. "I see it."
Written on the wall, still wet and glistening, are the words, abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Below them is, tiger tiger, :-).
"Well," Jane murmurs. "At least we know he isn't scared."
"Boss," Cho calls. He's beside the body, face drawn. His fingers are pressed to the dead man's neck. "Boss, he's still warm."