a Road lEss traveleD

Chapter 8: call me

"Dead?"

"Yeah. His body was found in his apartment this morning. Been dead for several days. Multiple stab wounds. Looks like Red John's work."

She couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

Maybe he's not as crazy as we think…

Cho went on.

"His body was drained of most of its blood. Forensics is running the DNA screen to see if it matches the blood on the clinic wall and DoJ door."

Maybe he really sees the things he says he sees…

"La Roche is having us followed, me and Rigsby, and there's an APB out for your arrest."

"Arrest?" Her voice was small, weak.

"There's talk that you broke Jane out and are hiding him somewhere to avoid prosecution."

She let out a long breath, pushed her hair off her face.

"Okay… okay. That's fine. Just…just check out the staff of St. Sebastian's. I want to have access to all staff files, permanent, casual and locum. Photos if you can get them."

"That'll be tough. It's a state facility. All records are privileged and not just the patients'."

"This is very important."

"Got it, boss. There's one more thing…"

She slapped a hand to her forehead. One more thing? How much more could she possibly take?

"Okay. Hit me."

"There's another face."

She sighed. "Where?"

Silence for a long moment.

"Cho?"

"Here. Inside the CBI. We found it just a few hours ago."

"What? Where?"

"The attic room upstairs. Jane's perch. Bloody faces everywhere. Writing too. "come play tyger," in blood. Forensics puts it at about a week old."

She sat, numb and in shock, rubbing her forehead and wishing she were someplace else. Any place else.

"How?" It was all she could say.

"No one's been up there for weeks. No one goes up there, right? But the custodian thought he might give it a clean tonight and found it. It was pretty bad. There were cockroaches everywhere. It could have been done weeks ago for all we know."

"Cockroaches," she muttered. Jane had seen cockroaches in his breakfast. The world was slipping out from under her. Nothing was solid anymore. "Okay…okay…"

"Boss?"

"Yeah, Cho. I'm fine."

"I'll see what I can find at the hospital. And for the record, keep your head down."

She grimaced. "You too."

And she folded her phone and slipped it into her pocket.

They were being set up…

Red John had told him to leave St. Sebastian's.

Red John had told him.

If Red John had told him, then Red John may have followed him. All the way to her apartment, then here.

But why?

If Red John had wanted him, Red John could have taken him.

She was missing something.

Come play tyger

Tyger Tyger

It was a poem. Jane had mentioned it awhile back in connection to Red John. He had said it was Red John's poem…

She pulled out her phone again, steeled her jaw, not wanting to make this call. But she had no choice. Something was wrong, and it was buzzing just outside the borders of her mind. Jane would have known. He could see the things that didn't belong and identify them at once. She didn't have that particular gift.

So she dialed the number and waited for his voice.

""""""""""""""""""""

Something was wrong, he thought to himself. He was missing something. But he wasn't worried. It would come to him eventually. All things did, in their time. It was simply a matter of patience, and JJ LaRoche was a very patient man.

Security at the CBI had been breached, yet again. That made four times in two years. He frowned as he recalled. The murder of Sam Bosco and company. The murder of his assistant Rebecca while in CBI custody. The murder of Todd Johnson in a detention cell. And now this.

The storage attic, Patrick Jane's most recent lodging, splattered with blood and faces, both smiling and frowning. He had seen it for himself just hours ago when the custodian called it in, and now he sat, going over the photos, comparing them to the photos from the two recent incidents. For a man who rarely got disturbed, this…this was disturbing.

All things 'Red John' pertain to Patrick Jane, she had said.

He hmphed to himself as he poured over the photos. She may have been right.

The coroner's report had confirmed that the blood on the wall of the fertility clinic and on the door of the DoJ was indeed Dr. Robert Silverston's blood. That also was disturbing. Forensics was running those same tests now on this new scene. It would not likely be Silverston's but still. There were connections here, layer upon layer of connections, like a web, drawing everything into the big red smiling spider in the center.

His cell phone rang.

He hesitated a moment, for his cell phone rarely rang. He was an old-fashioned 'land-line' guy, keeping the digital device because it was protocol, because it was procedure. But very few had his number. Only his mother, the groomer, Director Bertram, and a handful of senior agents.

He pulled it out and looked at the name on the tiny screen.

Lisbon, T

Felt the rush of calm sink into his bones. Adrenaline generally turned him to stone. It was counterintuitive, but effective. He pressed talk and leaned back in his chair.

"Agent Lisbon."

"Sir." Her voice was firm, direct. Like the Lisbon of old. He was glad, despite the circumstances.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Sir?"

"Agent Cho has informed me that you reinjured your shoulder moving boxes, and therefore have taken some time off."

There was a sigh on the other end.

"Agent Cho is a good agent, sir. And a good friend."

"I thought as much."

"Sir, Jane's in trouble."

"So he is with you, then?"

"Yes, sir. Though not at my apartment. And not anywhere anyone is likely to find us, so don't even try. There was a doctor at St. Sebastian's—"

"Yes, Agent. Dr. Silverston is dead."

"I know, sir. Another doctor. Jane was visited by another doctor the day before he left St. Sebastian's. He is convinced that this man was Red John."

He let the comment sit a moment, weighing her conviction against the body of hard evidence. "And how is Mr. Jane's mental health, Agent Lisbon?"

She paused now, no doubt steeling her small jaw. He could see her brow furrowing, her little mouth pouting in frustration. She was, he thought, very pretty.

"Jane's mental health is irrelevant, sir. This is a lead, a very important one. You need to follow it up. Otherwise, we're both dead."

He leaned forward in his chair. "There is a threat to you, Agent Lisbon?"

"Naturally, sir. I will protect Jane with my life, and if Red John comes for him, I will stop him or die."

He let out a long deep rumbling breath.

"Does Agent Cho know about this lead?"

"Yes, sir. I just called him."

"And you trust him."

"I trust him, and now, I'm trusting you. If this all works out, and I'm alive in two weeks, I promise I will go to the Governor's Banquet and we can talk dogs all you want."

She was begging. This small, proud, tough little woman was pleading for the life of Patrick Jane. He realized now there would be no chance for them, for her tender, hidden heart was already taken.

It was the way of things.

"Unnecessary, Agent Lisbon. I will help you all I can. With a medical facility, we'll need a special warrant."

"Yes sir. That's why I called you."

"I will expedite that for Agent Cho."

"Thank you, sir."

"Where can I reach you?"

"Nowhere. I'll reach you."

"Very well. And Agent?"

"Sir?"

"Thank you for trusting me."

The line went dead.

He held the cell phone for some time, before making a call of his own.

""""""""""""""""""""

It was late afternoon, and dark clouds were rolling in as he sat there on the cliffs over the sea. There had indeed been a red sky that morning, but it had been very early, so Mashburn hadn't paid it any attention. Red skies were a part of ocean life, the more colourful the better, in his book. Some people were suspicious. He never was.

At least, not until he'd met Patrick Jane.

He lifted the Scotch to his lips, savoured the heat as it flowed down his throat. He hadn't bothered with a glass, not when the decanter was so stunning. He opened his eyes and scanned the cliffs, the ocean, the very distant strip of shore. A small team of security forces were on their way, three highly trained professionals who had made their mark in places like Libya, Iraq and the Congo. One of them had just returned from a brief stint in Indonesia. Then they would be safe and Teresa would be satisfied and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't die at the hands of some madman with a grudge. All because of the prophecy of the crazy man in his house who smiled like the sun, saw dead people and hated the colour red.

The wind had picked up and he turned slightly, spying a figure walking the edge of the cliffs with the ease of a tight-rope artist. Mashburn shook his head. It was Jane, of course, hair and clothes whipping in the strong breeze, feet bare, hands outstretched, and of course, eyes closed.

And for a brief moment, Mashburn wished he had never met him.

Death was something he had always wrestled with. In his line of work and certainly with the number of enemies he had, a premature death was always a distinct possibility. A sniper, a plane crash, a drop or two of poison in the martini. Or even, as in the case of Yuri Bajoran, a big, bad-ass bomb just for effect. But a serial killer with a butcher knife? Now that was crass, visceral, and more than just a little disturbing. Oh sure, there was a certain moxy behind it – Red John's latest victim, he could see it in the headlines - but truth be told, it wasn't his moxy, and if he was going to die a gruesome death, he would much rather it be because of something he did, not as a means to an end in another man's tale.

And for that brief moment, he cursed his friend Patrick Jane and the bloody drama that followed him.

But it was only a brief moment, however, and he took a deep breath.

"Patrick!" he called and threw his hand in the air. "Come join me!"

He could see his friend smile, and within minutes, Jane dropped beside him on the rocks, feet dangling over the cliffside in the same manner as Mashburn's. He looked defeated and a feeling of guilt began worming its way into the businessman's heart. He lifted the decanter.

"You look like you need a drink."

"Ah." Jane grinned wearily, taking it. "Well, that will do for me. What are you going to have?"

Mashburn laughed. "We can share. At $460,000 a bottle, we'd better make it last."

Jane studied him. "The Macallan? You bought the Macallan?"

Mashburn shrugged. "The proceeds went to charity. I get a tax write off, plus one damned good bottle of Scotch."

Jane looked impressed, eyed the crystal decanter.

"Go ahead, my friend," said Mashburn. "It's only money."

So Jane did, lifted the decanter to his lips, took a good, long swig. Swished the golden liquid around in his mouth, closed his eyes as he swallowed.

His brows drew in and he moaned in pleasure.

"Walter… that is… that is…"

"If you say, 'to die for,' I'll push you, I swear."

Jane grinned sleepily. "I was going to say heaven. But I don't believe in heaven, so I had no words."

Mashburn took back the decanter, took a swig himself. "Patrick, do you ever think about the things you see?"

"Too much, obviously."

Now it was Mashburn's turn to grin. "I mean, about being psychic?"

"There are no such things as psychics."

"And money can buy you happiness. Methinks you protest too much."

Jane turned his sleepy gaze on him. "Walter, I'm crazy. I know that now. I really, truly know that. There was no man in the shopping mall. There probably wasn't any man in the hospital either. There isn't any conspiracy. That's only my over active ego creating mountains out of molehills, thinking every thing is about me. I'm deluded, I'm destructive and…" He steeled his jaw and stared out at the ocean. "And I need to stop before I get someone else killed."

Mashburn watched him for a long moment, nudged him with the Scotch.

"So? Do you still think I'm going to die?"

Jane took the bottle, shrugged. "We're all going to die, Walter. The question is how."

Mashburn thought a moment before he shrugged in turn. "Well, I don't think you're crazy."

"I do." He took another mouthful, swallowed. "I'm just too much of a coward to do anything about it."

"What do you mean?"

Jane waved the decanter across the expanse of ocean below. "Take that step. Jump off this cliff. End it all. I want to. I've wanted to for years, but there's something that stops me every time."

"So what stops you?"

"I don't know. I like to tell myself it's something left undone, something I need to finish, and of course, I like to believe that to be catching and killing Red John. But, if I'm really honest with myself, I think its fear."

"Fear? Patrick, you drive cars blindfolded and walk on cliffs with your eyes closed. What the hell do you fear?"

Jane lifted the decanter, drank long and hard, almost emptying half the bottle in one go. Mashburn watched him, impressed.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Oh it's fear, alright. I'm a small, selfish, hiding coward. That's what she said, and she's right. I'm afraid that if I do take that step, and there really is nothing out there, beyond this world, beyond this life, then…"

He took a deep breath, stared out at the ocean. His face grew sad once again.

"Then I will never see them again. Never see their faces in my head, never stare at a family photo, never fall asleep with the memory of them in my arms, or the smell of them on the pillow. And they'll be gone forever, with no one to remember them…no one to love them, because I do love them even in death. And so I live, miserable yes, crazy obviously, but I live and I remember and I love…"

Tears began to spill from his lashes, but he continued unaware.

"At least, if I was in hell, I would know that they were in heaven and that they would be loved somewhere. By someone. But if I take that step, and there is nothing…then they're gone forever. I don't want to know that. So… I don't take that step and I live… miserable and crazy and afraid…"

Mashburn looked away. Fought back tears of his own. Damned himselffor being so selfish, so self-absorbed, so callous. He had never loved like that. Had never allowed himself to. But Jane had, and it was killing him, bit by bit. The man was a fool. He deserved so much more.

"Teresa loves you, you know."

Jane nodded slowly. "I know."

"You know?"

"I've made a good living reading people, Walter. Next to guilt, love is the easiest make."

Mascburn shook his head. "That's cold."

"Cold. Yep, that's me." His words were slurring and he turned sad, sad eyes on his friend. "You know what Bosco said to me on his deathbed?"

"Who the hell is Bosco?"

"Sam Bosco. Her old boss. And her old lover. Red John had him shot three times. So… he's dying in the hospital, he pulls me in close and says, 'She loves you, Jane. Don't screw up.' Just like that. Don't screw up. I'm awalking screw up, Walter. Don't you think that's cold? It's sheer luck she's lasted this long."

"You're drunk."

"Oh I do hope so. Maybe I'll get drunk enough to take that step. If I'm dead, then maybe she can finally start living."

"You can't be serious, Patrick. You'd break her heart if you did that. You know that, right?"

Jane sighed. "Better a broken heart than a dead one."

"Really?" And with that, the millionaire reached over and snagged the decanter from his friend's hand. "Good advice, pal. Maybe you should take it."

Jane stared at him for a long time before turning his gaze back to the ocean.

And so they sat side by side as the clouds rolled in. Jane polished off the last of the $460,000 Scotch, and when he was done, dropped the crystal decanter – itself alone worth over $200,000 – down to shatter on the rocks below.

Finally, Mashburn looked at his friend. "C'mon. It's getting dark. And I have the Dalmore '64 in the cellar."

Jane looked at him, expression glassy and dull. "Not the '62?" His voice was thick and slow, and Mashburn couldn't tell if it was the drink or the sorrow.

Or maybe it was a little of both.

"Bajoran. He outbid me by $20,000."

"Bastard," muttered Jane.

"That's what I said." And Mashburn rose to his feet, helped steady his friend as he swayed on the cliffs and together, they began the trek to the house.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She sat, watching the screens, hating the sensation of waiting, of biding her time as others acted. She tried to remind herself she was on protection detail, but it was cold comfort, and the constant presence of adrenalin in her system would soon make her jumpy or sloppy.

She couldn't afford either of those now.

On the screens, she could see Jane and Mashburn leaving the cliffs and enter the house. Jane seemed unsteady on his feet, but Mashburn was there for him, like a big brother and she felt a rush of warmth. With only a few clicks of the mouse, she could follow them as they made their way to the sleeping quarters. She saw which room Walter chose for Jane, not a drop of red in sight, saw him dump the consultant onto the mattress, which sank a little under the weight. Saw him turn off the lights and leave, but that was the end of that, as the cameras were situated in the halls, allowing each room its privacy.

She went back to scanning the perimeter when she heard his footsteps on the stair.

"Hey," he said.

He smelled of very good Scotch and she felt a pang of jealously.

"Thanks," she said. "For helping him like that. I worry about him sometimes."

"Ah. He's fine. Just feeling sorry for himself, that's all. He'll get over it." He frowned. "You…couldn't hear anything, right?"

"Too windy."

He seemed relieved. "Great system, huh? Paid a fortune for it. Had some guy named Tollman Bunting run the scripts."

She shook her head. Tollman Bunting. Naturally.

He cleared his throat. "I've got a security team coming in from the mainland. Ex-special forces. Three men. The best money can buy."

"You sure they're clean?"

"Well," he pursed his lips. "Clean may not be the word to describe them. Legit maybe. And yes, they're legit."

She smiled sadly. "Thanks."

"They should be here soon. Set this on auto and come upstairs. Patrick drank all my good stuff, a real pricey bottle of Macallan. The bugger drained it to the dregs. But I do have a second rate bottle of Dalmore's I'm itching to crack."

"Dalmore's?" she asked, tempted. "Never heard of it."

"Google it sometime. Just don't google the Macallan. You'll kill him. Honestly, you will."

She grinned, this time almost meaning it. "Alright."

He offered her his hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her up from her chair and to the left, where the cellar beckoned.

""""""""""""""""""""""

Cho sat alone in LaRoche's office, waiting for the big man to return. He had been summoned, ignored for several moments, then ordered to wait as the Deputy Director left the room. Cho glanced around, expecting hidden cameras to be watching him for signs of guilt or complicity. But they wouldn't read him, he was certain. He was good at deadpanning it. He was a pro.

Finally, the glass door opened and LaRoche shuffled back in. It was funny. When the man wanted to, he was a silent as a cat. Other times, you could hear him a mile away. It was all planned for effect. Had to be.

LaRoche sat down. He had papers and a file folder in his hands. The papers he set aside, the folder he opened and read quietly to himself.

"This is a preliminary report on the blood in the storage room," he said in a slow, rumbling voice. "Male, AB negative. In early stages of decomposition when it was painted on the walls."

"Hm. Collected and stored?"

"Perhaps." He read some more, allowing the silence to drown out all thoughts. "A high percentage of an unusual alcohol in the blood– a banana ethanol. Pisang Ambon cultivar, Indonesia."

"Indonesia?" Cho sat back a moment, thinking. "Hm."

"Agent?"

"Bret Stiles was in Indonesia."

LaRoche glanced up at him. "I am unfamiliar with the connection."

"Bret Stiles, leader of the cult Visualize. Gave Jane the address where Krystina Frye was being held by Red John. Left the country right afterwards for Jakarta."

"Wise move." The flickering gaze weighed on him a moment. "Do we know for a fact that Mr. Stiles is still alive?"

"I can contact Visualize, but they won't confirm or deny anything."

"Hmm." LaRoche looked down at the folder, closed it with a purposeful motion. "I will contact Visualize, Agent. I need you to follow up on something else…"

Slowly, he reached for the papers now, turning and sliding them carefully across the desk towards the agent. Cho kept his eyes focused on his supervisor, not sparing even so much as a glance at the papers. LaRoche wanted him to look, therefore he wouldn't.

"This is your warrant for the staff at St. Sebastian's," LaRoche said slowly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Cho.

"Agent Cho, you are a good agent and a good friend to Teresa Lisbon. Those were her very words. She has asked for my help, and to the best of my ability, I will help her. She trusts me. Now will you?"

Cho stared at him a while longer, before taking the papers in front of him. It was a search warrant, signed by Judge Hardiman. Cho nodded.

"Thank you," he said.

"You didn't answer my question, Agent."

"No. I didn't."

And with that, Cho rose from his chair and left the room.

JJ LaRoche watched him go.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

They drank Scotch in the great room of the great house, and she had to admit it was the best Scotch she had ever tasted. He had put on some jazz, lit a fire and again, it made her wish she had been here for reasons other than protecting Patrick Jane.

The Scotch was making her sleepy. Normally, she could handle a great deal of liquor, but tonight, with so little sleep these last days, she could feel it work its nefarious way through her system, slowing her reactions, dulling her defenses. Walter was watching her like a hawk.

"Don't worry," he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. "I won't try anything."

"I didn't think…" She tossed her head, pouted like a little girl. "Okay, I did. But please, Walter, seriously. We can't. I shouldn't have even had a drink."

"You have serious trust issues, you know that?"

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do, my dear. But I say again, don't worry. I care about you both too much to put you in that position. No pun intended."

"Thank you, Walter," she said, grinning and raising her glass. "If there was any other way…"

"I know." He smiled. "I know."

She looked away over her glass, stared into the leaping flames of the fire. "If only I knew, you know? If I knew whether or not he was crazy, then I would be able to think more clearly. But one moment, he sounds perfectly sane, perfectly reasonable, and frighteningly sharp. Then the next moment, he's totally somewhere else, somewhere…not here. I mean, how do you explain that?"

"I think he's psychic."

She puffed out air between her lips.

"No, really. That explains everything. And I mean everything."

"Walter, please."

"It's an answer you won't even consider."

She leaned forward, feeling the buzz in her head. "Because it's not an answer. It's superstition."

"So? Who says superstition isn't real? Just because something doesn't have a scientific, forensic explanation yet…"

"I'm a state agent. I can't be chasing ghosts."

"Women see thousands of colours more than men, did you know that? Maybe more. It has something to do with the cells in their eyes."

She nodded. Jane had informed her once. Just another one of his amazingly irritating useless facts.

The buzzing was growing louder.

"Just because men don't see those colours, doesn't mean they don't exist."

"That's a subjective argument."

"Cynicism doesn't suit you."

"Yeah, well, deal with it." She shook her head, trying to get rid of the buzzing. "What the hell is that?"

"What?"

"That buzzing?"

He stared at her, not comprehending. She looked down, at her thigh.

At her hip, more specifically. Her hip was buzzing.

It was her cell phone. Her phone buzzed when she got a text. She frowned. No one texted her. She got calls, not texts.

She pulled it from her pocket, threw a puzzled glance at Mashburn.

Flipped it open.

Caller blocked.

Pressed talk.

HELLO TERESA

Who the hell?

SAY HELLO TO PATRICK FOR ME

She shook her head, trying to clear it.

WE MISS HIM AND WANT TO PLAY

Heart thudding, she felt numb, drained, draining even as she read.

"Oh God…"

SEE YOU SOON

"Teresa?"

He didn't know where they were.

"Teresa, what is it?"

He couldn't.

The last line of the text was a simple symbol. Two strokes of the keyboard that could have meant anything from 'I love you' to 'Have a nice day.'

=)

She sat for a moment as a cold wave washed from the top of her head down her spine.

=)

"Walter," she moaned. "We're in big trouble…"

to be continued