So, this is the final chapter, a bit longer than the other ones. I would like to thank everyone who has supported this story, about which I was initially so unsure about, and of which I am now sort of proud of, firstly because I was able to write it and finish it, but also because I like the result, as simple and unpretentious as my writing has been here, probably much more than in my other stories.
As I started writing the first few lines of this story, ideas for its last chapter started coming to me in an incontrollable fashion and generated about 95% of what you are about to read. I can thus say that most of this chapter has existed since before I even had a first chapter.
I hope you enjoy this; please let me know if you do! :)
8.
Lisbon felt her breath catch in her throat as she saw his figure, sitting on the sand, contemplating the waves. She debated in her mind whether to approach him or not, but she ended up deciding to do it. Flashes of the images of his wife and daughter's bodies covered in blood, inside the house right behind her, kept troubling her vision as she slowly walked towards him, feeling the beginning of tears form in her eyes. She had been told that Jane had called 911 with a calm voice, and informed the police of what had happened; she had also been told that he had found the bodies about an hour before he had actually made the call. He had commented that he had been in no rush; they were already dead when he arrived.
The officers had also told her that he had been found holding his daughter in his arms and laying his head on his wife's shoulder, and that it had been difficult to make him understand why he shouldn't have moved any of the bodies from their original positions in the crime scene, not to mention why he had to leave. He argued that he had only called the police to report their deaths. His apparent calm was, according to the officers, a sign that he was actually dangerously disoriented. Lisbon was now standing next to him, and he didn't seem to notice her presence.
"Jane…" she said hesitantly.
He looked up at her and smiled lightly. There was something different in his eyes, she observed, besides, of course, the fact that they looked red and swollen, certainly from having cried for a long period of time. What she saw in his eyes was unresolved confusion and desperation, building up to strike again later, when he realized that he was alone. It had happened to her, except that she had, after all, had her brothers to look after, which had forced her to remain sane. He had nobody left.
Jane was surprised to see her, for some reason. But now, thinking about it, of course she would be here. Red John had attacked again, and it was the CBI's case.
"Hi, Lisbon," he said.
She sat next to him, trying to find the words to say, because she knew how are you was a stupid question at a moment like this. People had asked her that question and she had wanted to punch them in the face for asking it. After some silence, during which both just watched and listened to the waves, she decided to be honest.
"You're going to need help," she said, in a firm voice that brought Jane back from his almost trance-like state.
"I'm fine," he looked at her. His voice was calm, almost serene.
"I know you are," she retorted, "or at least you think you are now. But there will come the time when you'll realize what has happened. I mean really realize. And you're going to break. You're going to crumble."
He just looked at her, watching as tears quietly came rolling down her cheeks with no effect on her steady, lecturing voice. Those were the words and the tears of someone who had been where he was now.
"So who did you lose?" he asked.
After a while staring at him in silence, she answered. "My mother. In a car crash. Drunk driver."
They stared at each other in silence for another long moment; Jane could tell that was not all.
"And my father," she went on. "Killed himself."
That was visibly a long story short, but her expression told him that was all she was going to share for the moment.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am."
She sat there, next to him, in silence, for a very long time, just keeping him company, and it made him think that only someone who had suffered that kind of loss would know that there was really nothing that could be said. Deep into her eyes, he could see the amount of pain that she felt, but that she wouldn't let anybody see, that she would force herself to hide, every single day. It made him admire her, see all the strength beyond the gun and badge. And it made him smile that she was the only person sitting next to him through the worst time of his life. His only friend, he thought.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome," she answered, in a faint voice, without facing him.
After that, Patrick Jane's memory was blurry; he only had flashes, bits and pieces of what happened next. He knew that, after a while, Lisbon and her team had decided to leave, insisting to drop him off some place where he could spend the night, and he must have accepted, because he had the memory of a motel room where he had cried all night. And he also remembered having started to break the room at some point. He remembered throwing the nightstand against the wall, where he could swear there were smiley faces painted with his wife and child's blood. He remembered breaking the windows with his bare hands. He remembered lifting the bed – with lord knows what strength – and turning it over against the wall, all the while screaming in rage.
Then he remembered hearing a loud sound of something pounding against the door, then there were people breaking in, holding him, forcing him to walk out of the room. He didn't remember what he screamed, but he remembered the feeling of his throat becoming sore from letting his voice out so loud. Then he was in a car, and his hands were tied, or handcuffed, he wouldn't know. The next flash was from inside what looked like a jail cell, and there was a familiar voice: Detective Willow, he recognized. He spoke a lot, but all Jane could remember him saying was that he would help him, and everything would be all right. That he didn't have to worry.
Then nothing. Then white; white clothes, a white room, white sheets. Except for the red in the smiley faces that appeared in the wall. He kept asking the nurses – he figured they were nurses – to find a way to make the smiley faces stop appearing, but they insisted he was the one painting them. No, he wasn't. It was Red John. He would repeat it, incessantly; it was Red John. But they kept insisting it was him; to convince him, they showed him how he had hurt his own arms, with his own teeth and fingernails, and used his own blood to draw the faces. That made him collapse: was he Red John?
There seemed to be a long blackout after that, because, in Jane's next memories, things seemed less confusing and he remembered feeling calmer. There were no faces on the wall, no wounds in his arms. Instead of the nurses, he remembered a doctor; a woman, with an angelic face, who would come and talk to him, with her calm, soothing voice. Every day, she would repeat her name.
"Hello, Patrick. I'm your doctor, Sophie Miller."
She would talk, and tell him about how he was doing and a lot of other things Jane couldn't really keep his mind into, and, without him ever responding in any way, she would tap him in the shoulder and say she wished he would get better soon. And she would leave.
Until one day he answered.
"Hello, Patrick. I'm…"
"I know," he cut in; there really was no point in repeating that every single day. He knew her. "You're my doctor, Sophie Miller."
It was only after he spoke, though, that he realized how foreign his own voice sounded to him. He must have spent a long time without talking, because even articulating the sounds seemed like some activity from another time, another life.
But Sophie Miller seemed thrilled with the sound.
"That is outstanding, Patrick!" she voiced, touching his arm.
He looked up at her; it was the first time they made actual eye contact. She was smiling widely, and there was something that definitely looked like tears forming in her eyes.
"I think you're on your way of getting out of here," she said, looking proud.
As she left, her words continued ringing in his ears. Getting out of here. Up until then, nothing had seemed important; his mind wouldn't even make an effort trying to absorb information on how and where he was, or why. But he realized now; he was in a mental institution, being treated after a breakdown. A breakdown caused by…
And it all came back to him. He was entering his bedroom again. And he saw their bodies once again. He cried for the following days. Sophie would come and try to calm him down, and she would offer to give him a sedative, but he didn't want to sleep, or forget, or lose sight of what was happening again, so he would beg her not to give him anything.
After a few more weeks, the before was already very clear in his mind; everything that had happened and led to his family's death and to him being locked in this room in a mental facility. He started, then, to figure out the after; what he would do when he left.
There really were no other options: the only thing he wanted was revenge.
He would find Red John and kill him, the same way he had killed his wife and daughter. And to be able to do that, he would have to be considered sane again. So he started to actually have conversations with Sophie when she came to his room. He gained access outside his room; to the backyard, to a TV room, to a canteen for meals. He socialized with other patients. He even started smiling at everyone again. He had to be considered normal again, so he could get out of there and start acting on his plans of revenge.
And, after a while, he was released. Sophie came to tell him in person, and he realized, then, how thankful he was for her help. Once out of there, he called Detective Willow and thanked him as well. He also seized the opportunity to ask if he could go back to his house.
"Are you serious, Patrick?" was Pete's answer. "Why would you ever go back to that place?"
To Jane, it seemed obvious; it was the only thing he had left from his previous life, when he used to have a family. He had no right to abandon it… It was the house he and Angela had chosen, and bought furniture for, and made it the perfect place for little Charlotte. How could he simply give up living there?
Pete Willow wanted to meet him in person, and Jane was worried that the detective might think he needed to be sent to the mental facility once again. So he agreed to meet him; he would use his abilities to make it seem like he was doing great, like he had done to Sophie Miller and the other doctors. He still mastered his craft.
Willow drove him to the house, and entered it with him. He insisted for him to go to a hotel, or to rent an apartment; it wasn't healthy to go back to living there. Jane then reassured him; he just wanted to empty the house so he could sell it. Of course he wasn't going to live there… It would be insane, wouldn't it? Pete seemed a lot calmer after that. He even agreed to help Jane erase his stay in the hospital from his record. When that was done, Jane thanked him profusely again, and told him he would be gone for a while, but Pete was not to worry; he would be fine. He only had to find his way again. Pete made him promise he would contact him if he needed anything. Jane promised, like the thousands of empty promises he had always made in his life.
Jane went back to his empty mansion – emptier of people than of furniture. Empty of anything human. He went up to his room, where he had a mattress on the floor, under the smiley face. He really needed to find his way; that part had been no lie. So he spent the next few weeks planning what he would do with his life, so he could fulfill his purpose of getting to Red John.
The first thing he decided was that he would never, ever call himself a psychic again. It made him sick to the stomach to even remember himself doing that. He recalled how he used to think what his father did was wrong, until he realized he had the same abilities, only better, and started enjoying the things he could get in return when he used them. It all only sickened him now. All the money and all the material things that his pretending to be a psychic had gotten him, what was any of that of any use right now, when the only two really important things he had ever owned had been lost forever?
He knew his abilities were all he had left, though, and that it would be stupid not to use them. But he would only use them to get to Red John. That really was his only purpose in life now. He had to kill that sick son of a bitch, and then, after that, he wouldn't care what happened to him, because at least he would have had his revenge. If he couldn't save his family anymore, he could still avenge them; it was the last thing he could do for them. And he would do it, no matter what.
When it came down to decide the practical details of how to actually do it, what he had to do next seemed suddenly clear: he had to join the investigation on the Red John case. Willow had briefly commented that the case was still with the CBI; he would have to join the CBI, then. He remembered Teresa Lisbon, and how he had thought about her as his only friend once. He figured it really was the only option; he would go see her and ask for a job. Something told him she wouldn't say no.
Lisbon was going through some paperwork from the last case, which the unit had just closed, when the phone on her desk rang. She picked it up; it was from the lobby downstairs.
"There's a man down here, says he wants to speak with you, Agent."
"A man?" she repeated, puzzled. "What's his name?"
"His name's Patrick Jane."
It had been a long time since she had heard that name.
"Send him up," she said. "Thank you."
The last time she had seen him, he had been in bad shape; confused, disoriented, on the verge of a breakdown. She had left him in a motel room, wondering if he would be okay, feeling sorry for not knowing what else to do to help. The next morning, when she called, she was informed he had already left the room, and she simply couldn't gather any information on where he had gone after that or why. She had then decided to call Detective Willow, thinking he might know something. He had, however, been evasive, and told her that Jane had traveled to see relatives. She had sincerely hoped he would be fine.
While she waited for him, now, Lisbon wondered what he might want; maybe he would offer a 'psychic' insight on the Red John case? A few moments later he was knocking at the open door.
She looked up and he gave her a small smile. For some reason, seeing her face was comforting. He could tell she was confused about whether to smile back or not as she stood up to greet him. She settled for the latter.
"Mr. Jane," she said, offering her hand for him to shake, which he did, holding it for a second longer than he had to.
"Agent Lisbon."
She sighed, staring at him.
"How are you doing?" she asked.
He smiled, sadly, and shrugged. That was his answer. She gestured for him to take the seat in front of her, but he didn't wish to sit, so he waved his hand negatively.
"I'm fine here, thanks."
She nodded.
"All right, then." She made a pause. "So where have you been? You disappeared."
"Around…" he answered vaguely.
Lisbon was going to mention the fact that he had been wanted for questioning for a few days after his family's murder, that they had even put out an APB on him, but had stopped looking for him when the coroner had placed his wife and daughter's deaths at the same time as he was participating in a TV show. She decided not to, though; it was awfully irrelevant at the moment. She just nodded once more.
"I see," she said. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Jane?'
He looked intently into her eyes.
"I would like to continue working with you on the Red John case."
She wasn't surprised, but she didn't know what to say. In fact, she had been waiting for him to show up asking for something like that one day.
"Well… the case has been stuck for quite some time now," she said. "We haven't had any evidence, any new clues… and he hasn't shown up since…" she hesitated, and never finished the sentence.
"That's OK," he said. "I can help you out with your other cases in the meantime, and when something new comes up on Red John, I'm already here."
Lisbon wasn't sure about what to do.
"Lisbon," he said, leaning forward to look at her. "Please, I need this. I need to find him."
For a moment, his calm and composed exterior seemed to disappear and, in his eyes, Lisbon was able to catch a glimpse on the damage that horrible tragedy had caused him. They stared at each other like that for a moment, then he leaned backward again, disguise back on.
"And I also need a job," he commented with a shrug and a wide smile.
She frowned. "What about your clients? Your whole… career as a psychic?"
He was suddenly very serious. "There is no such thing as psychics."
"But you…"
"I was a fraud. And I've paid for that. I'm still paying."
"Right," Lisbon said, looking down.
"Please…" he approached her again. "Let me come work with your team."
She looked up at him, and his eyes were appealing to the painful connection between the two of them, the same they had shared that night, while sitting next to each other in a knowing silence, facing the waves. After a long time just staring back at him, she sighed.
"Let me speak to my boss about it," she walked away and left him alone in her office.
Jane looked around him, at the walls in Lisbon's office. He had once looked at them as someone who wasn't going to spend much time in there, who was just passing through. Now, he looked at them knowing they would be where he spent most of his days for who knows how long, until he was finally able to fulfill his purpose.
As for Lisbon, she knew that was the moment to choose between having Jane or not having Jane; somehow, that seemed like a much bigger choice than simply one between easy yet unconventional and troublesome solutions to cases and the usual following of protocol. As the elevator moved up, she tried to start coming up with a list of pros and cons, but then she noticed that, despite any pros and cons she might think of, she didn't really feel like she had a choice. When she was just a girl who had to look after her three younger brothers, she had wished there would be somebody to take her hand and help her, so she couldn't simply turn her back on Jane. Whatever the consequences might be.
The elevator doors opened and, by the time she had walked out into the hallway, she had already decided. Now came the easy part: convincing Minelli.
Not fifteen minutes had passed when Lisbon came back to her office. Jane, who stood exactly where he had been when she had left, turned to face her, an inquisitive look in his eyes.
"HR has been notified and they're already waiting for you," she informed him.
Jane gave her a wide smile, which looked almost like his old smile, except for that something different, deep in his eyes, that which she knew was never going to leave his eyes. As much as she could relate to that, though, she couldn't help but feel a bit scared.
"Thank you so much, Agent Lisbon," he said, sounding sincere.
"Whatever," she said, not quite looking at him and walking right back to her chair behind her desk, as if to go back to the paperwork waiting for her on top of it.
Then, Jane did something Lisbon wasn't expecting at all. He approached the desk and reached out for her hand. Holding it between fingers and palm, he said something.
"No, really, I mean it. Thank you."
They stared at each other for a moment.
"HR, Jane," she said, breaking the silence. "Go."
With an amused smile, he nodded and turned around to leave, on his way to Human Resources. Before going through the door, though, he spun on his feet again.
"Just one more thing," he said, making her look up at him again. "Where can I find the utensils to make myself a cup of tea?"
