9. TREADING WATER

The next two days were spent going over cases. Serial Crimes was very specialized, and right now in the state of California, only five cases had been turned over to the CBI. Two were out of Los Angeles, one was out of Oakland, and all three were several months old. A fourth was a relatively new case that had just been pronounced as serial with the third victim of similar appearance and specific kill method. It had come to the CBI because of an overlap in jurisdictions and lack of cooperation between locals. Red John made five. The sessions were endless, a nonsensical hashing and rehashing of clues and evidence that didn't lead anywhere. If it did, three of the cases would never have made it to the bureau. Jane didn't remember the last time he'd been so intolerably bored.

And so it was, mid-morning on Wednesday, Jane found himself sitting in the FBI parking lot. He had told his new team the second lie (though he was certain they doubted the first), informing Taggert of a standing appointment he had with someone at the Federal Bureau. He let Taggert believe it was something he couldn't discuss. That part, after all, was true. He surveyed the building, wondering how he would get to Eleanor this time. He was sure the same doors wouldn't miraculously open to him now. Maybe he would try presenting his CBI credentials and just asking for her.

It worked like a charm. The fact that Eleanor had given instructions to the guards in reception that he was to be shown directly up made it even easier.

Her hair was flipped up with some kind of clip that couldn't quite capture all of the strands. The bright green short military-cut jacket allowed only a peek at the sapphire blue shell that perfectly matched the pencil shirt, opaque stockings and ankle boots. The muted gold filigree rings that lined the fingers of her left hand looked like a set of brass knuckles from Tiffany's. She was reading from some huge tome again, this time at her desk as the book actually was too large for her to hold, and when she looked up, her brown eyes bugged at him through the same high-powered reading glasses.

"Thank goodness! It's been six days—if I had to read much more of this stuff, I'd go nuts!"

She stripped off the glasses and rose to meet him, and he couldn't help smiling at her. There was no dissimilation in her greeting, and it seemed forever since someone had been glad to see him.

"How are you, Eleanor?" He couldn't help but notice she seemed a little buzzed.

"Bored. All I see all day is money crime." She continued in a nasal voice. "Profile this, Dr. Bradley, profile that, Dr. Bradley." She reverted to her natural voice and held out her hands, palms up. "It's money for cryin' out loud! Terrorism or greed! Take your pick! Tea?"

"Please."

She walked to the credenza and pulled a pitcher of filtered water out of the mini-fridge, started the electric kettle and set up the tray, chattering as she moved.

"I understand there have been changes at the CBI and in your work situation. Taggert and Giles I know. Weis is new. Morgan's a bit of a mystery—more there than meets the eye, I think. Maybe more than the others combined."

"What do you know of Ron Taggert?"

"Ego and intellect are at two different ends of the size spectrum, and it would be better for everybody if they traded places. Got his eye on a seat in the state legislature. Hoping to grease the wheels with a brilliant career in law enforcement."

She turned from where her hands were still putting tea in a strainer and leaned her upper body toward him, speaking in a confidential tone.

"Between you and me, I think he's running out of time."

Exactly as he suspected.

"And the others?"

"Richard Giles. Career-long CBI. Eagle eye on the crime scene. Murder in the interrogation room as long as intimidation can get the job done. If something more subtle is called for, you want Morgan. Andre Morgan became a U.S. citizen twelve years ago in Miami and went through the academy there. Never been in trouble. Very active in the local Jamaican community. Doesn't much care for his boss. Isn't too impressed with his co-workers either."

"And Weis?"

"He can work a computer."

Jane wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would've thought this team could catch Red John. The kettle gave the ready signal, and she poured the hot water into the prepared and waiting cups, carried the tray across the room and set it on the coffee table before joining him on the couch.

"Eleanor, you would've made an excellent fake psychic."

"Tell me about it. You still want the clover honey, even though you know she brought it?"

Something occurred to him.

"Why did she? She had to have known I'd notice, that I'd figure it out. It wasn't part of some plan to lure me in."

She shrugged as she took a sip. Formosa Oolong today.

"You tell me. You were the actual fake psychic."

"I guess she felt guilty."

"Oh, that would be a given."

"And maybe she wanted to make sure I had something . . . comforting?"

"That's pretty much the M.O. for Saint-I'm-gonna-mother-ya-til-ya-do-what-I-want-and-straighten-up-Teresa. I've seen it before, but not to such an extreme."

He paused mid-sip and frowned at her over the rim of his tea cup.

"Oh, believe me, brother. You're a special calling, a vocation unto yourself."

"Why do you think that was?"

Was? And this guy was supposed to be smart.

"Again, you tell me."

"Maybe she thought—Eleanor. You're psychoanalyzing me."

"How so? You're doing all the work."

"You know what I mean."

"Well, if you've got it all figured out, you might as well go along with it."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Life rarely does, Patrick."

"Could we stay on track? Maybe a linear conversation?"

"Why? Are we talking in circles?"

Was this how Alice had felt with the Mad Hatter?

"Eleanor, everything is so mushed up right now. I really need to hear sense, preferably from someone who's not angry with me. If I promise to talk and answer your questions, could we please just have a normal conversation?"

"We can try. Normal away, Sweetie."

"I wrote in my journal. Lisbon knew about it, but she never looked at it. Never even asked to see it."

"Yes?"

"I copied some of the Red John case files, but they were pages from reports I'd seen before, so they weren't technically off limits."

"Ye-es?" If he was looking for absolution, he was barking up the wrong psychiatrist.

"Dr. Montague gave me the predilection report, so I didn't know I wasn't supposed to have it."

"Then why didn't you tell Teresa you had it? Why did you keep it a secret?"

He was uncomfortable with the questions but only because he knew the answer.

"I'm not certain," he lied.

"Aanh" It came out low and nasal, like an electric buzzer. "Wrong answer."

"I didn't want her to know I had it."

"Beca-a-a-use?"

"Because Red John was—is mine."

"Which is also why you illicitly copied parts of files, lied to her about conversations you've had, and did everything in your power, took advantage of her compassionate nature, fostered the type of relationship that would make her believe looking at your journal would be a grave breach of confidence."

"Yes."

"And you're not troubled by any of this."

"Not at face value, no."

"I thought we were going linear."

"I'm not troubled in the context of my hunt for Red John. But I am troubled in how it's fractured my relationship with . . . the team."

"Does the team matter, Patrick?" Was he being purposely ambiguous or just clueless?

He sighed heavily. "Yes, Eleanor, quite a lot as it turns out."

She considered him and what he had said a moment then slid her hand under the cushion on which she sat and pulled out the brown leather-bound volume. His smile when he saw it was rueful, as if now that he might get what he had wanted, he wasn't sure it had been worth the cost. She was glad to see it, but couldn't resist a tease, pulling it back from him.

"If you go all buggy eyed and start calling it your Precious, I'm just going to shoot you and call a custodian."

He chuckled at her genuinely, and she took heart. She made to hand it to him, but when he took hold of it she didn't let go, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

"There's no point in my keeping this now. And even though I know better than to think you're actually behaving, I think it's all right for you to have it back. But I have some questions, if you don't mind?"

They sat like that for a few seconds, each of them holding the journal with both hands, each trying to gauge the other. Finally, she relinquished it, and he turned to face the coffee table squarely and opened the book flat.

She turned the pages, knowing exactly the place for which she searched. She smoothed the open volume and pointed one perfectly manicured finger to a stanza of poetry.

"What's this?"

It almost choked him to answer her. If he gave that away, he was giving away everything.

"It's the first stanza of—"

"'The Tiger'. I know what it is. I mean why is it written in here? And why is the page criss-crossed with notes written in five different colors of ink?"

"I was experimenting with it."

"Yes, yes, I see that—assigning numerical values to the letters, labeling literary mechanisms—I see all of that. But why? Why is this stanza of this poem important?"

He breathed deep, and she thought he would answer her. She had already guessed, of course—Teresa had confirmed the date in the upper right corner of the page. But he really did need to say it out loud. When she realized he just couldn't, she took pity on him.

"I told you I didn't think anything in here was madman ramblings. You're not what I would consider a completely rational man, but your mind is nothing if not completely logical. This poem has nothing to do with anything else in this book, and I know its inclusion did not simply erupt from your own thinking. This is it, isn't it? It's what he said to you."

He closed his eyes, and his breathing seemed to cease. After a few seconds, he gulped on a deep inhalation and nodded.

"Do you see it as some sort of clue?"

He opened his eyes and looked down at where her finger still pointed to the page. He was suddenly so tired. His eyes were dry and heavy, and he wanted to lie down and sleep.

"I think so . . . I thought so. I don't know what it is anymore."

He wasn't going to ask her opinion, but lack of invitation had never stopped her before.

"I don't think it's a clue. It might be how he sees himself or how he wants you to see him. Do you read Blake? Did you before this?"

"I own a copy of his works, and I've kept it at the office before."

"He may have just wanted you to know how close he is. Or, he may have known you wouldn't tell and this would be a wedge he could drive between you and . . . the team."

Could that be? If so, Lisbon had been right. He had played into Red John's scheme, letting him win. He felt so tired.

"Even—," she continued, "—if you write out the whole poem and assign numerical values to all of the words, all of the letters, it still doesn't mean anything. Even if you try it in different languages, it's still—"

She cut off abruptly and looked at him, realizing he was watching her with a bemused smile.

"Eleanor, when was the last time you slept? An actual good night's sleep?"

She looked away, uncomfortable for the first time in his presence, and she answered him in a small voice.

"Since I found the poem."

He kept looking at her, and she pulled away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. He suddenly laughed, and his throat felt scratchy. She was just as messed up as he was. And Lisbon liked her. And trusted her. He felt warm and relieved. She shook off her discomfort and flipped through the pages, still in pursuit of something.

"And this . . . Todd Johnson . . . He was part of Red John's network."

He looked at her sharply. That had been a statement, not a question. He wondered how she knew, but the memory of that night pushed everything else out of his thoughts.

"They said he wouldn't regain consciousness, but he did. After Lisbon walked away, just before he died, he turned to me and said, 'Tiger, tiger'."

His face was a mask of anguish. He had been so near to someone who knew Red John and had been just crazy enough to talk, maybe to have told something—anything—that would have brought him closer, and he had watched the man die before his very eyes.

"You've never told Teresa about either of these things? Why? What did you think she would do? Get to him first?"

He realized how ridiculous it sounded hearing it said out loud.

"There are other things in here, Patrick. Things that I would find very troubling if I didn't know you. For one, the graphic description of what you intend to do to Red John. I know you haven't told a lot of people about that. I'm sure they all know your intentions, but if they knew the specifics you'd be out of the CBI. Did you tell Teresa these things?"

"We talked about them, yes."

"And she never told." Eleanor said this to herself, wondering at it. She turned her full, energetic attention back to him. "Did you tell her other things? Things you didn't tell anyone else? Secrets you shared that she kept?"

"Yes."

She dipped her head and spoke quietly, as if she didn't want her books to hear.

"About where you were when you fell off the face of the earth for a while after your family was killed?"

She had seen the signs, little behaviorisms he still manifested, together with his complete invisibility during that time frame. She thought back to those early diaries. Who on earth thought he was ready to walk back out into the world and reintegrate? And did he realize how fortunate he'd been, how utterly miraculously blessed to have fallen in with the company he had?

He had paused to consider her question. His breath caught again, but answering was easier this time. Still, he only nodded.

"Other things?" Again, a silent nod.

"Patrick, much as I like you and want the best for you and would make all of this go away if I could . . . you're a fool."

"I know."

It was a painful admission for the smartest person in the room. If he had been honest with Lisbon all along, would it have really mattered so much in his plans? Would she have somehow gotten past him, gotten the upper hand? No, the only differences would have been that he would still be with the team and she would trust him, maybe been closer to his objective with her help freely given. And it would have been so much easier talking to her than the painful, drawn out confessions to Eleanor just now, words made thin and dry from being locked away for so long, held close the way a miser guards his wealth but finds no pleasure or comfort in it.

The reality and sense of all of it pushed down on him like a heavy weight, crushing him into Eleanor's couch. He had held something of real value and had let it just slip through his fingers. Someone whose trust mattered had trusted him, whose friendship was of worth had befriended him, and he had traded a pearl of great price for words on a page and a madman's whispers.

He inhaled a ragged breath.

"I need to get back."

"Not yet, you don't. You're tired, and you'll be of no use and will probably say or do something to get yourself in trouble. Lie down here and rest a while. Taggert's got nothing that requires your immediate attention at the office—idiots have all the time in the world."

He let her turn him and help him lie down on her couch, and he folded his arms across his chest and curled onto his side. She covered him with a warm throw and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, her touch gentle as a mother's. She was surprised he had said so much. The break with the team had affected him more than he realized, and he was more fragile that she had thought. She had told Teresa she might have to pick him apart and put him back together. Patrick didn't need to be taken apart. Time and circumstances were taking care of that, and she wasn't sure how much of the former he had left. He needed a friend who cared for and understood him. The best candidate in her opinion was temporarily out of the picture. She quietly walked back to her desk and sat down once again to pretend to read the huge obsolete book that rested there.

She had gotten everything out of him she could for now, maybe for always. He needed so much more—the build-up of years of insecurity, distrust, guilt, shame, self-recrimination, self-reliance and pure loneliness going back far further than his family's death was taking its toll, and she worried that he was still hurtling toward a fearful, potentially fatal implosion of some kind that may not claim him as its only victim. The fact that recent events were weakening his defenses and barriers that kept his seething psyche in check made that inevitability a matter of sooner rather than later. But she knew he believed that his slightly unhinged state was necessary for him to carry out his murderous intentions. He feared that if sanity gripped him too firmly, he would be driven to rational thought and that hopes of exclusivity to Red John's demise would be lost. Still, she would do whatever she could for him. Just two visits and she was like goop. How in the world had Teresa withstood him for seven years?

Two hours later, after Jane vacated her couch and headed back to the bureau, Eleanor made the call. Teresa agreed to an afternoon appointment without hesitation. When she left a little over an hour later, she took with her a CD containing hundreds of pages of handwritten text and very troubling answers to a great many questions.

Eleanor watched her go, certain and uneasy that Teresa was holding secrets of her own.