10. AND DEATH'S DARK SHADOWS PUT TO FLIGHT
- O Come, O Come Emmanuel
Despite Bertram's desperate pleadings, the powers that be refused to bear the expense of helicopters to transport so many of them south to Malibu. He had instead called on every local law enforcement agency in Sacramento and south to clear the interstate, and with sirens blaring they had made good time, arriving in the very early morning hours. Storm clouds swirled in the dark pre-dawn sky, and Jane hoped they weren't a harbinger of things to come. Wyatt Stanton took hold of his wife's hand and looked at her uncertainly.
"She's my friend, Wyatt," she said evenly. "I've come this far. I won't be left behind." He squeezed her hand then kissed it, assuring her he understood and he would keep her safe and at his side.
The near dozen vehicles pulled to a halt in front of the neglected drive, and Jane sprang out of the door and stumbled into a dead run. In spite of his determination and early lead, Rigsby passed him, barely pausing before his foot landed full force, splintering the door frame, shattering lock and plate away from the wood. Van Pelt pulled out of a headlong sprint entering just behind him, her weapon snapping up and swiveling back and forth in a wide arc under her flashlight. Cho issued orders over the comm, directing the agents and officers as they swarmed down the stairs to the lower level and fanned out through the main floor.
Jane ascended the stairs, only the team and Wyatt and Lydia Stanton following to clear the side bedrooms as Jane moved to the end of the hall. Certain of where he would find her, Jane burst through the last door with such force it slammed back against the wall fully revealing its only contents, bloody smile and flattened single mattress. It was obvious the room had not been disturbed since the last time he had been there months before, and then only by his and Lisbon's presence for a few seconds.
"She's not here," he whispered raggedly, another hope spent.
"Jane?" Rigsby questioned uneasily, snapping his mind to the immediate reality that no one but Lisbon knew about this room and its perpetual state for the past eight years.
"She should be here," he said to them over his shoulder, motioning at the room at large. "There is nowhere else—"
The shock of their faces and their inability to see past what they were actually seeing made the room feel small, and for the first time he felt the cloying closeness that surely must affect every outsider upon their first glimpse of it. If they didn't know he was crazy before, they certainly knew it now.
In frustration and fear and embarrassment, he pushed past them and flew lightly down the stairs, heading for the deck and fresh air. He fumbled with the lock and finally pushed the slider open and stumbled outside, gulping in great breaths. He heard movement in the house behind him and Van Pelt's faint call, and their impending presence pushed him down the steps and to the gazebo that overlooked the Pacific's waves. He turned to the south, his eyes straining against the moonlit darkness. Seeing just enough to tell that the beach was smooth and wave-washed, he turned to the north.
Two houses up, jutting out from the cliff face was a monstrosity of a house that had been built in short order the year after the Jane's had taken up residence. Angela had groused about it for weeks before deciding to never look in its direction. She would step out onto the deck, her eyes resolutely on the ocean or the southern view. The few times he had hosted clients at the house, he would bring them down to the gazebo, the rhythm of the waves adding to the hypnotic effect of his voice. He was always careful to place his paying visitors facing away from that house, the gleam of steel and the arrogance of its protrusion instead of the quiet nestling more common of the homes surrounding it making it a visual distraction.
Lisbon's voice from their February confrontation came back to him.
He'd been watching them for days, maybe even weeks. He knew your security set-up and how to disable it. He knew where they would be. He knew where you would be and how long you would be gone. He'd found someone worthy of the game, and he wanted to make sure you stuck with it. He'd decided to kill them long before that night. Hell, if you'd broken with the CBI the day before that interview, he would've killed them to get you back. He only chose that night because he knew what it would do to you, that it would tighten the screws just a bit more, drive the blade a little deeper.
And suddenly he remembered.
That house had been part of the estate of its financially rising owner who had died the year after its construction. The estranged wife had moved back east years earlier to live with her family, taking their two children with her. In the wake of his death, none of them wanted the eyesore, and the place had been perpetually for sale as well as perpetually rented so the estate could at least make some profit from it. Two days before his family was killed, Angela had taken Charlotte to a birthday party and—knowing he had the house to himself for a few hours—he'd invited a client. He had done a reading, his eyes half closed, watching her for reactions to his guessings. It was the usual, wanting to get in touch with a dead parent, looking for closure. He'd done this a thousand times, and his mind had wandered to the awful house up the beach. There had been a woman . . . arms crossed, hugging herself defensively. She was tall with red curling hair that blew around her face. Her features weren't clear at that distance, but something was troubling her because she didn't try to tame the errant strands, just stood staring out to sea, her shoulders hunched under some unseen burden. Ever on the lookout for a well-to-do mark, he had wondered if she might not want some help, some comfort . . .
Brenda Shettrick.
Lisbon had been right all those months before. Red John had been watching. And he had been watching from that house.
He turned and barreled back through the living room, agents and friends who had moved toward the deck looking for him turning abruptly at his passing, his team and Wyatt Stanton first to realize that they should follow him. He pushed through the front door then cut across the small bit of sand and vegetation that passed for front yard to the road, his shoes slapping against the rough pavement. His respirations sounded loudly in his ears. He felt the rising panic, and all he knew was that he had to be in time. The front door was open, and he rushed straight in, unwilling to wait even for his own safety's sake. For just an instant, accustomed as he was to the sparseness of his own house, the opulence stunned him. Then something dark and heavy settled over him, cloaking him with dread.
He was certain this is where LaRoche had taken Lisbon—as certain as he was of the color of his own eyes. And he was just as positive there wasn't a living soul in the house. The others had caught up, and once again, officers and agents swarmed in, their shouts of "Clear!" proclaiming the place empty. He stood stock still in the living room waiting for the dread news. Cho had headed straight for the walk-out basement, and Jane wasn't surprised to hear his call.
"Jane!" It was too strong, too forceful. He closed his eyes in relief knowing what Cho hadn't found. Rigsby and Van Pelt approached him from kitchen and den respectively, the former holstering his weapon, Grace holding hers relaxed down at her side and both of them looking past him toward the stairwell. Jane turned slowly, his eyes going immediately to Cho's outstretched hands.
"Is that—" Rigsby breathed in uncertain horror.
"It is," Cho confirmed grimly and without hesitation.
"That bastard," Grace spat.
Jane reached out in slow motion, as if he were in shock, to touch the long dark chestnut strands Cho reverently carried. His movements stilled just before his fingers made contact, and he watched in fascination as the curls seemed to lift away from the agent's hands toward his outstretched one. Air. Moving air. A cross current. An open door.
Jane turned suddenly and lunged toward the glass slider that stood slightly ajar, slammed it back and stepped out onto the deck. It was like the fore of a ship, jutting out to a point. Someone flipped on an outside light, and as his searching gaze swept from left to right, an errant lock matching Cho's find swept and curled along the fabricated wood slats. Looking beyond it, he saw that the deck wrapped around the north side of the house, and he headed for where it turned out of sight, sweeping down to scoop up the silken strand and winding it around his fingers before sliding it into his vest pocket.
He rounded the corner where the deck narrowed into a walkway separating the house from the cliff that rose above and abutted against it, pausing in surprise a moment before rushing forward to the body that lay a few yards in front of him. Brenda Shettrick was on her side, facing away from him, her hands outstretched and her body twitching in the final throes. Jane knelt by her side, but she did not notice him, her tortured eyes straining after her reaching hands.
"Jack," she whispered once plaintively before thunder clapped overhead and her breath rattled out and she collapsed dead, a thick bloody pool at her side.
Jane followed her line of sight to an opening in the deck railing, a threshold to a hewn path that curved up and away from the house. Jane knew where it led. There was a path that joined this one that led away from the road. He had walked it several times with Charlotte at her pleading and had extricated from her in exchange the promise that she would never attempt it alone. She would hold his hand tightly against fear of falling on the rough surface of the path and nature's onslaught as they neared the promontory. It was the highest point on the beach for miles, dividing this strand of residences from the next one up, and there was no shelter from the elements.
A bolt of lightning lit the remnant of night sky and seemed to dance along a ridge further up the beach, and Jane turned suddenly to the forces behind him.
"I need to go alone."
He raised his hands against their arguments.
"The path narrows near the top—it's rocky and uneven. Besides getting past me, there's only one way he can go. We can't run the risk of spooking him."
In spite of the fact that none of them liked it, they all knew it was true. Stanton nodded to him in agreement, but it was to the team he looked for final confirmation of his plan. The relaxing of Rigsby's shoulders, the look of resignation on Cho's face and Grace's quietly urgent "Go!" sent him scurrying up the walk.
They were only a moment ahead of him. LaRoche must have heard us on the road. Jane could hear a hum that became a low rumble then turned into distinguishable fragments of a running monologue as he drew within sight of them. "Few more steps . . . That's it . . . doing well," LaRoche quietly coached, encouraging Lisbon to her death.
Jane didn't care about LaRoche beyond stopping him, and he knew no amount of arguments could convince him away from his chosen course, so he directed his attention to the woman dragging along at the big man's side.
"Lisbon!" he called out as if he were trying to catch up with her in the CBI hallway. Her steps faltered, and she nearly fell. LaRoche caught her and tried to pull her along, but she dug her heels in and struggled to pull back from him.
"Jane?" her weak voice wafted back to him on the wind.
"Lisbon, stop!"
She pulled away more forcibly but not enough to break LaRoche's hold on her. She finally let her legs collapse completely, slumping into deadweight at his side. Intent on maintaining his forward movement, he dipped and caught her around the waist and dragged her. She continued to grapple with him, but her movements were sluggish and vague as to target. Jane wondered what he had used to drug her.
"Lisbon!" If nothing else, she would know someone had come for her. She turned her head away from LaRoche's body and, opening her mouth wide, bit down as hard as she could. Jane knew that even through the thickness of his shirt and suitcoat there would be enough pressure for the sensitive skin of his inner upper arm to feel the pinch. On the heels of that thought, LaRoche howled and shook Lisbon like a ragdoll and suddenly turned about. In a flurry of clumsy movement, he brought her up until she was half standing, half leaning against him. His left arm spanned her chest from one underarm to the other, and with his right hand he drew a SIG Sauer from the holster at his belt, pointing its barrel at her head.
"Don't come any closer," he warned.
Jane raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence, and LaRoche backed Lisbon further up the walk toward the point. He took two steps, and Jane began to advance.
"I said to come no further," LaRoche snarled.
"You said to come no closer," Jane answered, hands still raised. With his left he gestured to the space between them. "I'm no nearer than I was."
LaRoche pinched his lips together in annoyance and pushed the gun barrel more firmly against Lisbon's temple, wiggling it in place. Jane nodded, indicating he took the warning seriously, and they resumed their match-step up the incline. Jane's eyes dropped to Lisbon's, and her gaze, haunted and glazed, unnerved him. He smiled, small and soft, hoping she could see the encouragement. The smile faded when her eyes went blank and her head dropped forward even as her legs went limp again, forcing LaRoche to shift his grip and heave her up once more. Beyond the struggling pair, the sun's first light glowed on the horizon, turning the black sky to a churning gray in the approaching storm.
He had walked that path many times with his little girl, and he knew it ended abruptly then pitched over seventy feet straight down to pounding surf and punishing rocks. The walk was black and dew-slickened now, and the wind whipped about them, exposed as they now were. Jane hoped LaRoche was as sure of his footing as he was of his purpose.
"Mind your step!" Jane called out in warning. Though LaRoche was unwilling to heed anything Jane might say, in reflex he turned to look over his shoulder just in time to see he was merely inches from the precipice.
"That's it!" he hollered over the increasing wind. "No further! Do as I say or Teresa will have to die!"
Jane's rage spiked at the familiarity of the use of her Christian name, and he fought the urge to charge ahead, to lay hold of LaRoche with his bare hands. A few cool droplets began to fall, dotting his hair, his face, his clothes, and calmer thought repossessed him. The scant sprinkling stopped as suddenly as it had begun as if the rain refused to fall, waiting for more than the whirling wind and rumbling thunder to call it out. What weak light the coming sunrise offered was blotted out by the continually massing clouds, but as if to make up the deficit, lightning cut across the sky and down to touch the beach farther north. In the flash, Jane got a clear look at Red John's last man's face. The shifting of the eyes—more pronounced than Jane had ever seen it—combined with the desperation-thinned lips and sickened pallor gave proof that LaRoche had never truly considered the very real possibility that he would have to die in the cause for his idol. Playing on that hesitation, Jane attempted to reason with him, forced to shout at him to be heard over the increasing wind.
"There's nowhere left to go LaRoche. Only one way for you to get out of this alive."
"I think you'll find, Patrick, that this can all end in one of two ways," J.J. countered.
"You've got to give up. Bring Lisbon away from the edge, and turn yourself over to the CBI."
"Or," LaRoche sneered, not yet willing to concede the game, "I'll just toss her over the side then turn myself in. There are a lot of witnesses here, Patrick. No one would take kindly to vigilante justice a second time."
Jane winced at the coldness in his voice as well as the certainty that LaRoche was willing to do just as he said. His eyes drifted back to Lisbon where she hung boneless over LaRoche's beefy forearm. There was little he would be able to do for her if she couldn't fight for herself.
"But this isn't exactly like that other time, is it, Patrick?" LaRoche continued. "You don't have a gun. No shooting a man down in cold blood, three bullets, blasting the heart and breath out of him. But then the gun wasn't really your weapon of choice, was it? I'll bet you don't even have a blade on you." LaRoche tsked at him. "So ill prepared. That's not like you at all. Oh, I know. You thought you would be able to outsmart me, outthink me. Bring your verbal mastery to bear."
Jane could feel his resolve fading. He had honestly believed he could save her, protect her from this. But now they had come to the sticking point, and as always, Red John—or what was left of his "book club"—had managed to stay one step ahead.
"What would that do to you, do you think, Patrick?" LaRoche taunted him. "To lose another woman you cared for? Another sacrifice to your arrogance?"
LaRoche raised his voice to be heard over the increasing volume of the gale, and Jane watched him intently, trying to fight the sense of hopelessness that washed over him.
"Could you bear having the last thing that means anything to you ripped away, lost to you forever?"
Both men knew it was a rhetorical question. Jane's breathing evened to rhythmic, shallow pants, and he felt himself falling, giving in to what his breaking heart was fast believing to be inevitable. The lightning flared again, and LaRoche's look of triumph sickened him. If Lisbon didn't survive, no matter what happened to him physically, Jane knew he wouldn't make it either.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.
"LaRoche, . . . please."
"What was that, Patrick? Please, you say?" LaRoche was outright making sport of him now, his sick grin twisting his features. "My, my, my," he continued, the grin morphing into a sneer. "How the mighty Patrick Jane has fallen. Begging now, are we?"
"If that's what you want." He shouted over the howling tempest, the effort sapping his strength. "It's me you want to end. Me you want to destroy. Please. Let her go and take me."
"Take you? Take you? You sorry piece of filth. What would I want with you? You're nearly finished. And when she's gone, there'll be nothing of you left."
Knowing it was true and not caring, the lunatic thought crossed Jane's mind that if he were to simply lunge ahead, straight at and over the cliff, maybe this last player would relent. If the game piece was no longer on the board, surely the contest would be over.
In the name of the Father . . .
His panting had ceased, and each deep breath was coming out now on its own whispered sob, the unreleased tension of the waiting air around him matching the build within him.
The Son . . . Oh, Holy Spirit.
Heaven was closed, and he would have railed against it, too mean and stingy to even give rain to the tragedy unfolding beneath it. If only Lisbon could pray . . . Oh God, if you're there. . .
"Drop it."
Both men turned, searching in the dark for the voice that had spoken, Jane subsuming the fear that if he broke visual contact with Lisbon he might lose her. A barrage of lightning assaulted the earth, and Van Pelt stood in its glow, her hair blowing about her in a fury of red, the spark in her eyes cold as the weapon she held unflinchingly pointed at LaRoche's head.
"I said drop it, LaRoche."
They stood in seeming stalemate, but another volley of electrical bolts showed the flutter of uncertainty on the villain's face and humorless, confident quirk at the corner of the agent's mouth.
"Or you'll what?" His voice dripped with contempt in an effort to regain control.
More agents appeared on the path behind them (Jane was certain Rigsby and Cho among them), their high-powered flashlights raised, taking in the scene and knowing better than to rush forward. Grace, it seemed, was not so inclined to caution. Already, she was tired of dealing with LaRoche, and she directed her conversation to the woman hanging at the front of his body.
"Boss?" she shouted. "Lisbon!" No answer. "Teresa!"
Jane turned back to Lisbon, afraid to breathe as he felt them all teetering on the knife's edge. The commanding steel of Van Pelt's voice cut through the rush of sound, and Jane's tensed shoulders sagged in relief when Lisbon raised her head. The clouded look from earlier suddenly cleared, and she locked eyes with Van Pelt. Jane couldn't help following her gaze to the other woman, and he was mesmerized by the energy that seemed to pass between them. Grace's face was a study in quietude, her breathing even and light. She looked for the world as if she were giving a report and waiting for her boss to respond. And looking back at Lisbon, it seemed to Jane that that's how her boss perceived it as well. Lisbon was fully alert now, and Jane caught the barest flicker in her expression. Something he didn't like passed through her eyes, and his own gaze jerked back to Van Pelt to see an answering glint. It all happened in barely more than a second, but before he could shout out his dissension against the terrible and—as he saw it—needless and foolish decision the two had made in silent collusion, Lisbon's head dropped to her left, Van Pelt's shot rang out and red blossomed on LaRoche's shoulder.
His hand went claw-like in pain and uselessness, the SIG clattered to the stone walk, and he stared at it in confusion as if it had betrayed him. His grip on Lisbon loosened as he staggered back, pulling only her upper body back until he could no longer maintain his grasp. He felt himself falling, and his feet scrabbled momentarily, trying to find purchase on the wet rock. Lisbon made to lean away from him, and Jane, seeing she was unable to step away under her own power, rushed toward her. In the last instant, before he could take hold of her, her head shot up and eyes stared, shocked and terrified into the growing glare of the emergency lights. LaRoche had taken hold of her jacket, and as he fell over the edge Lisbon—jerked off her feet, arms thrown out and up—followed after. Jane shouted into the dark, and the heavens opened.
It all happened in the same horror-filled slow motion of Jane's nightmares, and as Lisbon went over the edge, Jane felt himself pulled forward as though that invisible and now unbreakable cord that ran between them would pull him over after her. A strong arm went around him from behind, the hand catching at his waist, and he caught the faint scent of lavender mixed with vanilla.
"I've got you," Grace said, her voice secure and solid in his ear. The lights glared against them from behind and loomed out into the air above the cliff, useless for his searching purpose. He looked down into the black of hurling rain and darkness, and hopelessness rose up again, choking him, turning into resentment at the woman who kept hold on him, keeping him in place. What he wanted was Lisbon, and he felt himself still listing toward the edge, peering after her. Van Pelt had moved forward and tucked him into her side, her own scrutiny mirroring his.
As if it were mocking him, the rain let up again, softening to a light mist, and the wind calmed around him. From the grave, Red John had won. Lisbon was gone, and he was done.
Rigsby and Cho rushed forward, their lights tiny spots of illumination along the sheer stone of the cliff space. The rain finally ceased altogether, and the wind began to toss and move the now empty clouds.
"There."
Van Pelt's voice was still quiet, but the note of excitement lightened it to sound something like her old self, drawing the men's eyes down to where she pointed. Below them, on an outcropping some twenty feet down lay Lisbon, obviously unconsciousness, her left arm bent beneath her. On the rocks at the cliff's base, waves washed over the large dot that was all that was left of LaRoche, buffeting his body, taking hold of him and finally pulling him into the depths. Suddenly Jane was moving, trying to get over the edge, trying to get to Lisbon. The other two men joined their strength with Grace's, holding him back.
"Jane! Stop!" Rigsby warned.
"Let the EMT's get her," Cho's voice, low and steady, close to his ear stilled his frantic movements. Paramedics were already moving down the side along an indentation in the stone face that slanted in a gentle decline, taking advantage of the lull in the storm. Huddled together, the four of them watched as Lisbon was checked for injuries. Miraculously, the fracture to her left wrist was the only injury to her body detected, but her head lolled with no response to the repeated attempts to rouse her. The emergency medical team got her on the light stretcher and secured her neck before bringing her back up via the hastily engineered ropes additional personnel secured at the rise. When EMT's and Lisbon reached the top, the team followed close behind as the cloister made its way to where the ambulance was parked on the road.
"Sorry—no room! Headed for Good Samaritan!"
The vehicle's doors closed in their faces, and the ambulance pulled away racing up the coast road to the nearest highway. Jane turned, intending to head for the SUV when it suddenly came barreling up beside them. Wyatt Stanton rolled out of the driver's seat and motioned the team inside, his deep voice booming at them.
"Go! I'll take care of the scene! . . . Go!"
Piling in, they chased after Lisbon, grateful that the storm had finally cleared.
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They had huddled together waiting for the doctor's prognosis, all of them soaked to the skin and chilled beyond. Knowing the seriousness of her situation, the emergency resident had taken immediate precautions, ordering blood work and CT scan and talking possibilities while he awaited the results. Multiple bruises and lacerations, subdural hematoma which might require emergency surgery to relieve pressure, infection from a wound in her shoulder, antibiotic IV—it went on and on.
Jane wanted to scream.
He wanted to know if she would live, if she would know them, if she could still be a cop. He wanted to know why the hell the doctor wasn't in there doing something about it. Just as he was about to ask, Van Pelt's hand gently squeezed his forearm.
"Thank you, doctor," she said with a gracious smile. He took it as his cue to leave, that they couldn't absorb anymore and that it was all right to go back to doing what he did best. Then she led Jane to a chair.
"You stay here. I'll round up some dry clothes, see if I can't find some hot tea. You with me, Jane?"
He nodded in the affirmative, but she didn't look too assured.
"Yes, Grace." He looked up at her gratefully. "I'm wet and cold and worried, and I don't know what I'll do if this doesn't—if she doesn't . . ." He stilled, closed his eyes, swallowed then looked back up at her calmly.
"I'm fine. I'll be here . . . waiting."
Knowing how very hard that would be for him, she gave him a small smile of encouragement before rising to turn and walk away. A look at Rigsby had him following her to give whatever aid she might need. Cho slid into the seat next to Jane and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
"You gonna give me a pep talk?"
"Nope."
"You're not going to tell me everything's going to be okay?"
"Nope."
"How she's a fighter and strong?"
"Nope."
"How it would take more than a little fall off a cliff to do her in?"
"Nope."
" . . . Thanks."
Cho twisted to peer at Jane over his shoulder. "For what?"
"Making me feel better," he answered with a sad attempt at a grin.
"Yeah," Cho grunted, turning back to rest his head in his hands again. "Same here."
They waited in silence, and when Van Pelt and Rigsby returned, they joined them in it. Stanton arrived an hour later to take their statements, Lydia in tow. Finished with the interviews and promised a call the moment there was news, the couple left so Wyatt could call Bertram and Wainwright. A few minutes later, the doctor stepped into the waiting room and looked into four intensely questioning gazes.
"It's good news," he said at once. "Her left wrist is fractured, and we've immobilized it. There's no injury to the head, amazingly enough, not even a concussion. She's been heavily drugged with a strong hallucinogenic, probably over a period of days. It will take a few hours for that to wash completely out of her system. She'll sleep through the night if not disturbed-" At that he looked at Jane pointedly, "and we can release her in a couple of days. For now we're getting her set up in a private room. The nurse will come and get you when you can go in."
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He had told Grace repeatedly he was all right, practically had to swear on a stack of Bibles before she would take Rigsby and get him something to eat. Cho had followed after, leaving him to sit with her alone for a while. In spite of those assurances, he wasn't all right, wouldn't be until she opened her eyes. But he knew that wouldn't happen for a few hours at least, wouldn't even be good for her. Still, he couldn't help the wishing.
He looked down at the hand not resting alongside hers, and his thumb rubbed over the gold cross he held there, the chain wrapped around his fingers. A nurse had given it to him for safe keeping. Didn't she know how ridiculous that was?
"Don't."
Cho's voice cut across the room at him as he and Rigsby and Van Pelt reentered the room.
"What?" His own voice was thick and gritty. If he hadn't felt his mouth move, his vocal cords work, he would have thought the sound had come from someone else.
"Don't feel guilty. This isn't your fault. Don't make this about you. There was no way any of us could have stopped this."
He nodded at the sense of it, the practicality of leaving off guilt. Trouble was, he was so used to it.
Equal parts self-love and self-loathing.
Cho was right, of course. Nothing could have prepared them for this. He didn't have the strength to explain that while he comprehended he couldn't quite agree, instead letting his eyes drift back to the still face, perfectly composed, no furrow, no glare, no dimple.
He sensed the bulk behind and around him, and a hand reached into his line of vision, engulfing the motionless one lying on the bed. Large fingers encircled small, fragile ones, thumb stroking over knuckles.
"She'll be all right. Boss is a fighter," Rigsby crooned. Boss. It was the closest anyone had come to naming her. Like the woman in the bed wasn't Lisbon until she woke up.
If she only would. Wake up and make some sarcastic comment. "Why the hell are you all standing around here? Don't you have work to do?" Wake up and nag, wake up and snark. Anything. Wake up and yell at me. Be mad at me.
Can't you see there's people who care about you—who need you?"
They stood, sat, milled around the room for a couple more hours, not knowing what to do, not wanting to leave. They all knew it wasn't right to just walk away from her, like walking out on her. But there was only so much they could do. Only so much coffee they could drink. They would have to go in to work tomorrow. Someone else would get angry, greedy, lustful, vengeful, fearful, envious, arrogant. Someone else would kill, and they would be needed, and they needed to go.
Cho moved to her bedside, across from Jane, and leaned over her. His hand slid around hers, and though his hand was not so large as Rigsby's, it still swallowed her tiny, unmoving one.
"Hey."
Jane looked away from Cho and down at where Rigsby squatted next to him.
"You need anything before we go?"
He shook his head, mind nearly numbed with weariness, unable to think of anything he might ask that they could give. Rigsby continued talking, his voice low and calm, quietly rumbling like a gentle tide.
"She'll be all right. She'll wake up, and you'll be okay. We'll all be okay."
Jane looked from Rigsby's mesmerizing stare down to where two meaty fingers tapped the outside of his own knee, a mock hypnotic trigger. Abruptly, his eyes shot back up to see Rigsby's alight with amusement, his lips pursed against a grin, and Jane couldn't keep his eyes from smiling back. The bigger man's leonine paw slid across Jane's knee and squeezed once before he effortlessly lifted his mass and walked around the bed toward the door, his hand trailing along the bed's edge the whole way until Cho turned and the two exited together, leaving Grace alone with them.
"See you later?" she asked hopefully.
"Definitely," he assured her.
"You know . . .," she began hesitantly. "They say they can hear sometimes when they're like this." Jane looked at her dubiously. "You should talk to her," she encouraged. He shrugged at her, and she smiled back before she left the room, confident he would follow her advice.
His hand ghosted across the blanket then paused, hovering over hers. Sliding two inches further, he let his fingers wrap lightly around her tiny wrist, their tips resting against her pulse's steady thrumming, and wondered at the strength there, the near supernatural things he had seen those hands, those small bones, this tiny frame accomplish.
Jane knew what Grace had been hinting at. He had wanted to talk to Lisbon for quite a while, weeks even, since he'd come out of the hospital after his fall on Thanksgiving Day. He remembered the things he'd said to Lisbon, and though he was injured and heavily sedated he had meant every word. But she had acted like nothing had happened. He had been shocked to comprehend during their confrontation on the mountainside that her feelings for him ran just as deeply, just as strong has his did for her, and they could have come to terms with the whole thing together except that she didn't seem to want to. By the time he realized she was only behaving as she was because she thought he didn't remember what he'd said, Red John's friends had started on their killing spree, and he hadn't wanted to tell her, to start a relationship with her in the middle of all that. Thing was, he didn't want to make his first profession sans drugs, to a sleeping Lisbon. But he couldn't just sit there and do nothing. He scooted the chair closer so he could whisper into her ear.
"Did you know that there are between two hundred and four hundred billion stars in the Milky Way? And that the oldest is guessed to be about 13.2 billion years old? Of course, I don't know how they would actually know that. I mean . . . point 2? . . ."