A/N: Thanks go to the guest who corrected my mistake about the firearm Winters gave to Jane.

Chapter 10: Absolution

Jane stirred uncomfortably, pants binding as he turned in his sleep. Woken by the discomfort, he rolled onto his back and adjusted his clothes. Arm, chest, and back muscles loudly complained from the workout engineered by Lisbon. Got one over on me... he mused appreciatively. He realized that he did feel, well, not better but calmer. Empty instead of enraged. The onslaught of thought was inescapable.

After fifteen minutes Jane abandoned hope of falling back asleep. He sat up and scratched his head, then shed the vest which was also chafing. Should've changed into pajamas... The waning moon cast enough light to avoid crashing into furniture as he made his way to the hall. He stopped at the bathroom to relieve himself and was pleased when he found aspirin to soothe sore muscles. Then he went down to the kitchen, flicked on lights and set water to boil. Sunday. Two days since I remembered. The raw agony he relived of finding his butchered family was easing to the familiar background pain again. God, it's been – what? – five years since their deaths? He didn't know how he felt about that. It wasn't right that his grief should lessen, not while Red John breathed. Yet, yet... He looked around. The comfort he took from being in Lisbon's home, surrounded by everything Lisbon, was undeniable. She didn't bear blame for his family's demise. He didn't want his sorrow and guilt contaminating the pure gift of Teresa's caring. God I'm a mess. Why can't I catch and kill the bastard? Five years! He absently poured milk into the mug – no proper tea service, – added boiling water and then the teabag.

And what about the team? He went over Lisbon's account as he sat drinking his tea. Not irredeemable, he concluded. He blew out a long breath. I can make them like me again. Respect? Not sure. ... Hell, why should they respect me when I don't respect what I used to do, used to be? He swallowed. Still am. He morosely contemplated that while finishing his tea. He decided thinking about it was pointless until he saw them. He rose and made more tea, set the mug on the table and paused. He got his wallet from his suit jacket in the living room and spread the contents out on the table. Everything was there. Except one. A few shiny fragments fell onto the table from the compartment that used to house the photo. His lips thinned. Something more to fix. Fatigue dragged him down. He walked to the living room for his jacket but gave into temptation and sank down onto the beckoning couch. His eyes drooped and he simply lay sideways and brought his feet onto the couch. Sleep found him moments later.

Shocking, icy water! Lunging toward a terrifyingly still Jane until – She woke panting, heart pumping, wired by adrenaline. Nightmare?! NO! It happened. Breath whooshed out in relief. But he's okay. Alive. Back. She made the sign of the cross, unspeakably grateful her prayers had been answered that sickening moment last week. Her skin prickled with goose bumps and it dawned she'd kicked the covers off. She got up and went to the attached bathroom, needing distance from the nightmare before trying to sleep again. A minute later she walked back only to notice the bright stripe of light under the door. She rubbed her chilled arms and followed the light downstairs. Lisbon made out Jane sleeping on the couch in pants, socks and untucked shirt. Sound asleep. Not like he's uncomfortable on couches... Goose bumps reminded her of the chill and she pulled the throw off the side chair and draped it over him. Nothing was amiss in the kitchen except a cold mug of tea and the contents of Jane's wallet. She put the mug in the sink, turned off the light and went back upstairs hoping to sleep.

Jane stretched. Muscles protested but he was surprised at how rested he felt. The smell of coffee told him Lisbon was up. He sat up and blinked the sleep away. He wandered into the kitchen and found Lisbon having toast with her coffee. She wore dress pants, a nice blouse, and a cardigan.

"Morning." He assembled the makings of tea.

She looked up. "Hey, Jane. You're–" she examined his face, "looking rested. Sleep well?"

"I did. Punching bag wore me out." A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Don't expect me to make a habit of it."

"I'm not that optimistic."

He eyed her clothing and asked, "What's the occasion?" as he seated himself at the table.

"Sunday. Mass."

After a moment, "Mind if I join you?"

She looked at him warily, eyebrows drawn. "Why? You'd behave, right?"

"Just because. Despite my skepticism I wouldn't disrespect others by being disruptive."

Her eyebrows rose at 'disrespect.' Yeah, because respect is your big thing. She bit her bottom lip, then said, "Okay. I'm leaving in 15 minutes."

He reassembled his wallet, sipped the last of his tea and rose. "Be down shortly." He took the stairs two at a time.

Jane followed Lisbon into the soaring, stately, vaguely gothic structure. She dipped her fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. They paused, eyes adjusting to the dim interior. Stained glass glittered like jewels though it didn't admit much light. There was a hushed murmur of parishioners settling in before mass started. They found a pew near the back and Lisbon motioned Jane to enter before her.

Jane let the calm ritual wash over him without focusing on the words. He was surprised when Lisbon rose and went forward to take holy communion and realized that was why she had him enter the pew first. He wondered when she'd had time to go to confession. He did pay attention to the sermon which focused on the importance of compassion and, predictably, folding that value into everyday life.

Father Gliroy stood at the door to share a few words with worshipers as they left. He knew everyone by name and exhibited a lively interest in each. Lisbon introduced Jane when it was their turn. Jane had the disquieting feeling the Father already knew of him by name. A few pleasantries later and they were in queue of cars leaving the parking lot.

Lisbon pulled out and merged with the light Sunday traffic. Sparing a glance, she asked, "Get anything out of that?"

He shrugged. "Predictable sermon, but a worthwhile reminder." Warming to the topic, "I lost belief in the supernatural aspects when I was a kid. Still, there's value in thinking about what it means to be a good person." He gazed absently at the passing scenery. "Used to like mass in Latin before every church switched." He grinned. "Never understood it, of course, but I liked the cadence and mystery."

Astonished, "When did you attend mass?"

His smug glance annoyed her. "Think, Lisbon. My carnival was mostly Irish Catholic. –Stopped going when I was ten." Amusement fell away when he added, "After my mom died of leukemia."

"Oh." She looked straight at the road, kicking herself for blundering into something sad and personal.

He shifted in his seat. "What's the plan for the rest of the day?"

"Target practice. It's been a while and it's a nice drive."

"Work off frustration?"

"Keep up skills."

"Mmm." After a moment, "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to go to my storage locker."

That earned him a concerned frown. "Jane, that's six hours each way. I don't think going back is such a hot idea."

He blinked and shook his head, realizing she didn't know. "It's local. I stored some ... things here in Sacramento after I joined the CBI." He added helpfully, "It's on the way to the shooting range."

"Oh." She thought of his disassembled wallet on the table. "Sure."

Jane settled back. "Let's make an afternoon of it. If we buy sandwiches we can eat at that park on the way back."

Lisbon changed clothes and got two additional firearms from her townhouse. Jane's eyebrows rose in surprise until she explained that guns, like all mechanical things, benefitted from regular use. She would benefit from target practice with a rifle as well as the handguns. A quick stop at the deli and they were on their way.

The storage locker required only a detour onto a frontage road from the expressway. Lisbon waited in the SUV. The sign advertised both lockers for general storage and humidity-and-temperature-controlled lockers for sensitive materials. The special lockers were connected to the office building and entered from inside. Jane entered the office but didn't reappear. Not a regular locker then. His house is empty. Can't see him bringing furniture up here. Oh. She looked away in realization. – Personal stuff then. Jane reappeared. When he absently patted his jacket over his billfold she knew she was right. Photo or letter that got ruined by the water. Neither chose to comment and they were back on the expressway in five minutes.

"Jane."

He glanced over, drawn out of his ruminations. "Hmm?"

Her gaze never strayed from the road. "After we left your house, do you remember what you said?"

"Friday is a blur." Except for opening my bedroom door, he silently amended. "What did I say?"

She licked her lips, not even glancing his way, "When I asked what you wanted to do, you said you wanted to go 'home. Sacramento,'" she replied, slightly emphasizing the last two words.

"A-n-d-?"

"Is – is that how you think of Sacramento?" she asked delicately. "Now, I mean?"

He exhaled before responding. "Y-e-a-h... This is 'home' as much as any place." He looked out the passenger window. "We moved to Malibu a little before Charlotte was born." He pressed his lips then added, "I've been in Sacramento almost as long by now."

"Oh." She added awkwardly, "Just curious."

Jane spent the last half hour of the ride staring sightlessly out the passenger window. The week was a confused jumble, but Lisbon was easy enough to understand. After almost drowning I'm someone who doesn't know her, someone she barely recognizes from the jackass I used to be. Then I tell her I'm quitting. Leaving. No wonder she needs reassurance. He promised himself he'd do more to put that to rest. He had no reason to leave. Were he honest with himself, the SCU was the only reason he had to be anywhere – aside from his obligation to avenge his family.

Gifted with a perfect fall day, the outdoor shooting range was a treat for both. She was delighted to find it deserted on Sunday morning of a holiday weekend. Ever the observer, Jane enjoyed watching the exhibition of skill. He shuddered when Lisbon offered to teach him. He couldn't deny his colleagues' need for guns in law-enforcement. But killing Timothy Carter mere feet away, by his own hand, had only heightened his revulsion. Before she was done he surprised them both.

"Lisbon." The noise-canceling headsets allowed speech while blocking the ear-shattering sound of gunfire.

She looked toward him. "What, Jane?"

Tentatively, "Maybe I will take you up on learning."

Lisbon finished the clip. Though they were alone, she called "Cold" out of habit to let others know she was no longer shooting, and pulled off the ear protectors. She turned to fully face him. Her gray-green eyes were unfathomed pools that drank in his every expression. "You seriously want to learn?" She didn't ask why.

He pulled off his own headset. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and roughly cleared his throat. "Lot of dangerous situations on cases. You've said I should know more in case I grab a gun–" Sheriff Hardy flashed through their thoughts, "–in a scuffle. ... Or something."

Timothy Carter hung between them. And Red John. He felt he was drowning in those bottomless green pools. An endless moment later she turned away and set her Glock aside. She opened the gun case and took out a Sig Sauer, like the one Jane used to kill Carter. "Come over here and we'll start."

Lisbon was patient and thorough. Assessing his nervousness even being near her firearms she started with basic facts. "Guns can be used for good. They can be misused for harm, just like other things – cars, for instance–" she momentarily looked stricken at that brutal truth from her past. "You and everyone around you are safer if you know how to properly handle a gun." She faced him. "Like any tool, know how it functions and you can use it safely. First rule: Never – never – point a gun at anything you do not intend to shoot. Second: Keep your finger off the trigger unless you are ready to fire. Next: Double check that it's unloaded before cleaning, storing, or otherwise handling a firearm." She looked anxious but plowed ahead anyhow. "I doubt you or I will have a gun around kids, but it should be locked up, unloaded. Bullets should be stored elsewhere." She rushed on, away from that painful topic. "Contrary to a zillion bad TV shows, a gun is highly unlikely to go off merely by dropping it, though that just underscores the wisdom of it being unloaded most of the time. And don't get me started on the idiocy of firing into the air to celebrate because–"

"–bullets fall to the earth with the same deadly velocity," Jane finished, grinning at the basic physics of it.

"Contrary to other stupid TV examples, a bullet isn't always stopped when it hits something – a person, a car door, even a wall. Depending on a bunch of things, a bullet can travel a mile after it's fired." Jane swallowed, his mouth and throat dry as he realized the enormous irresponsibility of putting three slugs into Carter in a crowded mall. The grim set of Lisbon's mouth told him she shared the thought.

She turned and pressed a button to bring the target to them and mount a new sheet. Her target sheet showed a frayed group of holes upon holes clustered in the center, except for one hole just outside the center circle from her first shot. She sent it back out, stopping it much closer than it had been before.

"Twenty-one feet – typical distance for close-range practice, 'specially for newbies."

She drew Jane to the firing line and positioned his stance. "Feet apart, shoulder width, right slightly in front of the left." She turned his torso head-on to the target. "A two-handed grip gives you greater control." She called, "Hot," and positioned his hands on the gun. "Don't choke up on the grip. Catch the skin between thumb and forefinger in the slide and you'll regret it."

Jane stood as positioned, muscles tense, hands trembling slightly. Lisbon shook her head. Softly, "You have to relax. It's just a tool. Com'on." Biofeedback and several deep breaths helped him shed most of the tension.

Thirty minutes later, Jane had learned the rudiments. His shots not only hit the target – it was surprisingly easy to miss entirely, even so close – but were consistently grouped near the center.

He relinquished the gun to her while calling out, "Cold."

She cautioned, "Best to wait till you're not even touching the gun." She released the magazine and verified there wasn't a bullet left in the gun. Then she packed up the weapons in the gun cases. Approvingly, "That was good for your first time, Jane." She looked at him skeptically, "You never had anyone teach you before?"

"Eh. Grew up firing the air guns at the carnival games."

Serious, "Takes practice no matter what. You have a good eye. With your biofeedback skills, you could become a good shot. I feel better knowing you have some basic training when you work cases with the team."

He tipped his head noncommittally. "Better to know something than not. But I'm happy leaving that aspect of law-enforcement to you four."

It was forty minutes to the park where they would stop for lunch. Jane half-dozed, his interrupted night and the tension of handling a gun leaving him drained. The irony didn't escape him. The morning's sermon urging compassion was followed by an afternoon spent practicing a skill that was the antithesis. His lips unconsciously tightened as he thought about Teresa helping him. She knows why I'm interested. The better to kill him, my dear. She's doing it anyhow, even after Carter.

Teresa's reaction after he killed Timothy Carter was a revelation. They'd argued years ago. She insisted she'd arrest Red John and prevent him from exacting his revenge. He vowed to cut Red John open and let him bleed out slowly. She hadn't known he brought Winter's gun to the mall. She had stationed Cho and Rigsby to arrest Red John if he appeared. She was terrified when she visited me in jail. Thought I'd finally lost it and killed a random guy. Thank god they turned out to be murdering nightmares themselves. Poor Debbi Lupin, wonder if she's recovered? – After all that, Teresa doesn't hate me. Unbidden, the matchmaker case from a year ago came to mind. 'Someone who knows the worst side of me and still...' He didn't have the heart to finish and roused himself as Lisbon exited the expressway.

She pulled into the soothing green natural area. It, too, was nearly deserted. They took the cooler to a picnic table under the trees and unloaded the food: Sandwiches, potato salad, sodas, and cookies. Their repast was achingly pleasant and normal – a reprieve from hell. He felt guilty about taking a break from his quest, but not enough to cut it short. Next week would be soon enough to resume hunting a monster. They exchanged small talk and disagreed over trivia for the pleasure of their gentle jousting. More than once he caught her with an uncharacteristically soft expression and realized how shaken she must have been because of the drowning. He wryly admitted it was more than a little disturbing for him as well.

They finished and started gathering their food wrappers.

"Hey. What's that?" she asked, pointing to a bright orange fluttering in a thorny bush.

Jane frowned and walked over to get a better look. "Oh."

Lisbon took a few more steps then abruptly stopped. "What?" Her face scrunched in distaste. "Who would do something like that?" she asked as she approached the bush. The breeze ruffled the bright orange feathers of a small bird impaled on a three-inch thorn. Unmistakably dead.

The corners of Jane's mouth turned down. "Ever hear of a shrike?"

She shook her head, then hunched her shoulders as she noticed a frog impaled a foot away from the bird.

In pedantic, encyclopedic mode he said, "It's an honorary raptor – a bird of prey even though it lacks true raptor talons. It has the unpleasant habit of storing its kills on barbed wire or thorns. ... Sometimes when the prey is alive."

Amazed and appalled, "A bird does this?"

He nodded. "They're also called butcher birds – for obvious reasons."

His voice sounded odd and she turned to look at him. Jane wore the perfectly expressionless mask she often noticed when they were on Red John cases. She murmured, "Red John bird?"

Jane shook himself back to the present and took a breath. "A natural thought, but that slanders the shrike. However unpleasant, the shrike kills to eat, like all carnivores. Doesn't compare to a ... thing that kills for pleasure alone."

The ride home was quiet. Lisbon spent the evening working on files she'd brought home. Jane browsed her bookcase till he found a book to occupy him for a few hours. When he went up to shower she looked and found Jane had chosen The Sociopath Next Door.