A/N: I'm going to go ahead and warn you. This is a very very dark chapter. House Calls, I toned it down, so you really don't have to see *all* of Copola's injuries. There will probably be two or three more chapters of this story (if you aren't grossed out or depressed too much by it). Not all of them will be this dark. All mistakes are mine. I don't own these characters, like I said before, that's probably a good thing. LOL I hope I don't run you off with this chapter...

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Chapter 11: The Dead Men

Patrick Jane staggered back and sat down hard on the coffee table feet from the 52" flat screen. He had done what the note had asked. He had pressed play, and part of him really wished he hadn't.

It was like a car wreck. One of these horrific ones on the interstate where one car has been tossed around like a tin can and the other is so badly contorted it doesn't even look like a vehicle any more. He couldn't look away. He wanted too, well part of him wanted too. But he couldn't. He was drawn into what we being projected to him. He had to know what happened next.

On the screen in front of him laid the digitalized Jason Copola, bloody and panting on the floor. Jane's eyes instinctively went to the place where the rug was now. That's why it didn't look like it belonged because it didn't. It wasn't there on the tv. Jane knew it had been placed there to cover blood splatters. Perfect.

The officer was laying on the floor with dark scarlet rivers running from various points on his anatomy. Like he'd been gouged or poked with something sharp. But what could have done it in that many locations? His face was pale, sweaty, and contorted in agony. His legs..... even Jane had to look away when the camera panned down to the man's knees.... or at least what was left of them. The only way Jane could get his mind to register the visual was to think of shooting fish in a barrel, and how each would explode upon impact.

"Patrick Jane." The man on tv said through deep and shallow breaths. "I have a mess-- a message from the man you call Red John. He says that-- he says--" the man coughed and a crimson liquid trickled to the floor. "I can't do this." The camera flickered off and came back on. From the time stamp on the bottom of the picture, it was about a minute later. Jason was panting heavier now, a new blue bruise encasing his right eye. "Mr. Jane. Red John told me he would let me go if I did this favor for him. So-- so, I am. I'm confessing," he coughed again, his eyes rolling around in his head. "Confessing-- to killing those women. The Faith girl, the other two, the Manning girl tonight, the suicides. I-- I killed them. I couldn't let them think that what you-- told them was the truth. I couldn't--- have them believing your lies any more. So, I gave them what they-- what they really wanted. To be with their family. Red John had nothing to do with it. And for saying he did, I am sor-- sorry." Jason's eyes darted away from the camera and focused on a spot behind and up from it. "Is- is that good enough? Let me go now, ok?"

Again, the camera jumped, this time three minutes ahead. Jason was no longer in the living room. In fact, Jason was no longer on the screen. It was a picture of a piece of white paper with black letters that said simply, "Bedroom."

Jane stood, legs weak from watching what had happened to the officer, and started looking for any door that might lead him to the bedroom. He had his gun securely in hand. To the left of the living room was the kitchen. He dare not turn on a light for fear of luring Red John out of hiding prematurely. The lamp from the living room cast a very dim shadow in the room, enough for him to see the door across the way, and the butcher knife apparently waiting for him on the kitchen island.

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Grace began waking up more which meant she felt more pain. Rigsby had begged her to let them call the nurse for some pain medicine, but she vehemently declined saying that she'd been drugged enough for one night.

"So, does anyone know where Jane went?" Rigsby asked curiously, sitting on the side of Grace's bed.

"I told you." Grace answered annoyed that he hadn't remembered or believed her. "He's gone to kill him."

"Who?" Cho said, sitting backward in the chair at the foot of her bed. "Red John or the cop?"

"Both. Neither. I don't know." And she didn't. Her head hurt. Everything had happened so suddenly that night, but it also felt like it was the night that would never end. She'd waken in and out of consciousness, hearing different things. One of the things she heard was while she was in the hospital room. She's felt Jane gently rubbing her forehead and heard him tell her not to worry. That he'd take care of Red John and the man that killed her sister. There was no doubt in her mind that he had meant it. "Both." she answered now certain.

"What do we do, Boss?" Cho asked turning to Lisbon who was leaning against the wall behind him.

Lisbon had thought of nothing else since Jane had left the room earlier. She knew he'd had a hunch and she'd known that he'd probably find Red John, and therein laid her dilemma. She knew Jane as well as anyone could. He'd been consumed with revenge for the murder of his family for years, and who could blame him? Anyone in the exact same situation would think the same... but there was a difference between thinking it, planning it as a way of coping, and actually doing it. If Jane killed Red John then he'd go to jail: Do not pass go, do not collect $200. She'd never see him again except behind bullet proof visiting glass, and that scared her more than she thought it could. However, if she did interfere... if she did stop him, then for the second time that night, she would have let Red John go free and Jane would probably never forgive her.

"Boss?" Cho asked again, his brow raised. It wasn't like Lisbon to not answer him right away. To not know an answer. He understood as much as any of them, though. No one knew what the right answer was.

"You have to stop him." Grace said breaking the silence. "You have to stop him from killing those men."

"They deserve it." Rigsby pointed out, his voice dark. If he could kill Red John himself for what he did to Grace , he would. But since he couldn't, he'd be Jane's cheering section.

"Yes," Grace replied, gently placing her hand on his. "But Jane doesn't deserve to rot in prison for it."

Rigsby stood mesmerized by her. If he were in her shoes, he'd be foaming at the mouth, anxiously waiting the phone call saying those SOBs were dead. But not Grace. Grace was thinking about Jane. What was best for Jane. What Jane could live with... what she could live with. "You are an amazing woman." he said softly, then caught himself before he gave into the urge to kiss her marred cheek.

Grace smiled as best she could at him, and he maneuvered his hand around where he was holding hers instead of the other way around.

"So, what's the verdict?" Cho questioned.

"We don't even know where he went exactly." Rigsby put in.

"Oh, I know. I know exactly where he went." Lisbon said closing her eyes. Jane might not have said where he was going, but she knew him. She knew where he was. "Give him ten more minutes, then we'll go." She hoped it was the right answer.

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Flashes.

That was what his life was now.

Flashes.

Past and present mixing together.

Walking toward the bedroom door.

Her room.

His room.

All the same room.

Upstairs.

Across the kitchen.

Same bad feeling.

To the bedroom door.

To the bedroom door.

White door.

Brown wooden door.

His hand reached for the sliver knob.

The small oval knob.

Dear Mr. Jane...

No note... not this time. No--

Open the door.

Open the door then---

Loud bang. Very loud. A gunshot.

The red smiling face.

The same red face. This time mocking him from a mirror instead of the wall.

It was the first thing he saw when he entered the room. His eyes had found that when he'd opened the door. The first thing his ears heard was the gunshot. It took him a while before his head could understand what had happened. He didn't feel pain, so he knew he wasn't hit, and he knew he hadn't been the one who pulled the trigger. He dropped the knife and pulled out his own gun which he had tucked in his waistband before opening the door and quickly scanned the room. It was dark except for the light from a modern black and white lamp by the bedside. With it, he could see light and shadows across the room. Before he could register the scene, his eyes scanned the room and immediately saw the open window. The curtains billowed out from the outside breeze.

He was gone.

Cursing, he quickly ran to the window and watched as his own blue car drove off without him.

Jane slammed the window shut with intense anger. He slammed the gun down on the dresser under the smiley face and paced, running his fingers through his golden hair roughly. Grunting angrily, he threw a violent punch to the wall which left his own knuckles red.

Breathing in fast rigid breaths trying to compose himself, he finally went over to see if there was possibly any life in the officer tied to the bed. He couldn't image there would be.

Upon inspection of the room, he saw that the door had been rigged with a gun, probably Lisbon's, and pulley system to fire when it was opened. He supposed Copola had been laying there, mouth bound, crying silently in pain, praying that Jane didn't open the door. Red John had undoubtedly let him in on his little plan. Jane had opened it, and Copola had received a gunshot wound to the arm for his trouble. It was clearly a shot not intended to kill. So what was the reason? Copola's arms were shackled to the bedposts with handcuffs, probably his own. There was no need to tie down his legs. Walking to him, Jane felt for a pulse. Just as a formality. He jumped when not only did he feel a pulse, but the officer's eyes opened and began pleading with him. Startled, Jane pulled Copola's gag down and watched as the man spat out blood.

"Hel-- help me." he whispered between coughs. "Please."

Jane pulled out his cellphone, had his finger on the 9, then stopped. Was there a total difference between Jason Copola and Red John? Both were killers. Both hurt people he cared about. Both deserved to die. He had gone there to kill Red John like he had planned for five years. Copola too if needed for killing those women and bringing with him the wrath of Red John. Red John was gone. Why did he have to save this bastard who was pretty much already dead anyway? Dead like he was on the inside. He had to laugh to himself. So many dead men in that room.

"You killed those women." he said, holding his phone indecisively.

Jason nodded, tears spilling from his swelling eyes. "I did them a favor. You hurt them. It's your fault." Funny how he didn't stutter any of that out. Jane smiled darkly, closed his phone, and began walking away. "Wha-- what? Come back."

"I'm doing you a favor." he shrugged not looking back. He heard Copola whimpering behind him, but didn't care. He couldn't get Red John not on that night, but he damn well needed some vengeance from someone. Maybe he'd lose some of himself letting Copola die, but he didn't care at the moment. There wasn't much left anyway. Jason would die either way, either in that bed or in prison. What did it matter? Give the tax payers a break as it were. On the back of the bedroom door in the faintest of light and written in red was the word Murderer. Next to it was another smiley face. This one's grin seemed to be broader like it was laughing at him, pleased with him.

Red John was playing him. Seeing what he'd do.. knowing what he'd do. Probably showing him that they weren't all that different: he and Jane.

Not stopping to do anything else, Jane exited the room and walked out of the house.

So many dead men.