Been down, not in the mood, for a few days. I have hacked the plot a few times and I have a kind-of-sort-of finale on the cards.

This chapter is just me writing to get back into the flow. I hope to finish this little story this weekend.

A long flight.

"How do I get the photo I took from this," he asked, wiggling the phone, "into that?"
Teresa fiddled with the laptop, and showed him. He attached the image of Darcy to an empty post and published it.
"It's done," he said, with little satisfaction; it was a distasteful moment.
Jane slumped back, "Ah, Lisbon," he looked dejected.
"What's on your mind?"
He toyed with the armrest, not answering. He looked vacant, lost.
"Jane?" she prompted him.
"I don't really have a plan," he said, stilling his hands and looking at her.
"What did you expect?" she asked, "A script?"
He clenched his hand into a fist, "We're gambling that John will follow us, that he will draw himself thin."
She sat back, saying, "I'm feeling we are losing our home advantage."
"We'll all be thin, then," he sighed.
"You know," he continued after a quiet pause, "we have to get him into the same space as us. We have to finish this somehow." He went silent again, his eyes seeing nothing.
She wondered whether he was back inside his mind, working on the problem.

"How do I isolate him Angela?"
"I don't know darling. Not yet."
"We could go to that little place," he said.
"The Restios, where we stayed ten years ago?"
"Yes, it's remote enough."
"And then?"
"Let him know."
"Why would he walk into a trap?"

"I just don't know," he'd said it aloud, back in the jet.
Teresa glanced-up, "That makes two of us Jane, I'm trying to think it through."
He smiled, knowing that her first-rate mind would not sit idle.
She shared her thoughts, "We have disturbed his nest."
"But has it been enough? What if Stiles missed him?"
She continued, "We've clipped Darcy's wings."
"And Lorelei? She could be back at work."
Teresa scowled, "I suspect she's either dead or — worse."
Jane nodded fatefully.
"We have hurt his ability to see into the CBI, we have isolated him." she said.
"And, so far, he's playing this pointless game," Jane said.
"Yes," she confirmed, "we're ahead and he seems to be angry."
Jane paused again. The sound of the jet was the only constant.
Finally he said, "But what next?"
Teresa didn't know what to say.

"I am going to need a lure," he told the ghost.
"And you know who that will be," she replied, circling.
The colours in the palace took on a red tinge. The circus-ring became a muddy broth of blood. As Angela walked, her feet pushed the thick mud, slowing her down.
"This won't do," she said.
The ghost waved her hand and the blood began to dry. The air shifted to an older hue. Now Jane sat in a sunset of rust. The ring was drying out, rust piled to the sides as she circled.
"I trust you Patrick," she said.
"Do you?"
"Yes, you will not allow her to come to harm."
"Is it not worth it to stop him?"
"And then what?"
"I will— End."
"Then it's not worth it," she said loudly. "Be smarter."

He jerked back into the world. Teresa was lying in a curve on her seat. Her head was on the armrest, her eyes closed.
"No," he thought, "I will not tempt John by using you." It was a promise, backed by his very life.

Where was the old Teresa, she asked herself? The jet throbbed under her cheek. The idea of killing Red John no longer seemed outrageous. Trying to capture him. Taking his arms down behind his back to cuff him. Touching him— It made her sick.
The old Teresa would have been fighting Jane, looking for every chance to bring the monster to justice.
Then Rigsby— Benjamin had not been abstract like Jane's daughter, she had held him; laughed with the others to see his little face.
She sighed, trying to dismiss the conflict. Here I am, she thought, outside the law with Jane. With Jane and going straight to hell.

"Jane?" she turned to see him already watching her, smiling.
"I'm afraid," she said softly.
He made to speak, but she held her hand up.
"I— What if," she stumbled. "What if I have the chance and I don't take the shot?"
"I trust you," he replied.
Her eyes pulsed, "To kill him?"
"No," he leaned forward, his arms folded over his knees, "I trust you to be yourself. Whatever happens, will be the right thing."
She couldn't reply.
He shifted position, widening his feet to perch better, "If you take him down and arrest him, I'll—" he paused, "—help you."
She blinked, wiped her eyes.
"And what if I'm too slow? What if he kills you?" she asked.
It was nearly impossible to surprise Jane. He thought in probabilities which meant there was always a chance of something going wrong; he expected failure.
"How did I not see that coming?" he said, off-balance and puzzled.
"You didn't think he may get you?" she asked.
"No, that's always there," he said. "I never thought you'd be—"
"Afraid of losing you." she stated.
"Yes."
She smiled, "Jane, it's my job to protect you."
"I— It's mine to protect you." he confessed.

"Told you so," Angela said, walking the ring of rust.
"She surprised me," he still could not believe it.
"Why can't you?" his reflection pushed, sharing his mind.
He thought it over. Everything Lisbon had done since they'd first met was evidence. She fought him, she resisted. She tried to curb him but never to control. She never once shied-away from harm when he was in trouble.
"Even when you left," Angela reminded him. "She called. She didn't sleep."
"But— I'm—" he began.
"A conman. Damaged. Filled with hate and longing for murder."
"All that."
She paused her walk, facing him on his bench, "You've changed."
"But—"
"No buts. If I say you've changed, then it's so." she walked-on.

She watched him zone-out again. His withdrawn expression suddenly irked. She sat-up and adopted his pose. When he came-to, she grinned to see him flinch.
"I never surprise you Jane," she said, a little cocky, "but here it's happened twice in a few minutes."
"You are a constant surprise my dear," he replied. "Sorry, I guess I—"
"I get it, you visit your palace. Only I wish you wouldn't."
He winced, "Why?"
"I don't like it when you go away," she spoke the simple truth.
He laughed nervously, rubbing his head, "There, you did it again."
She turned serious again, "A minute ago you told me you'd help if I arrested him."
"I did."
"That's not like you."
"I've changed Lisbon," he looked into her eyes, "You changed me."
It was her turn to be surprised. She felt a current of emotions battering her trunk, but she dug her heels in, kept it closed.
He saw her fighting something internal, private.
"I know what it's like," he said.
She gave him that dubious eyebrow-raised, what-are-on? look.
He had to smile, "Internal conversations. Hard to control aren't they?"
She nodded, still firmly pressing the trunk's lid down.
"Changed how Jane?" she asked after a beat.
"I'd rather show you," he said.
"Uh—"
"Watch what I do, less what I say," he finished, leaning back again.
Could she dare trust him? She leaned-back, wondering what he'd meant.
He said he'd help me arrest Red John. It had to mean something.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" his voice broke her thoughts.
"Can you?" she decided to parry that, it felt right. She heard him give a small laugh.
"I can. Why don't you date?" he asked.
"I date," she defended, looking at the curved ceiling of the jet.
"In over eight years, you've been out with Mashburn once," he accused.
"How did you know?" Scratch that, she thought, he'd now.
"That's not the point," he answered.
"What is your point?" she said, a little harshly.
He looked at her and saw her watching him, "Eight years, no relationships. That tells me you're damaged or waiting."
She gasped.
"Which is it Lisbon?"
"You don't have the right to ask me that," she said, getting angry.
Jane made a peace sign with his hands, "I didn't mean to upset you."
"Then what?" she sighed, feeling hopeless. He was right, of course, she was waiting. The trunk was full of insane hopes and desires, and there they would stay.
"I think you know." he said.
Anger filled her. She sat upright.
"You think I'm waiting for you!"
He followed her, "I do."
"Dream on pal."
"Well," he paused, studying her, "I could be wrong."
"Yeah, imagine that!"
"The thing is—"
"What thing, Jane?" her voice put quotes around the word. "You're a fine one to ask me about relationships!"
He blinked, hiding the pain her words caused.
"I'm sorry," she quickly said.
He showed her he didn't mind with a small grin.
"What's the thing?" she asked after a while.
"I'm waiting too."
Her mouth formed an, "Oh."
His face said yes, crazy isn't it?
She smiled, "Totally crazy," but her eyes betrayed hope.
"From one damaged person to another," he said, "it's possible to wait too long."
Feeling awkward, she withdrew into her seat. He felt the moment pass, he'd said it, it was out. He felt lighter — but that always ushered a greater weight.
"Jane?" her voice came from the shadows.
"Yes?"
"You— You caught me off-guard. Just—"
He waited.
"—wait a little longer. Okay?"
He felt dizzy, "I'm good at that."
"Yeah, you sure are."

The co-pilot shook Jane's shoulder, "Wake up Sir, we are approaching the airport."
Jane thanked him and took a moment to shrug-off sleep. He wondered how long he'd been out. Looking over at Lisbon, he was reluctant to wake her. She had curled into a ball that emitted little squeaks. He soaked-up the moment, committing it to memory. Her wing in his palace was now the largest room in there. Under the circus ring, down a helical staircase and into another world.
He stood and then bent to touch her shoulder.
"Wake up sleepy head," he said softly.
She stretched and he held his breath.
"Hey," she said, looking up at him in the pure innocence that lasts only seconds as sleep flees.
He smiled down at her, wishing such moments could last forever.
"We're there," he said, instead of what he wanted to say.

..xx..

They took a hire-car to their next secure location. Cape Town was cold and wet, it was winter, but the rain was brief and the skies were clearing. The drive was confusing, every road seemed to bend and dip and rise.
"Where are we going again?" she asked, looking out of the windows at all the houses stacked in precarious steps up the steep slopes of the mountains.
"Clifton beach," he replied.
She grinned, "You can chase crabbies again Jane."
"Or seagulls," he said.

The place was humble, compared to the expensive mansions that littered the place, seemingly scattered like rockfalls. It was set low, down from the road and hidden between trees. The beach was a glorious stretch of turbid water and white sand, visible from every part of the front.
They unpacked and found themselves standing at the porch-doors just staring.
"I actually slept," he said.
"Me too."
"Must be a record."
She bumped him with her shoulder, "Time for food."

"We face the same problem here," Teresa said, laying her empty bowl aside. They had ordered out from a plastic menu that was stuck to the fridge.
Jane took a last mouthful, prompting her with a look.
"Here we are, how do we get John to come?"
"Meh," he said, wiping his mouth and putting his spoon down.
She arched her brows, "Really? Meh, is all you've got?"
"I feel strangely unconnected to the problem."
"But Jane—"
"Look at where we are Lisbon!" he exclaimed, sweeping the view with his hand. "Let's just forget for a day."
She felt she should be shocked, or at least puzzled by his attitude, but she was on similar lines. Their last talk, their first real talk, and the flight from America had left her feeling surreal.
"Let's go for a walk on the beach," he said with sudden enthusiasm. He leaped-up and held his hand out. She gazed at it for a second.
"Good plan," she said, taking it.

..xx..

Detective Bakeni of murder and robbery, Cape Town CID, was not happy that he had to trudge through the biting rain and cold to cross from his beaten-up car into the foreign Church. He had been called from his home where his gas-heater kept him company and his small television kept him busy.
"Molo Detective," said Koos, one of his fledgling team members. He looked no happier than his Boss, but he put a brave face on.
Bakeni greeted the boy and asked, "Why are we here?"
"Moord." Murder, Koos used the Afrikaans word. He led his Boss into the Visualize Church, out of the cold.
They followed the general bustle of people, tracking the tension upstairs until they came to the crime scene.
Koos related the facts as they stood, "This man, Hilton van der Joost, was found by that woman," he pointed to a crying girl in an adjoining room.
"And that?" Bakeni asked, looking at the red smiling face painted on the wall.
Koos shrugged, "Wietie." It was slang for having no idea.
"Detective?" A querulous voice from the side attracted attention.
"Yes?" Bakeni asked. He turned to see Mtutu, his senior detective holding an evidence bag. It was unlike the stalwart man to be upset by death. God knows the things they had to see every day in the Cape Flats ganglands had hardened them all, but this kill was obscene, even to them.
"What is it?" he asked Mtutu.
"A letter, in blood." the man handed it over, trying not to touch it.

..xx..

"I have called you here because Red John has, it appears, killed again," LaRoche spoke to the team in his office.
"Where?" Rigsby asked immediately.
"South Africa."
"What?" exclaimed Grace.
LaRoche studied them, "You sound surprised, but you don't look it," he said.
Cho glanced down.
"Something you want to tell me?" asked the relentless detective.
"Okay," Grace admitted, "we spoke to Stiles. We—"
"Already know about Cape Town?" LaRoche finished.
They all nodded quickly.
"Well, that saves me time," he said, looking fierce.
"Chief.."
"No need Agent Cho, you are all on a plane within the hour. The FBI want you along on this."
"What can we do in a foreign country?" Wayne asked.
"I'll worry about liaising with the South African Police," he said, "You get on that plane,"
They scurried out of the office.

..xx..

Jane was stoking the wood fire. Teresa sat on the couch and watched him. It had been an abstract day, they had stuck close to the house and to each other. Silence had spoken for their tentative emotions, banter had kept it all light and fun.
She was happy and scared. All day she had wanted to say something about waiting, something about soon, but she didn't trust this spell they were under.
"You missed a bit," she said, pointing.
"Tah," he stabbed a log with the poker, drawing it closer to the flames.

"Have I really changed?" he asked Angela, while he faced the fire.
"I've changed, ergo you've changed," she said, walking slowly. The ring held her feet in a clear path between the drifts of rust. He watched only that, as she went past him. He imagined that he could see through her feet, as if the entire circus was becoming translucent.
"So quickly?" he continued doubting.
"You know the answer to that," she said simply.
"When did I let go of you?" he asked.
"When you started waiting for her."
"When was that?"
Angela stopped and stepped out of the ring. He froze. This was not supposed to happen, it was impossible.
"Angela.."
"My darling, myself," she said, coming to stand before him. "Does it matter when?"
"You—"
"I am dead and gone, you are here and now."
"Now," Jane intoned.

"Yes, now," Teresa was saying.
"Eh?" he came back.
"Come sit down, I mean," she said.
"Oh. Right," he placed the poker and turned towards her. She patted the couch next to her.
"We should talk," he said.
"Blah blah blah," she joked. "When has that ever worked?"
"I thought it went well on the jet," he said, crossing and flopping down.
"It did, but we say so much more when we shut up."
Jane kept his hands in his lap. The fire was still nascent, it had not yet warmed the room. The Cape night washed the windows in squalls, howling like a lonesome beast.
Teresa looked to the side, trying to read his face. She gasped to see him doing the same.
"Get anything?" she asked.
He smiled, "I used to think I could see right through you."
"I see you," she said boldly. "Hello.."
He lifted a hand and pushed it across the space between them. She started the same motion. A phone rang.

"Who's?" he asked, the magic suddenly dispelled.
"Mine," she answered it. "Walter?" she put it on speaker.
"Hey you two, how do you like the little cabin?"
"Pshaw!" Teresa mocked, "It's so small and dingy."
Walter laughed, but there was a tension in the sound.
"Something's wrong," Jane said.
"Ever astute Jane," Walter said, his humour gone. "Red John just killed the Operator of the Cape Town Visualize branch."
"What?" said Teresa, feeling a new kind of cold.