South America, a year and three months since Red John

November, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I've thought more about Vegas. Two things I need to own. Before I "shot" you I said I loved you. I did love you. I do love you. And of course I remembered what I said. Real emotion, lousy timing. Teresa, I couldn't afford to be in love with you then. I was terrified Red John would go after you. It was bad enough he wanted your dead body as a sign of my fidelity to him (that is one twisted concept). And I couldn't trust myself. I was sick of Red John, of focusing for years on the most horrific event in my life. I was so tempted to lose myself in loving you. And then I'd destroy myself, and probably you too, with regret and self‑loathing for abandoning my duty to my family. I shouldn't have said it-not then. Having said it, I am sorry I pretended I didn't remember. You deserve better. At the very least you deserve honesty.

The second matter is Lorelei. Absent a commitment, I don't owe anyone explanations for private behavior between consenting adults. But you are a special case. By rights, the first woman since my wife should have been you. Heaven knows how much I wanted you-want you. Lorelei was a weapon used against us just as much as a gun or Red John's knife ever was.

Lorelei served me drinks a few times in Vegas. Six months after I left the CBI, she came to the bar I was hanging out at and started a conversation. I assaulted Oscar to keep him from breaking my arms and legs over a fake psychic reading, and then got arrested. I thought you put up bail. Lorelei turned up at my motel the next day with soup. She had put up the bail. She stayed and we talked. We had sex. That was the only time. The next morning she told me Red John had posted my bail and had given me the night with her. That's how he opened the conversation, the overture to make me his disciple.

The first person I was with since my wife was Red John's mistress, there at his direction. Lorelei wasn't a carrot to advertise the new life he offered. She was an attack and I walked right into it. If you want to break someone, turn someone, first destroy his self‑respect. I didn't know Lorelei would use it against you in interrogation. In another life, another universe, she and I might have had a relationship. I was sorry for her, for her life. Later, the fact that she knew Red John's name was nearly irresistible. But it was never love. It was never anything like my feelings for you. I am sorry I hurt you. This is something I badly want to put behind us. It's one of many Red John scars: One left on you through my weakness.

Re-reading this, it sounds calm, rational. It was anything but when I was living it. I was terrified Red John would discover the depth of my feelings for you. If he knew, he would hurt or kill you to control and punish me. By the final few years, my obsession with revenge was matched by Red John's obsession with me. I had no choice but to take it to the bitter end. "Either I catch you. Or you catch me." Lisbon, I was half-crazy, still grieving for my family, and terrified that, sooner or later, you would end up under his smiley face. The night Red John put his mark on you nearly pushed me over the edge. This does not excuse the times I hurt you and failed you. But I hope it explains how I could be negligent and cruel while claiming to be your friend and partner. It required every ounce of discipline and every con trick I knew to maintain a facade of control and an arm's-length relationship with you. None of it was real. I am sorry I couldn't do better.

I miss you. I have no right, but I pray you continue to miss me too.

Your partner

~.~.~.~

Washington State, November 2014

"Please pass the gravy," Rigsby asked, reaching to get it from Lisbon.

"I'm so glad you were able to come up."

"How did you get Thanksgiving and the whole weekend off? You're such a great boss you usually work the holidays yourself."

"I lucked out, Grace. Jim Peterson's wife is visiting family back East. He had to stay and tend some sick livestock on the farm. So he volunteered to cover the day shift from Thanksgiving through Sunday. Voila!

"This is really good, boss-"

"Wayne, I'm–

"–not your boss," they finished together with matching grins.

"I'm glad you like it. It's been years since I cooked a full-blown turkey dinner. A couple of times Jane and I did a mini-Thanksgiving, but that was it."

Rigsby was suddenly engrossed in helping three-year-old Ben cut up his meat. Van Pelt glanced at her husband and decided to take pity on him by relieving the tension.

"Speaking of Jane, we got a letter out of the blue," offered Van Pelt.

Lisbon's eyebrows rose in surprise and inquiry. "And?"

"It wasn't much. Sounds like he's feeling better. Happier. Maybe he misses the CBI."

"I know he misses it. Irrelevant though so long as he's exiled from the US."

"What about Abbott? Is he still after Jane?"

"Jane's smart enough to land somewhere without an extradition treaty. Abbott can't touch him."

Rigsby finally chimed in, "Well, it's a pity he can't come back. Jane did this country a lot of good by cracking the Blake Association. No one's gonna shed tears for McAllister, either."

"Water under the bridge. We did everything we could to help him. It's his life. He has to figure out what to do going forward. –Hey, have you heard anything from Karen Cross, the TV expose queen?"

Rigsby choked as he swallowed a sip of wine. Van Pelt thumped him on the back while she answered, "Yeah. Cross contacted us, sniffing around."

Lisbon looked at her speculatively. "She seemed to have a lot–a lot–of solid information. Where could she have learned that?"

"We helped her out some," Van Pelt replied calmly, thumping her husband's back again as he had another paroxysm of coughing.

"Sorry. Went down the wrong way," he managed hoarsely.

Lisbon smiled. "I thought you might be involved." She sat back in her chair. "Look. Ordinarily I don't like feeding the media sharks. But CBI is gone. Our unit is gone. And you two have no legal obligations or constraints. If helping Cross gets you a little free publicity for your agency, more power to you."

"I'm relieved to hear you say that. Frankly, we wouldn't mind some exposure. But more than that, I'm still pissed that all the terrific work your–"

"–our," interjected Lisbon.

"–unit did was overshadowed by Bertram's corruption. I want to set the record straight," said Van Pelt intensely.

"If you stick with verifiable facts, why not?" Lisbon agreed easily.

~.~.~.~

Dinner was over by 7 p.m. They visited while Ben played with toys they had brought and Maddie slept in her portable playpen. Rigsby and Van Pelt went up to Lisbon's guest bedroom by 10 p.m., kids in tow. Lisbon smiled at how thoroughly two kids wore them out. Of course, the long drive up here contributed.

Lisbon idly checked out the large fruit basket that had been delivered yesterday. She was baking pies and making side dishes in preparation for Thanksgiving dinner the next day and had barely given it a glance. She thought it was sent by the City Council, a professional acquaintance, or local business organization. She opened the card and was surprised to find a folded paper inside. Air mail envelope! Jane! The house was quiet. She glanced upstairs and was reassured that everyone else was asleep. She took a glass of cider and the envelope into the den. Flames from the fireplace leapt and danced, disconcertingly wild and cozy at the same time.

So, Jane, nothing about Thanksgiving or life in your little paradise? All about Vegas, about Lorelei? I don't know what to make of you. As she read further, her faint smile faded and sadness replaced the warm Thanksgiving afterglow.

I realized you couldn't admit what you said. That's why I didn't push it at the time. It still hurt. And I never had any inkling you were tempted to give up. Damn it, Jane, you could have let me in, told me how hard it was for you. I could have helped you more instead of feeling shut out and adding to the pressure.

Oh, God, Lorelei! I hated how she whipsawed you, how she played us. I could read you enough to tell you liked her. How could you like her when you knew your night with her–just one?!–was an attack by Red John? The thought of Red John...arranging...that night is repulsive, nauseating. Then you had to bear that becoming public, first in interrogation and then in front of Judge Manchester, the FBI drones, Bertram and me. Bertram! Blake Association and Red John man. Another humiliation, even if we didn't know at the time. And I thought she really was your lover all the while you were in Vegas. I was jealous, like some naive school girl. This was abuse, rape by proxy.

You were obsessed with turning her, getting her to betray Red John. Were you trying to erase the humiliation? I couldn't understand you at the time. I sensed some twisted bond. Sex. Revenge. Attraction. Humiliation. I think you were half-crazed, Jane. How the hell did we get through this? You killed McAllister, strangled him. But somehow your inherent decency kept you from outright torture, even after all he did to your family. And to you. No wonder you needed a clean break, regardless of the charges.

Jane, we both have to leave this in the past. I have to accept you did the best you could in accomplishing something extraordinary. If you mean it, if you love me now, you'll have to accept it will take time for me to fully trust you again. You're being amazingly candid in these letters. Can you do it in person? Let me in? Tell me the truth?

For both of us, I hope so.