Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway.
AN: So uhm, last chapter turned out to be pretty much my answer to Blue Bird, sorry about that. I didn't realise how upset I still was by that damn episode... oops. Glad so many of you enjoyed it though! x)
On another note, only five chapters and an epilogue left! The 31st of October is coming up fast, and I have to admit I have mixed feelings about seeing this story coming to an end. But we're not there yet! So in the meantime, thank you very much and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Warning: Jane's trickery in this one may not be very clear, and if you have trouble understanding what's going on, I apologise deeply. Most of the details of that stunt were created between 1 and 2 AM right before writing it (it's 4 now, and I'm knackered). I promise to go back and edit/rewrite it as soon as possible, but in the meantime feel free to ask me about the details of his plan.
Chapter 21 - Claim
They run.
She hangs up as soon as she hears the news. Patrick takes the phone from her hand and crushes it against an outer corner of the wall, removes the battery and throws the broken device on the bed. Then he does the same with his own.
"Come on," she says, already making sure all their things are packed. "Let's go."
They take the stairs, making sure they won't get trapped if the FBI is already waiting for them in the lobby or outside. But nothing seems amiss for now and they walk to the car quickly, but with enough caution that they won't stand out. She reaches it first, sits in front of the wheel and unlocks the passenger's door after starting the engine. As soon as he's seated, she drives toward the highway.
"Where are we going?" she asks, after making sure they aren't followed.
"North," he answers, fiddling with something that looks like a notebook.
She frowns.
"Back to Sacramento?"
His knuckles brush her thigh – perhaps without his knowledge, as he seems completely focused on the road before them. She smiles.
"San Francisco actually. I was thinking...
- That's dangerous," she quips.
He grins.
"Remember this?" he asks, waving the book he holds a bit. "We found this address book with Bertram's phone.
- Yes, with a map of California, right?" she frowns. "What does it have to do with anything? You told me it probably had no relation to the Blake Association.
- Well, we never could figure that. I mean, there's no proof one way or the other...
- Your point?" she says, eyebrows raised.
"We need help," he states plainly. "Law enforcement help. I was leaving this morning because Red John is about to disappear, and if I – if we don't close up on him soon, he'll vanish somewhere and we'll never be able to catch him. Before he does that, though, he'll make sure I can't reach him – either because I'm dead or in prison.
- Or in an asylum," she adds softly.
He swallows hard.
"Right," he says. "We are wanted right now for his 'murder' in the explosion, and probably for Haffner's and Bertram's too. My bet? He's using my list of suspects and killing them one after the other in order to frame me. Everybody knows what I'm planning to do when I catch him. If the list is leaked to the FBI – and he knew the names before I did, remember? It would be very easy for him to plant it somewhere, or through someone. So if that Abbott guy figured out why they're all dying, then I'm their prime suspect. It's no wonder Cho was arrested – Rigsby and Van Pelt probably are, too.
- Aiding and abetting," she mutters, heart clenching with worry. "What about Stiles? He was a suspect, too. Why didn't he kill him? He's in FBI custody, it would be very easy to get access to him with his contacts.
- Maybe he already is," he answers quietly. "We wouldn't know – and that's my point. We need an in – we need someone to be our ear, tell us what is happening so that we can make plans of our own. Right now, we don't have the full picture. But," he adds, grinning. "We do know someone who could help – who would feel obligated to help really."
And he's giving her that playful look, all smug grin and bright eyes – that look he gets when he feels so clever and wants her to ask him what he has in mind. But she spent ten years working with him, and six days now in his quasi-exclusive company. She's starting to understand how he thinks.
"So... J.J. LaRoche?"
It's her turn to grin smugly when surprise flickers on his features. Then he starts pouting, and she laughs.
"That address book waving gave you away," she says, taking pity on him.
"I'm going to have to step my game around you, Miss Lisbon. Are you sure you aren't psychic?" he grins.
"Someone very clever keeps telling me there is no such thing," she smiles back.
His knuckles brush against her thigh again, and this time she takes his hand and squeeze.
"What if he's a member of the conspiracy?" she asks.
"Then it means he isn't a stranger to favours, and that we can get to Red John all the quicker," he says, squeezing her hand back. "We'll be fine. I've got you – and you've got guns."
She rolls her eyes, then smiles – reluctantly, but smiles all the same. They drive in silence for a while, revelling in the company of each other – revelling in those small touches akin to learning a new language, establishing a new dialogue.
She jumps when something on the dashboard starts flashing and making a shrill noise.
"Crap, we're out of gas again," she groans. "I swear, after this week I'm not leaving town for a year.
- It does get a bit tiring," he says distractedly. "Here, turn right at the next stop, we passed a signboard for a gas station five minutes ago.
- Mhm. I saw it. I'm starving too. Do you have enough cash left? Do you need to find – or, you know, make more?
- Don't worry about that, we still have plenty."
She nearly drives past the gas station again, comes back in a u-turn – and finally stops right where she needs to, in front of the gas pump. They get out.
"How much did you win exactly?" she asks, frowning as she picks up the pump and slides the nozzle in the tank.
"Meh, you don't want to know," he grins. "Enough to last another week at least."
She shakes her head.
"Oh God no, not another week of that! Grab some sandwiches or something? And a muffin. I'd really like a muffin.
- I'll get you the bear claw you really want," he says, waving – already reaching the door.
She rolls her eyes.
Typical.
She joins him once the tank is full. He's browsing the fresh food section, a bear claw in hand and two bottles of water in the other. She comes from behind him, picks up the bottles and kisses the corner of his mouth.
"What would you like?" he asks, his eyes just a bit brighter than before. "There's chicken, beef, ham and swiss cheese, some sort of vegetarian... paste thing... None of those look fresh, it's a bit disappointing.
- Ham and Swiss cheese. Those get picked up the most, so they're fresh. Usually. Wait, is that tomato?
- Looks like it."
She makes a face.
"Who puts tomato in a ham sandwich?! No wonder the bread is all soggy!
- No tomato in ham sandwich, duly noted," he chuckles. "Oh look, glasses!
- Those are reading glasses. You don't need that.
- Well, we are on the run, Teresa. A little disguise can't hurt.
- A normal person would pick sunglasses. But I guess it's your headache..."
As they walk to the counter, however, Patrick freezes in his tracks.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
"Look up," he whispers.
She does, and – oh.
Crap.
Crap.
Their pictures are on-screen – old pictures, and they don't have the same hair colour anymore, but their names are written in full letter, their faces are easily recognisable. And under the frames, she can read alarming words.
Dangerous.
Armed.
Serial killers.
"We need to get out of here before someone sees us," she says, eyes still glued to the screen.
"That might be a problem," he answers quietly.
She glances his way – and realises he isn't looking at the screen, but at the cashier. The pale-faced, wide-eyes, open-mouthed cashier, who is currently holding a phone to his ear.
Acting on instinct, she rummages through his pockets, picks up a wad of cash and throws it on the counter.
"For the gas!" she yells, dragging Patrick after her to the car.
They drive away in a hurry, tyres screeching and clouds of sand following them on a dozen feet. Feeling anxious, she pushes the car quicker than she normally would – until she realises Patrick is quietly laughing beside her.
"What's funny?
- You," he answers with a chuckle. "Only you would bother paying for gas in this situation.
- We're not thieves," she says, frowning.
"That's what I'm talking about. How much time before we reach San Francisco?
- About half an hour. We're getting close to San Leandro.
- Think you can make that twenty minutes?"
She turns to him – and realises she can hear police sirens in the distance.
Crap crap crap.
"No need to panic," he says. "Eyes on the road.
- That kid probably gave them our license plates.
- Yes, but it doesn't mean they will catch up with us."
Wide-eyed, she turns to him.
"Are you mad? If we're caught in a car chase, we're done! Nobody escapes those out of action movies.
- We'll be fine, Teresa. Now really, eyes on the road please. You're making me a little nervous here."
The sirens are slowly getting closer.
"Alright," he suddenly says. "This is what we're going to do. As soon as we get near the airport, get off the highway. We're going to make it look like as if we're planning to take a flight.
- They'll never believe that! They must have put us on the no-flight list a week ago!
- Ah, yes, but the funny thing about airports is they have parking lots – a lot of them. They'll assume we want to change cars, so they'll follow. Then they'll realise we abandoned our vehicle, so half of them will scour the parking lots and the other half, naturally, will check if we tried to booked a flight.
- But we didn't.
- Actually, I did," he grins. "Flight to Chicago – it leaves in... ah, an hour and a half. Perfect timing," he adds with a quick glance to his watch.
She blinks.
"How?!
- I still had my phone this morning," he answers, shrugging. "It was a misdirect, of course, I had no intention to take that flight. My point is – "
He then proceeds to explain one of the most convoluted, demented, impossibly stupid plan she ever heard since that one where she had to let him shoot her. Feeling a bit shell-shocked, she stares at him in horror for a second before she remembers she's still on the road, driving a car.
"That's a lot of 'ifs' to base a plan on," she says.
"And that is the exit to the airport," he grins.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," she mutters, turning the car sharply.
She can't see the police cars behind them, but she can hear them – either she plays along or they get caught. And while she's pretty sure Patrick can get out of custody easily – he did it at least once that she know of – she's aware she can't do the same.
Prison isn't an interesting venue.
Once in the inside parking, they stop the car in the middle of the alley and, after picking up the bare essentials – Bertram's phone and address book, their three guns – they leave the area.
"Good luck," she says before parting ways.
She doesn't need to add more. He knows.
Still muttering her prayers, she crouches behind a pillar and waits. Somewhere, water is dripping. Less than five minutes later – five minutes that seem an eternity – she finally hears them.
She just hopes this will work. If it doesn't, they'll be in very, very deep trouble.
Tyres screeching. Doors slamming. Angry voices yelling.
They found the car.
Eyes half-closed, she tries to count the number of different voices she hears.
One... young man barely out of his teens...
Two... middle-aged woman with a thick southern accent...
Running footsteps. Yells again. She won't dare look around the pillar – not yet.
Three... that one has a Spanish lilt...
Four...
They're still too close. She needs them to leave.
Go away. Come on!
Five – a new voice, low and rumbly. Giving orders. Coming her way. Coiled in unbearable tension, she waits. Counts to ten. To twenty.
Still coming closer.
Too close.
She bolts.
Footsteps follow her. Quickly – they are running after her, and others are still yelling in the distance. She tries to dodge, to run around cars, to escape. The exit is near – if she can just reach it...
And then the man tackles her, and she hits the ground – hard.
She feels blood trickling from her lip.
"I got her!" he yells, nearly sitting on her back. "Where's your accomplice, huh? Where's Patrick Jane?"
"You won't get him!" she spits. "He's gone already!
- Yeah? We'll see. If he's still around, guys, find him! I'll bring this one back to the station. Teresa Lisbon, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."
Full of defiance, she keeps her mouth shut – and glares as soon as she's allowed to be back on her feet. He takes her guns – her own, and the one with the silencer. Cold metal circles her wrists, startling her, and she's pushed roughly in the back seat of a police car.
She never thought she'd one day get to see it from this perspective.
Leaning her forehead against the metal wire, she closes her eyes, prays again. The car starts – slowly at first, then a bit quicker. She keeps her eyes closed. Keeps praying. They get outside the parking lot – sunlight hits her face.
The car stops.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners...
People are talking outside, but she doesn't listen, can't listen – blood is pulsing too loudly in her ears.
Then the car starts again, picks up speed quickly. It turns, and turns again, and suddenly she realises the quick pace they're going at means they're on the highway.
Only then does she let out the breath she was holding.
"Hey," he says quietly, glancing at her in the mirror. "Are you alright?
- Yeah," she mumbles. "I think you bruised my ribs with that tackle.
- Sorry. I did learn from the best."
He grins at her, all wet hair smoothed on his head and squinting behind glasses he doesn't need.
"You were very convincing back there," he says, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Right back at you," she laughs. "How did you manage to get the cuffs?
- Easily," he says flippantly. "The first officer to get inside had them well in sight, right beside his badge. I lifted both at the same time.
- They're still on my wrists, by the way," she grins. "Kinky much?"
His mouth opens and closes without letting out a sound. He looks deeply startled – which is exactly what she was trying to achieve. She laughs again, and he rolls his eyes, making her laugh even harder.
He drives them across the Oakland bridge before turning in a quiet street and stopping the car. Only then does he let her out and removes the cuffs from her wrists – very obviously putting them in his pocket with a devilish grin instead of throwing them back on the seat. She blushes, and he's the one laughing this time.
"How far are we from LaRoche's?" she asks as they start walking along the street.
"Far," he answers. "I know you said we're not thieves, but... We'll have to, uhm, borrow a new car to get there."
She makes a face, and shakes her head.
"Sometimes I think there won't be a law left in the book that we didn't break when this is over," she grumbles.
He stops near a dark sedan parked on the side – unlocks the door in less than a second and slides in the driver's seat.
"Hop in," he grins. "Time to claim a debt."
Tomorrow's prompt: Panic