Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway.
AN: First chapter of the two-parts finale, and last Lisbon PoV! Are you ready for it?
To be honest, I'm not – I spent parts of the evening bawling my eyes out at the thought of what I was going to have to write, and when I finally calmed down, Red John decided to be even more horrible than I originally thought he could be. So please, read the warnings carefully, and don't hurt me? This chapter was excruciating to write and I'm hurting enough already.
Warning: As per the rule, no good fluff goes unpunished. This one is heavy on torture descriptions, both emotional and physical, and pretty much all the chapter is made of shootings/threatening with guns. If you're familiar with TV tropes, "Break the Cutie" is pretty much it. There's also a canon character death, a small graphic mention of unsafe sex, religious talk and some dissociation descriptions. If anything in that list triggers you, please stay safe. (And if you need comfort after reading this, go back to the last one.)
Chapter 25 - War
The air is fresh and clean after yesterday's thunderstorm. Water drops clinging to grass blades wet the rim of her trousers as she walks between tombstones, slowly making her way along the alleys. The flowers she holds in her hand are sweet-smelling and colourful, especially vivid when morning light shines on them.
Blue and yellow. She deliberately avoided red.
When she finds the graves she was looking for, she stops – unmoving for a while, as she calmly considers the stark letters on otherwise blank stone. Then she lays down the bouquet between them and joins her hands in front of her.
"Hi," she whispers.
A small breeze shakes the leaves in the tree nearby, and she smiles sadly.
"I'm pretty sure you know me already. You must have spent a lot of time around Patrick in the last ten years. I mean – that's what I would do, if I was..."
She takes a deep breath, releases it.
"So you know what we're going to do today. You know how dangerous it is. It's a big gambit. And I came here hoping to ask you – ask you to take care of him. Make sure he's safe and sound at the end of the day."
She watches for a moment the patches of sunlight dancing on Charlotte's tombstone.
"I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you when you were alive. You must have been incredible people if Patrick loved you so much."
She swallows hard.
"And I'm sorry he had to lose you so that I could meet him. But I'm not sorry we met. I love him."
The wind shakes the leaves again, plays with her hair.
"I know you did too, so I'm begging you. Keep him safe. Keep him sound. Please make sure nothing bad happens to him today, or any day after – I don't want to lose him."
She closes her eyes, crosses herself – and when a car drives past, below in the nearby street, she knows it's time to go.
"Thank you," she says quietly, turning away.
Circling around the graves, she walks fast toward the Western entrance, glancing around cautiously on her way. But at this hour, most people are away – holding normal working hours, doing normal things. For a second she can't remember what day of the week it is, and she stops in the middle of an alley, frowning deeply – counting on her fingers.
The day of the meeting was a Thursday, she recalls. Friday they were attacked at the hospital and went into hiding – then the next day she met with Ray in the evening, and after the night shooting they drove all the way to Vegas. Then on Sunday they overslept, and dyed their hair – and she smiles, thinking back on the moment she shared with Patrick. She should've just kissed him then and there.
On Monday, Cordero's shack – and her mind skirts away from what they found there. Then they drove to Carson Springs, and on Tuesday they were attacked again, after which they went to Santa Monica, and thank God for Cho and the team. On Wednesday they escaped police custody and drove to J.J.'s, and the day after that –
The day after that was yesterday, which means today is Friday again.
Frowning still, she slows her pace, reaches a small stone bench facing the Western Gate's chapel and sits, deep in thoughts.
What do normal people do on a Friday morning?
They go to work, she realises. They have lunch with co-workers, they waste some parts of the afternoon yelling at their consultant, and in the evening, they spend quality time with friends. Or they stay at home and watch a movie. And eat ice cream from the box.
Normal things.
The surreal feeling she got when they came back to Sacramento the day before still isn't gone yet. Yesterday evening's colours were too muted, but today they are too bright and if she lets her mind wander too much, she gets a floating sensation in her stomach – as if she was trying to keep her balance on the edge of a high wall, just like she did for fun when she was a kid.
It's not fun anymore.
Then suddenly there's a cold, hard pressure on her neck and a faint metallic click in her ear, and she closes her eyes.
"Hello, Teresa," says the man behind her.
She swallows, slowly reaches for her gun and pulls it from its holster, then removes the magazine from the handle and raises her arms in the air.
"Hello, Tom," she answers quietly.
"Very good, my dear," he says, and she can hear the arrogant smile in his voice. "Oscar?"
A young man comes from her left and picks up the parts of her firearm, an unpleasant expression on his face. Then he makes her get up and frisks her – but she wouldn't be stupid enough to keep another weapon on her when she knows it would get her killed without process. He looks disappointed.
"I'm surprised you followed my instructions so well," says McAllister, sounding faintly puzzled.
"I don't want to die," she answers, staring right ahead.
He chuckles, and she shivers, just a bit.
Let him see everything, said Patrick earlier. Draw deep on the emotions inside you, and don't try to show bravado. He needs to see you vulnerable, at his mercy. He needs to feel in control.
So she does, and lets him see the faint disgust and very real fear she feels, and the self-loathing she draws from having fallen so far from her morals and life path – even as she knows there wasn't any other choice.
"Come, now," he says, smug and pleased and darkly amused. "Let's move out of the public's eyes."
He gives a small push in her back and she walks ahead, following his young bodyguard across the alley, past the statues and gardens to the modest chapel with white stucco walls. Once inside, she walks to the stoup without stopping, dips two fingers and crosses herself.
"Interesting," says McAllister right behind her, holding his gun to her neck.
"What is?" she asks, trying to remain calm.
But he pays her no mind.
"Oscar, go make sure the place is safe. Have anyone inside leave – and if you find Patrick Jane, shoot him.
- Kill or maim?
- Maim, if possible. If he struggles, kill."
She watches the man leave, trying to avoid thinking of Patrick's fate if they find him, wincing when he slams open and close the doors of the confession booths.
"You have faith," McAllister says, suddenly at her side – and making her jump. "You believe in God."
She nearly forgot he was here, and that was stupid, especially as he's still pressing steel behind her ear – and how could that even happen? She needs to keep focus on him and stop worrying about things she has no control over, otherwise they could lose everything.
Give him everything he wants, said Patrick earlier. If I can't stop you from doing this, you have to be ruthless. You have to be strong. If he asks you to kill me, then do it. No hesitation. I failed that test, Teresa, because I couldn't kill you – but you can't fail it. Not now, not if we want this over and done.
"I was raised Catholic," she says, taking a shuddering breath.
"I haven't met many people able to keep faith in such circumstances," he says, voice neutral – and faint panic settles in her stomach because she doesn't know how to read him.
Then he grins, and she blinks. The expression is boyish and joyful, with little crinkles at the corner of his slanted eyes – and horror creeps up her spine when she realises she recognises that smile.
She's seen it on so many walls.
"Clear!" says the bodyguard, and the grin widens further.
"Have you met my good friend Oscar Cordero?" he asks. "I do believe you're familiar with his handiwork. He had an interesting encounter with a friend of yours recently, what was his name again?"
And she cringes, all of her muscles rebelling at the same time because she didn't know, she didn't realise, and now he wants her to –
She hasn't said his name aloud since they found him in that shack.
"Ray – Raymond Haffner," she says, forcing herself to push the syllables out of her mouth one by one – because she has to, she has to give him what he wants for this to work, and this is a small price to pay, considering.
He looks pleased.
"Ah, yes... Ray. Very loyal fellow. A little bit in love with you, I suspect. Oscar, how many toes before he gave them up?
- Seven," says Cordero, smiling. "That was after the face burns, too – very resistant, that one. It took a good... long... time."
She closes her eyes, struggling against the nausea, against the pain, tears streaming down her cheeks – and still, showing him how hurt she feels, letting all her emotions play across her face.
She can do this. She has to.
"Thank you, Oscar. Now, please go outside, make sure we are left in peace."
She only opens her eyes when the wooden door slams hard, a loud sound echoing in the room. McAllister is still near her, too near really, and watching her with an expression half of delight, half of intense puzzlement. He pushes her gently toward the altar, steering her with gun on her neck and hand on the small of her back – the touch of fingers fleeting and familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, until she remembers Patrick does that all the time.
Nausea comes back with a vengeance.
"So... no Patrick Jane, huh," says the man. "Must admit I'm having a bit of trouble reading your game today, my dear."
Be careful with your tone pitch, said Patrick earlier. Say the naked truth whenever you can, and if not, word it in a way to justify it inside – and try to keep your voice even and low as much as possible. If he can read people half as well as I do, he'll hear your high voice tell as loud and clear as Rigsby's stomach on a hunger strike. You need to keep that in check.
- There is no game," she says – because games aren't supposed to be cruel. "You told me to come alone, and that's what I did. Why are we here?
- You'll have to be a little more precise with that question," he says, amused.
"I mean – why are we here, at Alexandria Cemetery? There's no point if Patrick isn't here too, isn't it?
- Au contraire," he chuckles. "It's a very fitting place – never mind the fact I never really expected you to come alone, what better place for you to shed your old life than a graveyard?"
And they finally, finally come to the crux of the matter.
"What do I have to do?" she asks, raising enlarged eyes at him, hoping to appear eager rather than frightened.
"Kill Oscar," he smiles, as benign and placid as if he told her to water the garden.
And while the demand doesn't really come as a surprise, she feels stricken nonetheless. Jumbled thoughts of divine punishment and selling her soul to the devil run through her mind, and suddenly she realises – this isn't just a nightmare. This must be Hell. There is no other way. God couldn't be so cruel as to let this happen to her.
"Ah... there it is," he whispers, suddenly way too close and lifting her chin upward. "The first signs of lost faith. Welcome to the world, my dear."
And the worst isn't his words, or the fact that they ring true somehow, or the fact that the vulnerability she feels right now isn't drawn on previous experiences. No, the worst is, up this close she can smell him, and his scent isn't blood or gunpowder or burnt dead things, it's –
– tea.
He smells like tea.
And tea makes her think of Patrick, and the taste of his mouth, and her lips on the underside of his shaft as he spills all over her tongue in the early morning light, and humiliation isn't strong enough a word to describe the wave of burning self-hatred drowning her as she tries, and fails, to keep the flash of want off her face.
He stops.
Blinks.
Looks deeply startled for a second, before his eyes darken so quickly she thinks of sink holes.
There is one in Napa, she remembers, called the Devil's Well – and what a fitting name that is.
"What an interesting little thing you are," he whispers, before releasing her and taking a step back – and the sigh of relief she can't hold inside makes him chuckle.
She swallows hard, face heated in shame, and looks down as he makes her turn toward the main entrance with hands and gun again.
"Oscar," he calls.
And suddenly he's surrounding her, firearm on her pulse and lips on her ear, and his other hand is putting a small handgun in hers and holding them upright, far from them both, and she feels his whispers bypassing her brain and flowing right into her soul.
"You are going to shoot him," he breathes into her ear, "because your friend Ray spent seven hours of agony under his watch. At the very beginning he burned his cheek off until the room smelled like barbecue, then cut off one toe at the top of the hour, each time he still refused to talk. In between the toes, he spent time slicing the skin off his chest, slowly and painfully, with a very sharp knife. Oscar did this to Ray – aren't you feeling hatred now? Desire for revenge? Here he comes. Look up, Teresa and shoot – now, or I'll shoot you myself. Now!"
And she closes her eyes, feeds on her hatred of him, and shoots three times – and weeps as Cordero's body falls on the ground near the main doors.
Make this stop now. Please. Patrick. Make this stop.
"Very good," says McAllister, taking back the handgun and releasing her.
And for the first time since she came in here she can breathe freely, because the weapon he held under her neck stops touching her skin. He's still trailing it on her, of course, but he isn't so close anymore – and this is what they were waiting for. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to steel herself, because now is not the time to fall. If she can just get a few more steps between them...
Any moment now.
"Why make me do that?" she asks, voice faint with horror and grief. "He was your friend!
- He was a tool," says McAllister coldly. "A very valuable tool for a very long time, but his usefulness ran out when you found a body in his property. He's been on the run nearly as long as you now."
She takes a step back – and another, startled, when he raises his arm and points his weapon more firmly on her.
"Well, this was fun," he says with a chuckle. "I'm starting to see what Patrick likes so much about you. Wish we could play more, spend a little quality time together... but unfortunately, time is running out."
What?
"But – I thought – I did everything – "
He laughs – a genuine thing that twists her stomach in knots.
"Did you honestly think I would help you out of a situation I created myself?" he says, grinning boyishly again. "I was hoping you'd bring Patrick along with you – but you didn't, and that's a real shame. Maybe I truly broke him with those pictures of his little girl... Somehow I doubt that. But I bet finding you here will do the trick."
His grin widens again, takes a manic expression, and there's still less than ten feet between his gun and her body, and she raises her eyes to the top of the confession booths, pleading.
Shoot now. I don't care if he hits me. Just shoot now!
"Goodbye, Teresa," says McAllister, and there's a faint click and a sharp tzing – and suddenly he's howling in pain and firing his weapon once, twice, and howling in pain again before falling on the ground.
And she's frozen on the spot, but Patrick isn't, and he climbs down his hiding space while McAllister crawl-runs on three limbs, trying to escape with a hole in his stomach and another in his knee. He disappears through the service door – and Patrick runs to her instead of after him.
"What are you doing?!" she yells. "Get him before he escapes! GO!"
His face twists in agony but he obeys, and soon enough silence falls back on the small chapel – and she's left slowly falling on the ground, staring bewildered at the blood seeping through her clothes.
Tomorrow's prompt: Silence