My very special THANK YOU to Cumberland River Relic for his help with finishing this. His unwavering support through my 'dry heaves' period helped me not give up.
EPILOGUE I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting.
Seven years later.
Patrick set his favorite blue tea cup and saucer on the small table and settled onto his old friend the brown leather sofa. With a sigh, he opened the reinforced envelope marked "Medical Files" and pulled out the collection of loose papers. He gave them a cursory glance and tossed the stack on the floor before checking the inside of the envelope again. There was a light brown stripe printed on one surface.
He brought the game controller off the back of the sofa and shoved it into the envelope before punching up a pillow and reclining.
The flat screen TV on the wall glowed to life, displaying password prompts disguised as a list of questions. Patrick waited until the hidden sensors in the console conveyed the file from the envelope strip into his computer and then answered only Question #4 per the schedule stored in his memory palace. When granted access, he whistled low under his breath at the flood of files. His CIA overlords were really working him today.
Dammit! Last time that happened, it was the famous conspiracy against the US Embassy in Bulgaria. They'd caught it just in time; the plot was foiled just as the Neo-Nazi terrorists were gathering for their initial assault using dirty bombs. However, the CIA never successfully infiltrated the controlling body which had also attacked the British embassy in Hungary two weeks before using conventional explosives. This might be further intelligence about that group.
Bringing the keyboard from under the sofa, Patrick opened the first document and began to study it when little feet pattered into the Relaxation Room.
"Daddy! Cartoon time?"
His three-year-old daughter Zahara stopped on the other side of the coffee table, staring at him. She still wore her favorite Scooby Doo napping gown he'd put on her but she'd put her pants on under it, backwards at that. Under one arm she had her striped pink blanket that she affectionately called her 'cushy'. Under the other arm was a raggedy, one-eyed teddy bear he'd named for her as Miles Thorsen, although the joke was only appreciated by him and Teresa.
Zahara rubbed her cushy over her sleepy, brown face before her large black eyes locked onto his, large and full of hope. He couldn't help but smile at the way static electricity was making her shiny black hair float as a halo around her small head. Obviously she had been lying on her day cot where he'd put her, but tossing and turning instead of sleeping.
"Cartoons?" she asked again.
"Peanut, Daddy's working. You know the drill: I work now, you nap now."
"It's cartoon time, though."
Patrick rolled his eyes and touched the temporary scramble button.
"Nap time," he said, setting the keyboard on the table.
"Cartoon time."
"Nap time."
"Cartoon time."
He stared unblinking for a moment before saying, "Time-out time."
The little girl shook her head and stepped back.
"Then you must agree that it's nap time." He waved her closer. "Come here, my little peanut."
A big grin came to Zahara's face as she crossed to where he lay. He knew he shouldn't do it, but just once more he would let their daughter take her afternoon nap lying on top of him, despite Teresa's warning that their smart little girl was taking unfair advantage of that soft spot in his heart. He countered the warning by mentioning how successful he was in taking unfair advantage with the soft spot in Teresa's heart and how little she seemed to mind. The memory of his wife's eye-roll put a grin on his face.
It would be all right. Once Zahara was sound asleep, he could reopen the CIA info and continue to analyze it. And if not, he'd pull another all-nighter. Wouldn't be the first time. Sometimes the intensity of effort was good for honing his brain to a particular task instead of the light cruising it usually did.
Not that he'd let the CIA know how easy this stuff was. They'd just demand more from him if they ever found that out.
Patrick grunted softly as Zahara plopped on his chest, squirming into position. She was getting bigger all the time. In the year since they'd adopted her, she'd sprouted like a greenhouse orchid.
Better food, better water, better home. He doubted that she remembered the Eritrean village where she was born, although the horrific memories might resurface when she was older. It was one of Teresa's strongest dreads.
It was definitely cause for Patrick's current occasional nightmares. The CIA had sent him on one of the rare site visits in western Eritrea and eastern Sudan. On the way, he and the escorting team came under fire from invading militia. The men took cover in a shot-up hovel, only to find nine dead bodies strewn around the single-room building.
And one eighteen-month-old girl, very much unhurt but covered with the blood of others. She moved away from everyone in the CIA group until she retreated into a corner, trembling and staring. In the fourteen hours the men were trapped and awaiting for rescue, Patrick gently earned the little girl's trust with soft words and the two stale circus peanuts he had in his pocket. After that she wouldn't let him go, and Patrick talked the CIA operatives into bringing her along when 'the cavalry' arrived. Zahara ended up in a UN orphanage until Teresa and Patrick successfully completed the adoption process for her that took six nerve-wracking months.
"I love you, peanut," he whispered. She lifted her head and grinned that cheeky grin at him. "To sleep. That's the deal."
It took a few minutes but soon the reassuring circle rubs on her back and his deep, steady breathing lulled her to sleep. With care, he got his files opened again and spent the next hour studying the data and making the connections. He made mental notes to share with his contact Agent Campbell and then shut down the equipment.
"Wake up, peanut," he said gently, rubbing her back again. "Mommy will be here in a little while with Aunt Ae Cha and Jinny. Then it will be cartoon time, okay?"
The little girl woke slowly and calmly, a marked change from how she behaved when she first arrived. Sleepily she followed him to the kitchenette at the back of the store and patiently stood while he ran a washcloth over her face.
A buzzer for the front door sounded, indicating a visitor. Patrick pointed to a kitchen chair where Zahara obediently sat down and stared with mild alarm.
"I'll be right back, my dear," he told her, placing his finger briefly to his lips.
A quick glance at a security monitor indicated a single visitor, a woman.
He passed down the hall and paused in the Relaxation Room. He gave it a quick perusal to be certain everything was put away and that the room looked simply like a consulting room. The service bell on the counter chimed softly. He plastered on his showman smile and passed through the steel door into the reception area.
A plump woman stood, wearing a waterproof jacket two sizes too big, worn-out jeans, and well-used hiking boots. Her formerly blonde hair was peppered with gray and in need of a trim. Her bangs had once been dyed bright red but were now faded to a pinkish orange.
Hypnosis seeker, Patrick thought to himself. Weight loss. Suddenly realized that her poor diet and lack of exercise are catching up to her age. He took in her overall physique, clothing and bearing. Formerly very active. Secretary spread – now spends a lot of time at a desk.
"Yes, ma'am? How can I help you today?"
She turned with a polite smile on her face, which slipped a moment when she took in his appearance. Then the smile was back, although the eyes maintained a hard edge.
Ah, cynical. A salesman recognizing a salesman. Understands how looks can be misleading.
"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, returning her firm grip with his own. "I've… I've been trying to adjust some bad habits but it's been difficult. I just wanted to find out what you do here and how much it costs."
He knew exactly what the bad habit was, but it was best to skirt around these things initially.
"You don't smell like cigarettes, so I'm assuming you're not trying to stop smoking, and your nails are beautiful, so it's not nail-biting."
She started to interject, but he held up one hand to stop her.
"One moment. I just need to check on my daughter." Surreptitiously he moved his hip towards a hidden sensor, allowing the key in his pocket to release the electronic lock before he opened the steel door. "Zahara, my dear. What are you up to?"
His daughter knew this to be the code for her to relax. Patrick may have resented his own father drilling him about the psychic boy wonder act passwords, but at least Patrick understood why he needed to subject his daughter to training on how to behave in the presence of a CIA operative. Not that anything had ever happened in the past three years that Patrick had worked with the CIA, but it never hurt to be cautious., especially where his beloved child was concerned.
Zahara came skipping down the hall, past the Relaxation Room (where Patrick treated real clients as well as analyzed sensitive data) and up to her father with her usual grin on her face. He let her into the reception room.
"Sorry," he told the visitor. "I'm watching my daughter for a few hours today."
The woman smiled sincerely at Zahara and said hello. His daughter nodded and waved.
"Why don't you go color in your circus book?" he suggested to his daughter.
Zahara settled at the receptionist desk and found the book and crayons under the counter. Patrick looked at the woman again.
"Now what is it I can help you with?"
"Well…your sign says you hypnotize people? I seem to be having problems dropping a few pounds."
Patrick stepped behind the counter and made a show of checking his calendar. It was unnecessary since he knew without looking what cover story slots were made available by his Federal overseers.
"I can help with that," he said, flipping the pages forward. "Usually it only takes two sessions with truly determined people. When can you come in?"
Actually it took one, but he needed to maintain his cover story that he worked as an independent hypnotherapist. Establishing professional reputation was part of that.
"Uhm…Thursday afternoon?" she asked.
"I have an opening from 2:30 to 3:15, if that will work."
The woman smiled in relief and nodded. Patrick quoted the price and had her fill out paperwork while he studied her mannerisms. Abused as a child, very mild autism, married, no kids, stubborn, artistic to the point of detriment and a bit of a day-dreamer, very independent thinker – hence the comfy hiking boots when she wasn't actually hiking. Yes, if handled properly, this would be a successful case. He was tempted to insert post-hypnotic suggestion at that moment to get the woman started but he didn't.
"Goodbye, Martha. See you on the 12th at 2:30."
Martha waved to his little girl before shaking his hand again. It left a good impression on Patrick. Soft spot for children because she's a bit of a child herself.
As she exited, Teresa came through, dressed in her professional office attire, looking every inch the dignified director of the California Bureau of Investigation…
…Until she saw her daughter behind the counter. Her eyebrows rose, her lips curved up, a sparkle came to her eyes, driving away the stress and responsibilities of the day.
"There's my little girl!"
"MOMMY!"
Zahara ran to Teresa, launching herself into her mother's arms. The little girl loved her Daddy but Mommy was truly special. Patrick wouldn't have it any other way.
"How was preschool this morning?" Teresa asked, holding out her attaché for him to take. After he did, she picked up the little girl and twirled her around.
"Good! We learned about colors today."
"Oh yeah? And what did you talk about?"
"The teacher asked us what our favorite color is and why."
Patrick opened the steel door and held it while his family passed through to the Relaxation Room. He said, "Tell Mommy what you told the teacher."
Teresa sat down and released Zahara who jumped on the sofa once before plopping down.
"I…said… that I like green cuz Mommy's eyes are green."
"Aww, thank you, my little girl!"
"Do you want to go get the picture you made? Remember where we put it?"
As she ran out of the room, Patrick sat next to his wife and kissed her deeply. Maybe it was because of the bad omen the multitude of CIA files represented, but he missed her more than usual that day.
They separated at the sound of the little feet and Teresa got very excited about the stick-figure Mommy with an oversized circular head adorned with two big green dots and crooked line smile.
"Where is Jinny and Aunt Ae Cha?" Zahara asked.
"Aunt Ae Cha had a very big project today so Jinny and her brother are staying with the sitter. When she and Uncle Kimball are back in town, we'll have them over for supper, okay?"
"Pizza?"
"Maybe. Or maybe we can invite Uncle Wayne, Aunt Grace, Ben, Lucy and Matthew as well. We can have bit of a party and make them something really special."
"Daddy's lalaza?"
"That's what we're having tonight." Patrick smiled at his daughter's pronunciation of 'lasagna'. "I made it while you were at school."
"Ooo, Daddy makes great lasagna," Teresa said.
"And vanilla ice cream!"
Teresa lightly patted Patrick's leg. "What has your father been teaching you? I thought chocolate was—"
She was interrupted by a muffled ringing that made her look at him with slight panic in her eyes.
"The Bat Phone," he said softly, trying to look apologetic and sympathetic at the same time.
It was the secure phone that Agent Campbell used to discuss urgent case details. It was not usually a good sign when he called.
"I have to get that, my dear," he whispered.
Teresa put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him again, but that was the extent of her reaction. Always the professional.
"C'mon, my little girl. Daddy has a phone call."
When they'd cleared the room, he closed the door to the hall. He brought the phone up from where he stored it on the floor behind a side table and slid his finger on the unlocking sensor. He hated that phone. It was so melodramatic and 'James Bond' like.
"Double Oh For Nothing," he said like he was answering the phone at a pizzeria. "Leave a message at the tone."
They may be his overseers, but that didn't mean he was going to kowtow to them.
The voice on the other end didn't even pause. "Mr. Jane, this is Agent Campbell. We have a serious development in our project. Please meet your contact at your assigned rendezvous."
"Do I need my overnight bag?"
"Your liaison has that handled for you, including your passport."
This wasn't just bad. This was worse than he thought.
"Do I need to bring the envelope?"
"Please destroy it. New files have been prepared." The phone went dead.
Shit.
He hung up and retrieved the reinforced envelope marked "Medical Files". He unlocked the cabinet and shoved the papers into the slot, listening to it grind and mulch.
Damn.
He entered the kitchen where his family sat at the table. After giving Zahara a soft kiss on her head, he settled into a chair.
"So?"
"So… the lasagna is all set to go. Just put in a 375 oven for 45 minutes. Let it rest ten minutes before serving." He paused, looking at the table. "I don't know what the work is. This is different from before."
When he brought his gaze up to her, she forced a slight smile onto her lips.
"I'll save you a piece of lasagna."
God, he loved her. Despite what it meant to her and their daughter, she wasn't making this as difficult as she could. He felt like stomping his feet and cursing and throwing a tantrum the likes of which his three-year-old wouldn't even recognize, but instead he smiled.
"Thank you. I'll be back as soon as possible. I'm sure it's nothing."
"No, nothing at all."
Guilt seized him as he recognized how this would have to be handled. It would be unfair to subject either of them to a drawn out parting.
He took Teresa's hand and rose to his feet, leading her toward the hall. "Wait there a second, peanut." Out of view of Zahara, he took his wife in his arms and they kissed passionately, urgently, like it was the last embrace they'd share for a very long time.
And it just may be. Last time it was just an overnight trip to Washington, but two years ago it was nearly three months in northern Africa. How could he know for certain?
With reluctance they broke off, still holding each other tightly.
"Teresa…I love you," he whispered. "You know I don't want to go."
"You are saving lives, Patrick. You're making a safer world for Zahara and the Cho children. Ben and the Rigsby twins. For all of us. If it weren't for that selfless fact, I'd probably go all 'harpy' on you and lock you into that Relaxation Room of yours."
He separated from her enough that she could see his smile.
"Listen, roomie, you've never gone 'harpy' on me, and when it comes to dedication to the public good, I've never met a more selfless person."
"'Roomie'," she said with a chuckle. "Actually, you mean 'slave-driver', don't you, house-husband?"
"Actually I mean 'soulmate'," he said before kissing her lips lightly. "Actually, I mean the person who mended my broken heart by giving me something real to live for."
Her eyes swam with tears, instantly absorbing his proclamation of what she was to him. His words shouldn't have surprised her so much. She knew how he felt.
"By that definition, you're my soulmate too, Patrick."
"Goodbye, my love."
After a struggle to get her emotions checked into place, she kissed him lightly and stepped back.
"Be safe, Patrick. Goodbye."
He stepped down the hall and grabbed his suit jacket from the hanger by the door. A glance back showed her slowly turning to care for their daughter, and he was instantly filled with pride.
Then he stepped out of his office and into the gray-skied Sacramento afternoon.
He'd be back. She'd bring him back, just as she always did.
NOT to be continued!
Finally!
Hope you have enjoyed this story. It's been quite an adventure for me.