"Jane's here," Cho said from his spot in front of the monitors.
Lisbon looked over to see Jane standing outside the rec room as if waiting for something.
"It's the victim boards," Cho said.
Lisbon looked over to the boards and instantly understood. They were still where Cho had apparently moved them for Jane the last time. She went to the door and opened it. "Hey," she said, stepping aside.
He hesitated.
"It's okay," she said.
He followed her in, closing the door behind him.
"I thought you were getting tea," she said. She had just left him and now here he was.
"I changed my mind."
He looked a little off, though she couldn't imagine what could have happened in the short time he was upstairs without her. "When was the last time you ate?" she asked.
"I got it, boss," Van Pelt said. "Knox is still in Yolo County at the same address, at least according to his wine club account."
"Wine club, huh?" Lisbon said.
"Can't keep the man from his Chardonnays," Jane said walking over to sit next to Cho.
"Can we go get him, boss?" Van Pelt asked.
The whole team looked to her. Lisbon stood calculating the risk. "I need everyone on the same page here. If this goes bad, it could end all our careers." She looked at each of them. "If we don't report picking up this suspect, it's flat out kidnapping."
"Reports get lost," Cho said.
"Yeah, Rigsby said. "Communication gets spotty when you're underground."
"If you get him you better strip him down and put him in a jumpsuit. Red John's minions tend to come with self-destruct options," Jane said. "Don't give him any chances because then you're dealing with a dead body."
Lisbon's stomach turned a little at that. Jane was right. They were going to have to abuse all sorts of rights just to get Knox back to Santa Clarita without alerting any law agencies. Of all the questionable things she had done in the last year or so, this was going to be overtly and shamelessly outside the bounds of law.
"Lisbon," Jane said, pulling her out of her thoughts.
"What?"
"Lorelei and Michaela are not the last victims. There will be more."
She looked again at her team.
"We're in," Cho said. "All of us."
"It's worth the risk," Rigsby said.
Lisbon felt the weight of her decision. She knew she didn't really have a choice. To take any other course would be purely selfish. What were their careers in comparison to all the lives lost? They'd all be able to find other work, if it came to that. She'd take the hit. As the agent in charge, she would be held accountable, but she knew they'd all suffer if this didn't work out. Looking around the room, she saw that they all shared the same thought: What was important was to get that sonovabitch once and for all. She was proud to know she had such an honorable team to work with. She looked at Jane and saw what the world would say about his influence on the team-that they had drank the Kool-aid of a conman and fraud. She also saw just how far he had come. While he often said he worked for the CBI for purely selfish reasons, she knew he felt great satisfaction in finding justice for victims. It's what gave his life meaning, whether he would admit it or not. What he had taught her was that justice did not always reside in the law books.
"Rigsby, Van Pelt," she said. "Go get him. Do whatever you have to and make sure he stays alive," she said.
Van Pelt smiled. "No problem, boss." She and Rigsby got their jackets and headed out.
Jane was watching her with a look she couldn't quite identify. "Cho. Where are you on the sleep schedule?" she asked.
"I'm good. I got this, boss," he said.
"Okay. I'm going to check on Stanton's team reports. You let me know when you need relief." She looked at Jane fully. "Jane, go get something to eat."
He looked surprised. "I'm not hungry."
"Just go find something," she said gently and then headed back for her computer.
She heard Cho say, "The lasagna, dude, I'm telling you" and Jane respond, "Yeah, yeah. I'm still miffed about the books, you know. How can I trust anything from you after that?" Lisbon suppressed a smile as she sat at her makeshift desk and turned on her monitor.
Jane eventually made his way back upstairs to the kitchen. His time down in the rec room had allowed his appetite to return. Ryan was still out in the living room, sprawled on the couch and watching some reality cooking show. Jane was suddenly annoyed at what he now saw as Ryan's complete claim of the only couch in the house. He realized that if Ryan weren't there at all, he would be spending a lot more time enjoying the comfort of the living room and the plush couch. But as it was, he was skulking around avoiding it because of Ryan's presence.
Only the dim light above the stove was on in the kitchen, and Jane went to the fridge and peered inside, the bright light splashing over him as he opened the door. He was hungry but the remnants of his mother's dinner before him brought the memory of how he had upset it. He knew he had every right to be angry at his mother's invasion, but he was a little ashamed that he had ruined the dinner she was so pleased to put together. And then there was Ryan's fear that he would cause her some kind of irreparable pain. And then there was her, not holding his behavior against him, wanting to help, stopping Ryan's attempts to disparage, trying everything to get him to remember their bond. And he did. That was the thing. He remembered now without having to go to the memory palace.
He closed the refrigerator door. He remembered how she had always helped him and he now realized why he felt so uneasy about her: he had forgotten what it was like to have someone in his life who knew more than him, who was smarter than him. That she kept saying he was better than her or more advanced belied the fact that she was always 15 steps ahead of him. The knowledge brought up the conflict he'd been battling within all day: relief mixed with fear and anger. He didn't know if that could be resolved.
He headed back for his bedroom, ignoring Ryan as he passed him. When he reached Patricia's door he slowed. The light spilling out underneath the door showed she was still awake. He pushed on past, but questions pulled him back. He did have questions. He came back to her door and knocked lightly.
"Come in," he heard her say and he hesitated, knowing by the way she said it that she was expecting Ryan. He knocked lightly again. Soon the door opened and Jane was bathed in the light of her room.
"Oh. Patrick," she said. And then he saw what Ryan had meant: he watched her overcome her surprise and her spirits lift into an untempered smile that showed her complete pleasure in seeing him. The smile lit up her eyes and spread across her whole face. It was the kind of smile that moved people to do things for you. It was his smile. The recognition stunned him.
She waited for him, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't remember why he was even there. A fleeting look of confusion passed over her face before she said, "Well, come in" and opened the door wide for him.
He stepped inside almost without any will of his own, her buoyancy carrying the action of the moment. He hadn't thought far enough ahead of his knock on the door to expect being asked into her room, and once inside he still couldn't remember why he wanted to see her. He looked around out of habit. She had obviously been at the small writing desk just inside the door, her still unfinished letter to her husband abandoned mid-sentence. A twin bed was pushed up against the long wall and covered with a bright floral bedspread. A small armchair in front of a window overlooking the backyard held her suitcase. She wore an Asian-designed silk robe over her night clothes and was clearly ready for bed.
She closed the door and said, "Have a seat," and then motioned for him to sit on the bed. She turned the chair at the writing table around and sat. He was hit with a strong wave of self-consciousness, the painful kind felt most often by teenagers. He sat but he couldn't focus on anything in particular, neither in sight or thought. He glanced at her fleetingly as he took in more of the room, and he was aware that she was trying to guess why he was there. The room was like the rest of the house, warehouse furnished. She had only her suitcase and the things on the writing table. As he looked at the table again, he saw a small picture frame holding a photo of a man with his arm around Ryan who was in a cap and gown. They were all smiles.
"That's your husband," he said.
Patricia looked over her shoulder at where he was looking. "Yes. That's Randall." She turned back and looked at him.
She held his gaze briefly before he glanced away. He remembered that he had knocked because he had questions, but he still couldn't remember any of them.
"Did something happen?" she asked.
He looked at her and had to think what she might mean by the question and then he realized she meant the team. "Van Pelt and Rigsby left to get Alexander Knox. They plan to bring him back here."
"Oh," Patricia said. "That's good."
He frowned, remembering the questions he had. They were bringing Knox back ostensibly for him to – what? Interrogate? Infiltrate? Jane still wasn't sure about the portal business.
"What is it, Patrick?" she asked.
He took a moment to put together his thoughts. "Lisbon wanted me to find the memories about seeing things … at a distance. To see if I could remember how to do it."
"Oh," Patricia said. "That's a good idea."
"No, it's not," he said.
"Why not?" she asked cautiously.
"Because I don't want to remember all those people's stories. I know what they are. I could feel it when I was there."
"Okay," she said, still cautious.
"We saw a lot of people," he said.
"Yes. We did. We helped a lot of them."
"I was too young to be doing that," he said, fully understanding now why he avoided those memories.
She considered him a long time. "Yes. You were," she said.
"It's different when you're being real about it," he said. "I spent years as a fraud, not caring about anything but the money. I just listened and then told people something close to what they wanted to hear. It doesn't affect you so much. They're just stories. But I remember now. I was a child. I didn't have any understanding. It affected me."
"I know," Patricia said quietly. She hesitated, then said, "When I had Ryan, I saw how other parents tried to protect their children's innocence. All I can say is that I was young too, and I thought I was protecting you by trying to explain what you saw. It didn't occur to me to keep you from seeing anything at all." She waited and when he didn't say anything, she said, "It takes a very strong mind to do what you did after I was gone, Patrick. You did that at age 10. You protected yourself very well. You don't need that protection anymore."
Jane was watching her and starting to get lost in the memories. He crossed his arms in front of him. "You know things, private things, about me that I don't particularly want you to know," he said. "You know things about Lisbon. When I do readings I am mostly guessing. It's highly educated guessing, but it's not like what you do. What you do - it's invasive."
"Patrick," she said tilting her head with reproach. "You read my personal journal."
Jane looked away, embarrassed to have been caught at that.
"But, really, I can't imagine why you wouldn't want your mother knowing your most private thoughts. Isn't that what all boys and men want?"
Jane looked back at her in alarm. She grinned and he caught on, remembering this was how she teased, using it to reprimand and teach. She always assumed you knew when you had erred.
"Ryan was a huge fan of my abilities during his teen years," she said.
"I can imagine," Jane said.
"Your guess about Ryan and his girlfriend was not educated," she added.
Jane couldn't stop a sly grin from leaking out.
"There are obvious differences between us, Patrick, but it all comes down to intent. What do you do with the information once you have it? I would have never shared what was in my journal. It was there for my own edification, but you know that already. You know a lot of things about your co-workers that you never share. You just don't like it when someone knows something about you."
That was annoyingly true. "I know things about you," he said.
Patricia raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. "More than what you read in my journal?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"I opened the portal."
"Oh, well, that makes sense," she said. "And it worked? You saw what you went looking for?"
"Yes."
"That's good."
"Really? You don't mind?"
"No, Patrick. You need me to be an open book right now. I don't mind."
"Okay," he said, remembering a question that had nagged him from the moment he had met Ryan. "Why didn't you ever tell Ryan about me?"
She was surprised by the question, and she looked at him like she had just been told something that caused her great pain. And seeing that made him realize just how much it had bothered him, made him think he was something she was ashamed of, something to be kept … locked away. He stood, alarmed at the idea that his mother might have stuffed him into some faraway recess of her mind. He moved away toward the armchair, a jangly wave of adrenaline spiking through his veins.
"Patrick, no," she said.
When he turned and saw her coming toward him, he stepped back and that stopped her.
"It's not—it wasn't like that," she said.
"What do you see?" he asked, even more alarmed that she was reading his thoughts.
"It's nothing specific," she said. "It's just a general awareness. I didn't do what you did, Patrick. It had nothing to do with you."
"I don't want to be an open book to you. You can shut it off, right? You told me I can shut it off, so that means you can shut it off too, right?"
"I-"
"Shut it off!"
"Okay."
She had the same look as she had at dinner when he demanded she stop talking to him without words- chagrin mixed with an obvious attempt to placate. He turned from her and tried to calm himself. He went to the window.
"I don't see things as clearly as you do, Patrick. I'm not reading your thoughts. I just understood your fear as it was expressed in your question. I never thought… I didn't … I didn't know—"
He looked at her and saw she was at a complete loss at what to say to him, but as she looked at him, he saw her resolve return.
"I did not make myself forget you, Patrick," she said. "If anything, I kept the pain of my loss of you so close it has ruled much of my life. I did not have you, and as a result, I would not let myself fully have my husband or Ryan. At least not in the way they would have wanted or deserved." She stopped. "But you know that already."
"I told you to shut it off," he said.
"Patrick, I'm too old to really do that. Shutting it on and off is what you do when you're just starting to control your abilities. We were learning that together before everything happened. You've seen what it's like to have things come to you unbidden. It's scary when you have no understanding of what it is, especially when you're a child. But you will learn quickly. The way you work now… it has been excellent preparation for how you are going to work."
"You still haven't told me why you never told Ryan," he said.
"No, I haven't," she said. She breathed deeply and turned to go back to her chair. She sat and Jane saw she was struggling to answer, but he saw it was a struggle to reveal, not conceal.
"You could say that Ryan was born into protective custody," she said. "Randall's world was so different and he was truly frightened by what had happened to me, by where I came from. He never told his family about my background because they would have done everything to dissuade him from marrying me. He was from them, but not like them. It was what we had in common. But Kalimantan had scared him, the baby murdered by kidnappers, my reaction. When Ryan was born, we agreed to do everything possible to keep him protected. But—" She faltered.
"I couldn't protect him from me. I had a terrible depression after his birth that I mostly concealed from Randall. I didn't want to be the cause of his leaving the jungle. You were on my mind always. For every milestone of Ryan's I remembered yours and sometimes that just sunk me. I didn't tell Randall because he always wanted to take away my sadness, make everything right, and I knew he couldn't. I never set out to not tell Ryan about you, about my past. At first, it was because he was too young. As he got older, there were other … exigencies. His turning 10 was particularly difficult for me. By the time he hit puberty, he fought relentlessly to get out of the protective bubble we had created and a big part of that fight was to get away from me. He was right, of course, but it put our family through a lot of turmoil. We almost lost him. He is very strong-willed, and, in the end, I just didn't want to add to his difficulties of having a mother like me. It had nothing to do with you, Patrick."
Jane saw she was telling the truth as she knew it, but what she didn't see was that her not telling Ryan had everything to do with him. It just wasn't for the reasons he had assumed. He saw how they had all suffered, even his father, for a suspicion over what Ricky Streeter had said or not said to the police. What was the point of such suffering? Really, what did it all come to but more suffering? Why did lowlifes like Zeke and Troy and despicable narcissists like Red John have their way in the world?
His mother was coming towards him. "Patrick," she said. She was closer now and she said, "Patrick," again, but louder, like she was trying to wake him. When she was close enough, she pulled him into a hug and held him tight. "Patrick," she whispered, "there is a great wrong being righted here. You don't see it yet, but it is happening."
He let himself be held by her. He wanted to believe her but he knew better. He had had his own way with the world long enough to know there were few consequences for people who knew how to skirt the law.
She pulled away with a look of sudden surprise, her hands going to his shoulders then to his face. She touched his bruised cheek gingerly. "Tell me why you are so against psychics," she said.
Embarrassment followed closely by angry annoyance washed over him. She dropped her hands and stepped back, which made him even more annoyed. "What do you see?" he wanted to know.
"I do see a lot more, Patrick, now that you've unlocked your memories. I couldn't see you as clearly before."
"What did you just see?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," she said. "I just had a fleeting glimpse as to why you are so hard on yourself. But I don't know for sure. It seems based on a contradiction you hold tightly. It has something to do with your beliefs about psychics."
"That doesn't make any sense," he said.
"Not yet," she said. "That's how it is for me. The information comes in little glimpses and I have to tease out what it means. I always need more information to make sense of it. That's how we're different, Patrick. When you get information, it is a complete download. You feel what it's like to be the person in question. That's a very rare gift."
"That doesn't sound like a gift at all."
Patricia laughed a breathy laugh. "No. It doesn't, does it?" She let another laugh escape. "But we don't get to choose, do we? You don't know how many times I wished I'd been born with a more ordinary talent. Something so unremarkable no one would notice me and I wouldn't notice them."
A knock on the door was followed by Ryan opening it and entering, saying, "Hey, Mom—" When he saw Jane, he stopped. He quickly looked to his mother and back to Jane, distrust written all over his face. "What's going on?" he asked.
Jane turned away, taking himself out of the conversation.
"We're just catching up," Patricia said. "What are you doing?"
"I was just coming to say goodnight. Are you okay?"
"Of course, Ryan."
Jane glanced and saw her go to Ryan. They hugged and kissed cheeks.
"I'll see you in the morning," she said.
"Okay." He was reluctant to leave.
"Goodnight, Ryan," Patricia said gently.
Ryan frowned as he watched Jane and Jane turned away again.
"Goodnight, Mom."
Jane heard the door close and he slowly turned back to his mother. "I should go too," he said.
"Wait, Patrick," she said. "Please."
A dread crept over him as he watched her carefully decide how to frame the request she was about to ask.
"I was wondering," she said lightly, "if you could humor me for just a little bit."
The shy and uncertain smile that followed, completely guileless in its realization, swept the dread away and immediately replaced it with an irresistible wish to please. She was good. He had to give her that. She was incredibly good.