A/N: This story is the product of not enough sleep and listening to Julieta Venegas's album Bueninvento nonstop for two weeks. As a result, it's quite a bit darker than the other one. (Thank you to everyone who reviewed Beneath the Blue Stars, by the way. It was a nice surprise to see that feedback.) Warnings for quite a bit of violence and some swearing.
As stated in the summary, this is one of those AUs where Lisbon kills Red John (diverging right at the end of 6x01). I think that the reason I (and others) have been driven to write these is that we had really expected it to happen in the show. (I'm still a little surprised that it didn't, actually.) Be warned that this story is presented a bit strangely, and that there isn't as much of a focus on the unraveling of the CBI and the Blake Association because the point is more the emotional aftermath. This will also serve as an introduction to The Mentalist 2.0 (and please note that I messed with Fischer's timeline a little to have her show up here.)
The entire story has been written, but will be posted in three parts since it's a bit long. Barring unforeseen circumstances, the rest will appear over the next week or so. Standard disclaimer applies to all of this; I don't own The Mentalist.
"…Teresa can't come to the phone right now, can I take a message?"
It isn't a dream because in her dreams she's able to open her eyes and she's able to move and she doesn't ever smell blood in the air like this.
Think.
Driving away from Jane and her heart is pounding and maybe she should have punched him. Only love songs on the radio and she turns it back off. He won't stop calling and she's hitting ignore. The cell phone trackers Van Pelt set up. Partridge dying. Tyger, tyger. Nothing.
She's almost certain dreams can't happen when you're unconscious, so she's definitely awake now, but her hands and feet and even her eyelids still won't listen to her brain.
Think.
No machine sounds so it can't be the hospital. Stuffy air and the same faint scent of mold almost completely masked by the blood. She's still in that house. Partridge is dead though, so who was it talking?
There's something on her face. Not water. Someone's spreading it with their fingers across her skin and across her lips now and she knows who it is and doesn't know who it is at the same time and why isn't she moving? Why the hell isn't she moving?
"I hope you aren't waking up, Teresa."
Eyes open. Crashing to the floor now and she thinks her arms and legs are working again but not fast enough. She's being pinned to the ground and there's a crack but she still has one hand free and she's clawing at his face.
McAllister. There's no time to be surprised. She drives her fingers into his right eye and he's screaming and she's going to be sick. The weight on her chest disappears and her lungs are getting oxygen and somehow she's getting to her feet now, somehow she's moving toward the door.
The gun. Did she drop it next to Partridge? He has to be in the next room and if she can get there she'll be okay, she'll be al—
The door tilts sideways and she's being dragged backwards across the carpet. The fabric of her jacket is ripping. Her head hits a wall and she's sliding toward the floor but she won't pass out again, she can't. She feels McAllister pull her back to her feet and rip her cross necklace away and now there's the tip of a curved blade in its place. He's looking at her with one good eye and a smile.
"What a shame that Patrick will have to find this…"
No.
She throws herself forward so that their heads almost collide and the tip of the knife scratches her neck. He's off balance now. Her arms are still working and she hits him as hard as she can in the eye that's already a mess.
Another scream. She can't tell whether it's him or herself.
Something rips into her arm but she slams her other hand into his elbow and he loosens his grip on the knife long enough for her to grab it. More screaming. She isn't sure what she's doing but everything smells like blood and he's finally falling backwards enough for her to get away.
The door is unlocked. There's Partridge and her gun and a dying flashlight on the floor. McAllister is a second behind her but she gets her fingers around the handle and trigger and fires and fires until there aren't any bullets left and all she's hearing are clicks.
She expects him to have that awful smile on his face still, but his expression is blank. Dead.
She thinks it's been minutes and not seconds or hours when she hears the front door open. One of Red John's friends, maybe. Her legs are almost numb but she stumbles to her feet and away from the two bodies, towards the sound. The gun has no bullets but might fool someone, and the knife is still good.
In the front room there's a bit of light coming through the open door, but the figure walking toward her is still a shadow and she can't breathe.
"Stop." Her voice is cracking. "I have a gun. Stay away from me."
"Lisbon?"
Her hands stop working. The gun and knife both clatter to the floor and now Jane has an arm around her to keep her from collapsing. She can hear him pressing buttons on his phone, calling 911.
"He's dead," she says. "Jane, he's dead."
Two EMTs disappear into the house and one stays with her at the back of the ambulance, making her take off her jacket to inspect the cut on her arm. There's blood on the front of her shirt that she thinks is McAllister's from when she stabbed him. Jane sits next to her and she can hear him talking in that voice he uses to hypnotize people, trying to get her to calm down.
"My necklace," she hears herself saying. "The cross. It's in there, in the back room."
It's so trivial right now, but she can't think of anything else.
"I'll get it," he says.
While he's gone, the EMT wraps a bandage around her arm and tells her she'll need stitches before leaving to talk to another ambulance crew. She sits alone and tries to count how many cops are swarming about, going into the house with flashlights and coming out with frowns. She thinks she sees Bertram too, though he's far away and she doesn't trust her eyes right now.
Jane comes back a few minutes later and presses the broken necklace into her palm. He's carrying a washcloth and a bottle of water too, and she suddenly remembers.
"It's on my face, isn't it?" she asks. "That mark?"
He's silent as he pours a bit of water onto the cloth and sets the bottle down next to her.
"Jane, is it?"
"Yes," he answers. "Close your eyes."
She feels him put one hand beneath her chin to keep her from shaking as he removes the blood. Her heart starts pounding again. He's being gentle and she knows it's safe now, but not being able to see what's happening reminds her too much of before.
She interrupts him partway through. "Keep talking to me."
"Okay, but you can't say anything back." He touches the washcloth to the corner of her mouth. "The rest of the team is on their way, but I think you should go to the hospital."
She wants to protest, but he's taking the blood off of her lips and she can't speak.
"Partridge and McAllister are both dead," he continues. "They haven't said anything else, but I'm certain that McAllister…"
She looks at him again when he doesn't finish the sentence. His face is close enough to hers that she can almost see a blurred reflection of herself in his eyes. She tries to keep still as he sets the washcloth down and slowly pushes her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears.
"I thought you were dead," he finally says. "I got that phone call, and I thought…"
"I'm okay, Jane," she lies. "I'm fine."
He gives her a broken smile and then pulls away. "You need to go to the hospital. I'm going to find out what's taking so long."
She tells him he doesn't need to ride with her in the ambulance, but she's quietly relieved when he insists on doing just that. The lighting makes her eyes burn and the sound of the engine is abrasive. The blanket they gave her doesn't make her shiver any less.
"Call Van Pelt," she tells Jane, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "We need to take down the tracking program."
He takes her hand so tightly in his that she's sure the cross necklace is going to leave an imprint on both their palms. "I will."
"This is really over?" she asks.
He leans towards her until his lips are a few inches from her ear and she can feel his breath across her face.
"I don't think so," he whispers. "But right now we need to pretend that we think it is."
She dreams in pieces—scenes from her memory playing one after the other like film clips, sometimes overlapping and blending beyond recognition. Beneath everything is the sound of a phone ringing over and over.
In the hospital she wakes up slowly again, gradually regaining movement and memory over the course of a few minutes. The room is empty and silent except for the machine noises, and through the window she can see a navy blue sky. She can't tell whether it's getting lighter or darker. She notes that her necklace is on a table nearby, but that there aren't any chairs pulled up to the bed.
She hits the call button and is told three things by the nurse who responds. First—she has two broken ribs in addition to the cut on her arm. Second—it's five-thirty in the morning and she's been asleep for more than a day. Third—no one has left any messages for her.
Around eight-thirty a doctor shows up and reiterates what the nurse told her before, though with more medical jargon and less of a smile. She realizes as he's leaving that there's a guard outside her door. Since she isn't handcuffed to the bed, she decides it's for protection.
They bring her a tray of hospital food. She eats everything without tasting it. At nine a woman she doesn't recognize makes it past the guard's inspection and comes into the room holding a clipboard and an FBI badge.
"You're Teresa Lisbon?" the woman asks.
She nods. "What's going on?"
"I'm Agent Fischer. I've been asked to take a statement from you regarding the deaths of Brett Partridge and Thomas McAllister."
"Why not SacPD? Or the CBI?"
The agent pulls up a chair and sits, taking out a pen from the top of the clipboard. "The CBI…no longer exists. The FBI has been called in to handle this case."
She stares at Fischer. "What the hell happened?"
"Your director, Gale Bertram, was arrested yesterday. But that's all I've been authorized to tell you. I just need to get your statement about Partridge and McAllister."
"What about my team?"
Fischer looks down at the clipboard. "I'm sorry. I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."
At eleven she's debating checking herself out of the hospital against medical advice when she hears the guard talking to someone at the door. Another FBI agent, maybe. She can't make out any of the words, but after a few minutes someone walks in.
"Boss?"
Relief laced with disappointment. "What's going on? Where is everybody?"
Van Pelt sits in the chair next to the bed. "We've been in the FBI's custody since yesterday afternoon. They still haven't released Wayne or Cho."
"What about…?" she swallows the question. "Why were you in custody?"
She's silent as Van Pelt tells her about something called the Blake Association and Jane's questionably legal plan to expose Bertram and an FBI team from Austin swooping in to bring everything to a grinding halt. She can't be surprised about any of it yet. She's still having trouble believing that she herself killed Red John two days ago.
"So the FBI's still got Cho and Rigsby?" she asks at the end.
Van Pelt nods. "But they said they'd release them soon. I came straight here when they let me go."
She can't keep herself from asking the question anymore. "Where's Jane?"
"You mean he hasn't shown up here? Or tried to call you?"
Her heart races. "No. What happened?"
"When we were in custody he was trying to tell the FBI who else he thought was involved in all of this, and when they wouldn't listen…"
"He escaped?"
"I'm not sure how he did it, but yes. Wayne and I thought maybe he'd gone to see you, but if he hasn't shown up here…" Van Pelt looks away. "Then no one knows where he is."
Her broken ribs heal and a doctor takes the stitches out of her arm and the scratch on her neck from the linoleum knife fades into nothing. While she's buying cardboard boxes and masking tape one morning, the cashier asks if she's moving to get away from all the violence in the city.
"Something like that," she tells him.
He nods and wishes her good luck.
"…and that's why I wasn't able to get any more printer paper."
She snaps back to attention to see the new intern in front of her desk, holding a small brown rabbit and an opened package of fireworks.
"Sorry, what?" she asks.
"I can't get more printer paper today. But the store should be back open tomorrow once they reshelf everything. Unless you want me to go to the one a few miles down the road, though I think they're closed on holidays."
"It's fine. We can make it a day without paper." She sighs. "Return the rabbit to Ms. Richards and…I guess keep the fireworks, if you want them."
"Got it. Thanks, Chief Lisbon." He gives her a nod and leaves the office.
She goes back to filling out paperwork for a nuisance complaint, but only makes it through three blanks before her cell phone rings. She reaches for it on the other of the desk, knocking over a small glass figurine in the process. The caller ID reads 'Amy Lansing'.
"Yeah?" she answers.
"You are still coming, right?"
"Yes, I am." She laughs. "But it isn't until seven, right?"
"Right. Just making sure you were aware. It looks bad when our chief of police doesn't show up at these things."
"I'm sure. As long as there aren't any more escaped rabbits or incidents with fireworks, I'll be there at seven."
There's a laugh on the other end of the line. "Oh, and I want to introduce you to someone."
She's about to respond when there's a click and the call ends.
She wasn't looking for new friends when she moved here months ago, or anything besides a job and relative anonymity, but she wasn't about to refuse when Mayor Lansing's wife offered to show her around town the day she arrived. She's still never told Amy anything about her life in Sacramento, save that she was a state agent who wanted to work somewhere more low-key after seeing a few hundred murder victims.
She's learning how to talk about the weather and the new ordinances from the homeowner's association and the right kind of flowers to plant in her front yard. She's learning how to drive through town without always checking for tails. She's remembering how to meet people without thinking of them as possible suspects.
Sometimes she thinks she'll stay for good.
On the way home she passes at least twenty houses with American flags hanging from their windows, plus a group of kids who hide sparklers as she goes by. Her next door neighbors are cooking on a grill outside and wave to her, but she only smiles back and doesn't go over to chat.
She's just set her keys on the kitchen table when there's a jingling noise somewhere nearby. It lasts half a second but it's wrong, out of place. She pulls out her gun and there it is again, somewhere above her.
She climbs the stairs with her jaw clenched and the gun held in front of her, and she can hear every single sound. The hiss of something being turned over on the grill outside. Shouts from kids playing. The hum of the air conditioning. Her own breathing, speeding up now. The jingling again.
Down the hallway. Everything pitch black except for a flashlight beam. That smell of mold and blood and the stale air of a deserted house and something isn't right, not at all—she should have backup. Where did this go wrong?
The sound of yelling. Turning on and off the radio. Hitting ignore every time there's a call. The anonymous tip and the cell phone trackers and if she opens this door in front of her now she'll find Partridge bleeding out.
Turning the handle. The jingling noise instead of the sound of pigeons and it's coming from the closet. Someone's in the closet and she can't hold the gun steady and there's blood on her face and on her lips and she can feel the linoleum knife cutting into her arm and no, no, no.
Windchimes.
She hung them here in her bedroom yesterday evening. There's a breeze coming through the open window now, and they're jingling.
She sits on the floor with her back to the wall and her fingers still wrapped around the gun until she can think again.
She showers and dries her hair and puts the television on for background noise while she irons one of the few dresses she owns. The weather is too hot this evening to try to cover the scar on her arm, and by now it's faded to a silvery white anyway. No one in town ever asks about it. She thinks it's a combination of general politeness and a fear that, as the local police chief, she can make their lives unpleasant.
Before leaving, she takes down the windchimes and closes all the windows. She shouldn't have left them open anyway, she thinks, what with the air conditioner already running.
The park across from the town hall is already dotted with families on picnic blankets by the time she arrives, and she's stopped by three different people wanting to chat on her way into the building. Ms. Richards thanks her profusely for the safe return of the rabbit, but doesn't give any details on how it escaped in the first place.
The silent auction is already in progress when she makes it into the town hall, and she wanders through the crowd for a while without really looking at any of the items on the tables. Proceeds from this event to benefit the maintenance of local public buildings, the sign on the wall reads. It's written in orange marker and decorated with small handprints in blue paint. Maintenance is spelled wrong. She smiles.
She's considering getting something to eat from the tables of food at the front when she runs into Amy Lansing.
"Oh good, you're here. Make sure you say hello to my husband if you see him—I think he's somewhere around here…"
"Sure, I will," she says. "What were you saying before on the phone?"
Amy's eyes light up. "Right! I happened to run into a very nice man in town the other day. He's thinking of settling down here and I told him to stop by our Fourth of July celebration and get a sense of the atmosphere."
She makes a face. "You want me to talk to him about the crime rate?"
"Well, certainly, if you want to," Amy says. "But he told me he'd just come from California and I said you were the person to talk to about making that transition."
"I don't know if I'm really—"
"Oh, there he is now!" Amy waves at someone coming towards them and she turns to look.
No.
And he's shaking her hand and giving her a fake smile and she can't do anything but stare.
"I'm Patrick Jane," he says. "Very nice to meet you."
"Teresa Lisbon." Her voice is almost inaudible.
"I told Teresa how you've been thinking of settling down here in Canon River," Amy is saying. "She's our chief of police, and she'll be happy to answer any questions you might have about safety and the like."
"That's very kind of her. I do have some questions about the crime rate here."
"Perfect," Amy replies. "Now, if you two will excuse me, I think I see my husband over there."
She nods mutely. Jane waits until Amy is out of earshot to speak again.
"I think we should talk, Lisbon."