Chapter Five: Red Wine
"The human dress is forged in iron,
The human form a fiery forge.
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart it's hungry gorge."
William Blake- A Divine Image
Two Days Previous
The rays of the evening reflected brilliantly on the wine glasses, adding a sparkling effect to the already dazzling dinner place. The outdoor-air was filled with the aroma of various cheeses and sauces that brought together magnificent pasta dishes, and enticed the anticipating customers at their tables, waiting for their orders to arrive.
Jane and Lisbon were seated under the dangling lights that added an ambiance of luxury to the gourmet Italian restaurant, the checkered tabletop before them empty so far, except for the two glasses of red wine resting near their fingertips, and a lovely rose centerpiece. The evening began pleasantly as the pair placed their orders with a waiter that Jane was well acquainted with, having been to the diner multiple times previously. Then, the two started to chat. For Jane, it was more than a primeval dinner date.
He believed it to be his last moments with Lisbon.
Whenever this thought intruded, he mechanically grasped the slender wine glass and gulped down the remnants, constantly referring back to the waiter for another refill. His decision was final, and Jane wouldn't be deterred by her. Not that Teresa had any inkling of the war she was battling with her drunken co-worker.
In his memory he captured everything about Teresa; the movement of her lips to form each word, her fleeting anger at his irksome remarks, the ebony locks of hair framing her beautifully angular face, the green of her honest eyes that reminded him of the sea after a storm. She was beautiful, hair down and clothed in a navy gown, and he felt a bitter-sweetness akin to the taste from the wine.
Jane was caught up in a future that he no longer believed in, stuck in a dream from which he'd never wake. As the time inched by, and the light of the sky wavered, he wondered if he really could ever go through with his plans.
But Jane couldn't take the risk of living.
...
"How has the Kilmer case been coming along?" Jane inquired, draining the contents of his third glass of red wine. Teresa had yet to touch hers, speculating that she would have to sacrifice her enjoyment of fine wine in order to get them home safely, judging by Jane's current sobriety.
"We have another suspect," Teresa replied, indulging on a bite of her manicotti.
"Elizabeth Lane?" Patrick asked, pausing for a moment from his next bite of spaghetti as he studied Lisbon's face.
The movement of her jaw as she ate the manicotti slowed, but Lisbon calmly looked to Jane and stated, "No," with a mocking undercurrent.
"So it is," Jane replied, grabbing his napkin and dabbing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were glazed, like the humidity collecting on their glasses.
"How'd you know?" Teresa inquired in defeat, taking a swig of her wine.
Jane's grin was hollow. "It was a hunch until you confirmed it for me."
Teresa scoffed in amused skepticism, leaning back into her chair. "You haven't even met the woman. How could you-no, wait, don't tell me," Lisbon joked sarcastically, "You're actually psychic, and have been hiding it for all this time."
"There's no such thing as psychics, Lisbon." Jane remarked. His eyes softened and he grimaced; he looked down to his wedding ring, which had shrunken onto his finger.
Lisbon immediately felt the swift change of atmosphere, the cheeky smile playing on her lips dropping immediately. Jane became colder, with calculated and stern thoughts behind his gaze that denied the fact that he was very much drunk.
Wrong words.
She remained still, insides squirming uncomfortably, as their chatter paused. It was evident that Jane wasn't himself, or, rather, his removed self, since usually he wouldn't be so quick to take offense.
Jane found Lisbon's eyes once more.
"Teresa, there's something I've been needing to tell you."
Lisbon leaked her slight shock, a tension straightening her ever proud posture.
Patrick yearned to reach out to her, and in that second, he felt that she could save him. Saint Teresa could be the savior he needed.
But Patrick wouldn't allow himself to be saved. If he told her the truth about how he felt, there would be no return, no relief.
Inside he was aware that his motives were purely selfish, that Lisbon was waiting to hear what she'd known all along, but to confirm it would prove a whole other outcome.
Patrick loved her. And he couldn't tell her that.
Jane smiled bitterly, ghostly and dry, the sunflower curls the only bright thing left about his appearance.
Why did he choose this?
Patrick drew in a breath. "Never mind. Sorry. So, back to Lane..."
...
The detective and consultant were streaming down the California highway in Patrick's car, the night closing in on the sinuous roads as the sun descended further behind the horizon.
Their dinner had fallen short of Lisbon's low expectations; Jane was not his usual good company, drowning in red wine at mentions of anything but small talk. With plates empty, they'd awkwardly agreed to return to their dwellings, Teresa coaxingly receiving Jane's car keys, as he was in no state to drive.
Now, Jane was searching the scenery, figure positioned towards the widow as his head laid on the head rest.
Bitter silence, once comfortable, was all to be recognized other than the hum of the motor. There was an uneasy feeling about the whole situation, and Lisbon was tempted to reiterate her concern.
She drew in a breath to speak, glancing at Patrick wearily, but he suddenly, yet softly, spoke.
"Would you stop here?"
"What, here? Now?" She inquired, peering out at the deepening dark to see the faint outline of the ocean, grass poking above the view.
"I'd like to see the beach," he stated plainly without sparing her a glance, his focus locked outside of his window.
Hesitant and confused, Lisbon pulled onto the shoulder they were nearing, easing into the parking space. Once the car stilled, Patrick presently left the Citreon and proceeded to leave down the walkway.
It was a moment before Lisbon was at his side, her heels doing little to slow down her pace.
For a moment, they solely stood, eyeing the shoreline and the caressing glow of the receding sun that hugged the grey ocean with a redeeming yellow. The wind whipped around their frames, kicking up the sand beneath their feet. Reeds withered behind them under the blows.
Teresa was tense as she waited with baited breath, an unusual fear climbing her skin and tightening in her chest. Jane was despondent and drunken, swaying and bending in the wind along with the reeds, hair ruffled. The horizon reflected in his dulled eyes as he seemed to marvel at the hypnotist waves.
Teresa startled when she felt his fingers slip into her grasp, and blinked down at the withered hand that intertwined with hers. He moved to face her, turning his back on the ocean.
"Lisbon," he spoke with a dry mouth that no amount of wine succeeded in dampening, "I want to apologize."
She smiled unsurely as he took hold of her unoccupied hand, gripping them with loose finger tips. Her dark hair danced in the turbulence around them, and her eyes burned in a deep forestry. Patrick smiled fondly at her.
"There's nothing to apologize for, Jane," Lisbon swallowed against the choked feeling enclosing her throat, "I had a good time tonight." She was at a loss, and studied him, looking for a trace of evidence of his intentions.
"That's not what I mean, although I'm sure I wasn't the best company this evening." Jane willed his heart to stop racing. "I want to apologize for the time it's taken for me to do this."
Suddenly, the wind picked up speed, and the waves were crashing over Teresa endlessly as she felt Patrick Jane lean in and kiss her. She didn't pull away, and felt no inclination to pursue that action, despite the fact that he was entirely and immensely drunk; it didn't matter that the alcohol was strong on his breath, or that it was this drunken state that brought upon the experience. She was wrapped and engulfed by him and the power of his vivid love, as shaken and fearful as a small fish in an incredible ocean.
But the fear of the unknown was outweighed by the excitement of the sea.
...
The Day Of
When had the world become grey?
The stars no longer held their luster; the ocean's rhythmic crashing of waves as they folded upon themselves barely grasped the memory of the comforting lullaby. The ground was once sown with seeds of expectation, the sweat of relentless work watering the dry earth as the life struggled to peak over the soil. Follow your dreams was the phrase burned into every young aspirer: a demand, and a guidance. The true dreams, however, were above the fathomable level of many. Idealism of something greater caused an overshadowing of what mattered most, of what the heart sincerely desired. _
An enigma of bottomless amber bottles was a swirling mass before Jane. Instinct raised one after another to his lips in purely mechanical movements to a point where events in his life were dissociative. Time escaped his senses, all of his remaining focus entrapped on snapping open the next bottle cap.
The shine of the moon failed to add a gleam in the perceptively dull gaze of his, as he was perched on a junk box of the CBI headquarters roof. Several glasses had rolled into different directions after they were drained of the maddening liquid and casted aside. The traffic below rushed in Jane's ears as a breeze ruffled his hair. He breathed in the night incoherently, tightly closing his eye lids as the cold air whispered around him, brushing against his bare ring finger.
Was that the ocean? The waves enveloped themselves as the light of the sunset receded. He was seated on the rocky shore, content in the darkness as the day was put to rest. He had traveled so far; there was little strength left within him, and yet, the sea called to him. It craved his appreciation, his enjoyment, his participation within the depths of the salty sea. In the same way, Jane was eager to splash into the soft waves, to lay under the comfortable dark.
He was sure he could feel the caress of the wind, the sand sticking to the pads of his weary feet. Here was his world, a world of darkness and terror, the unknown of the ocean at nighttime, wrapped in a sense of knowledge and certainty. Here, Jane existed in nothing but lies, to the eye of the beholder, seemingly convincing and trusting.
But someone else stood at the edge of the shore.
She was beauty and grace tied in one, an ethereal being that erupted joy into his heart. But her hair was as dark as the horizon, her eyes the sea in a storm.
She stood between the gratifying waves that licked playfully at his toes, and was as fast as stone into the earth. He could not move her, as she moved his heart.
Jane blinked. Now the world was still, a solid black proving reflective as he peered curiously at his solemn face. It was a moment before he recognized that he was seeing into the curved edges of a piano; the melody playing crept carefully to him. Für Elise. He looked expectantly to his left, and examined the ivory steps of the polished baby grand as timid fingers embraced the keys. E, D flat, E, B, D, C, G.
Jane chided Charlotte teasingly as the sour note was punched. She self-consciously began again, edging reluctantly onto the A as she became swifter in her movements. Soon, Jane was entranced, a smile gently forming on the girl's lips as she continued the melody. In the unexpected and attention-grasping way of a sforzando, the minor key suddenly struck a chord in his heart, and de-crescendoing, the music faded, though her fingers never ceased to play. A cold red line traced her neck, then gradually dropped down onto the ivory, and made the keys grimy and sticky. Charlotte moved rhythmically on, until Jane could see solely red before him.
He gasped. Jane's conscience returned to the rooftop, his heart aching for the melody that had abruptly ended long ago.
His eyesight was affronted by a drink-induced haze, along with tears that he didn't realize were falling.
His balance swerved threateningly as he stood and returned inside to his room.
Jane didn't mean to hurt anyone. He hadn't meant to be so negligent and power hungry that he caused the deaths of his true dreams in life. Charlotte and Angela were proof of his destructive nature, his ugly, cowardly soul.
The pill bottle was in his hands. Jane lifted the lid, and poured out the pills into his palm.
After their deaths, Jane swore never again to love, nor to make friends that he'd only endanger.
One pill, swallowed with a sip of alcohol.
Now he was deep in the arms of love, in love with Saint Teresa, the woman who saved him from himself.
Two pills. Four. Repetitive swallowing.
Where was Saint Teresa now? This sinner's disappearance would be a blessing to her.
Six. Palm continuously refilled.
That's what he told himself. His ocean of lies was his diminishing comfort.
Ten. Was he falling down?
Teresa was better off without Patrick, for he was no saint. He was worthless compared to her, solely a man of guilt and shame.
Thirteen. Flying glass. Out of alcohol.
Patrick killed his wife and child, and now he would leave his love. But he deserved this death. She would come to understand, one day.
Nineteen. Goodbye, Teresa.
The ocean's waves cocooned him in darkness, the waves swirling in a grey of his dulling existence. Had he taken enough to sleep? Jane's throat was scratched and dry, and he longed to drink the water to wash away his pain. Jane breathed in the blackening waves, but he found no relief. Fire began battling the waves, and Jane yelled for his saint; he prayed to her, that he would not be kept from his peace as he was thrown about within the tumultuous waves of fire and water. His pulse lessened, and soon he was washed over with blissful ignorance.
Soon After
"Get the lights, will you?" Teresa asked of Rigsby, who flipped the switch, the lights flickering momentarily before maintaining composure. Darkness crept in through the blinds as the rest of the population drifted in uneasy sleep. Headquarters had followed into the drowsy spell, unearthly quiet from a lack of inhabitants scuffing their shoes on the polished floors. Footsteps echoed carelessly as the team entered the interior of the windowed bull pen, resigning their daily duties and basking in the joy of their success.
Elizabeth Lane was apprehended hours earlier after the scheming implementation, and according to tradition, the team opted to celebrate with closed-case pizza before returning home.
"I'm proud of you guys," Teresa praised, shrugging off her black business jacket. She beamed with satisfaction that shone through her exhausted features as she stood near the back table. "You did very well tonight. We handled the situation with order and responsibility, and followed protocol every step of the way."
"It's almost strange, how open and shut everything was. I'm not used to being so straight-edge on cases," Grace remarked, chuckling slightly. She folded one leg upon the other as she settled into a chair by the sleek table, yawning quietly. The mascara Grace wore was smudged the edges of her lids, and dark circles exposed a purple like that of her blouse.
"Yeah, we make for a pretty great team when Jane isn't here to throw caution to the wind and put our jobs in jeopardy," Rigsby answered with an air of amusement and pride for the team's ability to function without the consultant. He scooted into the chair nearest to Van Pelt, one knee bobbing up and down, folded hands reaching onto the table with his hunched posture.
At the mentioning of Jane, Teresa blushed inwardly. She breathed in a sharp intake of air and forced the memories to the recesses of her mind. Because Teresa was unsure that Jane's memory would retain the events of the night before, she chose to forget everything before disappointment shook her.
"I'm just thankful it's closed. Snobby, murderous millionaire-wife cases are my least favorite, for sure. They always go for the dramatic," Cho cut in from beside Lisbon as he began dialing the number for Domino's with swift fingers. He paused, brow furrowing momentarily, before he continued with renewed memory.
"Where is Jane, anyway?" Rigsby inquired, mostly directed towards Lisbon as he shifted in his seat. "He hasn't been around lately."
"I don't know; last night I had din-well, I'm not entirely sure to be honest. He's probably in the attic." Lisbon replied, ending sheepishly and barely masking it. She leaned her hips against the table, arms crossed.
"He's not getting any of this pizza." Grace defended, half joking, "If you aren't a part of the job, you don't deserve any pay."
"Agreed. But hey, this time can we add the pineapple?" Rigsby asked the team, a slightly pleading look on his hopeful face.
Van Pelt cringed playfully. "Yick. How about you go home and order Hawaiian for yourself, I'm not having any of that."
"C'mon Van Pelt, you could take it off."
"But the flavor's still there, I don't-"
"Guys, make a decision, they're on the line-" Cho said with a hand held over the receiving end of the phone.
"Whatever's good with me," Lisbon sighed, exasperated. "I'm going to go file paperwork."
Teresa walked smoothly in the echoing quiet to her quarters and thoughtlessly twisted the bronze handle as pushed on the leaden door. She haphazardly brushed her hair out of her face, and let her pupils dilate, adjusting to the dim lighting after the temporary minute of darkness. The office was cold, and the inanimate stood stock still; a lack of decorative inspiration left the room feeling quite lonely at this hour. Every speck of dust was in place, but the room left an essence of calculated disturbance. It was as if her heart reflected the scene in carnival glass: the image was twisted and turned in undefinable ways.
Lisbon shrugged the eerie thoughts off her aching shoulders, and surrendered to her cushioned leather seat. She allowed a moment of silence to exhale and calm down before resuming her work, shutting her eye lids determinedly and rubbing them vigorously. When they fluttered open once more, she had a calmer perspective and a heavy yearning for rest that deepened like a growing weight. Lisbon's eyes were unseeing as her focal point sat directly forward, aimed at a framed picture of her three rowdy brothers, sandwiching their sister between hugs.
That's when Teresa noticed it. A ring.
Golden and worn, tainted on the inside from a lack of removal.
It sat patiently, harmless. Warm.
Still warm, she observed as she clasped it in her hands. It was a couple or three sizes bigger than her slender fingers.
A moment passed before she recalled: it was Jane's ring. Of course it was. She'd glanced with "platonic" melancholy at the ring for many years, daunted by its inseparable quality to Jane and its reminder of what stood between him and happiness.
Between Teresa and happiness.
And it was lying on her desk.
The murky foreboding of minutes earlier drained to a unwilling clear as she acknowledged helplessly this symbol of resignation, this certificate of love and forgiveness.
Many symbols had been appearing lately, but Lisbon was too hopeful. Too wishful. It was insomnia. It was nostalgia. It was the pain of a loss coming back to haunt with a stronger passion. No.
The ring slipped from her shaking hand, and suddenly Teresa was streaming out of the office, heart palpitating in ice as she called desperately, "We need to find Jane!"
XxX
Forgive me for not updating this in so long; I've always had this story in the back of my mind, haunting me until I finished it, but I have an internal struggle of wanting to perfect it that keeps me from writing. Anyways.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I didn't add in how Jane is faring since this already has clocked in at 3,500 words!
Let me know what you think of this chapter, and how you liked the writing style; I think I've been discovering my sense of writing more and more lately, and I want to know how you like it!
Thank you so much for reading, it means the world to me that people like my story.
Please leave a review if you feel up to doing so, if not, then thank you for spending your time on my story!