A/N: Wow! Thank you for the warm welcome back! I really have missed this fandom.

Chapter 2

Back again at the Sierra Vista facility, Jane and Lisbon drove up to see Sac PD cars parked at the front of the hospital, red and blue lights silently flashing in the early morning darkness, and a couple of black SUVs—CBI standard issue for sure. They showed their FBI identification to the officer at the front entrance, spoke the magic word, Hightower, and immediately gained admittance. Filled with anxiety, they walked gingerly down the same hallway they'd traversed the day before, passing a few nurses and other caregivers, some of them with tear-stained cheeks and fearful expressions. Jane heard one of them nudge a companion and mutter, "That's him," as he walked by. So, his fame had preceded him, apparently.

As they approached Kristina's room, Lisbon took his hand. Madeleine came out of the room then, which was currently occupied by forensics people and a couple of the new CBI's finest.

"Patrick," she said, and the pair hugged warmly, before she turned to Lisbon and gave her the same greeting.

"Madeleine," said Lisbon. "It's good to see you, despite the circumstances…"

Hightower nodded gravely, and the two women stepped back from their embrace to see that Jane had already crossed the threshold of the crime scene. He stood there, staring at the wall inside Kristina's room at Red John's bloody calling card, still dripping macabrely from its eyes and smiling mouth. He walked inside, ironically feeling that same dread he'd once described to Brett Partridge when an unsuspecting witness discovers the murderer's handiwork. Jane's eyes moved to the bed, to the figure beneath the clear plastic sheet.

Hightower and Lisbon entered the room behind him, and one nod from the boss to the forensics team had them clearing out so Jane could have a closer look. Jane lifted the plastic, his hand shaking, his heart pounding in a painfully familiar way, his breathing so heavy now he was sure everyone in the room could hear it. At the sight of Kristina's mutilated form, he couldn't prevent his gasp of shock. Lisbon was at his side instantly, her hand on his arm in support, but his gasp wasn't about the ghastly state of the lovely woman he'd once known.

"It was him," he said under his breath, still staring at the body in disbelief.

He turned up the bedside lamp one more notch, the brightness harsh upon the horrific mortification of flesh. He leaned closer, holding his breath to avoid the coppery scent of blood, the malodorous stench of disembowelment.

"What do you mean?" asked Lisbon, her eyes flitting away from the gore, "that's impossible."

She felt sick at the stomach, her hands going to the sudden tightness in her womb. It must be her pregnancy; she'd long ago hardened herself against the dreadful sight of dead bodies, learned to ignore the fetid smells. Not so now, as she covered her nose and mouth with her hand. She'd have to leave the room soon or risk vomiting all over the crime scene, but she had to know what Jane meant.

Jane looked up at Hightower, his eyes wide, face pale. "Have you had any similar killings in the last three years? I mean, even without the bloody smiley?"

Hightower's forehead furrowed in confusion. "No. I mean, not that I know of. I've been back with the CBI for two years, and I don't recall hearing anything like this happening again until now. Why, Patrick? What are you getting at?"

"I'm saying that this was done by Red John. I studied his method of carving up his victims closely for years. I've seen copycats too, a couple of times. I knew right away they weren't him, because of the meticulous, precise way he would cut. I know it sounds sick, but butchers who care about their craft hone their skills, have certain methods. Just so with Red John." He pointed at the body, not seeing Kristina now, looking at her corpse in a purely clinical way.

"That's impossible. You killed Red John three years ago," argued Hightower.

"Look, if this isn't Red John, then it was someone who had once worked alongside him, who had to have been trained carefully to imitate his methods exactly. He would have needed to practice on an actual body to have become this proficient—that's why I asked if there had been other cases recently. Red John had had many years and many bodies to perfect this, and if there had been an apprentice with him, it's been a long time since his mentor has been there to train him. But I really don't think there was an apprentice, not in this case..."

"Jane," said Lisbon gently, her hand tightening on his arm. "It's been a long time since you've seen one of his victims. Maybe you've forgotten—"

"No. I haven't. You don't forget something like this, Teresa, especially since it filled most of my days for ten years. This was Red John. I don't know how, but I'd bet my life on it."

A sickness for another reason finally got the better of her, and, covering her mouth again, Lisbon fled in search of a bathroom. Jane watched her leave, concern marring his features.

"Is she all right?" asked Hightower.

Jane nodded. "She's five months pregnant. She's gotten over the morning sickness, but odors still tend to get to her. I was worried something like this might happen, but she insisted on coming."

Hightower smiled. "I thought I felt a bit of a bump when we hugged. I didn't want to assume though…Congratulations, Patrick. I'm so happy for you both."

Despite where they were, Jane couldn't help his proud, happy smile. "Thank you. I never thought I could be lucky enough to be this happy again." His face fell at the sharp stench of reality around them. "I'd like to offer my services, Madeleine. Hopefully I'm wrong about who did this, and I know this seems an impossible notion, that this could be Red John. But I have to find out either way, and you know I'm the best man for the job. Can you give this to me, please?"

Hightower shook her head wryly. "Well, since you'd more than likely pursue this on your own and probably interfere with my investigation anyway, I may as well give my consent. Frankly, I'd be happy to have your help. Whoever did this, there's a murderer out there, and we owe it to Kristina to find him."

Jane bent and kissed Hightower's cheek, remembering fondly how it had always made her blush. This time was no different. "Thank you, Madeleine. Now, I should go see about my wife." With a last, sad look toward the body of Kristina Frye, he left in search of the nearest restroom.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane knocked on the ladies' room door down the hall. "Lisbon? Are you in there?"

He was met with a disturbing silence. He knocked again, then pushed open the door slightly, in time to hear her retching in the far stall. No one else was in the bathroom, so he moved to stand in front of the stall door. "Are you okay sweetheart?" He cringed as she was sick again.

"Yeah," she finally managed, coughing a little. "I'm sorry. Very unprofessional of me."

"I think we'll all give you a pass, given the circumstances."

Jane went to the sink, wet a paper towel and stuck it under the door for her. She took it gratefully.

He began to pace then, like a tiger in a cage, his nervous energy barely held in check. He went back to the sink, threw cold water on his face, forced himself to take a few deep, steadying breaths. He might as well be vomiting in the toilet next to his wife, so shaken was he at the thought of Kristina, of what his instincts were telling him now about Red John. He'd been wrong about the identity of Red John three years ago. Again. He knew it, knew it with a stunning clarity that made absolutely no logical sense, but came from his very soul.

Lisbon emerged from the stall, her face more a pale white now than the sickly green of before. She repeated Jane's actions at the sink, then cupped water in her hands to rinse her mouth before taking a fortifying gulp. As she blotted her face with a dry paper towel, she caught Jane's reflection in the mirror. He was back to pacing, and she turned to face him, catching his hand as he passed.

"Hey," she said. "They're gonna get this sicko, whoever he is."

"Yeah, well, that's the thing…this isn't just some random copycat—this is Red John. I know it. He's come out of retirement to avenge himself on Kristina, to make me pay once more for my own arrogance and stupidity."

"What are you talking about? Red John is dead, Jane. You killed him. He was Tom McAllister."

Jane shook his head. "I thought he was Timothy Carter too, remember? No copycat would have been good enough to do what was done to Kristina in there."

She looked at him deeply in the eyes, saw the intensity there, the fear, the anger. "No…this can't be," she said, tears forming in her eyes. "He was dead, Patrick. We were finally able to get on with our lives. This can't be happening again."

Jane drew her trembling body into his arms, held her tightly as she cried, his own eyes filling as the full reality of all that had happened—of all that could happen-was sinking in. After a few minutes, she gave a great, shuddering sigh, and he nuzzled into her hair, breathing in the faint apple fragrance of her shampoo.

"I'm staying here to help Madeleine," he said softly. "And I know I sound like a broken record, but I want you to go back home, to Austin. I want you to stay in the FBI building, get Cho to put a cot in some quiet, safe interrogation room. Hell, you could even sleep on my couch. You can shower in the downstairs gym. I don't want you alone in the cabin, or even the Airstream. I can't do this if I have to worry about your safety."

He felt her tense, no doubt supremely annoyed with his bossiness, but he didn't care. She pulled away, and the tear-streaked face she presented to him was now red with anger.

"Well, then don't you do this either. If this was Red John—and I'm still not convinced of that—why does it have to be you now? You have responsibilities. My baby needs a father, and I don't want to have to tell him someday that you got yourself killed for your own ego." She had no qualms playing that card again, not where their lives were concerned.

"Red John is—"

"Yours. Yes, so you have said for years. Well, guess what, you're mine, and I'm not going to sacrifice you to the god of vengeance anymore. So, here's the compromise: if you continue to pursue this, I'll add my own scratch to that broken record of yours by saying that I'm staying here with you, so deal with it." She held up her hand when he began to protest. "We agreed that I would go on desk duty when I got to six months; I still have a month to go. If you still haven't caught Red John by then, I'll agree to go back home and twiddle my thumbs at my desk, but you'll agree to give up on this, once and for all, and focus on us, on our baby. Those are my terms. Find me a napkin and I'll write it all down in detail if you want."

Her lips quirked at her joke, but her eyes were still deadly serious.

He hesitated, "Teresa…"

"It's non-negotiable, Jane," she said sternly and he flinched.

Her expression softened, and she reached up to caress his stubbled cheek. He briefly closed his eyes at the contact, struggling to get a hold of his fear.

"Look," she continued, "if Red John wants either of us dead, you know there's no way of stopping him. If you're right, and he's been alive these last three years, he's had time to build up his organization again. He could have people in the FBI. The fact is, we could be in danger no matter where we are, so I'd rather be here, where I can see you and you can see me, and maybe keep each other out of trouble. Do we have a deal?" She held out her hand, but he brushed it aside and gathered her close again.

"You're a very stubborn woman, Teresa Lisbon Jane."

"Back at you, Mr. Jane. Do you accept my terms?"

He sighed in defeat. "Fine. But God help us if Junior comes out acting like either one of us."

"But you don't believe in God," she said, smiling against his chest.

"The moment you told me you loved me, I did." She felt his hand slip between them to rest on her swollen belly, felt his warm lips on her temple.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As much as Jane wanted to get right on the case, he swallowed back his agitation and drove them back to the hotel so his wife could get a little more sleep. He was tempted to ask Madeleine for a guard at their door, but he settled for taking Lisbon's sidearm from her luggage when she was asleep and settling himself into a chair to keep watch, himself. He'd thought his days of insomnia were long gone, but he added it to the list of regressive behaviors Red John's return had brought on. Just like before, Jane wouldn't be able to sleep soundly again until he was gone, although with the psychopath's nine lives, he might never sleep again.

He had managed a light doze when the cell phone in his pajama pocket began to buzz, and he looked at it, not recognizing the number for the second time that night. Heart racing and filled with new foreboding, he tiptoed to the bathroom and closed the door, turning on the light and the exhaust fan in hopes it would keep any noise from awakening Lisbon.

"Hello," he said quietly.

"Hello, Patrick." The voice-that high-pitched, obviously phony voice that had haunted his dreams for years spoke into his ear, the tone arrogant, triumphant. Red John's impersonators had tried to use it, but Jane had ignored (at his peril) that they had somehow sounded slightly…off.

"It's you," Jane managed hoarsely over the lump in his throat.

Red John laughed. "Yes. It's been too long. I've missed you."

"You're supposed to be dead."

"Yeah, well, reports of my death, etcetera etcetera…And this brings to mind another old saying. How does it go? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? What happens though when you're fooled a third time, Patrick?"

"There won't be a third time. Who are you really? I thought I'd done a pretty good job narrowing down the list, with your help."

"Aw, The List. I admit you almost bested me back then, for my name was in fact, on that list."

"Reede?" Jane asked, holding his breath. The only survivor from that long-ago list of seven was Reede Smith, currently (he thought) serving a life sentence in a Federal penitentiary.

Red John chuckled. "That buffoon? Really? I was actually insulted that he'd made the cut, but I saw your logic. He fit some of the profile you'd developed, but in the end, you had to know he was too stupid to be me. Now, as you look back, the pieces should finally start to click into place for you. All the clues I'd left for you, and you always knew there was only one suspect on that list that totally fit every one, but you were too afraid to go with your own instincts. So, just as I'd known you would, when actually confronted with someone claiming to be me, your lizard brain took over and you believed what I wanted you to believe, saw only what was in front of your eyes, believed the words two well-trained liars. It was all very disappointing and predictable, really."

His mind swirling, Jane thought of each man on that list and their supposed fate three years ago. Like a computer screen in his mind, he scrolled through the clues from Rosalind Harker, the information he'd gathered from Visualize, from Bret Stiles, from Lorelei Martins, and all the victims and witnesses along the way, most of them dead now to keep a madman's secret.

"Think, Patrick," Red John prompted condescendingly, "and if you guess correctly the first time, I'll give you a treat."

And finally, Jane followed the advice he'd given others countless times over the years: what is your first thought, your first instinct in answering a question? Go with that, no matter how far out it might sound. Somewhere in your subconscious, you know what is right, you know what is true.

He opened his mouth and spoke the two words that came immediately to his mind: "Brett Partridge."

"Well done," said Brett Partridge in his true voice. "I'm proud of you at last."

While Jane's blood ran cold at the genuine praise in that long-forgotten voice, there was no mistaking it: the man who Jane had written off as a ghoul, as an irksome little man, had been in control all along. Of all the possible candidates, he had fit every personal clue Jane had painstakingly gathered. His height, under six feet, his hair, straight and short—this information thanks to Rosalind Harker. His age (a kid in 1987) from his research into the old Visualize farm, matched up with Partridge's. He worked on the inside of law enforcement, as was made clear by how Red John had known things only insiders could. Lorelei had said they'd shaken hands, that he'd met Red John. He'd vividly remembered shaking Partridge's hand the first time they'd met at a crime scene, how his hand had been dry and warm, confident, when Jane had expected it to be cold and sweaty, given the forensics expert's outward demeanor. He'd written it off as an anomaly, a rare mistake of judgement where first impressions were concerned. He hadn't listened to his instincts then either.

Partridge had been on the forensics team since just after Jane had come to work with the CBI—what better way to keep an eye on his nemesis, he thought in hindsight. Partridge had easily altered Tom McAllister's dental and DNA records, so it was possible that he could have had an accomplice within the forensics team that would help him fake his own death. Lisbon had been the last one to supposedly see Partridge alive; Cho had seen the body in the morgue. He would have to talk to them to find out how they could have been so mistaken as well.

But if Brett Partridge was truly Red John, the man was right: Jane had ignored his own instincts when confronted by a physical manifestation of his worst fears. He knew this had been possible—Jane tended to lose his mind a little when in the presence of the man, or whom he thought was Red John. He became anxious, overcome by fear, near hyperventilation as he fought to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. He had never been able to think clearly until after such encounters, when his body and mind had completely settled. This was how he came to realize Timothy Carter hadn't been Red John. When he'd killed McAllister, he'd been so relieved, so anxious to leave it all behind him, that he'd barely given Red John a thought again, just like he'd assured Carter he would do before he shot him.

"I can almost hear your mind working," said Partridge in amusement, interrupting his thoughts. "I'll give you time to sus it all out. But not much. You see, your visit to Katrina brought me out of retirement, and I'm a little miffed about that. I was starting to enjoy my freedom from responsibility, but you had to go and dig up the past again instead of leaving well enough alone. So, here's the deal. I no longer want to toy with you anymore, Patrick. I'm reminded of just how tiring playing with you can be, even though it was fun to watch you squirm on my hook for so long. No one besides you is even remotely intelligent enough to track me down, despite your past failures. So, the only way to end the game is to kill you. Out of respect for your great mind, and for my own personal entertainment, I've kept you alive; you know I could have killed you any time. I'm sorry to say, however, the thrill is gone, and I'm ready to move on."

"Well, I'm not," insisted Jane.

"That's unfortunate. You have a lot more to lose now, don't you? You know, on second thought, I can be reasonable. I might reconsider killing you if you agree to back off, to not tell anyone about our little chat tonight. I'll give you twenty-four hours to decide. Pack it in and go back to Austin with your lovely wife, forget about me, and I promise I'll stop killing and go back to my quiet existence. But if you're still here tomorrow, if you're still working with my old friend Madeleine, I'll finally take care of her and her children like I should have a long time ago, then, since you seem to like repeating history, I'll butcher your wife and unborn child like pigs for slaughter. This time though, I think I'll let you watch. At last, when you're totally broken once more, begging for mercy like my weakling protégé Tom did…well, I'll save that as my final surprise. But none of that has to happen, Patrick, if you do what I ask."

"How can I trust you?" Jane asked, his voice straining with the effort to hold back his anger at the threats against his new family.

"You can, Patrick, I promise. Have I ever lied to you? I mean, personally? Frankly, I'm getting too old for this shit. Carving up someone took a lot more out of me than it used to. You get it though, I'm sure. I bet you're feeling your age as you work on that pretty little cabin in the woods of yours. Do feel it in the knees, like I do? Man, middle age sucks."

"Patrick?" Jane jumped at the soft knock on the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"

"Aw, is that Teresa," said Partridge fondly in his ear. "I've missed her too. I'll be seeing you both very soon though, if you don't leave California by tomorrow that is." And he ended the call. Jane pressed a button and put his phone back in his pocket, his emotions churning. He could save himself and his family and friends if he quit now, if he went back to Texas, let the CBI chase their tails here, looking for some Red John copycat. As good as Hightower was, without him her team wouldn't be able to find Red John. Without a trace of conceit, he knew that to be true.

"I'll be out in a minute," he said to Lisbon.

Jane flushed the toilet, turned on the water in the sink and mechanically washed his hands. Slipping Lisbon's gun into his robe pocket, he opened the door. Lisbon stood there in the light of the bedside lamp, her eyes dark with concern.

"I woke up and you were gone. I was scared."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't sleep. It's still a couple hours till morning, you should try to go back to sleep."

"Not without you."

He kissed her lips, meaning at first to just give her a loving peck, but it quickly turned deeper, more passionate, as fear shot through him at Partridge's words. If she wasn't so obviously exhausted, he'd bury himself in her again, try to forget the danger in her arms. But after a moment, he reluctantly pulled away, pressing his lips gently against her soft cheek.

"Okay, I'll try to sleep if you will."

She smiled. "Things will be better in the morning."

"That's my little Pollyanna," he teased, but he loved her for her optimism. He touched the cross that hung in the v of her sleep shirt, and led her back to the bed, tucking her in on her usual side. Acceding to her wishes, he took off his robe and slid in beneath the covers in his pajamas, moving to spoon himself against her back. She shut off the lamp and snuggled into him, their hands meeting beneath the warm bump of their baby.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too."

But long after Lisbon's deep breathing filled the room, Jane lay awake, making plans. He had twenty-four hours, and he would use them wisely. The first thing he would do would be to call Cho, find out where Rosalind Harker was, FBI regulations be damned. He'd assumed she'd been safe all these years in the witness protection program, hopefully somewhere nice where she had a piano to play. Exposing her would put her life at risk, but all she had to do was listen to the recording he'd made with his phone. She could tell him for certain if that was really Red John who'd called him. He should have done this ages ago, recorded each man on his list, let her listen and identify her old lover. But he hadn't had a reliable in with the FBI back then, and he also hadn't wanted her to end up dead because of him. He thought he could do it without her help once he'd discovered the existence of the Blake Association tattoos. But like many things in his past, he'd been wrong, so he had to have confirmation besides his own ears and the word of a damaged woman before he began his search for Brett Partridge. He had to talk to Lisbon and Cho about their last encounters with him. Jane didn't trust himself anymore, and he wasn't willing to risk those he loved for another wrong conclusion.

He had other plans too, but they all hinged on what Rosalind said. Until then, he held tightly to his wife and waited for the dawn.

A/N: There's much more to come. I hope you are liking where this is going.