Chapter 22 – Wrong Color
A/N: Warning for violence.
Jane sneaked out of the farming house, carrying Teresa in his arms. He held her close to his chest, treading through the fields shoulder-first, making sure she wouldn't get a scratch.
It became too quiet, too intimate, even with her unconscious. He remembered another sunny ride, on a bike, with her voice in his ear.
You will be mad, he thought at her. I hope you'll find it in you to forgive me, though I do not deserve it.
Almost fifteen minutes passed before the last wheat stalks parted to reveal the main road. A single white car was driving on the curved lane. It eased right in front of him.
"How is she?" Wylie asked, slamming his door. He scurried to help him sit with Lisbon on the back. Jane knew 'she' didn't address current female presence. Who was obviously not so lively.
"She is alive, Jason. Exhausted, but alive. She agreed to carry on with the plan. Quite strong, that woman. I applaud your taste."
Wylie ignored the remark. "Do you think she can make it?"
"Ninety percent."
He frowned. "Not hundred?
"It's never wise to be too certain. Now please stop questioning, and start driving."
He laid her softly on the bed at the motel room, tucking her hair at the side, leaving a kiss on her forehead.
He looked at her, trying to make his peace with what he had done. He couldn't. So he started pulling drawers, opening cupboards, until he found pen and paper. He used the wall as a writing surface. Once he finished, he folded the paper with swift movements of his fingers and slid it in the pocket of her jacket.
He gave her a last lingering glance, before he turned his back. Ready for the epilogue.
"Unit three, report," Abbott winded on his radio. The grand hallway of Indigo hotel on the fourth floor was empty of guests. They were all living it up at the large pool outside. Just what he needed right now, Abbott thought. Though he had to admit, maybe enough crowd in the water would opt it out as a target place for their man. In fact, he had no clue how it could be a target place in the first place. Unless they had made an irrevocable mistake with the choice of venue, there was no possible way a giant metal contraption would crawl under their noses. Let alone the second venue—a single narrow well in a field of abundant view at all directions.
"We're in position. No sight yet," Rigsby's voice crackled.
Abbott's steps led to a door at the side, the number 424 encased on top. He almost threw himself on the knob. Cho, Van Pelt and a few local policemen turned their heads to his noisy entrance. "Any news from Jane?" he asked.
Van Pelt shook her head. Her eyes scanned the multiple windows of live footage on her laptop screen, her brow furrowing. "This feels kind of pointless," she said.
"I cannot agree with you more," Abbott muttered.
The basement reeked of mold and moisture. Volker would prefer the anonymous comfort of a hotel room, the softness of feathery covers. Instead he was sitting on a pile of wooden crates. He would prefer he looked at Teresa Lisbon choking, hanging by his basement ceiling.
Instead he looked at his dull assistant.
But no, a simple choking would not satisfy him with Teresa. He imagined the million ways he would inflict her pain. Emotionally and physically. His interest had grown almost erotic. So much he caught himself thinking of the sensation of her flesh in the middle of night. The warmth of her abdomen. The sound of her moans, her screams. He would take his time with her.
Susan squirmed like a fish, tugging at the rope on her neck.
She had come so close. The torment of letting her slip through his hands once again had been devastating. She had come and gone like the wind, leaving a disaster in her wake. So he blamed her for victimizing poor, silly Susan. She had been so determined she would find someone, she literally pushed him to the action.
Just as his victim was reaching her limits, he rose on his feet, grabbed her by her hair and forced hypnotic water down her throat. Once she stopped kicking him, he loosened her ties and bound her on the stair bannister. He never let her cross the end line, as much as he longed to witness her ease to complete and permanent motionlessness. He couldn't let go of his only pastime. At least not until he could get his hands on the next one.
The doorbell rang.
He washed his hands in the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and then, wearing his practiced smile, he went to welcome his guest.
His supervisor, Derek Johnson, gave him a brief greeting before pushing his way inside. A military man with sun-bleached hair, dressed in jeans and brown leather jacket. He always carried his stupid device with him. A watch that tracked the monitors of his detainees.
"Could I offer you something, officer?"
"No," he said, and then, "what was the problem you mentioned?"
"Oh, my monitor seems to be malfunctioning. I press the button and the lady keeps asking."
Derek bit on the inside of his lip, his eyes asserting him from head to toe. "No more walking stick?" he enquired and Volker realized his mistake. Crap.
"I've been improving," he said the first thing that came to mind. "Fresh air has been a good thing for my health."
Derek turned his back and made his way to the bedroom. He set his laptop on the desk next to the desktop computer and opened it. The blue light from the screen illuminated his hard features, as his fingers ran across the keyboard. His thumb stroke the space key and the recorded female voice came on the speakers. He disarmed the device and waited. Waited to prove Volker's allegation. But nothing came. Of course. People in law enforcement were so gullible.
"Well this puts me in an awkward position," he said, stepping right into his act. "I swear I had quite the trouble turning it off this morning."
Derek tilted his head and studied him.
"Please, officer," he raised his palms, "I know better than to mess around with my probation supervisor."
And just then, finally, the stupid watch came to life, beeping in alarm. Derek was startled out of his seat, checked the screen of his beloved gadget. "Stay here," he barked at Volker, before he fled out of the bedroom and out of the house, leaving his laptop in perfect working condition on the desk. Volker smirked.
It was not long before another man, this one wearing simple jeans, a gray t-shirt and a hard look years and years of prison had molded on his face, sneaked through his front door. Paul Yeats was his work mate and his disciple. They served community work together. Volker covered his tracks whenever he wanted to bail and get his heroine fix. His connections and hacking abilities were the reason that had placed him under Volker's radar.
"You're late," Volker scolded him.
"But I'm here and I don't have much time before Derek breaks into my house, so let's get on with it."
Volker grabbed the smartphone device hidden on his back under the hem of his top, and held it in midair. He showed his friend the way into his bedroom. Paul took Derek's laptop and hit some codes, until the screen filled with a map and a red dot. Volker's eyes fixed on the red dot. A hotel in San Diego. He thought of her sleeping on the middle of a queen-size bed, covered in silk and feather. He imagined the surprise, the horror on her face as he whispered her name in the dark.
Paul started working on both the laptop and the smartphone, until both devices emitted the signal of his bugged phone.
He was finally ready.
A few hours after Paul left, Derek returned. He checked his laptop thoroughly, but he would find nothing. And after Volker was done with all his plans, he would find nothing as well.
It was almost dusk. Jane double-parked the rented SUV outside the hotel. He turned off the engine, but didn't attempt to exit at first. His eyes studied him through the rearview mirror, taunting and derisive. As if inviting the darkness inside him. He stared at his own gaze, breathing from his mouth, his shoulders trembling.
"Don't you look at me like that," he ordered the reflection.
And the reflection calmed, the burning lava in its irises turning into something solid and cold, the lips sealing with determination, the tremor gone. He turned the mirror away and pulled his door open, dismissed the security guard's non-verbal complaint about his careless parking.
Projector lights danced on the sky above the hotel. Green, red and purple. He took in the people huddled at the cocktail bar, the people dancing around the swimming pool, and the ones far in the depth, enjoying the hotel's outdoor cinema facility. Little lights around the pool had come alive and liquored drinks turned the air fuzzy and intoxicating. He could discern all crusts of society. Rich men in suits and interns, girls in swimwear and women packed with make-up. He managed to slip through the group of reporters gathered for the night events and reached the hotel entrance.
Abbott almost jumped on him once he entered their room. "Jane!"
The others mirrored the Boss's surprise, and hope. He avoided looking at them.
"How did it go? Where's Vega?" Abbott asked, bending to look behind him.
Jane laid out his palms. "Everyone relax, it's all under control."
Abbott smiled, then the smile became fixed. "What do you mean it's all under control?" he said through his teeth.
Jane tilted his head, hoped Abbott would read the truth in his eyes instead him having to spill it. He lifted his shoulders. "Come on, Dennis. You know me, I could not just let her go?" he frowned.
"On no—"
"It was a crazy idea just thinking about it!"
Cho rose on his feet, fists tensed. "Lisbon was our best bet. Vega is starved and most probably low-spirited to pull this off. You screwed us, Jane."
"Do you even realize what you did? Our colleague is as good as dead." Abbott echoed.
"Where is Lisbon?" Van Pelt cut in, the voice of reason.
"Yeah, how did you manage to trick her?" Cho asked.
"Easy, easy guys," Jane said. "Of course I gave Vega a choice. She wanted to do this. She's strong. We should trust her."
"She's a kid, Jane," Cho argued.
"Just an advice, don't say that in front of her," Jane commented, attempting at humor. No one seemed to appreciate it.
Van Pelt's voice rose again, this time she had focused on her laptop. "Guys, something's happening."
They all looked at the cameras. There seemed to be a sort of commotion. People ran, leaving their cocktails on the bars, on the side of the pool, getting out of the water. Soon the footage filled with empty spaces, the sloshing water in the pool becoming still.
They sprang in the hallway and on the stairs. Jane preceded them, reached the patio first. The crowds had gathered in front of the movie screen. Jane ran toward them and paused, frozen. Some part of him heard Abbott's phone ringing. The other was focused on the screen. The camera was fixed on a milk-brewing room, with two metal containers at the center. There was no water to sink them into. Which might have been a mercy. Instead, the containers were attached to tubes, which fed from water in the cauldrons. It was worse than torture. It was slaughter. A tinge of worry bubbled in his chest. Vega would come through. He was sure of it.
Abbott picked up his cell. Judging from the quiet that dominated his body, Jane could guess who was on the other line. He sensed it when Abbott extended the phone to him from behind his back. "Jane," he called.
Jane took the phone without looking and pressed it on his ear. A thick mechanically-altered voice spoke.
"Now, now. It's finally time to choose. What will it be, Patrick?"
"How do I know which is which?" Jane asked him. He searched through the screen, but he could only catch the shadow of a man standing.
"You don't."
"Now that doesn't seem fair. In fact, you're not actually playing according to the rules. You were supposed to put the traps in the places you indicated. Seems like cheating to me."
"You changed the rules Patrick, when you went live on TV. It looks like Red John didn't teach you a damn lesson."
"So no matter what I choose, Vega is dead, isn't she? What's the point of me choosing then? You want these people to see me fail, so you'll satisfy your injured ego?"
"Jane," Abbott whispered in warning.
"Would you do me a favor, Patrick?" said the killer. "Would you please check the buttons on your vest?"
Jane stilled. With one hand, he felt for his vest, counting—one, two, three, four… It was missing. The fourth button was missing.
"Oh my God," Van Pelt whispered, hearing the conversation on her headphones.
"What? What happened?" Abbott demanded.
"He knows. He knows I was there," Jane said.
"No!" Cho shouted, his eyes flaring between the screen and Jane.
"Now Patrick, what color will it be?"
Time went still. Silence. Dead and defining.
"Are you there?" taunted the killer.
"Lavender. I choose lavender."
A sound of agony escaped her lips as she kicked the air with hands and legs. She rolled over and fell, meeting the hard floor. She fumbled around with her hand, until she reached the bed lamp. She squinted in the sudden light. She was actually in her motel room. She tried to remember what had happened to her. Had she fainted? She was with Jane, they would… Oh no.
Emotions flipped inside her like neon lights. Surprise. Disbelief. Denial. Realization. Anger. Hurt. And finally disappointment. A long, deep, unearthing disappointment. It felt as though it dug in her flesh and it would never leave.
She settled with anger, because it was the easier feeling. Oh he had better find a good place to hide. It was the wise thing to do. Because if she caught sight of him, God forgive her, but she would bring hell on earth. He had no right. No fucking right.
She patted her pockets for her cell and felt for the Glock at her belt. Nothing. He had left her with nothing. Coward.
She rushed out the door and sprinted along the street, checking the road again and again. Finally, a cab came.
Their SUV was double-parked in front of the hotel. She told the driver to stop and paid him the bill. There were colorful lights but no noise coming from inside. Instead there was silence, a tense quiet that filled the air with dread. She paced inside, found herself in what looked like an abandoned party scene. Until she saw them. All gathered at the outdoor movie-theater. He was there. She huffed with anger and started stomping across the patio, her sights fixed on him.
"Hey you!" she yelled once she reached hearing distance. She thought the crowd's stillness was off, but her boiling anger had bloodied her vision. Jane turned his gaze slowly, as if he had heard her from under water. His expression was almost forlorn, but she didn't let that sink in. She shoved him back. He let her, backtracking clumsily.
"How dare you!" she shouted.
Her fist locked with his face. This time, he actually fell. No, he let himself fall, could have used his foot to keep his balance. Instead he just surrendered to the force of her impact. She stared at him in shock, the sudden emptiness of space in front of her giving her pause. Something was totally wrong. Abbott's hand was suddenly on her shoulder. She whirled.
"Lisbon," he told her. "It's over." He pressed his lips, then gave her a pat.
His face blurred as her eyes focused on the movie screen. Two familiar, dreadful words were displayed on the subtitle.
Wrong color.
She recognized the place she had barely gotten a glimpse of. There, on a rope attached to the ceiling, hanged her beloved colleague, a young thriving girl, a girl full of life and ambition, a girl that could have been Lisbon herself in her twenties. Michelle's eyes were closed, her features peaceful. Even as she hung upside down, she was an angel. Lisbon's heart crumbled. Poor girl had suffered so much before she died. If only Lisbon had known. Abbott was right. Jane was never reliable. She should have never trusted him.
"I'm-" his voice came thin, broke on a muffled sob. Lisbon turned and faced him on the floor, anger and hurt replaced with something far less conflicting. Pity. Jane tried to breathe. "I'm so-" he choked, then seemed to give up. He got on his feet, avoiding everyone's looks. "I cannot be here."
She didn't call his name, let him leave and knew deep in her heart, she hadn't failed in saving just one life.
Later the news would announce that a mansion in Malibu had burnt to pieces and that its owner, Patrick Jane, famous CBI and FBI consultant, had disappeared after his latest failure. The phrase would roll off the tongues of many reporters, like a motto, that "Perhaps Patrick Jane had finally met his master."
A/N: Sorry for the long-wait and the cliffhanger(s)! Three more chapters left!