Chapter 9: Bittersweet
...dappled, moonlit forest– "Your father forgives you, he loves–" stepping over a blood-soaked body– turning the knob– sun-kissed skin redolent of lavender and coal t–" drowning, thrashing, terrified– sable hair cascading- see the face first and you know–
Jane shot upright, gasping. His pulse pounded, crashing against his skull and shaking his vision. Memory or nightmare? Angie – Charlotte! Dear god, Charlie... He scanned the room in dim lunar light - Where am– Motion renewed the brutal pounding. He gripped his head lest it explode, drew knees to chest and rested his forehead against them. Scorching heat swept up his body and set his brain ablaze while hands and feet numbed with cold. A dozen deep breaths later and he could raise his head and move his eyes. A glass of water and bottle of pills sat on the night stand. He reached with shaking hand. Cool relief slid down his raw throat and soothed his overheated brain. He made out 'aspirin' in a shaft of moonlight.
A seeming eternity later punishing blows eased to background pain. Jane leaned against the headboard, breathing deeply. I remember. That ordinary fact was somehow important. He remembered too much. What's real? He took stock. Strange room, tee and sweats not mine. There were no pictures, wallet or photos to anchor him. Reality was a rippling, slippery thing of confused images, feelings, and double-vision memories. Jesus, is it all true? Angie and Charlie. Padded room with Sophie. And Lisbon – Teresa? I was in a bar in Nevada. Then a, a crime scene in the woods. What happened? Why am I wherever here is? Exhaustion dragged him back to sleep before he sorted out anything. The glass fell to the bed from limp fingers and he slumped awkwardly to the side.
Soft tapping. Jane woke with a jerk. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden afternoon glow as memories flooded back. He swung his feet down, gaze fast upon the door and breath bated at what the next second would reveal. It opened a few inches: Dark chocolate hair and tourmaline eyes. And he knew. A spasm of anguish: All true. He hung his head the better to conceal, heart shattered anew.
Softly, "Jane?"
Fresh grief ripped through him followed by guilt. For his family. For the millisecond he hated Teresa's cherished face for proving his family's death, for confirming his personal hell. After a moment he raised his head. His face was blank, voice even. "Lisbon?"
Her eyes narrowed. "It's past noon. Thought I heard you stir." She noticed the pill bottle and empty water glass on the bed. "The doctor said you'd have a headache. From the ... strain." She regarded him questioningly.
"Woke briefly. Thanks for the water and aspirin. Better now." He dropped his gaze, still struggling.
"Hungry? I can make eggs."
He swallowed and looked up. "If they come with tea that'd be great." A relieved smile broke over Lisbon's face. "–Mind if I shower first?"
Lisbon started breakfast, clumsy from fatigue that a dozen hours of sleep couldn't fix. She put on coffee and filled the kettle for tea. He remembers. Is everything back to normal ... or not? She mulled that as she worked, vainly stretching her back to relieve the stabbing blade of tension wrought by 11 hours of driving and the past four days. When do we get a break? Her brow creased remembering everything that happened since Jane joined the team. Renfrew and Red John. Killing Hardy. Bosco and his team - God rest their souls. Then that bitch Anderson lays it on Jane. Frye. Jane at Red John's mercy in that slaughterhouse.
She absently put the egg carton on the counter. She stopped dead at, Timothy Carter, her worst nightmare times ten. I got shot, Grace killed her fiancé. Two murdered cops. Suspended, team disbanded. And Jane arrested for murder. She leaned against the counter for support, nauseated at the memory. Was never more afraid in my life. She grimaced in shame that all her concern had been for Jane when he'd seemingly murdered an innocent man in cold blood. She got a grip. No, that's not right. She wouldn't be the first woman to forgive a man anything for love. But long before Carter she'd learned to trust Jane's instincts: She believed him when he said Carter was Red John. She inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Damned if he didn't talk his way to 'not guilty.' She swallowed, throat suddenly dry. And then Carter isn't Red John after all. She absently filled her mug with coffee, adding extra sugar for cheap energy. She sat heavily at the table and sipped the bittersweet liquid. Eyes closed, she let herself finish the thought. Thank God Carter actually was a serial killer. I can't imagine Jane's reactions had he killed an innocent man. No one had infinite resilience, not even Jane. The fugue proved it.
Attention back on the present, she glanced at the kitchen clock. Forty minutes. There was at most a half hour of hot water left after her shower. She was about to check when the drumming spray quit. Jane appeared minutes later again dressed in Tommy's clothes. Of course. Jane's are sopping wet. His damp curls gleamed a few shades darker than usual. His face was pleasant, mask perfect except for slightly reddened eyes. He smiled brilliantly in greeting. After so many years, she knew how much that smile hid. She fixed eggs and he followed his tea ritual.
They sat down to eggs, cinnamon toast, canned fruit, and bacon. Their comments were limited to getting food on the table. Lisbon glanced at him repeatedly. Tommy's clothes were a visual squeak.
Mid-way through breakfast Jane ventured, "You have me at a disadvantage, Lisbon. How did I come to be your house guest?"
Pinning him with a clear, level gaze, "Tell me your last memory."
A frown flicked across his face and was gone. "The team was investigating the murder of a dead fireman. Throat cut, I believe."
She let him lead, let him decide how much how fast. "That's correct. Paul Satterfield was murdered Wednesday night."
"And?"
"The team was doing the work-up. You went looking for the murder weapon in the nature area. Woods."
"And?–"
Lisbon swallowed the lump in her throat. "You were attacked and almost drowned by the murderer." She had to add 'almost.' She wasn't sure whether that was to spare him or herself.
Deceptively casual, "Is there a reason I don't remember that?"
She took a deep breath. "The hospital neurologist, Dr. Jason Miller said the attack triggered a fugue."
'Oh." He tilted his head curiously. "How long?"
She shouldn't be surprised he knew what that was. "Four days."
Meticulously, "Four days in the fugue, or four days of forgotten memories?"
She gave herself time by sipping coffee then said carefully, "During the four days you were affected by the fugue, you lost over ten years of memories."
Now he sipped his tea, eyes brilliant over the rim. "I see." His face was smooth and expressionless. Not a hint of emotion was revealed that might lead to a real conversation. Indifferently, "Anything significant happen?"
Dammit. Masks and hiding. I drop a bombshell and he doesn't even blink. She said only, "Solved the case. I have a few loose ends to clear up with you."
He looked at her speculatively and half shrugged. "Okay. Trust it'll keep." He took another bite of eggs. "My dear Lisbon, you have unexpected talents! These eggs are excellent."
Conceal and deflect. Dryly, "Eggs are cheap. Ate a lot of them as a kid."
He smiled, got up and started rooting around in her refrigerator. Still peering inside, "There's nothing in here that could sustain life. It's a wonder you don't starve."
Conceal, deflect, and distract. Great. "Jane, my fridge. Can't see it's your business."
He pulled a butter dish out with a flourish. "Voila." He reseated himself.
She let the silence stretch then proposed, "Need to go to the CBI today. I want you to come with."
He looked at her curiously while fastidiously munching on the buttered toast. "Why?"
"It's the weekend. Someplace else you have to be?"
He let her get away with answering with a question and gave her a small smile. "No. I'll come."
They finished up and loaded the dishwasher. Jane extracted his wallet and things from his sodden clothes while Lisbon located socks and Tommy's abandoned sneakers for him. They were out the door in ten minutes.
En route, Lisbon ignored Jane's fiddling with the radio, grateful it held his focus. Conceal, deflect, distract. She keenly missed the greater openness – and closeness – they'd shared since the trial, but it was way more than personal preference. She glanced over and her lips tightened unconsciously. Four miserable days. He was starting to live again. I refuse to lose that. Jane's murder of Timothy Carter had scared her witless until the Carter's were exposed as monsters. Though vigilante justice rubbed her raw, she was far more concerned for Jane. Lisbon couldn't begin to imagine what would happen if a man like Jane lapsed into madness, into psychopathy. Honesty pulled her up short. Wrong! She knew exactly what vengeance-driven Jane would be without a conscience. He'd be Red John. She grabbed her travel mug and took a gulp, grateful her thoughts remained private while Jane continued messing with the radio. She couldn't bear the thought of more years of recklessness bordering on suicidal, of masks and games and distancing, of him poised on the knife-edge of madness. Of desperately hoping he'd choose life. Her mind was made up. Give it a try.
Lisbon pulled up to the gate at the CBI parking lot. Jimmy had pulled security for the holiday weekend. She waved her CBI ID at him. "Hey, Jimmy."
"Hi, Agent Lisbon and –" he paused at the sight of Jane in a tee and sweat pants, "– and Mr. Jane." He waved them through.
The lot was sparsely populated with a few SUV's and Jane's oddball Citroen. Jane stared at the CBI building, forehead slightly wrinkled. As Lisbon parked Jane asked, "You said there was something to clear up with me. What?"
Lisbon shut off the engine and rolled her shoulders to relieve the pain that was back. "Wilcox murdered the fireman who rescued him, to hide an ATM robbery. He claimed you stole half the money during the take-down." She glimpsed his disgust before he erased the expression.
Jane didn't have to ask: He could read she believed it. That told him worlds about the four days of fugue. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I see."
When he didn't say more Lisbon motioned, "Com'on. Get your away bag from that death trap so you have some clothes. You can change in the locker room."
Jane nodded. He walked to the Citroen while Lisbon waited by the CBI door. He opened the carry-on and rifled through it, closed it. He rejoined Lisbon. When she turned to enter he unexpectedly stopped. "Just a minute. Forgot something." He left the suitcase and loped back to his car. The open trunk hid him from sight. He returned and handed her a black plastic grocery bag.
"What's–" she began then stopped when she looked inside.
"There are 18 bundles, $36,000. Tell me if more is missing." He winced and rubbed his forehead, then smoothed his face out when he caught her looking.
"The exact amount's in the report on my desk. But, um, let's go to the gym first."
Jane gently took the bag from her, murmuring, "Let me. I'll make sure Security doesn't get nosy."
Lisbon picked up his carry-on. Security insisted on a cursory look inside. Jane walked through the metal detector unquestioned since the plastic bag was filled with paper ... money.
The elevator disgorged them on the basement level. Lisbon was relieved to see the gym dark and deserted. Holiday weekend. Good. She used her CBI ID/keycard to unlock the glass door. Motion sensors automatically turned on the lights. Jane gave her a confused look. They didn't need to enter the gym for access to the men's locker room.
"Lisbon?"
"Just follow me, Jane." The room was warm. Automatic energy saving cut off the AC on weekends unless the gym was in use. She walked half-way across and put down his carry-on next to a bench. She took the bag from him and set it alongside. She pulled boxing gloves off a hook on the wall and turned. "I want you to pound the crap out of this punching bag."
He looked askance at her. In disbelief, "What?"
She took his right hand, fitted a glove on and laced it tight. Calmly, "You heard me. Dr. Miller said you should express the anger." She didn't clarify which Dr. Miller.
Still frowning Jane got distracted by the unfamiliar feel of the boxing glove. He flexed his hand, curiosity piqued. When she moved to put one on his left he stepped back nearer the punching bag and pulled his hand away. "That's ridiculous. I'm not doing that."
Lisbon moved around so the punching bag was between them. "You need to. As your boss, that's a direct order."
Hanging on to an air of amused resistance, "I have no boss and what–" She gave the bag a shove, solidly bumping him. Lisbon gracefully stepped aside when he reflexively pushed back.
Tone sharper she said, "You were drowned by the creep who murdered Satterfield. The EMT's had to shock you twice or you'd be dead." Jane blinked, stunned. "Don't tell me you're okay with that."
"Of course no–" She shoved the bag, overbalancing him when it connected. "Stop that," he bit out, control slipping.
"You spent four days in hell. You've gotta be pissed." She shoved again, harder. He fended it off with the gloved fist.
"Lisbon, I–"
Lisbon hissed urgently, eyes shiny, "We had to go to Malibu to get you back. How 'bout Red John? You okay with him?"
Jane turned away, then whirled back, fist solidly connecting with the bad. "Shut. Up."
She shoved again, "Four years in hell chasing that monster." He swung again.
She held the bag this time as she goaded, "Pretend it's him." Jane took some half-hearted swings and was about to stop. "He killed your–your family. Bosco, Hicks, Dyson, Martinez." More blows, no longer looking at her.
"Renfrew, the Peake's. Innocent women, butchered." She backed up several paces as Jane flailed, face contorted with pain and hate. Sweat, maybe more, beaded then dripped from his face or streaked down cheeks and neck. His arms glistened with it.
Fifteen minutes later Jane stood trembling, sweat-soaked and spent. His hands hung limp. The bare knuckles on his left hand were red and bleeding. He hung his head, hair plastered against skin, drawing ragged, shuddering breaths.
Lisbon guided him to the bench with a hand on his shoulder. He sat, elbows resting on thighs, hands covering his face. When his breathing eased she gently urged him to his feet. "A hot shower now and you won't be so sore." She led the way to the men's locker room, turned on a shower and left him on a bench with a gym towel and his carry-on. She exited into the gym just as her cell vibrated in her pocket .
"Lisbon." She made her way to the corridor to be doubly sure Jane couldn't overhear. "... At the CBI to get something. ... He got it back. ... Rough. Dredged it all up again – not that it's ever completely off his mind. ... Not quite. Trying to remind him he's part of the team, has friends. He didn't have that when his family was murdered. ... Almost. Thirty-six thousand. ... Not yet but I'll figure something out by Tuesday. ... That's a good idea if you're willing. ... Yeah. We'll do that. Monday what time? ... We'll be there. Thanks, Cho."
Lisbon looked over as the door opened. Jane joined her in the corridor with his carry-on in hand. He was now dressed in a three-piece suit. His damp hair was tamed and smoothed back as best as possible. Looks tired. And sad. –At least he lost the damn fake smile. He had wrapped his skinned knuckles in folded paper towels. She resisted asking the inane, 'How are you?' As though his demons could be slain by a workout and hot shower...
Jane smiled slightly in greeting. "What next?"
She motioned at his hand. "There's a first aid kit upstairs. I can wrap that for you." She ignored his dismissive shrug. "I need to stop by my office anyway-" she lifted the plastic bag of money, "Lock this up till Tuesday."
He huffed. "Not much of a lock on your office. Or desk."
She threw him a dirty glance at the truth of his repeatedly picking the lock to her office. "It's fine against ordinary mortals. No one will look without knowing there's something of value." He shrugged and followed her to the elevator.
A half hour later Lisbon got up from her desk and shoved a thick three-ring binder into her computer bag. Jane swung his feet down from her couch and looked at her expectantly.
She snapped her fingers, remembering. "Oh. Forgot to get that figure for the missing cash."
"Don't bother. It's $2,000."
"How–"
"They're banded bundles of $20's. Makes sense I used one for spending money."
She rifled through the folders on her desk then opened one and scanned down the information. "You're right," she said, looking up. "I, ah, should have impounded the bracelet and cash you gave the gir– woman, but she was gone by the time I thought of it."
Jane's eyebrows rose at that tidbit but he said nothing. He got his suitcase. She locked her office door and they headed to the elevator. Jane looked at the stairs to the attic as they waited for the elevator.
Quietly, "Please no. Not after last week."
After a moment he tipped his head, acquiescing. He licked his lips. "I should shove off then."
"And do what? –I've got a better idea. How about we watch a truly terrible movie with Ben and Jerry?" she asked, mentioning her – their – favorite ice cream.
A hint of a smile was barely reflected in his eyes, "Irresistible when you put it that way. – What movie?"
"Aren't they all terrible?"
"Miss Cynicism. Mostly." He looked at her slyly when they boarded the elevator. "So much for separating the professional from the personal." They disembarked and left the building.
She snorted rudely. "Bite me." She headed to her SUV. "Hey. You're comin' with me," she called as he started toward the Citroen. He hesitated a moment then walked her way and tossed his carry-on onto the back seat.
Glancing back at his car, "How will I–"
"Stay in my guest bedroom. I already have to change the sheets," she grumbled.
His lips quirked. "This is the last of my clean clothes. Stop by my motel?"
She frowned. It was a tossup whether the attic or the dreary, impersonal motel room was more depressing. "Sure," glad he was going along with her.
Lisbon waited in the SUV while Jane got his things. It was a brilliant fall day, and she rolled the window down to enjoy the crisp, dry air. Daytime warmth contrasted sharply with chilly nights. Wish I knew the best thing to do. She sighed. I didn't want to see anyone, talk to anyone when mom died. I had to 'cause of my brothers. Maybe that was lucky. The world left Jane alone and he ended up in a padded room. Her brows furrowed at that thought. She didn't know it was padded ... but it was locked. Had to be bad. She was startled when a small package landed in her lap through the open window. Jane grinned at her as he went around to the passenger door. The package was a bundle of twenties.
"Geez, Jane." She started the ignition and closed the window. She craned her neck over her shoulder as she backed out of the space. Glancing at him, "You stash bundles of money in your room?"
"Never had any stolen. It's all about knowing where people won't look."
They rode without talking till she pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Once in the store Jane unexpectedly guided the cart to the produce aisle instead of the freezer section.
"Jane?"
"You have nothing to eat in that refrigerator. You'll starve twice as fast with me there."
She rolled her eyes and said severely, "Don't buy more than a few days' worth." She'd had years of slimy green meat and white-fuzzed vegetables collapsing into mush after away cases. "I see enough with decomposing corpses. Don't need rot and ruin in my fridge."
"Now that's an infelicitous comparison," he said with a theatrical shudder.
Lisbon waited patiently as he picked out perfect specimens of a few fruits and vegetables. She ignored his soliloquy on how the need to ship tomatoes resulted in the perfect triumph of marketing over substance and swallowed a smile at his delight in finding a tea he liked. They ended up with a moderate amount of fruit, the makings for a salad, two loaves of bread from the store bakery, blocks of cheese she had never heard of, a few frozen entres, more eggs (of course!), and three flavors of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. By the time they were at checkout she'd realized the shopping was a means of distraction. Though I wonder when he was last even in a grocery store, she thought with an ache. Whole categories of normal activity had been swept away that night.
They put the groceries away. Lisbon was taken aback when Jane seemed to know where everything went till she realized that functionality made it pretty predictable. Especially to Jane. They ordered take-out. Jane let her choose the movie which they watched from opposite corners of the couch while eating ice cream. Jane's idea of kicking back meant shedding his jacket and shoes. Jane's lacerating critique fell off as the movie progressed. Certainly not 'cause he's engrossed in the movie, she thought as she noticed him preoccupied more than once. At last the credits were rolling for the forgettable film.
"What did I do?" Jane unexpectedly interrupted the silence.
She glanced over. "Pardon?"
He rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. "In the fugue."
"Jane, it doesn't matter sinc–"
Quiet but firm, "Tell me."
She licked her lips. After a moment, "You were admitted to the neurology unit from the ER when the doctors realized you'd forgotten ... a decade. He–"
"-Dr. Miller?" He frowned at the name. She thought he shared her reaction to the odd coincidence of names.
"–Dr. Miller said being around familiar people and places would help get your memories back. We weren't supposed to tell you, just let them come back naturally. You came in to work the case the next day."
He wiped his face with his right hand. "That must have gone well."
"A little awkward." His lips quirked at her effort to downplay just how awkward it must have been. "I, um, thought you'd feel more comfortable with the team but we were all strangers."
He observed her closely, "Except you."
She half shrugged, "Maybe because I was the first person from your ... life you saw at the hospital."
"So I bluffed my way through it. Who did I offend?"
"You were a little rough with the firemen–"
"Who on the team?"
"They know you weren't yourse–"
"Lisbon. Tell me."
She popped up and headed to the kitchen. "I'm getting coffee. Tea?"
He followed. A few minutes later they'd returned to the couch with their beverages.
"Now tell me."
She shifted uncomfortably. "You kind of flirted with Van Pelt." She took a sip.
He nodded to himself, "That would rattle Rigsby so I could read him."
"Oh." She looked surprised then relieved. "You did get Rig's name wrong." He just nodded. "Rigsby said it was all just ... 'off' when the two of you questioned the firemen."
He sighed. "And?"
"Well, we had lunch with Cho and that was almost normal."
"So I freaked Rigsby out badly enough that you had Cho babysit."
"Jane!" she protested.
Eyebrows raised, "You're not denying it. What did I do to Cho?"
"You and he went to the burnt out house – the last fire Satterfield fought before his murder. Wilcox was there and Cho let you run with talking to him. Later, when you checked out the house you ditched him." She grinned a little despite herself. "He was not pleased."
He scratched his head. "Hm. Next?"
"We didn't know where you went. Someone from a bar called the SCU a couple hours later asking about psychic readings."
Jane's forehead creased, then relaxed. "I lifted – mm, Rigsby's business cards and was performing in a bar. –Why?"
"You said, 'business.'"
"Money then." He looked harder at her. "There's more."
"We strong-armed you to leave the bar, go back to the hospital."
He read her as she spoke and frowned, "I did something you didn't like. –What?"
"Jane, it doesn't matter–"
"I need to know so I can fix it," he said more intensely.
She flicked a hand dismissing it as she replied, "You made a pass. No big deal."
He closed his eyes and looked away. "Sorry I was an ass, Lisbon."
"Jane. It's fine."
"Then?"
"I got you back to the hospital. You said you didn't wanna keeping working cases. I – I thought you meant till you got your memory back. But you–" her breath caught and he looked at her intently, "–you said you were done with crime fighting. You were happy. You told me to just let you be happy." Now she looked away.
Quietly, "And?"
"The next day you got one of the women from the bar to sign you out of the hospital as your 'responsible adult'-"
"–So they wouldn't try to retrieve me 'for my own good,'" he murmured bitterly, familiar with involuntary treatment for the seriously screwed up.
"Wilcox claimed you'd stolen some of the money–"
"–Which I had."
"You stopped by the CBI with the girl from the bar to get your last paycheck."
"Where was I going?"
"She said something about Reno."
He shook his head and looked disgusted.
"Van Pelt noticed her diamond bracelet was real."
He interrupted, not wanting her to recount the painful details, "So I bought the party girl a bracelet for breaking me out and was going to Reno for gambling and fun and games. What stopped me?"
"I challenged you to take a drive with me."
He leaned back against the couch, suddenly exhausted. "We went to Malibu and you showed me the face."
She nodded and looked away. "Jane, it was the only thing I could think of. I – I had to break my promise to let you alone. I mean, Dan Hollenbeck. Rachel Bowman. Red John." Desperately, "It was too dangerous for you not to remember." She turned away, too vulnerable to be laid bare by him.
He leaned forward and took her hand. "Lisbon." After a second, stronger, "Lisbon. Thank you."
She hesitantly turned back. "You're not mad?"
"Not mad you booted me out of being a horse's ass? Kept me from leaving the only – people who matter any more?" He paused and composed himself. Slowly, softly, "I'd rather not remember Red John, but only if it hadn't all happened. The price is too high if it means forgetting my family. –And losing the team."
She stared, drinking in his face, assuring herself he meant it. She swallowed. "Oh. That's, uh, okay then."
"Thank you, Teresa." He rose with natural grace despite his fatigue. "If you don't mind, I need to turn in. Your punching bag got the better of it, I think." He quietly put cup and saucer in the dishwasher and said, "Good night," before mounting the stairs.
