Thanks to Jisbon4ever, tromana, black shadow girl, ch19777 fan, HeatherCornwell and MentalistLover for reviewing chapter 1 and to everyone who subscribed to the story.
Interlude, May 2006
Tenderly you stroke my hair. You search my eyes for a flicker of response to your touch and refuse to notice the coldness of my body. Two of your tears land on my cheek and find their way down my face before they as well freeze in place. What kind of lips do you want to taste? Lips sans any hint of life? Why can't you believe what my dead eyes try to tell you? Why are you weeping for me? Your fingertips trace the exposed skin of my arm. Not long ago I used to revel in this delicate feeling. And even now that my body is indifferent to your caress, even after all that happened, I still love you. Do you remember the way my lower lip used to tremble when I awaited your kiss? Will you forget me now? Of course you will. Not right away, not completely, but you won't remember me the way I longed to be. Don't touch me anymore. Don't caress me. Don't think of me when the black soil engulfs me. Stay where you are and let me go. For all the moments of happiness you gave me, I am grateful. But please forget me. Please remember me for all eternity.
June 2008
Things move from order to disorder. It's just the way of the world and there was nothing Patrick Jane could do about it. He figured that there was also nothing unusual or special about the indifference and coldness he felt day after day. Warmth was an anomaly in this world anyway. He just had to look into the nightly Florida sky above him and was confronted with eternal cold and transient hot spots. Jane was almost able to hear his wife complaining about his habit to rationalize everything, even the beauty of the stars, but she wasn't at his side tonight, hadn't been for over two years.
The mere thought of his late wife inevitably brought back another memory. But then again, that one was always at the back of his mind, he just usually refused to purposely revisit it. Not so tonight. Tonight, given the foul mood he was in, he wanted to be a slave of his deepest fears.
Upstairs his imagination led him. The second to last step loudly creaked under the soles of his shoes. Standing in front of the closed door he felt death's icy breath against his neck and already knew what would wait for him inside the bedroom. Now, in hindsight, he wasn't able to tell if he actually had had that premonition on this fateful night or if he had added this disturbing detail later. The door opened without making any sound. The room was mostly dim, but blood glistened like rubies in a persistent ray of moonlight.
Redness on the wall.
On the floor.
On cotton fibers.
On exposed, maimed skin.
Again he wondered if his daughter was only collateral damage. Would it have made a difference if he would have brought her up brave enough to sleep alone in her own room? A close-up of the single gaping cut on her throat flashed through his mind.
Jane hastily reached for the light switch, even though he was aware that the glow of the wall lamp would only illuminate the patio, but wouldn't suffice to shoo away unwanted retrospection which was already haunting him for 764 days now.
His fingers absentmindedly skimmed over the crinkled surface of the outdated newspaper in his lap. He once again stared at the picture of Warren Harper in which the man looked pretty much the same as five days ago, when Jane saw him in court.
The tousled, mousy hair.
That shy, almost apologetic expression.
Handsome in a rugged, puerile way that betrayed his real age of almost forty.
Harper was certainly not a child anymore, but still this picture made it hard to believe that he was a cold-blooded killer. All those months Jane had been looking for a monster and had been accordingly bewildered when a nondescript man in the immediate vicinity was blamed for the murder of his wife and daughter.
He thought of all the explanations self-proclaimed experts came up with for the killings.
Distanced mother.
Orphaned at an early age.
Violent foster parents.
Petty crimes starting at the age of 11 without anyone around who cared enough to stop him.
Jane thought that all this might explain Harper's behavior, but it sure failed to justify slitting two innocent human being's throats and in the process turning Jane into a bitter, life-loathing insomniac. Other people had bad childhoods as well and still tried to lead a decent life despite the rough start they had.
In a way, Harper had ruined Jane's life twice. The first time by taking away his family, by making it impossible for him to focus on anything else but hateful thoughts of revenge. He had been forced to give up his flourishing career as a freelance counselor and alleged psychic and instead had spent all his time following vague clues, interviewing clueless people and looking for policemen who were willing to share information in exchange for a generous addition to their low salary.
Then Harper got himself arrested and sentenced and thereby took away even this last purpose Jane had possessed in life. In the beginning, right after getting the news of the arrest and when even strangers on the street expressed their relief, he refused to believe it. Even though the investigation had gone on for sixteen months already, even though everyone including himself was severely exhausted, it seemed too early and far too simple. Then later, despite the fact that Harper tangled himself in contradictions and finally confessed, he was still skeptical. Only during the trial, when everyone around him seemed convinced of Harper's guilt and Jane was confronted with all the damning evidence, he had no choice but to change his mind.
A handkerchief with traces of the victims' blood in the trunk of Harper's car.
A pink, star-shaped hair clip in Harper's locker at work, matching the clip that was found earlier on the floor of Jane's daughter's room.
A witness who testified under oath that he saw an agitated Harper talking to Jane's wife on the day of the murder.
The razor-sharp murder weapon in the shrubbery behind Harper's house.
In view of all those facts, the only thing he could still do was surrender. Now that everything was over he, caught somewhere between birth and death, spent his days sitting around and waiting. What for, he wasn't sure of. Maybe for his family to come back and revive him. Or for his heart to stop beating and to end his so-called life. But deep inside of him still must be a tiny shred of hope and will to survive which incited him to eat and drink and attempt to sleep. Maybe Jeff, his friend and neighbor and the only person in the world who still treated him like a normal human being after all that happened, was right. Maybe it was time to at least consider a new beginning. Jane knew that starting over here in this town or even in Florida, where everyone recognized his face from the media and pity or spitefulness was omnipresent, was not an option. But maybe, if he could just muster up the courage to leave his old life behind, maybe then his emotional wounds would be able to heal?
Jane crumbled up the paper in his hand and slung it away as far as possible. Never again he wanted to see Warren Harper's face or read about his family's murder in the news, but still he kept his seat on the garden swing.
It took him four more days and nights before he finally managed to make up his mind, but then he was unstoppable. He worked frantically to clean out the whole house. First he took apart the bed and was surprised just how liberating that simple act of destruction felt. Soon all furniture was gone and now began the most difficult part of deciding about the fate of personal belongings. A few things he kept, but most of it he just wanted to get rid of.
Half a day he dithered over the decision if it was right to treat photo albums like garbage or if he should rather bring them along on the journey into his new life. In the end he picked out some pictures as a keepsake, but sent the rest of them to his wife's family. Later he stayed for two hours in fetal position on the floor, clutching his wife's wedding gown and reciting his vows again and again in his mind before he was able to continue.
He didn't rest until some suitcases with clothes and other necessities, a mattress and a fading smiley face were the sole remains in the whole house. Only then, when all reminders of the life lead in this place were gone, he was ready to entrust someone with the sale of the property. The realtor skillfully excluded the scene of the crime from her view of the house, but buyers still didn't bite.
The case had been in the headlines for too long for people to be clueless and even bidders from out of town recognized the house from blurry newspaper pictures. Usually they fled with an equally horrified and fascinated expression on their faces. Only a handful of weirdos, identifiable by their requests to see the master bedroom, made offers.
After spending forty-three nights on an uncomfortable mattress on the floor, Jane stopped caring about the motivation behind the buying interest and sold the house to the highest bidder. Except for Jeff he didn't need to say goodbye to anyone. Before the ink on the contract was even try, Jane was already boarding a plane to California, scared and curious of what the future had in store for him.
TBC...