Thanks to Kate Castle, mwalter1, phoenixmagic1, Jbon, tromana, ch19777 fan, Jisbon4ever, HeatherCornwell and xxpoeticjusticexx for reviewing chapter 5.
This is the last chapter of the story now. Tracie requested something angsty and since her wish is my command, this one is really dark. Consider yourself warned. (And Pav-E: Sunshine required. *smirk*)
It's hard to reconcile what I've become
With the wounded child hiding deep inside.
~ Breathe Underwater, Placebo
Present Day
A murderer doesn't stop killing only because you want him to.
He doesn't care that you try to be happy with your girlfriend (soon-to-be wife) and really don't need him to complicate matters.
He is totally unimpressed when said girlfriend's boss claims in an interview that he'll be behind bars very soon. He kills two women alone in the next week and it is rather surprising that the insolent boss isn't one of them.
A stupid nickname doesn't change a thing either, even though some people believe that he should feel embarrassed to be known to the world as 'Red John'.
Killers are wayward; nobody knows that better than Patrick Jane. But still he dares to believe that this specific killer finally lost interest in him. The choice of his victims throughout the months suggests as much.
His wife and daughter - it hardly gets more personal than that.
His one-night stand - still troublesome but already triggering less grief.
His hairdresser, his dentist, an agent from his former unit, a woman who flirted with him at a bagel shop, two cashiers, a neighbor – all women that he knew, but wasn't personally connected with.
He is still concerned that the killer remains a free man and he still wants to see him suffer for his wife and child's death, but his worry turns more and more into a professional one. As an CBI consultant it is his job to assist Lisbon and her team to catch that monster and he isn't one step closer to achieve that. At least this new development gives him more space to breathe, makes it easier for Lisbon to distract him.
They have a wedding to plan, but first his fortieth birthday approaches, a fact that he'd like to gloss over. Lisbon instead wants to throw him a party and her enthusiasm is contagious. He gives her free reign, fully aware that he might end up with a stupid party hat, and is only shaken when he learns that she invited his old friend Jeff. The nights before the big day he sleeps even worse than usually, worried if mixing his old and his new life will end well. His fears turn to be out unfounded; Jeff blends in well with the other guests and it feels great to talk to him again. If anything, he is a little jealous how openly Jeff flirts with Lisbon.
Only three days after his birthday, Warren Harper - still imprisoned, still fighting for his release - hangs himself in his prison cell. Jane can't believe his eyes when he sees the picture of the smiley face that Harper drew in his own blood. The common belief is still that Harper is responsible for the first killing, but that all those that followed were committed by a copycat or a secret partner. Jane still doesn't buy that theory, but appreciates that it left the later cases with the CBI instead of prompting the FBI to butt in and take everything away from them.
Everyone is curious if Harper's passing will have an impact on Red John's behavior. It doesn't; three days later another woman meets her untimely death. Jane vaguely remembers seeing her before, but is unable to actually place her. Maybe she just has an ordinary face.
He feels more at ease during the day, but he's still afraid of the dark. Sometimes he has weird, incoherent dreams that remind him of the bad time right after his wife and daughter's death. Occasionally he is convinced that someone is in the bedroom, moves closer to Lisbon, touches her with icy fingers. Then, when he turns on the light, there is only Lisbon. Drowsy and grumpy that he interrupted her sleep, but still always able to calm him down.
He still doesn't like it when Lisbon goes out alone, but he learned the hard way that being too clingy with her is a bad idea. She needs her space and he found a way to cope, even if he is always secretly scared to death until she gets home.
Tonight he also stares out into the night for hours, then resists the urge to embrace her tightly when she finally comes back from her seminar and only gives her a welcome kiss. It really isn't necessary that she knows all of his fears. He wants her to feel safe, he wants them to be normal. He surely doesn't want the past to intrude into the present.
Later in bed, after making love to her, she strips down her own defenses and cuddles up to him. Finally it is alright to hold her tight, to protect her. His palm soaks up the warmth of her skin, caresses her stomach. He thinks of the fetus that is growing inside of her.
They created new life, deliberately. Her growing belly takes a stand against everything that came before. In a few months she will leave work for a while and he surely could need a break as well. Red John will become someone else's concern entirely soon, but still he isn't able to sleep. He gets up, anxious not to wake up Lisbon. It isn't often that he resorts to sleeping pills, but tonight he isn't in the mood for tossing and turning for hours.
In this night he doesn't dream, but he feels things.
Agitation.
Incredulity.
Coldness.
He starts from his sleep, fumbles for Libson's arm or leg. He isn't picky; he just wants to know that she is alright. His hand doesn't find her, his palm turns cold.
This is new.
Alarming.
Unacceptable.
He opens his eyes. The first rays of daylight crawl into a room that is not their bedroom. It takes a while until he is able to make out that he is lying on the bathroom floor. No wonder that he is freezing. He struggles to his feet, sees someone right in front of him. Staggers. Isn't relieved in the slightest when he recognizes his own face in the mirror. All his thinking and feeling is focused on finding Lisbon. He can figure out later why he is suddenly a sleepwalker.
But then on the floor in the corner, a knife.
Sharp blade.
Stained.
Red.
His stomach turns. A muffled groan reaches his ear and it takes long until he realizes that it was his own voice. He turns on the light, needs to shoo away the last rest of darkness. Jane clings to the door handle, but is too afraid to actually leave the bathroom. There is a bloody knife in this room, what he'll find in the bedroom will be so much worse. The sun rises while he just stands there. Suddenly a thought, so ridiculous that he laughs hysterically: There is still the chance to save Lisbon if he only goes through that door.
But he already saw her in his mind, took in the way she looks after Red John made her his wife before he got the chance himself. He is not sure he'll survive to see her in the flesh, but then again he is pretty sure that his life is over anyway.
He stumbles into the other room, collapses right next to her still warm body.
Looks past all the blood and cuts at her face.
Beads of blood at her eyelashes where once crystal raindrops sparkled.
He throws up in a remote corner of the room. Silently, careful not to wake up the dead.
Her eyes, still green, still beautiful, deprived of any liveliness.
He isn't able to look away now, owes her to examine every wound that she suffered while he indulged in drug-induced sleep. He feels the excruciating pain of every desecration on his own body accordingly.
One. The crucial cut on her throat.
Nine. A deep stab right into her stomach where another victim didn't even get the chance to grow up.
Thirteen. Abrasions on her pelvic.
Twenty-one. The tip of her right pinkie is missing.
Twenty-nine. Blood on her toenails, crimson eeriness that evokes a memory.
"Detective, what do you think it means that he painted my wife's toenails with her own blood?"
"I'm not an expert for that kind of stuff, Mr. Jane."
"But personally, what do you think?"
"Personally, I'd say it is his way to express affection."
He closes his eyes, can't take it any longer.
Still sees Lisbon's marred body.
Sees his wife.
Sees his daughter.
His little girl in a puddle of her own blood.
His daughter's arm, roughly stuffed into a body bag before the zipper was closed.
But no, this was not right. This was messed up. A policemen had guided him out of the bedroom before the coroner came. His eyes snap open.
In that moment he knows.
Another kid.
Another arm.
Another time.
The rustling of the starched bedsheets when he turned around.
The back of his brother's head.
Motionlessness, no matter how hard he shook him.
Incomprehension.
Desperation.
Agony.
His naked feet on the floor.
The bathroom tiles red with his mother's blood.
Wrinkled bathtub fingers.
Lifeless eyes, staring at the ceiling.
The contents of his stomach - chips, Diet Coke - in the corner next to the sink.
Crawling back into bed to embrace his brother.
No heartbeat.
No breathing.
But skin.
Still warm, familiar.
Dinosaur pajamas.
Waiting.
For hours.
Days maybe.
Finally, voices.
People.
Then, the body bag.
Two brothers. Inseparable once, now dichotomous.
Nights in a crowded dorm room.
Some day, his father.
Strange, yet familiar.
Freedom.
Everything else, repressed.
Until tonight, when he is finally able to make sense of this feeling of inner disunity he had felt as long as he could remember.
He blinks, doesn't know what to believe anymore. Doesn't know what is real. His fear of losing his mind finally turns out to be reasonable after all. But then again, maybe he already lost it years ago. Or maybe it just makes sense that his sanity is fading more the colder Lisbon's body gets.
He turns his attention back to her, the only person he remembers now who always was real for him. He has to make sure that she isn't a hallucination. Her skin feels smooth under his touch, cool as if she just came out of the sea after swimming for a while. He strokes her arms, backs off appalled. Her left upper arm, until only seconds ago one of the few unharmed places of her body, is smeared with blood.
He stares at his palm, unable to make sense of its redness. Frantically he searches his own skin for hidden injuries.
Comes up empty-handed.
Is confused.
Is desolate.
Is hit by another dreadful realization.
Coils himself up on the floor, as far away from Lisbon as possible.
Refuses to think.
To feel.
Pretends to be dead himself, but his demons refuse to let go.
Torturing him more than ever before, they finally tell him the truth about himself. About his dreams. His unexplainable visions that he hates so much. About the monster that they call Red John.
It really shouldn't have come to this. His destiny was to die in a hotel room many years ago. Together with his mother. And with the brother he subconsciously never was able to let go. He has no idea why it took him months with Lisbon until he snapped or seven years with his wife or mere minutes with all those other women. And really, it doesn't matter at all now.
What he knows, however, is that leaving town and starting over again somewhere else doesn't suffice to get rid of that now revealed part of himself. Red John will inevitably strike again and again and only Jane is able to stop him once and for all.
He knows what to do. After allowing himself one last look at his latest victim, granting his mouth one last kiss on her ice-cold lips, Jane goes back to the bathroom and picks up the knife from the floor.
Two souls alas! are dwelling in my breast;
And each is fain to leave its brother.
The one, fast clinging, to the world adheres
With clutching organs, in love's sturdy lust;
The other strongly lifts itself from dust
To yonder high, ancestral spheres.
~ Faust I, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
THE END