Paint it Red, Black & Blue

Chapter 4

The phone rang and it caused her to flinch. She had been lost in thought. "Well?" she demanded.

"Forensics is on it's way." It was Cho. "The bartender kicked him out at 2:00, when the bar closed."

"Was he drunk?"

"One Scotch. All night. I'd say no."

She let out a deep breath. That was always her worst fear. Pain made people need to escape, and alcohol let them. Cars were just accidents waiting to happen. "Okay, they found the keys and cell by the car –"

"Yeah, the phone looks like it's been stepped on."

"Crap. And Frick has an iron-clad alibi?"

"Iron clad. Hand-cuffed. Bound with silk stockings. Depends on the accessories…"

"Oh please, spare me." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Did he just go for a walk? You know how he goes for those stupid long walks…at night…alone…in the dark…"

There was a pause. "You want me to call in a dog?"

"That might be a good idea. If he's got himself lost in the desert…"

"But why drop the keys? Step on the phone? And remember, there's a scratch on the car."

"Right. I forgot." A very unpleasant sensation began to creep its way into her head. It moved very quickly to her throat, causing it to tighten, and down to her chest, causing her heart to thud like a warning drum. She had been about to ask Who would want to grab Jane? But the answer seemed too obvious, too raw.

"Boss?" Cho, still on the line. "Where's the nearest K9 unit? You want me to make the call?"

She ground her teeth, forcing the thought out of her mind. "Yeah, make the call. I'll sign off on it. He can pay for a lifetime of dog food when we find him…"

"Right." And Kimball Cho hung up. She waited for a second, then redialed. "Hi Shirley, it's Teresa in Serious Crimes. I need to talk to Minelli. Patrick Jane's gone missing…"

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He had slowed his heart rate, focused his thoughts inward, tried desperately to control his breathing. He was hyperventilating, panting like a dog and not by choice. His body was threatening to shut itself down, dizzy as he was and dehydrated from the heat, his hand and arm now swollen and burning, muscles building up lactic acid and trembling in attempts to cool itself down. But night was coming. It would be better soon.

There was music in the air. Vivaldi. The heart-breaking strings of Summer's Adagio. Anne-Sophie Mutter, most likely. She was brilliant. He raised his head, eyes closed, smiling, as night fell. The pain, the water, the night, the music.

It was beautiful.

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It was 10:00 pm and Teresa Lisbon felt sick. The dog had turned up nothing in the parking lot of the Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa. Had sniffed around the SUV, and again around a spot where obviously another vehicle had been that night. It had roamed all over the Resort, to the pool-side bar, to the previous rooms rented by Claire Wolcott, Doc Lady and the CBI team. It had roamed wherever Jane had been for the last three days. They had even tried taking the dog out to the highway, to see if it could pick up a scent, but it had kept heading back to the cars, eventually laying down on the spot and refusing to budge as if done for the day.

Obviously, Jane had either gotten into or been put into another vehicle, and that didn't bode well for him. He was unpredictable, to be sure, reckless even, and rash, but one thing he was not was foolish.

Minelli had called in the Missing Persons Unit and they were coordinating with Cho and Rigsby at the Resort. The Unit Chief, Senior Agent Andy Mack, was with Lisbon in her office, making a list of people who might possibly have motive to harm the consultant, and after 45 minutes, the list had grown quite long. And those were only people she knew about, enemies he had made in the course of the few years they had worked together at the CBI. People he had provoked, insulted, hounded, embarrassed or put behind bars.

Yep, she sighed. A good long list.

And at the top of the list was Red John.

Her mind kept returning to the thought, to the name, to the image of the red smiley face painted in blood on the wall over his bed. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but to tell the truth, Lisbon was hoping for later. It was also bound to be ugly, however it ended, as he had promised her a killing, so either Jane would end up dead, or in jail, and again, neither of those options appealed to her. As she sat at her desk, she marveled at how much she wanted neither of those to happen.

Her world would be a darker place without his smile, she admitted to herself, and that thought disturbed her. It had been a long time since she had found herself dependent on anyone, let alone a man. Let alone a man like Patrick Jane, brilliant, eccentric, unpredictable and frustrating, not at all the kind of man she had pictured herself falling for. Not, of course, that she was falling for him. Not at all. He was useful, that was all. For the team. He closed cases like a fiend, Minelli had said. Yes, Jane was useful. And amusing. To be admired and pitied and studied and used. Nothing more. And yet…

"Agent Lisbon?"

She jolted out of her reverie, focusing on the dark, worried face of Andy Mack, the Missing Persons Unit Chief.

"Sorry, Andy. Um, I'm just tired."

His hand covered hers. He was a good 15 years older than her, happily married, a big brother or father figure almost. Deep voice, calm demeanor, very comforting, a good man to head up Missing Persons. "We'll find him, Teresa. You know that."

She smiled, surprised at the tears that welled up in her green eyes. "I know. I'm just tired, that's all. Really."

His smile was gentle. "I know."

She looked down at the list. Far too long for just one man. "Let's get at it," she muttered, brushed the tears from her eyes and reached for the phone.

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The wind had picked up as the night had fallen, and it chilled his skin and damp clothing and hair. Despite the chill, he was feverish and the two extremes were causing his body much grief. Sun stroke, most likely, combined with dehydration. It was with a detached air that he realized he would in all probability not live to see another night.

This was not the way he had envisioned his life to end. In fact, he had only seen it one of two ways, either by his own hand, or that of Red John's. Once, he had briefly entertained the idea that Lisbon might have to shoot him if he did in fact try to exact his revenge, and that thought was surprisingly comforting. He could die at her hands. That would be acceptable. Not desirable, but acceptable. Except for the fact that she would feel guilt for the rest of her life, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone. No when he killed Red John, it would have to be private.

Unless of course he died here.

And that, he realized, would be most regrettable.

There was a tall glass of water sitting on the deck, just a few feet away, unreachable even if his hands were free. Arlov had retired for the night and the buffoons were taking turns watching over him, sitting on the padded seating that rimmed the deck. They dozed, for the most part, dozed and drank and listened to their IPods. It was too dark for reading, and Jane wondered abstractly if buffoons read for pleasure and what they might read.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It was hard to do when forced to remain kneeling, but he had seen yogis do it on the carnival circuit. Mind over matter was an amazing thing. The pain had dulled to a constant roar, nothing sharp, just all ugly, and it was like a heavy blanket that was impossible to shake off. So he wore it, wrapped himself in it, wringing every sensation out of it in order to make it last. Pain, it seemed, like the nothingness of the big empty night sky, was therapeutic, comforting, dependable, and not for the first time he understood the release that came when people cut themselves. It was an addiction, the rush of endorphins, a drug, a coping mechanism, not unlike sleeping pills, a neat Glenfiddich or a long walk after dark.

A hand touched his brow and he opened his eyes. The woman, now clothed in a red Japanese silk kimono, was standing beside him, her palm feeling his forehead, his cheek.

"You hev fever," she said. Her accent was not Russian, but similar. Czech, perhaps, or Croatian. His mind was too dulled to be accurate and he cursed the buffoon who had hit him. He nodded, smiling and she smiled back. He could barely make out the details of her face, as there was only a crescent moon in the sky for light, but he could tell she was young.

One of the buffoons barked at her in Russian, and to his surprise, she barked back. He could make out the word Arlov, and she began gesturing with her right hand, as if Italian or French. With impressive subtlety she brought her left hand up to his face, and while still gesturing wildly with the right, she slipped an ice cube into his mouth. Sleight of hand. A little pro. A gypsy. Her trick finished, she spun on her heel and disappeared down the steps into the bowels of the yacht, still cursing madly.

It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted and as it melted, the water cooled his mouth and trickled down his parched throat, not really making a dent in his thirst, but easing it just a little. And for the first time in his life he believed in angels.

The sun was starting to paint the sky red as it began its rise in the east. Red, naturally. Everything that caught his attention now was red. His life, which used to be a rainbow of colours had settled into red. Deep red, fire red, blood red.

Either way, on this day, something would end and it would be painted in strokes of red.

End of Chapter 4