He gives money to Pete for a flight and tells him to lay low in Caracas for a few days, then boards a plane.
Jane makes the air marshal on the plane going into the States about five minutes after taking his seat on the plane. He waits until the seatbelt sign goes off before going to sit next to him. "Hello," he says politely. "I'd like to be arrested."
"Uh." The marshal blinks at him. "Excuse me?"
"I'm wanted for murder," Jane explains patiently. "I'm giving myself up." He holds out his hands to be cuffed.
The marshal shakes his head. "Okay, man." He cuffs Jane. A few minutes later, he offers him his peanuts.
Xxx
The marshal transfers him to federal custody upon their arrival in Houston. Jane waits until the marshal is well and truly clear—the man had given him his peanuts, after all—then lifts the keys from one of the officers guarding him. Fifteen minutes later, he's speeding down the highway in a police officer's uniform in an unmarked black cruiser.
He ditches the cruiser in Dallas, buys a John Deere cap to cover his curls, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of work boots. A non-descript jacket he hopes will make him less memorable. He debates contacting Rigsby, Van Pelt, or Cho, but discards the idea. They won't be able to give him any useful information over the phone anyway. Besides, contacting them won't do them any favors, given his fugitive state. He needs to stay focused on the primary mission. He buys a bus ticket to Seattle.
He buys a beat up pickup truck in Seattle and drives into Cannon River without fanfare. He parks the truck and goes into the police station. "Hi," he says to the young man at the front desk. "Can you please tell me where I can find Teresa Lisbon's house?"
The young man says soberly, "Chief passed not too long ago."
"I heard," Jane says brusquely. "Her brother Tommy asked me to take a look at the place, but he sent me the wrong address and I can't get any service out here. Mind telling me where it is?"
Xxx
He breaks into the house without any trouble. The place is untouched. A thin film of dust has accumulated on the surfaces of the tables and shelves, but otherwise, it looks like she might have just stepped out to go to the store. Would be back at any moment. He looks around with a pang. She'd made a home here. A real one. One that is warm and inviting and so…Lisbon. It's a cliché, but he can feel her in it.
He searches the place methodically. He finds no hidden compartments, no loose floorboards. The bedroom reveals nothing of interest, though he notes with mixed feelings of sadness and relief that it shows no sign of anything resembling a permanent male presence. Part of him had hoped for her sake that she'd found someone to make her happy now that he's no longer in her life. But now he's glad, because he won't have to worry about stealing her away from anyone once he tracks her down. So that's one positive. Now all he has to do is find her.
The bathroom, kitchen, and dining room also reveal no secrets. He spends a long time in her home office, sorting through her papers and books, but again finds nothing. Tossing aside a stack of papers in frustration, a thread of doubt worms its way into his mind. He chokes down the thought before it can fully form. It isn't true. It can't be true. He finds a copy of her will and stares at it a long time.
He shakes himself free of the haunting thoughts and fears and stands abruptly. He goes out to the living room and looks around. She'd spent most of her time here, he realizes. For once, he couldn't have immediately said exactly how or why he is so certain of this fact. The couch cushions are a little more worn on that end—he imagines her curling up in that corner, her legs tucked beneath her. The fireplace has a stack of wood beside it, and ashes in the grate. Yes—she would sit by the fire. He looks at the coasters on the coffee table. Perhaps with a glass of wine.
He examines the photographs on the mantle. Pops each one out of its frame to check for hidden messages. He lingers on one taken of the five of them at one of those tedious CBI benefits Lisbon always complained about. On the back, it has the word 'Team,' written on it, along with the year. Nothing else.
He finally finds what he's looking for tucked away on a shelf in the corner of the room. A box of letters. A box of his letters. He takes the box down from its shelf, sets it on the coffee table. Fingers trembling, he takes the first one out of the box.
It takes him ten letters to notice the pattern. A lamentable comment on his state of mind.
He'd always written his letters with the same cheap ballpoint pen. But there, in the bottom right hand corner, is a small number written in pencil in Lisbon's neat hand. He goes back through the other letters. Finds penciled numbers on the first page of each letter. He sighs in relief.
It takes him some time to puzzle out the significance of the numbers. Finally he hits on the idea of laying them out in date order, from the first letter to the most recent, mirroring how she'd arranged them in the box. Too long for a phone number. Doesn't seem to be a date, either. He gets up and finds a map in her office. Spreads it out over the floor next to the coffee table. On his hands and knees, he draws a finger along the grid lines, first east to west, then north to south. GPS coordinates. He smiles. She's only a thousand miles away.
Xxx
He pulls up to the gate of a ranch in the foothills outside Casper, Wyoming and hesitates, internally debating which flavor of con will most likely yield the information he is after. But then he sees a slight figure in the distance, mending a fence a ways down the road. Long hair beneath a cowboy hat blows in the breeze behind her.
He gets out of the truck, legs and hands trembling. He walks up the road slowly, mildly concerned that he might faint.
Her back is to him, and she doesn't see him as he approaches. He drinks in the sight of her. A long-sleeved blue and green plaid shirt to keep the sun off her fair skin. Blue jeans, worn from work. Sturdy boots. A bona fide cowboy hat. And a saddled horse twenty yards away on the other side of the fence, munching on the grass contentedly, untethered. A meadowlark lands on the fence post separating the two of them and warbles a cheerful greeting, its song joyful and sweet.
"You know, for a city girl, you make a very attractive cowgirl," he drawls.
She spins around, the hammer in her hand half-raised as a weapon. Her shoulders sag in relief when she sees it's him. She lowers the hammer and presses her other hand to her chest. "You scared the life out of me."
She doesn't have the chance to say anything more. He closes the distance between them in three strides and sweeps her into an embrace. He hears the soft thud of the hammer hitting the grass as she lets it go to circle her arms around his neck properly.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I couldn't figure out a way to let you know without giving the game away."
He holds her tighter. "S'okay. You did the right thing. You're safe. That's all that matters."
She buries her fingers in his curls and turns her face into the side of his neck. "I'm so glad you're here."
He's been dry-eyed the entire time since Pete had come to find him, but now his face is wet with tears. "Me, too," he says hoarsely. He threads his fingers through the soft dark waves falling down her back and shifts closer. She tightens her arms around his neck and makes no move to break away.
Which is a good thing. Because he's never going to let her go again.