A/N Donna and I were absolutely thrilled with the response to the first chapter. Thank you to everyone who read it! I can only hope my instalment will prove as enjoyable as Donna's stellar effort.
I'd also like to take this opportunity to extend a special thank you to the Guest reviewer MartyMac, who has sent reviews to a number of my other stories (and Donna's) over the past few days, and who I could not reply to personally.
Chapter 2
For Lisbon, the rest of the day went by in a haze of paperwork and burgeoning anxiety. Even her office, her private sanctuary, suddenly felt like it was no longer safe. She'd never been so acutely aware that the walls were made of glass, and any of the fifty-odd agents that worked on this floor might be able to look in at any time. And that was without thinking of the lawyers, ADAs, PR personnel, suspects, family members and cleaning staff that passed through on a daily basis, and the Reede Smiths and Bob Kirklands of the world showing up unannounced whenever they felt like it, reminding her that she and Jane couldn't let their guards down for even one moment.
Tom Dixon, an agent from Narcotics, happened to glance her way at that moment, and smiled a little as their eyes met. She wished she could stop the way her insides felt as though they were contracting upon themselves with horror, even at such a benign gesture. Mancini and Smith were working with Narcotics right now, so if Red John was targeting her, and if Smith was Red John, and if he was looking to recruit some new minion, why not Dixon, whose desk was situated so advantageously close to her office?
Or even better, what if he was already working for Red John, and had been watching her for years secretly passing information to him, while she did paperwork and argued with Jane in blissful ignorance of her own impending doom? And if he had noticed the way she had reacted just now, he might know she was on to him.
There were a lot of ifs in her train of thought at the moment. Nobody could be trusted, nothing was set in stone, and rules could be changed at the drop of a hat. Red John had already seen to that, after all.
The unsettling feeling of being watched, growing stronger with every moment since that talk with Jane in the park, saw her get out of her chair faster than she ever had before and pull the cord to snap the blinds shut. As the light from the bullpen was blocked out, casting her office into dimness, she let out a shuddering sigh and returned to her desk.
Jane was right. She couldn't keep living her life like this, jumping at shadows, seeing Red John in everyone she met, death around every corner. She wasn't like this. She was the one who always held it together while Jane was flipping out; the tough one. She shouldn't have to insist on him accompanying her to lunches with colleagues or to her weekly poker game just because she felt uneasy.
But she'd been so relieved when he'd said he'd go, even if just to have one person in the room that she wouldn't have to second-guess (at least when it came to Red John; she wouldn't put it past him still to try and hustle her at cards.) There was a reason she rarely bet high at the game, and kept her alcohol consumption to a general minimum; she'd never been good at bluffing. She'd certainly improved, under Jane's careful tutelage, but that didn't mean she could look a possible serial killer in the eye and calmly ask him if he wanted to call or raise.
She didn't know why she bothered to even try to keep secrets anymore; she was always likely to buckle under pressure, and it always came out in the end, no matter what she did.
Assuring the CBI and the FBI Red John was dead, even when Jane had explicitly told her that he wasn't.
Letting him fake her death, and sending two government agencies into disarray, ending with the murder of her boss and another Red John escape.
Sean Barlow calling her out on her feelings for Jane as casually as though he were talking about the weather, with her partner sitting right next to her. But that had always been a matter of time, even if she and Jane had both refused to acknowledge it, one day someone was going to say it.
Of course, it was a minor thing in comparison to all the other rude awakenings in store for them over that case, but it was still confirmation that she couldn't keep up a façade if her life depended on it, which at the moment, it kind of did.
The door suddenly swung open, and she somehow managed not to jump five feet in the air.
"No need to look so panicked, Lisbon," Jane said. "It's just me. What were you expecting, a guy with horns and a pitchfork?"
"Eh, I'm still not convinced the horns aren't in there somewhere, hidden by the curls," she said, gesturing towards him with a scowl.
He couldn't help but grin at that one. It made him happy to see that even though she was uncertain and scared to death, she still had a little bite left in her.
"So, this is the new strategy is it? Barricade yourself in your office until further notice, and have someone bring you coffee on an hourly basis?"
"Be fair." The idea sounded pretty good to her.
"Two hourly basis, then."
"Thank you."
He closed the door with a soft click and went to her couch, settling himself comfortably into the cushions.
"So, we still on for the poker game tonight?" he asked her, as she picked up a pen. Thinking of Mancini's hopeful face at lunch today, he couldn't resist adding: "I can think of at least one FBI agent who'll be disappointed if you don't go."
She ignored that. "I don't really have much choice now, do I?" she said. "I keep thinking about that thing Smith said. I know chances are it was just a weird coincidence, but still…"
"The willy factor?" he suggested.
"It's coming in loud and clear."
"I know," he said, bracingly. "But even if he or Bertram is Red John, they won't strike in front of a roomful of high-ranking law enforcement professionals."
"Unless they're all in on it," she said, the horrible thought anchoring itself into her mind like a parasite. " It's very possible that they've all been turned, one by one, and they only wait for the boss' command." She imagined them all rising up around the poker table, with their eyes all turning to snake-like slits and reaching out for her, to drag her down into the dark. She shuddered, and then shook her head violently to try and clear it. Obviously, she'd seen far too many movies.
Jane hated to see what this was doing her, hated the fear and mistrust in her eyes. If she were close enough, he would have taken her hand to offer her some small bit of comfort, but under the circumstances, offered her an encouraging sort of smile instead.
"You're lucky I'm the only one in the room," he said. "If anyone else heard you right now, they'd think you were getting paranoid."
"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there isn't someone out to get you," she said, darkly. "You ought to know that better than anyone."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They travelled separately to the poker game. It would probably have made more sense if they'd gone together, saved on gasoline, but it was a point of pride for her to do it on her own. If Red John was coming for her, she could either cower and withdraw from her life like she was doing now, or face him with her head held high and her Glock at the ready.
She knew which scenario she preferred.
The fear, she knew, would not leave her, but no more would she allow it to simply consume her. And if not for herself, she'd do it for Jane. She couldn't afford to fall apart now when he needed her more than ever.
She arrived to find half of the group already assembled, including Jane, leaning against the bar, observing his companions with his probing gaze. He smiled gently at her in greeting, but before she could cross the room to join him, Mancini sidled up to her and pressed a drink into her hand.
"Turns out we're down to the last bottle of scotch," he said in a low voice.
"Thought I'd grab you a glass before Reede drinks it all."
She looked past him to see his fellow agent pouring himself a generous helping, under the disdainful eyes of the judge. She surmised that he was resenting the unexpected guest, not to mention his rather liberal approach to raiding his personal alcohol stores.
"Thanks Gabe," she said, and he flashed her a wide smile, apparently very pleased with himself at his forethought in securing her the alcoholic beverage of her choice.
If truth be told, she actually didn't care for scotch, and generally preferred tequila as a rule, and on top of that she hadn't intended on drinking tonight at all. But it would be rude not accept the gesture, and just one glass wouldn't hurt.
Over by the bar, Jane was smirking to himself with that familiar look of mischief about him that in her experience never boded well. She sipped her drink as she made her way over to him, finding herself appreciating the way his eyes seemed to twinkle a little in his amusement.
"What's so funny?" she demanded to know, without preamble.
"You know Mancini only gave you that drink so he'd have an excuse to talk to you, don't you?" he asked. "Next he'll be offering to carry your books to class for you."
"Oh, don't be so childish," she snapped. "He was just being friendly."
"Whatever you say," he said loftily, though the smirk stayed firmly in place. "Just remember to use protection when he invites you to meet him under the bleachers later."
The sound of her hand hitting flesh made the other occupants of the room turn toward them, and Jane howl with pain, rubbing his forearm.
"I'll do far worse if you don't shut your mouth," she hissed, under her breath. "We've got a job to do."
"Patience." He inspected the angry red mark now beginning to form with mild interest. "Just try and relax, and wait until all the players are present and correct, then we'll see how we go."
When Bertram, the last to arrive, finally strode in the door full of apologies about a meeting running overtime, everybody took their places at the table. Jane slid into a seat next to Lisbon, and sat still, gauging the tension, the anticipation in the air. Friendly game or not, this was a group of people who were unaccustomed to losing, and whether the sudden silence that fell was just in preparation for the impending competition or something more sinister, he couldn't say.
Bertram glanced around the table. "Before we start, I feel obliged to point out that Mr. Jane has a history of shall we say, extraordinarily good luck when it comes to poker. Is this going to be a problem?"
Lisbon couldn't hep but admire the older man's diplomacy, when most would have simply said that Jane was a habitual cheat. Obviously he was still feeling grateful for the masterclass in deception had Jane had given him in exchange for allowing Van Pelt to go away to the computer course earlier in the year. Of course, if he turned out to be Red John, further assistance in concealing his true thoughts was exactly what she didn't want him to receive.
She'd been alone in his office with him many times over the years. If he turned out to be the one, how could she not have known? Shouldn't she have been able to sense it somehow?
From agents, to lawyers and judges alike, every person in the room had had enough experience of Patrick Jane (either first-hand, or through the law enforcement rumour mill) to appreciate the validity of Bertram's point. They exchanged doubtful glances back and forth, muttering about it between them.
"If it helps," Jane said, as their companions continued their discussion, "I'll only play in every second hand, and I won't deal the cards." Even though he addressed them all with every arrear of sincerity, she saw the slight crinkling at the corner of his mouth that meant he was trying not to laugh. It was easy to guess why. Handicapped or not, he could still wipe the floor with all of them if he wanted to, and they both knew it.
Mancini knew it too, eyeing Jane suspiciously from his chair opposite them.
"I'm really looking forward to fleecing him for everything he's got," said Jane to her in an undertone, returning the FBI agent's contemptuous gaze.
Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Try and focus on what we actually came here to do," she said. "We're here for information, and nothing else." She tried to make the last two words sound as threatening as possible, but for the notice he took, she may as well have not bothered.
"Why doesn't Agent Lisbon deal the first hand?" Jane suggested affably to the table at large. "Nobody could ever question her integrity, I'm sure."
"I don't know about that," said Bertram, handing over the deck of cards for Lisbon to shuffle. "She's certainly got a bit of a blind spot where you're concerned."
She froze, her pulse racing for some reason. "Excuse me, sir?"
"I'm just saying, most people who had such a troublesome partner as Patrick here probably would have kicked him to the curb by now," he said.
"Amen to that," muttered Smith to Mancini.
"Kicked him off a cliff, more like," Mancini whispered back.
"If nothing else," Bertram went on, "you are unfailingly persistent Agent Lisbon. One has to admire that."
He smiled at her in a way that made her skin crawl. She didn't want to be 'admired' by Bertram in any way, psychopathic-killer way, or otherwise. And since when did he go around complimenting her like this anyway? Normally at poker night he just confined himself to a polite hello, and some general inquiries about her team's current open cases. What had changed?
"Thank you, sir," she said, hoping to mask her discomfort, while shooting a panicked look at Jane beside her, who moved his hand slightly so it brushed against hers. The contact sent a warm, tingly sensation sweeping up her arm and all through her body.
"Stay cool," it seemed to say. "I'm here."
Under the table, her knee bumped casually against his.
"I know."
And she took the top card from the deck, and began to deal.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was the fourth hand of the evening. The pot was up to five hundred dollars, with only Jane and Mancini left in the running. The FBI agent's eyes were narrowed like a hawk's, his brow furrowed with concentration, and fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the cards in his hand. Jane in comparison sat perfectly still, observing his opponent like a jungle cat waiting for just the right moment to pounce.
The table seemed to be holding its collective breath. No one spoke or even dared to move as Lisbon dealt the final card, the ace of clubs. Jane glanced down at it and then back at his hand, with a poker face that only Cho could have matched.
"You first, Gabe," he said, softly.
"Don't call me that," Mancini hissed.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you prefer Gabriel?" Jane asked, innocently.
A snicker went around the table, as Mancini, gritting his teeth in annoyance, surveyed his hand, and then laid the cards on the table for all to see.
"Full house," he said, with a proud tilt of his chin. "Beat that."
Lisbon watched her partner closely as he inspected the cards. Even though she'd known him for ten long years, at times like this, even she didn't know what he was thinking. Those sea-green eyes she knew so well held no emotion whatsoever, not even the cheeky little twinkle they normally got when he was pulling a fast one on somebody.
What seemed like hours passed, as Jane sat, deep in thought, holding the table spellbound, all except for Smith, who yawned pointedly, and Mancini, who was fidgeting in his seat like a five year old at church.
"Jane," she prompted him, as he showed no signs of moving. "We're waiting."
He nodded once, and then to her astonishment, unceremoniously dropped the cards onto the green felt.
"I fold."
At first, Mancini didn't seem to believe his luck, clearly waiting for Jane to reveal he'd been bluffing. But he didn't, and with a crow of triumph, reached out with both hands to drag the chips toward him.
"You know Jane," he said, gleefully letting handfuls of chips cascade through his fingers, "the money isn't even the best part. Beating down your smarmy ass is the best prize of all."
"Congratulations Gabe," said Jane, inclining his head as the FBI agent continued to revel in his victory. "I think I'm ready for a break."
"Me too," said Mancini. "I want to savour this for as long as possible."
Chairs scraped backwards as the poker players all rose, stretching arms and legs and heading over to the bar, talking in wonderment about having witnessed what had long been viewed as impossible: the great Patrick Jane, beaten at cards.
Lisbon remained at the table, gathering up all the discarded cards and returning them to the pack. There was something about the situation that just didn't sit right with her. It wasn't often that she saw her partner lose at anything, particularly at games of skill and strategy, and on the rare occasion that he did, he never took it this well. If there was one thing he hated, it was to be outsmarted.
She couldn't resist taking a peek at Jane's losing hand as she picked it up, and surprise jolted through her like a lightning strike. He'd been holding a straight flush, which would have blown Mancini's full house out of the water. He'd won. But he'd still conceded defeat.
Why?
"How does it feel to be the loser for once, eh Jane?" asked Mancini, smugly, as they both stood at the bar, pouring drinks.
"I'm sure you don't have to ask anything about that, Gabe. I imagine you've spent most of your life being quite thoroughly second rate, am I right?"
For an instant, the agent's smile flickered, and then recovered. "Aw, you're just trying to save face because you can't handle the fact that just once, the deal didn't go your way."
"Didn't it?" Jane kept his face impassive as he poured an ice water for himself and a Diet Coke for Lisbon. She'd only drank that scotch out of politeness; he knew for a fact that she hated the stuff, and in the absence of coffee, she'd be craving a caffeine hit by now.
"How do you know I didn't just let you win?"
Mancini scoffed loudly. " Yeah right. Why would you do that?"
"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, making an ass of yourself twice in one night."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, with a laugh. "I've got five hundred bucks in my pocket, and I made you look like a fool to boot. Good night for me."
Jane shuffled just the tiniest bit closer, smiling at the way Mancini's nose crinkled in disgust, and said, in a lowered voice: "I threw the game. Even ask Lisbon if you don't believe me. You must know what a terrible liar she is."
In unison, the two men turned their heads to see the subject of their conversation still seated at the table with her phone out, texting frantically.
"So go on," Jane went on. "Use this newfound bravado and go over there and finally make a move on her. Nothing sexier than a guy who wins a game by default, and then gloats about it."
"You're an arrogant son of a bitch and she doesn't seem to mind you," snapped Mancini, and Jane could see the vein pulsing in his head again, which had preceded the CBI v. FBI melee at a crime scene months ago.
He smiled indulgently. "I'm a special case."
"You got that right," the other man snarled.
At the moment, Lisbon looked up and, spotting Jane, waved for him to come back over.
"Well, much as I'm enjoying watching your self-esteem crumble before my eyes, it appears my fair lady calls," said Jane, stepping back from Mancini and picking up the two tumblers. "Oh, and just as a note for your next poker night; if you're trying to soften her up with alcohol, give her tequila. She hates scotch. Better luck next time."
"I could beat you anytime," he heard Mancini snap, as he moved away. "At poker or anything else. Just try me."
"Maybe some other time," he tossed over his shoulder. "I'd hate to deprive you of what little dignity you've got left."
Mancini's muttered reply fell on deaf ears as he crossed the room back towards his partner.
Lisbon waited for Jane to reclaim his seat beside her and pass her the drink before turning to him with accusing eyes.
"You're up to something," she said, flatly.
"No, I'm not," he replied, purely for the joy of disagreeing with her, rather than due to having any hope of actually being believed.
"I saw your last hand. You had him. Why did you fold?"
He looked into her eyes, earnest, and filled with suspicion. The most expressive, achingly honest pair of eyes he'd ever come across in his extensive travels around the country.
"I didn't do it to mess with Mancini," he said. She raised a sceptical eyebrow, and he cheerfully amended. "OK, I didn't only do it to mess with Mancini. But you know I can't help myself, he's just so-"
"Yes, I know," she interjected. "You make it your personal mission to make people who already despise you, hate you more."
"Not all people," he protested. "Just the ones who really deserve it."
"Whatever," she said, with a sigh. "So what was the other reason?"
He beckoned her closer, and she leaned into him, closing the distance between them to just a few inches. He could tell right away that she'd started using a different perfume, a warmer, spicier scent then her usual vanilla. It suited her; and it served to make her nearness an even more intoxicating experience than usual.
"I thought I could use it to try and help me ID Red John."
She flinched in surprise, and he wondered if the evening's proceedings might have actually caused her to forget about the serial killer, just for a little while. He hoped so. She'd had a stressful day, going against everything in her make-up to get involved with his deception. She'd needed the break.
"How?" she breathed.
"Red John loves to think that he's smarter than me," he said. "Remember on that DVD, he mocked me and my list, and then proceeded to trump me by naming all the seven suspects?"
"Shhh!" she hissed, glancing about the room. "Keep your voice down!"
"Don't worry, they're all still busy exclaiming over my heroic defeat. Relax."
A faint blush tinged her cheek. "Sorry."
"Perfectly understandable." He touched her arm, and she made a brave attempt at a smile. "Anyway, back to Red John. It's like he has this overwhelming need to best me. He can't be satisfied until he can prove to himself that he is superior to me. And he's not subtle about it. Every murder scene, the locations he chooses, the victims, even the way he positions their bodies; it's all his way of telling me that he's the one in control."
"Right," she said slowly. "But what does this have to do with poker?"
"Lisbon, do you remember why I dropped everything and ran off to Vegas last year?"
He regretted the analogy as soon as he said it. A stricken look appeared on her features and a shaft of pain flashed through her eyes. Wonderful and accepting of his faults though she was, he also knew that part of her would never fully forgive him for the unplanned 'sabbatical' he'd taken last year. He'd done a lot of regretful things during those six months but first and foremost, he knew that his sudden departure and his resolute silence had broken her heart, even if she'd never tell him so.
To her credit, her voice stayed very steady as she replied. "Of course I do. You thought that if you made it look like you'd quit, he'd seek you out."
"Yes."
"And also because you're a cold, heartless bastard who only thought about yourself, and didn't care what you might do to me." She added that as an afterthought.
"That too," he conceded. "My point, I admit I went about it the wrong way, but I still think that the premise holds. He wants me to crumble, Lisbon. He wants me to fail. Even just a little thing like watching me lose a hand of poker would be worth a lot to him."
"Why?"
"Because then he'll know that he's getting to me. He'll know that all his fiendish plans, and threats for the future-" here he paused, and he knew they were both thinking of the image of Lorelei on that DVD, reading Red John's message, a disciple to the end, "-are working. And believe me, it's the kind of thing he would get a kick out of."
"And two of the suspects are here tonight," said Lisbon, catching on. "You lost on purpose, to see how they'd react."
"Precisely." He smiled at her proudly.
"And?" she prompted excitedly, circling her hands.
"Nothing," he said, and she felt herself deflate with disappointment. "If either of them is him," he quickly said, as the judge passed by the table, "he played it pretty cool. But no matter, it was always a long shot, and if it is one of them, he'll think I'm starting to lose my touch, which might entice him to move into the open."
She shuddered. "You say that like it's a good thing," she said.
"The sooner we come face to face with him, the sooner it's over," he reasoned, as the rest of the group resumed their seats. Mancini, he noticed, was determinedly avoiding his eye, but throwing covert little glances at Lisbon every so often when he thought she wasn't looking.
"Jane, you're out of this hand," said Bertram, heartily, clearly very pleased to see the consultant taken down a peg. "Agent Mancini, would you like to deal?"
The evening culminated in a showdown between Smith and Bertram. Lisbon couldn't quite suppress a shudder as they stared one another down. One of those men could be hiding more than cards; an entire secret identity as California's most notorious serial killer. Or they could both be innocent, with no idea of what they were being accused of.
As usual, Jane seemed to know what she was thinking. Under the table, he reached for her hand, and entwined it with his. She gripped it back, drawing comfort from its warmth, and the steadiness of his pulse. It was a good thing they weren't alone in the room, or she might have been very tempted to fold herself into his arms, and get that warmth and comfort into all of her body.
In the end, Bertram came out as victor, successfully bluffing Smith into thinking he held a better hand that he actually did, and the poker group broke up for the night.
Bidding the others good night, Lisbon walked out of the room with Jane's hand resting at the small of her back, suddenly feeling tired to her bones. It was exhausting being constantly on the alert for possible double-cross, and she privately wondered how Jane had done it all these years. Just a couple of days in and she was already feeling the strain, and yet he'd managed to get through it all with an easy smile on his face (at least some of the time.)
She could feel Mancini's eyes on them as they left, but he didn't say anything to them, which she found a relief. She liked Mancini well enough as a person, and respected him as a professional colleague, but there just wasn't room inside her for feelings of any other kind; at least not while she remained so hopelessly devoted to Patrick Jane.
He walked her to her car, and waited until she'd climbed into the driver's seat and started the ignition.
"Well done," he told her. "I'm proud of you."
She made a face and blew out a long sigh. "I'm not designed for all this secrecy," she complained. "I felt like at any moment I was going to give the game away."
"It was never going to be easy," he said soothingly. "And I knew that if I brought you in on this, you were always going to struggle a little, you're too honest not to, but I wouldn't want anyone else watching my back."
She smiled. "Thank you for coming with me tonight," she said. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."
He chuckled. "My guess, you'd have been so afraid of saying the wrong thing, that you wouldn't have said a word to anybody the whole night."
"Probably," she agreed.
His gaze softened, and he reached through the open window and let his fingers graze her chin. "It'll all be worth it in the end," he said, softly. "You'll see."
She hoped so. "I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked.
"I'll be there."
As she pulled away from the curb, she felt her eyes being drawn to the rear-view mirror. He was still standing there, watching her go. She saw his reflection grow smaller and smaller in the moonlight, until finally she turned a corner and he vanished from her sight.
There was an odd sinking feeling in Jane stomach as he watched the taillights of his partner's car round the corner and disappear. They both knew that she was high up on Red John's hit list after the DVD, and no matter what they did, he would come for her if they didn't catch him first. The upshot of this was that every time they separated now, he was experiencing a sensation of wanting to be sick. If she wasn't beside him, how was he supposed to protect her? Not that there was a whole lot he could have done if Red John did turn up, but it gave him some small peace of mind to be able to look over at her and just reassure himself that she was still breathing.
The death of Eileen Barlow had been difficult enough. But even the mere thought of losing Lisbon was unbearable. She was more than a happy memory. She was the only one who could make him feel like the happy times in his life weren't totally over. She was the person upon whom his entire present and future depended. She was his second chance.
Red John, whichever head of the monster he turned out to be, must know that. She'd told him once that Raymond Haffner had asked her to quit the CBI and join his new private enterprise. While she'd been coy about the exact details of the conversation, he'd deduced that his name had probably come up at one point when she'd turned down the offer.
In short, along with her loyalty to the CBI and her satisfaction with her current work, he knew that she hadn't wanted to leave him.
God knew what he would have done if she had decided to go off and be a high-flying private detective. He probably wouldn't last a week at the CBI without her. And without his favourite person in the world by his side, he was sure any satisfaction he felt in crime solving would disappear very quickly.
Not to mention that if Haffner turned out to be the one, she'd be ripe for the killing whenever he saw fit, and she'd never see it coming.
Footsteps coming down the pavement behind him caused him to hurriedly slink back against the wall of a building until he was concealed in the shadows. Listening carefully, he then figured out that there were two people approaching.
The heavyset frame of Reede Smith, and the narrower Mancini came into view, silhouetted against the moonlight.
"Why are you in such a bad mood?" Smith asked his companion irritably. "You've been waiting for ages to get one up on Jane, and in front of Agent Lisbon no less. That's got to count for something."
"Like what?" Mancini snapped back. "She barely even glanced at me the whole night; she was so caught up with him."
Smith's shrug was visible to Jane by the way it momentarily blotted out some of the moonlight.
"Gabe, you know Jane is no friend of mine, and I agree that Agent Lisbon is a great lady, and easy on the eye to boot, but this crush on her you've got, you gotta let it go, man. I think she made it pretty clear tonight that she's not in the same frame of mind as you are."
"If I could get her alone for just five minutes," fumed Mancini in frustration. "But it's like they're attached at the hip."
"Like I said, don't waste your time."
Jane slunk even further back against the wall as the two men passed by, not missing a beat, clearly unaware that he was even present.
Mancini sighed.
"She's selling herself short," he said. "She deserves so much better than that borderline sociopath. Why can't she see it?"
Smith's sigh was indicative of his tiring of the conversation; apparently this was well-trodden ground. Jane couldn't help getting a little pleasure in the mental picture of Mancini sitting behind a desk, pining for Lisbon. He'd always known the man was pathetic.
"Let it go," Smith repeated. "Everyone in the DOJ knows that she's in love with him. Hell, everyone not in the DOJ probably knows it too. They couldn't be more damn obvious if they tried."
Their voices were fading now as they got further and further away from him, but the full effect of what he had just overhead was reaching Jane quite clearly.
First Lorelei. Then Sean Barlow, now Mancini, and possibly Red John himself had made comments about he and Lisbon's supposed feelings for each other. In fact, by the sounds of it, the only people not talking about it…were they, themselves.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The silence in the car was unbearable. With the radio on, she couldn't concentrate properly on the road, but with it off, she was a slave to her own thoughts. It was well past eleven on a weeknight and the streets were all but deserted, streetlamps dotted like sunbursts against the inky sky.
Every now and then, a pair of headlights flared in the distance, as another car sped past her, but for the most part, she was alone on the road. As she pulled up at a stoplight, at an intersection on a darkened street, completely devoid of any life, she felt herself begin to shiver. She had never felt more vulnerable. If Red John happened to take her now, they might never find a trace of her. Any moment, anywhere, could be her last.
Of course, in her profession, that had always been true, but ever since the DVD that proverbial clock had been ticking for her just a little bit louder.
When the light turned green, she put her foot down and the car lurched forward, as though if she just drove fast enough away, she might be able to outrun the grim thoughts. Unfortunately, they chased after her just as persistently as Jane did when he wanted something.
Two small pricks of light in her rear-view mirror alerted her to the presence of another car behind her. The bright dots grew slowly in size as it gained on her until eventually the definitions of the car became quite visible in the reflected glow of the streetlights.
She switched on her left blinker. The car behind her did the same.
At the next corner, the same thing happened again. And again at the next. She hoped it was just an overactive imagination that made tension suddenly rush through her, her senses alert for danger. With another glance at the rear-view mirror, she executed another turn, and sure enough, moments later, the pursuing car trundled after her.
She wondered if it was just bad lighting and sheer chance that made the licence plate impossible to see, or if the driver had planned it so.
Her fingers began to tap on the steering wheel nervously, and she was glancing up at the mirror every few seconds, the dread growing more and more potent every time. Her cell phone was sitting in the drink holder in the middle of the console, and she was almost to the point of grabbing it and speed-dialling Jane right now. Her nerves were prickling, and she knew that if that was Red John or one of his associates behind that wheel, that the next few minutes could determine whether she lived or died.
She was glad she had her Glock stowed safely in the glove compartment. If things got dicey, it would simply be a matter of getting to it quickly. She was not going to die without putting up a fight. She wanted to live to see her brothers reconcile, to see Cho get promoted to head up his own unit, to see Van Pelt and Rigsby get married.
And as for Jane, there was a whole decade's worth of unfinished business to tie up, and, she realized with a jolt, she hadn't even said a proper goodbye.
She took a deep breath and held as she turned on the indicator once more for the final turn to reach her apartment.
The car didn't follow.
Shoulders sagging in relief, she nosed the car into her usual parking spot, shut off the engine and then buried her face in her hands.
One way or another, this Red John thing was going to kill her. Fear, constant fear was bleeding into every little part of her life, now even something as normal as driving home from a poker game was a game of life and death.
Her phone chirped merrily with an incoming text, making her jump in her seat. Reaching for it, she saw it was from Jane.
Wanted to be sure you got home safe. Worried about you.
She briefly considered telling him about the car incident, but couldn't quite bring herself to. Even if it all just been a product of her paranoid mind, she had no doubt that Jane would be over here in an instant to see if she was all right. He was under so much pressure already, and she couldn't bear to add more. Even if it would have soothed her shaken nerves just to see him.
All in one piece, she texted back.
Immediately, a reply came zooming back, as though he'd been waiting with fingers poised over the buttons, to hear from her.
Good. Then, a few moments later. Try and get some sleep.
She imagined him lying on his cot in the attic, staring at his Red John board for the billionth time, hoping to see some brilliant connection he might have missed. Or maybe he was drinking a cup of tea, or doing some more research on their seven-headed monster. In any case, she'd put good money on it that he had no intention of sleeping. Hypocrite.
Only if you do.
This time, the reply came more slowly, as though he were contemplating his answer.
Will do my best. Sleep well.
She got out of the car, fumbling with her many keys to try and find the one that fit the door. It had become a bit of a tradition for her to add him in to her nightly prayers since Vegas, asking God to guide him, and watch over him whenever she personally could not. But now, she prayed for both of them, just to survive this ordeal, and to not lose each other along the way.
What with her paranoia, and his insomnia and the constant threat of Red John, it seemed pretty obvious now that they needed all the help they could get.
So that's my part done for now. The incomparable Donna is up next! (And if you haven't yet, I urge to check out her other collaborative effort with the equally talented starry19, entitled 'Boy Wonder.')