A/N: Hi! I'm back from vacation and ready to get back into this fic! Waterbaby and I appreciate all your kind reviews of her last chapter, and we hope this one garners as much love and support.

Chapter 7

"Are you sure you're going to be all right alone?" asked Jane for the third time as she walked out to the parking lot at six o'clock that evening.

"Yes. I'm suitably paranoid, Jane, so I'll be suitably vigilant. Don't worry about me. Go home and get some sleep—you said you didn't get much last night."

"Lisbon—"

She paused by her Mustang and lifted a hand to touch his cheek, her eyes watering a little with barely checked emotion. "I need you to be strong for me, Jane. I need to be able to depend on you to prop me up when I need it. How can that happen when you're as exhausted as I am?"

"Fine. But I want you to have some security guarding the place. Maybe even Cho or Rigsby."

"No, they're tired too, after the events of the last few days. They deserve a break themselves. I'll have a couple of state police patrol around my apartment complex, and I'll lock my doors and windows. I've got my gun, remember?"

He didn't like it one bit, and it wasn't so much that he feared for her safety (although that was certainly one worry); no, he feared she wouldn't actually stay at home.

"Okay," he said reluctantly.

He hoped she wasn't too suspicious at how easily he'd given up. He had one quick thing to do, then he'd watch her apartment all night himself. He knew he would get little sleep otherwise. He kept thinking of how Reede Smith's visit had shaken her even more than she already was, if that were possible, and he didn't like the wild look in her eyes after the FBI agent had left. In this state of mind, she wouldn't be in the mood to be cooperative.

He desperately wanted to kiss her again, to hold her so tightly in his arms that she wouldn't be able to get away and pursue whatever the hell she was planning. But she smiled wanly at him, and got into her car with a too-casual good-bye.

As soon as her car pulled out of the CBI parking lot, Jane took out his cell phone. He dialed the number he'd looked up earlier in anticipation of his plan.

"Yes, I need to rent a car today…"

A robin's egg blue Citroen didn't lend itself well to discreet surveillance.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took the car service longer than he'd expected to deliver his rental a block from the CBI, and he kept glancing at his cell phone clock in agitation as he paced anxiously before the capitol building. He even texted Lisbon to help ease his nerves.

Did you make it home OK?

She answered after a few moments, and he imagined that she was in the process of changing out of her work clothes, maybe microwaving a frozen dinner. Or so he hoped.

I'm fine, Jane. Take a nap.

You first. Lock your door.

She sent him an eye-rolling emoticon. He grinned, but he still wasn't buying that she was in any way fine.

Lisbon's car wasn't in the parking lot of her apartment building, when he finally arrived in the nondescript gray sedan, and it was then that Jane began to panic a bit on his own. He pounded on her door to no avail, before retrieving his lock picks from their little case on his key ring. He let himself in without hesitation, then quickly proceeded to scour her apartment.

So much for the state police patrol, he thought bitterly. The little liar.

She'd been there, and he saw her day's clothes thrown haphazardly on her bed. He noted that her Bible on the bedside table seemed at an odd angle, and he picked it up. Six familiar pictures fell out onto the floor, and he bent to retrieve them. Jane's Red John suspects. He shuffled through them, noting how she'd X-ed out Bret Stiles's face, and discovered what he'd immediately suspected—Reede Smith's photo was missing.

"Dammit, Teresa," he swore under his breath.

He knew Smith's address by heart, having been there himself when in the process of narrowing down his list. He'd wanted to see how the man had lived outside the FBI, and Jane had followed him home one evening to find kids playing basketball in the driveway and a wife weeding around yellow rosebushes. One point against Smith being Red John was the fact that he was a family man, with a wife and two teenage children. Serial killers didn't often have families. But that had by no means ruled him out; it was a good cover.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon parked across the quiet street of Reede Smith's residence, a split-level home that screamed family man. Even with her considerable clout, she hadn't been able to access the file of an FBI agent, so she'd phoned a friend from the bureau and made up some excuse as to why she needed to visit him. They'd trusted her and given her his home address. She knew she was taking a risk by her inquiry, maybe even alerting the mole Red John claimed to have there, but FBI agents didn't usually have listed addresses for security reasons, and that was a risk she was willing to take.

She ducked down in her seat as a nondescript woman and her two sons came out of the house, each of them carrying baseball equipment that they threw into the back of a nondescript minivan. Reede kissed his wife goodbye and waved as they headed off, presumably to ball practice.

But Lisbon wasn't fooled. This could very likely be a carefully laid out façade, and for all she knew his wife could simply be one of his minions. She brought out her Glock from her glove box, then methodically twisted on a silencer, this being the middle of a residential neighborhood. She hoped she was wrong about Smith, but just in case, the plan was that she not get caught. She was sure she could live with herself afterward, although she purposefully ignored the twinge of guilt she felt if she was responsible for those kids losing their father.

Lisbon slipped the Glock into the pocket of her leather jacket and walked nonchalantly to Smith's front door. Her heart was pounding, and she put thoughts of Jane's earlier worried expression out of her mind. Taking a breath, she knocked on his door.

Smith opened it with a smile. "Did you forget something-? Oh. Agent Lisbon. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I'll just take a minute of your time."

He leaned against the open door, regarding her curiously, his familiar cocky air as infuriating as ever. Lisbon gritted her teeth, fighting for control.

"May I come in?"

He stepped aside and held out his arm in mock welcome, then shut it firmly behind them. He led her into the living room.

"If you're expecting an apology for our earlier conversation, you're wasting your time."

"No," she said, her right hand slipping into her pocket. "That's not why I'm here. I just have one question for you." She pulled out her Glock and pointed it at his head. "Are you Red John?"

He looked at her, momentarily dumbfounded. Then, he began to laugh.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane parked his rental car behind Lisbon's and dashed across the street. His hand went to the doorknob, and, finding it unlocked, he turned it and pushed the door inward, wishing for once he had brought a weapon with him.

"Smith?" he called tentatively, his blood going cold with fear. Then: "Lisbon?"

He heard Lisbon's loud intake of breath from the foyer, and he followed the sound to the living room. What he saw there brought him up short, and his eyes grew round in shock.

She was squatting down by the body of Reede Smith, feeling his neck for a pulse. There was a small black hole in his temple, and blood pooled in profusion beneath his head, his empty eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

Lisbon still held her Glock.

"Teresa…" he said softly.

She turned more quickly than he'd ever seen her before, pointing her gun at him reflexively. The action made her head spin, but upon recognizing Jane, she lowered her weapon, squeezing her eyes shut at the near disaster.

"Jane. What-?"

"We need to get out of here, Lisbon," he said, snapping out of his own daze. "His family might come home any time."

"But, what the hell happened?" She seemed extremely confused, probably some sort of post-traumatic reaction. She tried to stand.

"I feel sick," she said woozily, one hand going to her face.

A horrible thought struck him. "Have you been drugged?" he asked her. If Smith had been Red John, had his final egregious act been to poison her? Jane looked around the body, then examined what he could of Lisbon's exposed limbs. No sign of anything used to inject her, no slimy green gel that would mean certain death.

"Sweetheart," he said, helping her to her feet. He spoke as if to a frightened animal. "You're in shock, but we need to get the hell out of here."

Her hand went to the back of her head, and she flinched in pain, but Jane didn't notice. He was too busy gingerly taking the gun from her numb hand, actually having to pry her cold fingers away from the weapon. He pocketed her Glock in relief. He'd get rid of the thing later, hoping beyond hope there would be no way to trace the bullet in Smith's skull back to her.

"We need to call 911," she was saying as he propelled her through the foyer and out the door. "Smith—"

"Smith's dead, Lisbon. I know you're tempted to turn yourself in, but I'm not ready to lose you to the gas chamber just yet."

Outside, Jane looked right and left, mentally crossing his fingers that no one had seen either of them coming in or out of this house. At the moment, he saw no one, and he allowed himself a brief feeling of gratitude.

Lisbon stumbled a bit on the garden path, and he tightened his grip around her waist to steady her and get her safely across the street. He stood before both their cars, in a sudden quandary. No way he was letting her drive off in her car alone, but that would mean leaving the rental car here. He'd used a false name to hire it, paid in cash, and had taken the extra precaution of having the service drop the car at a neutral location, but it wouldn't take long for someone like Cho, for example, to figure out who'd rented it. But it was even more out of the question to leave Lisbon's easily recognizable vehicle in front of a murder scene.

He sighed. There was no help for it, and he didn't have time to dawdle.

"Give me your keys, Teresa," he said, already slipping a hand into her pockets to search. "I know you're afraid to let me behind the wheel of your baby, but you're in no condition to drive."

She must have been severely shell shocked not to protest. His mouth formed a grim line. It was going to be harder than he thought to pull her out of this.

He found the keys in her jeans pocket, and half walked, half dragged her toward the passenger's side of the Mustang. The enormity of what Lisbon had done must have suddenly hit her, the weight of the last few days since her brother died bringing her almost literally to her knees. When she suddenly sagged against him, he looked down at her face in alarm.

"Lisbon?"

She was out cold. He slapped at her face firmly enough to garner a punch in the nose, but she didn't respond. He'd actually only seen her faint once before, when staring at a vat of carrion eating worms, but she'd quickly come out of it, much to her embarrassment. But that was nothing like now. He noticed a car approaching from down the street, and quickly bundled Lisbon's limp body into the car, buckling her seatbelt tightly around her. Then, with a deep breath, he got behind the wheel and started Lisbon's car.

He glanced over at her lifeless form beside him, trying not to let it scare him too much. She'd obviously had a psychological break, and he wasn't sure how he himself was going to deal with the fallout of what she'd done. He allowed himself to consider the possibility that she, and not him, had killed Red John. It occurred to him dispassionately that at this point, it didn't really matter. All he could think of was that he had to protect her from whatever was to come, even if it meant fleeing the country and starting over somewhere else. First thing, however, he had to find a place where they could regroup and make plans.

"Don't worry about anything," he told her, pulling out onto the street. "I'll take care of this, I promise." He really hoped she could hear him.

In a few minutes, he merged onto the highway then determinedly got into the lane marked Oakland/San Francisco.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On a middle class street in Oakland, Jane drove Lisbon's Mustang up the steep driveway in the back of his grandparents' house. It was empty now, its occupants long dead, but he'd held onto it as one of the few happy and stable memories he'd had from his childhood. They had been his mother's parents, and he remembered as a child how his grandfather—Gramps, as he'd called him—would build go-carts for him to race down the terrifying hills of Oakland, while Grandma worked in the yard and yelled at him to be careful. The house was an old, two-story farmhouse, and his grandmother had been fond of telling how when she and her parents had first moved there back in 1920, it had been surrounded by verdant farmland, cattle dotting the hills.

When Jane's mother had met Alex Jane at the carnival that was passing through, her parents had strongly disapproved. When she'd run off with him, they'd threatened to disown her, but they'd come around eventually, and whenever the carnival was nearby, Jane's mother would take him to see his grandparents. Alex was not welcome. Indeed, when Jane's mother died, Alex never allowed him to visit his grandparents again.

Years later, when Jane and Angela had fled the carnival, they'd taken refuge for a while with his grandparents. They'd lived long enough to see Charlotte's second birthday, but they'd died five years before Jane lost the rest of his family. Being their only grandchild, his grandparents had left him the house, and he'd never had the heart to sell it. Instead, it stood as a monument to his past, his own personal Rosebud.

The gardens surrounding the house were still lush and beautiful, thanks to the landscaper Jane kept on retainer, and he knew that even his grandmother would have been satisfied. A housekeeper came to dust and air out the place every few months, and Jane had installed a security system to protect his legacy from thieves and squatters.

Lisbon hadn't awakened during the entire drive, and this greatly disturbed him. It was nighttime by then, so he had the cover of darkness to carry her in his arms to the house and tap in the security code on the keypad by the first floor door. The second floor was two flights up, and Jane knew his limitations, so he laid her down in a first-floor bedroom and reset the alarm.

"Teresa," he said, shaking her a bit. He felt her forehead. She didn't feel feverish or in any way hurt, but he wondered if he should have taken her to the hospital anyway. Something was obviously going on that he didn't know about, and if she didn't wake up in a little while, he would risk the trip to the emergency room. He thanked whatever God Lisbon worshipped when at last she seemed to come around with an endearingly familiar groan of annoyance.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he murmured to her. "Wake up, will ya? You're scaring me here."

Her lashes slowly fluttered up, her green eyes unfocused in the lamplight.

"Jane? Where am I?"

"In Oakland," he told her. "An old family home of mine. No one will be able to find us here."

"What? Why?"

He stared at her a moment, debating what he should tell her. He wondered if she was suffering from amnesia, like what had happened to him last year, and if it would be unwise to remind her of what had really happened.

"Just rest now. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, but I feel…dizzy, and my head is killing me."

He looked at her closely, and his curiosity got the better of him. "What do you remember?"

She closed her eyes in thought for so long he thought she'd drifted off again.

"Lisbon?"

"Uhh…I remember going to Reede Smith's house…then…nothing."

"Do you remember me finding you?"
She shook her head. "No. What happened?"

"Try not to think about it right now. Would you like a drink of water?"

Her mouth did feel terribly dry. "Please," she said weakly.

This was more than shock, he realized as he went to the kitchen sink. He let the water run a moment, then filled a small glass. It occurred to him that she might have been injured somehow. Maybe there'd been a scuffle with Reede before she shot him, but there'd been no sign of it at the man's house. He'd have to look more closely at her head and body to be sure.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Lisbon was asleep, her breathing deep and regular. He set her water on the nightstand and pulled off her low boots. Her leather jacket came next, and as he sat her up to pull it from beneath her, inhaled her herbal scented hair and wished with all his heart that they could find time just to be together, with no one threatening their lives or those they loved.

He set her back against the pillows and examined her arms. No bruises there. He'd have to lift her t-shirt to be sure. He glanced at her face, making sure she wasn't awake to fight him, and slowly he lifted the white cotton to her chin. He saw no bruises or pooling blood beneath the skin, which would have been an indication of internal bleeding. He did see a sexy, nude colored bra and he smiled, resting his hand on her warm stomach a moment-just for medical purposes, of course. He turned her over and saw nothing amiss there either, but noted the pleasing shape of her nicely toned back. He lowered her shirt and rested her on her back once more.

He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself for ogling her like this, but lately he'd been guilty of wanting her at completely inappropriate times.

Next, he unsnapped and unzipped her jeans, then gently pulled them down and over her feet. Her lower body was everything he could ever have wished for: small though shapely hips, slim thighs, and strong calves. Her panties even matched the bra. His hands skimmed gently down her legs, but she seemed perfect to him, and perfectly healthy. Hands shaking slightly, he folded her jeans and laid them on a chair with her jacket, then unfolded the blanket at the end of the bed to cover her. The only part of her he hadn't checked was her head.

He sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed and contemplated Lisbon's face in repose. She had always appeared younger than her age, and asleep, she looked positively childlike-sweet and innocent, free from grief and the harrowing desire for vengeance.

He brushed her dark hair away from her face, then began probing gently at her scalp. Her hair was soft and fine and it slipped through his fingers like silk. He tried not to enjoy touching her so much, but he feared he lacked the clinical distance necessary for examining Lisbon in this way. He moved to the back of her head, and at the same time he felt the huge goose-egg there, she whimpered in her sleep. He didn't feel a cut, so whatever had struck her had likely been something heavy and blunt.

Reede Smith had most definitely fought back. Maybe she'd shot him in self-defense, he thought hopefully. Maybe there was a way out of this yet.

He remembered to look at her pupils, carefully lifting her delicate eyelids. They seemed normal to him, but he didn't like seeing them so unanimated, so he closed them very quickly.

"Jane," Lisbon murmered in her sleep.

"Shh…I'm here," he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Lisbon awoke again, she was in a strange room in a strange house, and she sensed she was all alone. She vaguely recalled Jane speaking to her, but she had no idea how long ago it had been. Her head ached like a son of a bitch, and her mouth was dry as paper. She blinked against the dim light of the lamp, and saw a glass of water on the bedside table. When she turned to reach for it, she realized that she'd been handcuffed to the headboard, with what looked to be her own cuffs.

Had she been kidnapped? She managed just barely to reach the glass with her un-cuffed hand and sat up a little to take a sip, her head throbbing with each movement. Then she saw a note propped against the lamp.

Lisbon,

The cupboards here are bare, so I ran to the store to stock up on supplies. Despite appearances, you have not been kidnapped, so don't panic. The cuffs are for your own protection. Try to rest.

Jane

"What the hell is going on here?" she said to the empty room. She rested against the pillow again, laying on her side because the back of her head seemed to be the locus of the pounding. It was then she realized that someone had removed some of her clothing. She blushed to think it had been Jane.

As she lay there helplessly, the beginnings of fury began to suffuse her addled brain. How dare he keep her prisoner like this? God help him when she finally got away, because he'd be nursing a broken nose for a month.

Suddenly, everything came flooding back.

She remembered being in Reede Smith's house, remembered confronting him with her suspicions that he'd killed her brother. He hadn't seemed afraid of her, hadn't even been offended by her questions. He'd smiled and denied he'd had anything to do with James's death, speaking to her as if she were a slow-witted child. She recalled how that had infuriated her, how she'd been close to shooting the asshole in the leg to get him to stop it, when something had struck her from behind.

Her last memory before she'd passed out the first time was the look of surprise on Smith's face as she crumbled to the floor before him. She'd awakened to find him dead, her Glock still in her hand.

Had she killed him? Jane must have found her soon after and thought she had, hence the handcuffs. The rest of it—how she'd gotten to this place, how she'd come to be half-naked—was all pretty fuzzy, and she grew mentally exhausted trying to figure things out.

Her last thought before she slept again was that someone had tried to set her up, and that someone was likely Red John, himself.

A/N: I hope you will pardon the indulgence of including a description of my grandparents' house. I also incorporated a little of my own life into Jane's, which in a way keeps my Grandma and Gramps alive. They are long gone, but that house was always a place of stability for me, and I have many of my own happy memories of that place. I wish we could have kept it. It's still there in Oakland, so if you live in the area, go by 3903 Rhoda Ave. and have a look

Next up, waterbaby's chapter. I just know it'll be a good one! Thanks for reading!

P.S. Please read waterbaby134's newest fic "Throw Away the Key." It's really great! And I just completed my romantic fluff piece "Red Planet." That should give you something to read until our next chapter.