A/N: Well, here it is at last, the ending of this fic. And just in time for the season premier too. This is a monster of a chapter, but I hope I've managed to give a satisfactory conclusion. I caution that there is some blood and violence, but then, how else could the hunt for Red John end?
Thanks for sticking with us and for your fabulous reviews. Now, to the conclusion.
Chapter 11: Conclusion
While they waited for him to arrange Jane's meeting with Brett Partridge, Stiles had seen to it that Jane and Lisbon were given the best rooms available in the Visualize complex, a two-room suite reserved for visiting Visualize dignitaries. Jane was anxious—they both were—but the pain medication Dr. Thompson had given him was causing him to become so helplessly drowsy that Lisbon had to threaten him bodily harm if he didn't lie down for awhile. He sat down on the king size bed amidst the opulent décor of the suite, and Lisbon helped him lie on his back, pulling up the quilt at the end of the bed to cover him.
"Let me just rest my eyes for a minute," he told her. "Don't let me fall asleep."
"Sure," she lied. If he could catch a few winks before they met with the serial killer, more power to him. He would need all the alertness he could muster to go through with the most dangerous, most foolhardy scheme he'd ever come up with. And that was saying a lot.
She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers soothingly through his hair a moment, brushing back the fall of curls from his forehead before kissing him there sweetly.
"You've always looked good in blue," he teased sleepily. "You should wear it more often.
She looked down at herself, grimacing at the borrowed blue polo shirt emblazoned with the Visualize eye and khaki pants they both wore. At least their clothes didn't smell like smoke, she thought, though that was almost preferable.
"This damn thing gives me the creeps. I feel like my shirt is watching me."
Jane chuckled softly. His eyes drifted shut.
"How can you laugh at a time like this?" she said, sounding scandalized.
"It's the drugs," he said sheepishly. "I'm about to confront the man who killed my family, and I am feeling nothing but good right now."
"Well, I feel nothing but dread."
"Don't worry, Teresa," he said weakly. "My plan will work, I promise…"
"You're in no position to promise crap. Stiles could be Partridge's right-hand man, for all we know. He might just be saving us here so his pal Red John can rush over and finish us off once and for all."
But there was no reply; he was out like a light.
"Jane?"
She shook her head, then leaned down to lightly kiss his sensual, full lips good-night.
At that moment, a knock came on the outer door of the suite, and Lisbon rushed to get to it before it awoke Jane. She shut the door to the bedroom softly and walked quickly through the sitting area to the door.
It was Stiles.
"Aw, Teresa. Nice to see you've settled in," he said, indicating her clothing with a slight, mischievous smile. He had to know how much it rankled for her, a relatively good Catholic, to be wearing the garb from a presumed cult. Her hand went unconsciously to the crucifix at her neck, which made his grin widen even more.
"Thanks. Did you set things up?" she asked, getting to the point.
"Might I come in?" he asked, amused.
She stepped aside. "It's your place," she pointed out.
They sat across from each other in opposing chairs, a small coffee table between them, one of them extremely uncomfortable, despite the cushiness of their seats. He noticed how she kept glancing worriedly at the closed bedroom door.
"Would you feel more comfortable with a gun in your hand?" he asked wryly.
"Yes, I would," she said truthfully.
"I apologize that I don't have one available for you. We are a peaceful religion."
She rolled her eyes, remembering all the shady things she knew they must be involved with, along with the murders she and her team had investigated involving members of this peaceful religion.
"I take it Patrick is resting," he continued, his own eyes on the closed bedroom door.
"Yes." Her voice was almost too clipped to be polite. She absolutely despised small talk, especially at a time like this. "I'd like to let him sleep as long as he can," she said warningly.
"Of course. I'll let you pass on the message I received from our mutual friend." She blanched at his blasphemous characterization of the murdering bastard.
"I told him just what Patrick asked," Stiles continued, "that I was holding you both in custody for him, pretending to be your friend when you sought my protection. He'll be here later this evening to see for himself, to talk to my prisoners."
Lisbon's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that what we really are to you here?"
He shook his head almost sadly, sighing in mock disappointment. "Not at all, Agent Lisbon. You're welcome to leave anytime, with my blessing. But I must say, it truly hurts that you still don't trust me, after all we've been through."
"Ha," she said with a small sniff of disbelief. "Jane figured out Red John had once been a member of Visualize. You obviously know his true identity, and could have turned him in to the authorities years ago, saving many innocent lives. So no, I don't trust you, despite Jane's newly arrived blind faith in you. It was not long ago he suspected you could have been the bastard yourself."
Stiles laughed heartily. "Me? Why, I'm flattered. That explains why you arrived here not long ago, guns blazing. Believe it or not, Agent Lisbon, I have nothing but disdain and horror for the atrocities Red John has committed. I don't condone anything he's done since leaving Visualize."
"Then, why—" she began, but the answer dawned on her all at once. "He has something on you," she said, her heart accelerating at her insight.
"Patrick has taught you well," he conceded. This time his sigh was genuine, though full of resignation.
Lisbon waited for him to continue, her body tense and unnaturally still as she literally sat on the edge of her seat.
"He has my son," Bret Stiles confessed, and Lisbon gasped involuntarily.
"Your son? What do you mean he has him? Red John has kidnapped him?"
Stiles's blue eyes had lost their mischievous sparkle, and he suddenly appeared to be tired and old beyond his years. "No. Worse, I'm afraid. He has his mind, and I'm quite sure he owns his soul as well."
"You could have called us in long ago," she told him. "We might have been able to help you."
"Red John would have slit his throat before I put down the phone," said Stiles matter-of-factly.
Lisbon's thoughts were racing. Foremost in her mind was whether or not he was telling her the truth. All the tricks she'd learned in her training, as well as nearly a decade at Jane's side, were telling her he was not lying, that Red John had mentally enslaved this man's child.
"I think you'd better start from the beginning," said Lisbon gravely.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Cho awoke to a cotton mouth and a pounding headache. He squinted against the light emanating from a window at the top of a high ceiling, and he absently determined it was late afternoon. He lay in a ten by ten foot room with white walls and green shag carpeting that smelled musty beneath his nose. A five-gallon bucket was placed conveniently in a corner. He sat up gingerly, mentally cataloguing his aches and pains as annoying, though not life-threatening. He was pleased to find that he wasn't even bound or gagged. Whoever had him must have felt confident he wouldn't escape.
Van Pelt.
With a jolt, the events surrounding the SUV's crash came rushing back, and he looked vainly around the unfurnished room for his companion. It froze his heart to imagine her dead, to have to tell Rigsby he'd done nothing to save her. But Cho quickly shook his head to clear it of such negative thoughts. It would do no good to dwell on the morose when he needed to keep his head clear, to figure a way out of this.
"Welcome back, Mr. Cho," came a disembodied voice from the vicinity of the ceiling. Cho immediately located a speaker in the ceiling several feet above his head, along with the smaller, darker circle that was no doubt a camera.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, looking directly into it, his eyes angry dark slits.
There was a soft chuckle, then the voice came again, high-pitched and almost effeminate.
"I think you know."
He'd never actually heard Red John's voice, but from Jane's description, Cho now had no doubt he was speaking at last with the serial killer he'd hunted for a decade. Cho had always hoped it would be across an interrogation table with plenty of guns pointed at his head.
"Where's Van Pelt?"
"Aw, the lovely Grace. So aptly named. It's a pity you couldn't save her. What will you tell poor Agent Rigsby?"
It was as if he'd read his mind. How very Jane-like. Cho initially felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach, but resisted allowing despair to set in. He knew Red John was a master of manipulation, that it was very possible he was just messing with him. Part of his training in the Army had been resistance to torture and mind control, and he knew instinctively it would take all that training to prevent himself from turning into another Kristina Frye or any one of Red John's minions he'd encountered over the years.
"What do you want from me?" he asked calmly.
"Nothing, yet. Just your patience. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa, as it were."
A small, hinged slot at the bottom of the door suddenly opened, and a covered tray was slid inside the room. He smelled the unmistakable odor of Chinese takeout and wrinkled his nose. Red John laughed at his expression.
"Oh, that's right. It's Rigsby who loves Chinese food. Next meal, I'll order you a pizza, no pineapple."
Cho's eyes widened.
"Who the hell are you?" Cho repeated. He felt a chill as he realized how closely Red John must have been watching him over the years. But there was no further reply, and Cho was left with a splitting headache and a room that smelled sickeningly of moo shoo pork.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"My son and Red John met on the Ellison farm when they were teenagers. I'd sent Raymond there—"
"Raymond?" No, she thought. He couldn't be. But the image of the handsome CBI agent, graying at the temples, flashed before her mind. Sometimes, she realized now, his light eyes would sparkle in a very familiar way. "Your son is Ray Haffner?"
"Well, he is now. I don't know where he came up with Haffner, but he was born Raymond Stiles. His mother died when he was an infant."
Lisbon had to wrap her mind around the shock of it. Sure, she'd known her friend might have been Red John, given Jane's infamous list of seven, but the confirmation that he was a minion of a murderer somehow seemed an even bigger blow. She swallowed. Nothing to do for it now.
"Go on," she urged quietly. Stiles nodded.
"Raymond had been a rebellious child. He didn't like the rules surrounding living here within the confining walls of Visualize. I thought a stint working on the farm might be good for him, build some character. But after a year there, he and the man you know as Red John showed up on my doorstep, claiming to have had enough. From then on, Raymond was a model child, never complaining about anything. I thought I'd won." He laughed without humor. "I couldn't have been more wrong."
"What happened to him?" she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.
"John had manipulated Raymond into arranging an introduction with me, claiming he wanted to become just like me. He begged to learn all that I could teach him, about Visualize, about our self-help methods that had brought peace to hundreds of lost souls. I taught him hypnosis, cold reading—mentalist tricks Patrick would appreciate-that were designed to get into the minds of those seeking enlightenment. It was meant to be a help in understanding the needs of the individual followers. People were drawn to him, wanted instinctively to share their thoughts and fears with him, their happiest memories.
"He brought in new members by the dozens. In the meantime, Raymond became John's greatest fan. It was clear he idolized the man, would do whatever he asked more readily than he would for his own father. It was around that time that we found the mutilated body of a young woman in one of our campus dorm rooms. A red smile had been drawn with her blood on the wall."
"When was this?" she asked, her mind retracing the timeline of Red John's known murders.
"1991."
"Seven years before we knew of his existence." Lisbon's voice turned angry. "Why didn't you report this to the police?"
"Because I was afraid it had been Raymond's doing," he said simply, his face recalling the horror he must have felt at his suspicions.
"And was it?"
"No. I have reason to believe now that it wasn't, of course. And I had no real proof of anything at the time either. The girl had been an orphan, all alone in the world. I decided to handle the investigation internally. When all the circumstantial evidence pointed to John, I confronted him. He didn't deny it, but in turn, he had something on me."
Lisbon nodded for him to continue.
"I was responsible for someone's death long ago, and while it had been an accident, John had managed to drag this information out of someone in order to use it against me. He threatened to get the police involved, to ruin me and Visualize forever. Plus, he told me for the first time that he would kill Raymond the same way if I did anything about it. I believed him."
"So you just let him get away with murder?"
"I'm ashamed that I did, Agent Lisbon. But I felt trapped. I tried to disengage Raymond from John, but by then he was too far gone, too deeply under Red John's spell. His devotion to John was like an addiction—worse than any drug. I'm sorry if you don't understand, but this was my son's life at stake, along with those whom Visualize had helped. I had no idea what he was capable of, how he'd exact his revenge. I could have very well been looking at another Jonestown."
He paused to collect himself, realizing that his voice had become uncharacteristically passionate. He continued his story, his tone on its usual even, almost soothing keel.
"Red John is a vain, vain man, Agent Lisbon, fearful of being slighted or misrepresented, as Patrick so terribly discovered first hand. I have never met a man so evil, so twisted, so manipulative. I soon found out that he had been systematically stealing some of my most vulnerable new Visualize followers from right under my nose. He had slowly started to turn them against me, to claim I was a false profit, bent on building up an army of slaves to do my bidding. It very nearly came to a violent mutiny before I begged John just to leave, to take his followers and break off to found his own church. I was grateful he took my advice, but then he took Raymond with him too…"
"I'm sorry," she found herself saying, because it was true. But it still didn't excuse the secret he'd kept all these years, while he stood idly by and watched all those innocent people die when he could have stopped it.
"Why didn't you have him killed? And don't give me that peaceful religion garbage."
Stiles smiled slightly, but for once it didn't meet his pale blue eyes. "He told me if he died, Raymond's death with be automatic. I had no reason to doubt he was capable of arranging such a thing."
"But why are you telling me this now?" Lisbon asked, trying to get to the cult leader's true intentions.
"Because despite what you may think, I haven't been standing idly by."
She was startled that he had so accurately read her mind. She could see why Jane thought him such a worthy opponent.
"I realized that to bring him down, to allow me to take back my son, I had to get Red John in such a way that he would never know it was me. When I first heard of Patrick Jane, I spied at last a kind of hope. Here was a man as gifted in the ways of manipulation as John had been, who had pegged John's character perfectly. Of course, I was sorry to hear he was made to suffer for it, but a year after his family's death, Patrick came knocking on the CBI's door. That same year, Raymond and John joined the CBI. I did the only thing I could think of to do—I sent my own man in to keep tabs on them all, to help Patrick however he anonymously could, to see how close he was to discovering Red John's true identity. You will never find a man more motivated for justice than a vengeful father, Agent Lisbon, trust me on this."
"Unless it is a vengeful sister," she countered coldly.
He smiled. "Touché."
"In recent weeks," Stiles continued, "my man has discovered how close Patrick really is now. Patrick's come to his conclusions all on his own, and I haven't had anything to do with it. Well, not directly," he concluded, a bit of the old sparkle returning.
"Who is it?" she asked. "Who is your inside man?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. In for a penny… "You know him as Bob Kirkland."
Lisbon was very glad she didn't have a heart condition, but her hand went to her chest all the same. "Mother of God," she whispered.
"I understand you must feel like your whole world has been a lie, but I promise, I have done what I could along the way, protected Patrick even. Protected you and your team as well, Teresa. It has been a long road to get to this place, but I feel the end of this nightmare is finally near."
"You mean we could all end up dead now."
"Perhaps," Stiles conceded. "But Kirkland called and told me what John did to Patrick's house, and I'm fairly certain Patrick knows who Red John is at last."
Lisbon's face became suddenly blank. Stiles chuckled. "Has anyone ever told you have the worst poker face in the world?"
She frowned, thinking of Jane. "Frequently."
Another thought occurred to her. "Partridge even took your first name as part of his disguise, didn't he?"
Stiles nodded. "Yes, but with an extra t at the end, meant to symbolize, no doubt, how I was somehow lacking. I'm fairly certain his assumed sir name came from the painting by his favorite poet and artist, William Blake. I'm sure it amused him greatly."
Red John's references to the poet had been the subject of years of Jane's close study. All the mysterious pieces were finally falling into place.
"And now, I'm finally in a position to be one step ahead of John without him knowing I'm a part of it," proclaimed Stiles. "He'll never see it coming and Raymond I know will be with him, so I can protect him. The two of them have not been back at Visualize together since the day they left. I won't have to fear that someone is holding a knife to his throat while I strangle the bastard with my bare hands."
The door to the bedroom suddenly opened, and Jane appeared, his face grim.
"I'm afraid you'll have to stand in line, my friend," he said. Then Jane looked down at his sling and shrugged sheepishly. "On second thought, I might need some help with that."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
When he got the call about the accident, Rigsby drove at breakneck speed toward the scene, narrowly avoiding a crash, himself.
"There was no one in the SUV," the CHP officer had told him. The vehicle tag had shown it was registered to the CBI, and the officers on the scene had found one abandoned cell phone—it had been Cho's. The last call had been to Rigsby.
"What do you mean? Are they…were they thrown from the cab?" He tried not to picture the mangled body of Van Pelt lying at a broken angle on the side of the freeway, her vibrant hair matted with blood.
"No, sir. There were no bodies found at all. There are signs that the vehicle door on the driver's side was pried open with a crowbar. We're checking area hospitals in hope that some Good Samaritan rescued them and took them in on his own…"
When Rigsby arrived at the wreckage, his heart jumped into his throat as he saw how the SUV had rolled down the embankment in what must have been a terrifying ride. There had been no skid marks, so they must not have had any time to stop, themselves. They had likely swerved to avoid something—maybe another car—or something had violently run into them, sending them plunging off the road.
"We found blood in the cab and on the ground near the vehicle."
"Get a sample of that, will you," said Rigsby, still shaking inside, though trying hard to keep his voice level.
"Yes, sir."
Rigsby walked around the dented SUV, noting how the side indentations showed they had definitely rolled, but then he stopped at the rear of the vehicle. The back bumper was dented in, the rear windshield shattered. The roll might have caused that, but something had obviously slammed hard enough into the back to have pushed the bottom of the hatchback in almost half a foot.
"Holy shit," he muttered. Either someone had been following them way too closely, and Cho (the more likely driver) had braked suddenly, sending the other vehicle plowing into the SUV's rear end, or someone had deliberately rammed into them from behind. With the two of them gone, Rigsby had the sudden cold fear that someone had taken them. But who? And why?
On impulse, Rigsby pulled out his phone and dialed Van Pelt. It rang three times before an unfamiliar voice picked up.
"Agent Rigsby, I presume," said the high pitched voice.
"Where's Grace?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry, but she's unable to come to the phone at the moment. Poor thing, she'll be unable to do much of anything, ever again."
"What the hell have you done to her?" he shouted into his phone. He didn't even register the startled glances of the cops nearby.
The man's laughter sent an icy chill up his spine. It was at that moment that Rigsby realized, in abject horror, who had his best friends.
"Red John," he whispered.
"And I always thought you were the slouch of the team. If you want them, Agent Rigsby, you know how to find them. Oh, and come alone, or they die."
The connection was lost, and Rigsby felt the world tilt on its axis, his breaths coming out in quick pants. Cold sweat trickled down his back, and he stood on the side of the road, the sound of fast-moving traffic zipping by, stirring the breeze and shaking the ground beneath his feet.
What now, what now?
Normally he would call Lisbon for guidance, or Grace, his beautiful computer whiz, to track the call. Cho would have some ideas about what to do next, and Jane—he would already know instinctively where the monster had taken them. But they were gone. They were all gone, and Rigsby felt like the loneliest man on earth. The seconds were ticking by, and he knew he had to pull himself together or he would lose them through his own helpless inaction. He took a few deep breaths, like Jane had shown him once. It seemed to help, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, briefly closed his eyes, then looked down at his phone.
You know how to find them, the serial killer had said.
"Of course," he said aloud, and pressed the button for the CBI's Computer Crimes Task Force. "This is Wayne Rigsby. I need you to put out a GPS tracker on Grace Van Pelt's cell phone, on Director Bertram's order," he lied.
Well, he couldn't exactly give Lisbon's name. The APB had gone out on her and Jane right before he'd gotten the call from CHP. They were wanted for the murder of Reede Smith.
Rigsby thought of and discounted several people it occurred to him to call, for Jane's contention that there were still Red John's spies somewhere within law enforcement made him reluctant to trust anyone. Red John needn't have worried that he would bring anyone with him, he thought with bitter irony.
Wayne Rigsby was completely on his own.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Jane sat alone in the small detention room in the Visualize complex, waiting for Red John to arrive. The room had no windows and the door locked from the outside. A concealed video camera, wired for sound, was imbedded into the ceiling. Stiles hadn't volunteered to explain what the room was really used for, but Jane surmised that it was used to convince doubters to stay with the Visualize program, by whatever means the guru deemed necessary. Jane wasn't particularly comfortable in there, but if the ruse that Stiles was holding him captive was going to work, it had to look real. So, he sat at the table, barefoot, one arm in a sling held to his chest, his other hand resting on the arm of the chair.
He used the deep breathing method he'd taught to Lisbon, attempting to clear his pain killer fogged mind. He'd have preferred to have been sharper, readier for this meeting, but there was nothing for it. It seemed that he and Red John had come to an impasse, and it was absolutely now or positively never. This meeting would determine who would live and who would not.
The small pistol Stiles had given Jane felt cold against his skin, but the knowledge that it was there was a comfort to him. He was surprised Stiles had trusted him with it. Lisbon had been supremely annoyed. Jane smiled a little at the memory of her string of expletives.
Once Jane had Red John in this room with him, he would have no problem shooting the monster in the heart. Had he two working arms, he would fulfill his long time fantasy of carving him up as he had Jane's family, but sometimes vengeance doesn't always work out the way one intends. He pushed the failure that was Timothy Carter out of his mind. There was no doubt now the real identity of Red John. His thoughts strayed to Lisbon, and the tender, fearful kiss they'd exchanged before Stiles locked him in here.
"I love you," she'd whispered. "Please don't get yourself killed, just when things are finally going our way."
He'd smiled warmly at her. "That's the plan. I've got a lot more to live for these days."
At this moment, she was in a hospital bed in Dr. Thompson's small clinic, pretending she had been overcome by smoke inhalation, an oxygen mask strapped to her face so that Red John wouldn't worry about her interference. Once Red John was inside with Jane, she would watch them in the detention room from a secret observatory. She had wanted to be in the room with them, but Jane had adamantly refused. Jane intended to commit murder, and he wanted Lisbon to have no part in it. He would tell her later that the bullet he planted in Red John's brain had been for James.
The low, metallic slide of the key in the lock had Jane at first stiffening, then forcing himself to relax, though his heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest.
It's only that irksome Brett Partridge, he told himself. But then the man appeared.
Red John stood in the doorway wearing an expensive blue suit and a blood red tie, obviously meant to amuse himself. His hair was slicked back in defiance of the bedhead style Partridge had been sporting lately, though his blue eyes were amused instead of ghoulishly excited.
His demeanor now was completely different from the awkward, geeky forensic analyst. As Red John, he exuded charm and charisma by the bucket load, and Jane was left with the unfamiliar anger of having been made the ultimate mark. It wasn't to say that Partridge hadn't always given him the willies, that he hadn't sensed something off and intrinsically irritating about the man, but Jane had been bamboozled, plain and simple. It took a powerful persona to be able to turn one's personality on and off like a light switch, and if he didn't hate the man with his entire being, he'd actually admire that quality.
"Patrick," said Red John, taking a moment to stand over him, in a show of dominance. "I see news of your death, etcetera, etcetera…"
"Yes," Jane managed. "It happens." Again, he'd summoned the ghost of Timothy Carter.
"Sorry to see you're injured. Stiles said you jumped from the second story. Very brave of you. In case you were wondering, the house was a total loss."
Jane could summon nothing to say. Red John had killed another happy memory and nothing he could say would bring it back. He was trying to get a rise out of Jane, and he planned to stoically resist.
"May I?" Red John asked politely, indicating the chair across the table.
Jane inclined his head. "Of course."
He lowered his lank frame gracefully into the cushioned seat. "So it would seem, I have caught you."
"Well, technically it was Stiles, but since he's obviously one of your lackeys, I suppose I'll give this one to you."
"Actually, I prefer minions."
"I'll bet."
I could kill him now, thought Jane, his pulse accelerating again. End this right now.
He knew Lisbon wouldn't begrudge him, had actually told him to make it quick. But there were still too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries that wouldn't give him peace if he just took him out that way.
"Nice shirt, by the way," said Red John wryly. "I hope this doesn't mean you've found religion. Bret Stiles has ruined far too many perfectly good sinners that way."
"It's just on loan," explained Jane. "My only religion is vengeance, remember?"
"Aw, yes. That. Well, since that is no longer an option," he said dismissively, "I'm wondering what I should do with you, now that I have you."
Red John tapped his lower lip in a gesture so familiar to Jane that he blanched against his will.
"I think firstly, I should make you watch me carve up the lovely Teresa," Red John continued casually. "But on second thought, I always wondered how that hot little body would feel, struggling under mine. Pretty good, eh?"
Of course, he would know the depth of their relationship now.
"Go to hell," Jane said tightly, literally seeing red at the thought of him touching her in any way. So much for stoicism.
"Aw, but neither of us believe in such a place, do we, Patrick?"
"Oh, I'm starting to." Calm, Jane. Calm. He told himself. "So, before you rape and murder my girlfriend in front of me, tell me, how did you know about Eileen Barlow?"
He regarded him a moment, and Jane wondered if maybe he should have been less direct. To his immense disappointment, Red John changed the subject.
"You know, Patrick, now that I can speak frankly, without fear of getting fired, I'd just like to say you've always been a real asshole to me. I would have resented it had I not found it so amusing to watch you try to figure out what it was about me that set you off so much."
"You knew just what buttons to push, all right," Jane conceded. "How did you find out about my list of names, months before I even knew?" He tried again from a different angle.
"I'm psychic, just like you." Red John actually winked at him.
"Come on," said Jane. "We've both seen all the movies. The villain always explains his plans, exposes his tricks like a bad magician, just for the satisfaction of knowing he got one over on the hero."
"So you're the hero in this piece?" Red John laughed softly. "I guess that's the perspective you would take. Okay, I'll humor you."
From his inside suit coat pocket, Red John produced a linoleum knife, the kind he'd used on Jane's wife and child. With the point of the curved blade, he began absently to clean beneath his fingernails, the action designed of course to mess with Jane's head. Jane had to admit it was working, for seeing the serial killer with a knife in his hand instilled a sudden cold terror within him, and he stared at the shiny blade, almost mesmerized.
"The night you slept with Lorelei in Vegas, she drugged you with sodium pentothal, and I paid you a little visit, asking you a few rather pointed questions. Some of your happiest memories, for example."
Jane stared at him. He had wondered why he'd slept so long after he'd had sex with Lorelei. It certainly hadn't been because it had been as mind-blowing and sensually exhausting as it had been with Lisbon. He'd remembered nothing after having sex with Red John's girl, and had attributed it at the time to the alcohol and insomnia catching up with him, and he'd awakened hours later to the smelling of scrambling eggs.
"Why didn't you just kill me right then, in my sleep?" Jane asked curiously.
"Because I wasn't ready for the game to be over."
"And now?"
"All good things, as they say."
"So you're just gonna commit murder here, at Visualize?"
"It wouldn't be the first time. But no, I have a much more…fitting location for what I have planned for you, my old friend."
"What about the list of seven? How did you know whom I'd narrowed it down to?"
"You know, it would be much better torture if I didn't tell you anything, left you to die ignorant. Stiles passed it along to me, and I merely doctored the DVD. Incredible what you can do with a computer these days. Kept you guessing, did I?"
"Yes, very clever. So…Stiles," said Jane. It had to have been Kirkland who broke into the attic that day and he in turn had reported it to Stiles. There apparently was nothing Stiles wouldn't do to protect his son.
"Yes, the man who took you in actually works for me. My reach is farther than you could ever dream, Patrick. He is many, to quote poor Mr. Renfrew." The macabre writing had literally been on the wall even then.
"I do find I regret having to kill Lorelei. She will be hard to replace. That's on you, of course, as are the deaths of all the others you've thrown in my path. You killed them, as surely as if you'd wielded the weapons yourself."
"No," said Jane. "Oh, I take some responsibility, but I've come to realize that you are the murderer, and if there is a hell, you'll be Satan's number one draft pick."
Red John smirked, and then he suddenly appeared impatient.
"I have to admit, Patrick, I'm already tired of bandying about with you. I think we'll both be more comfortable back at my place. Stiles was kind enough to provide an ambulance for transporting Agent Lisbon, so I assure you she'll be perfectly comfortable. Well, at least for awhile."
He rose from his chair, then knocked once on the door. No one came. Red John looked extremely annoyed. He knocked again, more forcefully, then tried the door. It was locked. The serial killer almost looked embarrassed.
"Ray!" he called furiously through the door. "Open the goddamn door!"
Before he could stop and think, Jane stood and slid his perfectly fine right had inside the sling to grasp the gun he'd hidden there. His broken left arm hung uselessly and painfully at his side. His ruse had worked, for at first Red John looked back at him with shocked surprise.
"You should never bring a knife to a gun fight," said Jane calmly, carefully aiming Stiles's pistol at the madman's chest. He nodded toward the linoleum knife Red John still held. "Drop it on the floor and kick it away from you."
Red John made no move to obey. "Well, I gotta hand it to you, Patrick. You got me. Well played. But before you exact your revenge and put a bullet through my black heart, you should know a pertinent minor detail. I have in my possession a couple of people whom I know are very near and dear to you." He grinned. "I've always wanted to match wits with the brilliant Kimball Cho. He'll be a real challenge to bend to my will. And then there is Grace. You know, I've always had a thing for redheads…"
Jane believed him completely, and his stomach clenched sickeningly.
"Where the hell are they?" he demanded, tightening his grip on the gun.
"If I don't check in with my people within a certain amount of time, they are instructed to kill them in a very nasty way. Bertram in particular has become very proficient with a box blade."
Jane paled, and he saw his plan unraveling before his eyes. Well, at least he was somewhat right about Bertram, he thought absently.
"And if you don't tell me, I'll blow your brains out," said Jane.
"This," said Red John in amusement, "is what they call in those old movies you seem to like, a Mexican standoff.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Within the observation room, Lisbon gasped aloud as she watched the scene playing out on the closed circuit television. It felt surreally like she was watching a bad telenovela. She was briefly overcome with rage and fear and overwhelming impotence. But she pushed those emotions aside and picked up the nearby telephone. Rigbsy. She would call Rigsby. Red John hadn't mentioned having him. She punched the numbers into the landline phone, her eyes and ears still on Jane and Red John. Rigsby didn't answer, and her heart plummeted.
"Shit," she breathed.
"Lisbon!" called Jane from the other room. She reached over and pressed the intercom button linked to the detention room.
"I heard. Sit tight."
Who else? Who else? She thought, running through the small list of people she trusted. With Cho and Grace in Red John's grasp and Rigsby God-knows-where, that list was very small indeed. Then a sudden thought occurred to her, and she rushed out of the observation room, though she was torn about leaving Jane in there, alone with Red John, a gun, and no backup.
She sprinted down the hall to the hospital room where she had been faking her unconsciousness. Raymond Haffner was now in her place in the bed, heavily sedated. The moment Haffner had been separated from Red John, Stiles had planned to lure his son closer for a talk. Stiles's own cronies would jump Haffner from behind and stab him with a syringe. Stiles's plan must have worked.
Now, Stiles was sitting by Ray's side, holding his lifeless hand, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. The guards stationed there let her pass.
"I have my son back," Stiles said, upon Lisbon's hasty arrival. "Well, he's in my presence and out of danger for the first time in twenty years. It'll take months of deprogramming to—"
"That's great, Bret, really, but we have a bit of a problem on that other front."
Stiles rose. "What do you mean? Isn't it done yet?"
"No, Red John is still very much alive. He has Van Pelt and Cho. We can't kill him now."
"What can I do?"
"We need Bob Kirkland. I don't know his number off the top of my head."
"That's easy enough," said Stiles. He released Haffner's hand and pulled out his cell phone.
"Mr. Stiles," said Kirkland on the other end. Stiles put him on speakerphone.
"Hello, Bob. I need you to find Grace Van Pelt and Kimball Cho. Our friend has them in custody somewhere. I'm sure you know the likeliest places."
"I can't get hold of Rigsby," piped up Lisbon.
"Teresa?" said Kirkland in disbelief. There was a pause as the man tried to process what was going on.
"She knows everything, Bob," explained Stiles. "I'll explain later, but time, by Agent Lisbon's demeanor, seems to be of the essence. Call as soon as you know something."
"Yes sir."
"And Bertram works for Red John," Lisbon added.
"Yes," replied Kirkland. "I know."
"I need a gun," said Lisbon, when Stiles had put away his phone.
"You're not going to use it on me, I trust."
Lisbon frowned at his twinkling smile. "No. Sorry about before."
Stiles went to the door and nodded to one of the armed guards stationed outside Haffner's room. "Agent Lisbon needs your sidearm," he instructed. The burly man handed it to her without question.
"Thanks."
"What are you planning to do with John?"
"Until we find our friends, we keep him alive."
Stiles nodded. "Unfortunate, but understandable."
"I'll be with Jane," she said, and she dashed out of the room before he could reply.
At the door to the detention area, Lisbon paused. "I'm coming in," she said, before unlocking it with Stile's key and slowly turning the knob, her gun at the ready.
From there, things happened very quickly. Red John was still standing by the door, still refusing to relinquish his knife. They'd been at a stalemate since Lisbon's plea to wait, but now, in two quick movements, Red John pulled open the door and ducked low, the table between him and Jane, the heavy door between him and Lisbon. Red John slammed the door back toward its casing, catching Lisbon in the forehead, her gun clattering to the floor. She stumbled forward into the room, stunned.
Jane's attention had been instantly caught by Lisbon, his moment of inattention giving Red John just enough time to grab Lisbon and press the linoleum knife to her neck. At the same time, Jane ran around the table.
"Put down the fuckin' gun, Patrick," said Red John tightly, "or I'll slit her pretty throat."
All three stood frozen in place now, panting with adrenalin.
Red John was furious. He'd been tricked and deceived, and now he couldn't wait for the scent of blood as he exacted his revenge, starting with the pleasingly curved Agent Lisbon. He breathed in the faint smell of smoke that lingered in her soft hair, feminine sweat, and lemons.
"Well," Red John said. "Isn't this interesting?"
"Drop the knife," said Jane, now once again with a clear shot at the murderer.
"You realize that even if you shoot me, my dying move will be to tear this blade into her jugular, right? Not to mention the fact that your other friends will be dead in oh, about five minutes, if I don't call."
"You're lying," said Jane confidently, for the first time being able to read the man since he walked into the room.
"Am I?"
"Yes," smiled Jane triumphantly. "There's much more time than that."
Red John pressed the knife into Lisbon's throat, and a tiny trickle of blood ran down her porcelain neck. She gasped at the stinging pain, and Jane's arm stretched closer to the killer.
"Ah-ah…But not much more time for Teresa," warned Red John.
Lisbon's imploring green eyes met Jane's. Do it, she mouthed. Jane hesitated.
"You're wondering if you're really that good a shot," Red John reasoned. "I'd say your safest option is to let me go."
Jane gave the briefest of smiles. "You should know I never play it safe."
Then he shot Red John dead center between his feverish blue eyes.
Red John's body lurched back, thrown into the wall by the force of the close-range shot. He slid down, leaving a trail of blood and brain matter on the wall behind him. The report of the gunfire was deafening in the small room, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils, and for a moment Jane was disoriented and in shock by what he'd done. Clutching her throat, Lisbon fell to her knees, blood gushing through her fingers. With a devastated cry, Jane rushed to catch her before she hit the floor, her eyes staring with fear up into his. He cradled her head in his lap helplessly, then he pulled off his Visualize shirt and pressed it to her neck.
"Help!" he yelled hoarsely toward the open doorway.
"Don't try to talk," he said to Lisbon, tears streaming down his face. "Stay with me, Teresa."
He watched in panic as her eyes closed as she slipped out of consciousness. By then, a bevy of security guards, along with Dr. Thompson, had already been drawn to the room by the gunshots, and Thompson took over for Jane, shoving him almost violently out of the way. She lifted Jane's shirt from Lisbon's neck and her brow furrowed.
"Will she be all right?" Jane asked, his voice trembling with incredible fear.
"I don't know," she said gravely, pressing the shirt back onto her gaping wound. Blood was already seeping through the fabric. Jane felt nauseous, cold sweat forming on his brow.
One of the guards was checking Red John for a pulse, and he shook his head at Jane, who found he no longer gave a damn.
"The other one's dead," the guard reported to the doctor.
"Pick her up gently," Thompson ordered the two guards. "Take her to the clinic." They did as she commanded, the doctor still holding the shirt against Lisbon's neck as each man carried one end of her limp body.
Jane hurried helplessly after them, barefoot and bare-chested, until they reached the same room where Dr. Thompson had examined them earlier. They laid Lisbon on a hard exam table. She went to work immediately, a nurse appearing as if from nowhere to assist.
"Get out, Mr. Jane," she ordered.
"Not on your life," he said. "I'm not leaving her."
Thompson shrugged and focused her efforts on her patient. "Stay out of the way then."
"Patrick?" It was Stiles at the doorway. "What happened?"
"Red John had a knife," he replied simply.
"I'm sure Dr. Thompson will give her the best of care."
"There was a lot of blood," Jane whispered, and he felt the old man's warm hand on his bare shoulder.
"Come with me and we'll get you a new shirt. You don't really want to see this."
Thompson shot Stiles a look of gratitude. The last thing she needed was an inconsolable lover in her exam room.
Jane reluctantly allowed himself to be steered away, but he wouldn't leave the chair outside the door. Stiles shot a look at a concerned Visualize member, who went off in search of another spare shirt. Stiles sat down in the chair beside him.
"I'm told Red John is dead."
"Yes," said Jane, wiping his eyes with the back of his good hand, still clutching the gun that had killed Red John. His left arm had begun to throb painfully, having been jostled often in the fray. "I think you can put the gun down now," said Stiles gently.
"Huh?" He looked at the weapon and handed it to Stiles. "Oh."
Jane distantly remembered how much he hated guns. He twisted the sling, still around his neck, and gingerly put his left arm back in it, then put his head in his right hand.
"I've killed them," Jane muttered, remembering. "Grace and Cho. They'll be dead because of me. Because I chose Lisbon."
"Bob Kirkland is on it," said Stiles. "He'll find Wayne Rigsby, and they'll find your friends. Agent Lisbon saw to that."
Jane looked over at Stiles. "Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome, Patrick."
Suddenly, from all over the Visualize complex, cell phones began to chime and vibrate.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Where did the signal from her phone come from," Bob Kirkland demanded of the hapless Computer Crimes tech. "Look, I'm with the Department of Homeland Security. This is a matter of national security—"
The tech gave him the location, and Kirkland ended the call. He pulled up Stiles's number again.
"Mr. Stiles," he told him. "I've located Van Pelt. I'll let you know when I have her. Still no contact with Rigsby. I bet he's ignoring my calls…"
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Rigbsy glanced at his ringing cell, saw it was Kirkland, and tossed it back in the SUV's console. He didn't need Kirkland ordering him around right now, and for all he knew, the creepy guy was with Red John anyway.
Rigsby found the address and drove past the nondescript house in a quiet, middle class part of Folsom. He parked in the alley, several houses down. He pulled out his rifle from its case in the back, and secured his bulletproof vest more tightly around his waist. The evening light began to wane. He checked his sidearm, then his hands did a quick inventory of the rest of his arsenal. He had a flash-bang grenade in one pocket of his pants, some C4 in the other.
He had no idea what he was walking into, and with no one else he could trust, it might very well be a suicide mission. But he couldn't just do nothing. If he was going down, at least he would go down fighting.
He climbed over the low back fence and crept up to one of the rear windows, expecting to be confronted any minute. He peeped inside the house, and saw he had found the kitchen. Two men sat in chairs, their faces planted on the table, still as death. Rigsby's eyes narrowed, and he went up three steps to the back door. He turned the doorknob gently, surprised to find it unlocked. Gun drawn, he opened the door and stepped inside.
He walked over to the two men at the table, nudging them with his gun. No reaction. He reached out a tentative finger and touched the pulse point at one man's neck. He was dead, but still warm. He squatted down to look at the other man's face, slightly turned to the side in death, his eyes wide open, foam and spittle at the corners of his mouth. Poison, thought Rigsby in horror.
He noticed that there were cell phones on the table before each of them, but he walked further into the house, gun ready. He found two more bodies in the hallway, having likely died in the same manner as his companions in the kitchen. Rigsby felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. Would he find Grace and Cho in the same condition?
He cleared the rest of the house before returning to the hallway, where the men there seemed to have been guarding the two closed doors he hadn't checked yet. He tried one, found it locked, then took the keys from one of the guards. He opened the door and found Cho, poised to stab him with a plastic fork and kick him in the groin.
"Jesus!" Rigsby exclaimed, stepping back and lowering his rifle.
"No," said Cho, grinning. "Just me."
Rigsby had never been so happy to see anyone in his life, and he went to enfold his friend in a bear hug. Cho groaned in pain, still sore from the wreck.
"Oh, sorry," laughed Rigsby, releasing him awkwardly. He looked around the empty room. "Where's Grace?"
Cho's face fell. "I don't know. Red John told me she was dead," he said gently. "Maybe he was lying."
Rigsby paled. "There's one more room I haven't checked," he said hopefully, handing Cho his sidearm. "Everyone else is dead."
"What?"
"Your captors," explained Rigsby, leading the way out of Cho's prison. They stepped over the bodies in the hallway. "Poison, I think. I'd bet on cyanide. There are two more just like them in the kitchen."
Rigsby tried the keys in the lock on the other door, but none of them worked. He and Cho exchanged glances, raised their weapons, then Rigsby kicked in the door.
Grace was in a hospital bed, half of her face covered in bandages, IV fluids dripping steadily into her arm. A nurse who had been sitting by her side was dead too. With a strangled cry, Rigsby rushed to Van Pelt's side. He was overwhelmed by gratitude to see that a heart monitor was recording a strong, steady beat, her blood pressure low, though stable. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"Grace?" he whispered. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up at Rigsby blearily.
"Wayne?" she said, so softly he could barely hear her.
"Yes, sweetheart, it's me."
He tossed his phone to Cho. "Call an ambulance. The address of this house is on the GPS."
"Thank God," he heard Van Pelt mutter, before she promptly slipped back into a deep sleep.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Kirkland arrived at Red John's Folsom house just as the ambulance did, the lights flashing brightly in the night. He showed his badge to the Folsom officers on the scene and marched up the front steps. Rigsby and Cho greeted him warily at the door.
"Don't shoot," he said wryly. "I come in peace."
"How did you know to come here?" asked Rigsby suspiciously.
"We have a mutual friend," said Kirkland.
"Red John," suggested Cho.
"No. And Red John is dead, by the way. Jane killed him earlier this evening at Visualize."
"What?" the partners said together. Kirkland gave them the abbreviated version of events, before confessing that he not only worked for Homeland Security, but for Bret Stiles as well.
"I want to talk to Jane and Lisbon," said Cho.
"It might be difficult to speak to Lisbon just now. I think she's still in surgery. Red John cut her throat with a linoleum knife, from what I gathered. I'll call Stiles and see if he can put Jane on for you."
Just then, the paramedics brought out Van Pelt on a rolling gurney, the IV and monitors still attached. Rigsby abruptly forgot Kirkland and followed his love to the ambulance.
"I see you both lived through the accident," Kirkland said to Cho, nodding toward Van Pelt on the gurney.
"Yeah. Someone rammed into us, rolled us off the road."
"I saw the wreckage. It's a wonder you survived."
Kirkland handed his phone to Cho.
"Mr. Stiles, Kimball Cho. I need to talk to Jane."
"Of course, Kimball. So glad to hear you're all right. Patrick is right here."
"Cho," said Jane anxiously.
"Yeah. Rigsby found us."
"Us? Grace is okay?"
"Yeah. Some internal injuries from the crash, lacerations on her face. She'll be all right though."
Jane didn't reply, and Cho had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was crying on the other end of the phone.
"Jane? You there?"
Then he heard a spate of Jane's rare laughter.
"Thank God," said Jane, using the phrase for the first time in ten years, surprised to find that he meant it. For them to all be alive, a higher power had to have had a hand in it. Maybe Lisbon was finally rubbing off on him.
"How's the boss," asked Cho.
"She'll have a nasty scar on her neck, but the surgeon says she'll heal up just fine. Luckily there was a doctor close by to see to her right away. We're at Sacramento General now. Stiles is about to leave with his phone, so you can reach me here."
"You're still wanted for murder," Cho pointed out.
Jane chuckled. "I'm pretty sure the state police and the FBI are too busy picking up all the bodies that are dropping like flies all over the state to worry about me now."
"What?"
"Practically the moment Red John died, a call went out to all his followers. Apparently they had a suicide pact, that if he was ever killed, they'd kill themselves."
That would explain the sudden demise of his guards, thought Cho.
"He's dead," said Cho, still in disbelief.
"Yeah," Jane replied, barely believing it himself. "It was Brett Partridge."
"No kidding," said Cho. The last time he'd seen the forensics guy, it had been at the scene of Jane's house fire. So it was true then; the arsonist always returns to the scene of the crime.
"Well, I'm glad you finally killed the bastard," said Cho simply.
Jane laughed again, glad beyond words that the marvelously dry CBI agent was still among the living.
"Me too, Cho," he told him. "Me too."
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Epilogue
One week later…
When the death count was all told, Red John's minions numbered 325, 305 of those in the state of California alone. They were state senators, law enforcement, FBI agents, a US congressman, a county sheriff and the director of the CBI. Housewives, insurance salesmen, teachers, blackjack dealers, among others, and a quarter of all Visualize members had been in service of Red John (much to Bret Stiles's dismay). Across the state and the country, cyanide victims were found in private homes and restaurants, in their cars and in their offices. Red John's network had extended far beyond what even Jane had surmised, beyond what Bret Stiles had known for certain. He is many had been a vast understatement.
The CBI received Raymond Haffner's letter of resignation, and he remained with his father, Stiles still holding out hope that he would get his son back completely one day. Lisbon and Jane told no one of Haffner's involvement with Red John, and while they had their doubts that even Stiles could completely eradicate the serial killer's influence, they would give Stiles the chance to try.
In Sacramento General Hospital, Lisbon and Van Pelt had awakened to a completely different world, a world free of Red John and the menace that had hung over their heads for too long. They convalesced in the same room at the hospital, finding comfort in their close proximity.
It had taken a good week for Van Pelt to get out of bed, and Lisbon still could only speak in a whisper. Jane and Rigsby arrived just in time to see Van Pelt taking her first steps outside her hospital room.
"Hey!" said Rigsby excitedly, rushing to take over from the nurse who had been helping her shuffle slowly down the hall. Jane smiled at her progress.
"Hi," Grace said shyly. "Pretty flowers. You know, you don't need to bring me a new bouquet every day, Wayne. I feel like I'm living in a florist's shop."
Rigsby kissed her temple, careful to avoid her injured cheek. The plastic surgeon had examined it, deeming that the jagged scar she would have would be reparable. It still hurt, along with the torn stomach muscles, but she was healing faster than anyone had anticipated.
"Nothing is too good for you, my love," he whispered. If he could afford to cover the entire hospital with pink roses, he would.
"Looking good, Grace," said Jane with a smile.
"Thanks."
"Lisbon has a surprise for you," said Grace, her own smile mischievous.
"She does?" Jane hurried so quickly into their room that Van Pelt and Rigsby chuckled, Grace holding her stomach because it hurt when she laughed.
Jane found Lisbon sitting up in her bed, frustratingly flipping through the limited channels that the hospital received. Where the hell was the Military Channel, for God's sake?
But when Jane peaked around her curtains, she smiled and dropped the remote, opening her arms to him for a gentle kiss. Her hand went to his cheek, pleased that he had shaved, though she knew how difficult it was to do with one arm in a cast. She inhaled his pleasant aftershave, loving how relaxed he looked, especially around the eyes. With Red John gone and the charges dropped against them, they were both feeling freer than either of them could ever remember.
He kissed the tip of her nose and sat down on her bed, taking her hand in his. He looked suddenly like a child on Christmas morning, and she told him so.
"Grace said you had a surprise for me," he explained.
Lisbon swallowed, then opened her mouth to speak. "Yes," she said, her voice weak but fully audible. "I do."
His smile was brilliant, and he leaned forward to kiss her with a passion he'd been forced to withhold for a week. Her hands rose to touch his hair, reveling in the joy of just being able to feel him close to her, to know for certain that he loved her as much as she loved him.
"I can go home tomorrow," she told him when he sat back on the bed.
"Really?"
"Yes. And back to work in another week."
Jane frowned. "You sure about that? Why don't you take off another month? You must have at least a year's worth of unused vacation days you could take…"
"I'm going out of mind just sitting around," she said hoarsely, then reverted back to a whisper because it was still easier on her throat.
"Besides, the idea of you and the boys running things at work without a woman's insight is very...troubling."
Jane rolled his eyes. "And there she is. Little Miss Control Freak rears her ugly head once more."
"Ugly?"
Jane grinned, amused that she wasn't objecting to the control freak remark.
"Of course not, my dear. Just a figure of speech. You are truly the fairest maiden in the land."
She wrinkled her nose at that characterization. "I need to work, Jane," she said. "I need something to take my mind off things."
"Still having bad dreams?" he asked gently. How well he knew what that was like. He himself had been plagued with them all week—varying scenarios of how he'd missed his shot and Red John had eviscerated Lisbon before his eyes. She nodded without thinking about it, then grasped her bandaged neck at the twinge of pain.
Jane kissed her cheek. "Nothing like a good murder to get your mind off a murderer," he said dryly.
"Don't judge," she said. "You've been doing it for nearly ten years."
He shrugged unapologetically. "Well, then, you'll be happy to know we caught a case this week. That's why Cho's not here."
"Oh really?" she asked excitedly. Now who looks like a kid at Christmas? "Tell me everything…"
He watched her as he detailed the case, loving all the reactions on her highly expressive face: her furrowed brow as she juggled the facts and missing pieces of the mystery, her disapproving frown at some of his usual unorthodox investigative techniques. In the middle of her familiar speech of admonishment for his behavior, he grabbed her and kissed her again, effectively shutting her up.
"I wish I'd thought of that years ago," he said, sitting back and enjoying the dazed look on her face.
Now, he thought happily, this is the expression I love most of all…
THE END
A/N: Thank you for reading, and to my dear partner, waterbaby134, for her usual fantastic work. I'm sure we'll work together again someday. In the meantime, please check out her independent projects, as well as my newest one with Nerwen Aldarion, "Double Talk."