AN: A combination of holiday plans and computer troubles conspired to make this chapter far later than I intended. Sorry about that.

I am aware that it is a stretch to imagine Patrick Jane as emotionally out of control as he is in this chapter. It was necessary. He is very stubborn, and sometimes a person has to be broken, even to hit rock bottom, before being made able to make important life changes. I speak from experience.

If you find my version of Jane in this chapter too OOC for your tastes, please remember that this is an alternative universe, that people can and do sometimes change, and that a different perspective can sometimes be enlightening, even if you can't fully buy into that perspective yourself. I welcome and encourage all respectful feedback, whether positive or negative. Indeed, I am most curious as to how people will respond to this chapter, as it is the beginning of what will be a major change for Jane.

And of course, Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon, Dennis Abbott, and our friend Wylie are the invention of Heller and some very talented script writers. I am very grateful for the opportunity that they have provided to speculate on and imagine these characters in our own stories as amateurs.

The Illusion of Control Chapter 9: The Best Laid Plans

I can't help but wonder at what point I lost complete control of this situation.

It was one of my most ambitious, comprehensive plans ever. It had potential to accomplish so much good on so many levels. And in fact it has so far surpassed expectations in many ways.

But in the most important regard, it has been an unqualified catastrophe.

"With all due respect, sir," Teresa persists, "It is not a consultant's job to decide which agent can best pursue an interrogation. Fischer says that Pulaski will talk for me. What exactly do we stand to gain by refusing his request?" She doesn't look at me, but the hint of anger that she is trying to rein in is definitely aimed in my direction.

Abbott's gaze is level, his expression is calm. But I can see the pulse in his temple throbbing from stress. He knows that the emotions in this disagreement are running high. He has no desire to take sides. Peace among the members of his team is important to him. He really wishes that I would back down. But he recognizes that the immense success of this operation is my doing, and he wants to demonstrate that he values my efforts.

As he should.

So why won't he put his foot down when I really need him to? That was one thing I figured I could count on. He's a supervising agent in the FBI. What on Earth are such people good for other than throwing their weight around? If he doesn't pull rank soon, Lisbon is going to draw even more attention from that thick-skulled, violent perversity in the interogation room. As if she owes him any further notice. As if whatever questions he wants to ask deserve answers. As if he isn't bound to talk anyway, whether he sees Teresa or not.

Three different plans to prevent her from interrogating Pulaski develop in my mind. I dismiss them all impatiently. After weeks of resisting every urge to micromanage her, I do not intend fall off the wagon now. Difficult as it is, I refuse to give Teresa further justification for mistrusting me by engaging in any more "underhanded manipulation." I have to rely on reasonable argument. Or a show of good sense from Dennis Abbott, who finally appears ready to announce his decision.

"If I understand correctly," Abbott intones, weighing each word, "Mr. Pulaski has already agreed to give us all the information that he can. I'm not sure what he hopes to achieve by speaking with you in particular, but to give him the impression that he can dictate terms to us might not be our best strategy."

I don't bother to conceal my smile of triumph. I could not have phrased it better myself. And even if I had, Lisbon is in no mood to hear anything that sensible from me.

Evidently, she doesn't want to hear it from Abbott, either. "The wording of his request was not demanding," she insists. "In my opinion, we will get better cooperation from him if we treat him with respect and compassion."

At this I fail to hide my snort of derision, which draws immediate focus, and fury, from my lovely partner.

"Something funny about that, Jane?" Her tone and her glare are glacial. Usually I enjoy the flash of her eyes when she's annoyed with me. But I know that, just now, I'm on very thin ice with her.

However, since she asked. "Respect? For Pulaski? The man was a guest at our home and made a pass at you- his hostess- then invited himself up to our bedroom for a tryst with our employee on very short acquaintance. And believe me, if I had not intervened, that was about to get rough. And then he called his murderous boss, with whom he broke into our house with the intention to rob us. At gunpoint."

Her face flushes. It isn't just anger at me. It's even more than embarassment at her improvisation within the scheme. She's actually feeling guilty for her role in deceiving Pulaski. Not that she would admit it. Maybe doesn't even realize it herself. But her lack of self-awareness won't keep her from expressing her indignation. "That wasn't our home. Kim is not our employee. And he didn't make a pass at anyone who wasn't expressing interest." For the first time she drops her eyes. But only for an instant. She usually doesn't waste time wallowing in regret. "Almost none of that scenario was real. Even his own actions were not entirely his own design, as you well know."

"Are you saying that the devil made him do it?" I can't help but quip, even knowing how seldom humor defuses her anger.

"I wouldn't call you the devil." She keeps her voice steady. "More like you were playing God as usual."

Maintaining my equilibrium while recovering from her blow requires a great effort. Lisbon has no way of knowing how that accusation tears at me. Angela used almost the exact same words in our last argument. Before I left for that fateful television interview. Trying, once more, to persuade me to pursue some more honest line of work.

Angela hated being manipulated, too.

To my surprise, our fearless leader leaps to my defense. "We all know that Pulaski was acting according to his nature in the reality that we constructed. Jane is not to blame for his character, or for his choices. The man chose to become what he is."

I realize as Abbott is speaking that this line of argument is not likely to sway Teresa. Her sense of justice is different than his, for one thing. She still bears some resentment against Dennis for his interference at the end of our hunt for Red John, too. Moreover, she can't help but care about people in need, sometimes even when their main problem is a moral deficiency.

Like me, for example.

But for some reason her consideration for this particular ethical ignoramus irks me. I watched her interactions with him closely last night, and it turned out that his infatuation with her didn't bother me nearly as much as the attention that she paid to him. I know that she had her reasons. He reminded her of her brothers, particularly the moody one that was always getting in trouble. And it was my own carelessness- or perhaps my tendency to be overly careful-that prompted her to engage more deeply with him than I would have wished.

She chose her punishment well. Although I doubt that she has any notion what a torment that evening became to me.

I suppose it should be some comfort that she regrets flirting with him. That it bothers her conscience that he has apparently developed an emotional attachment to her in spite of the circumstances. But those facts are more grit in my wounds. Because I should never have allowed them to happen.

Now the FBI honcho is doing his best to make peace between us. He already told her no, but somehow he is on the defensive. On my account? I would spare more effort to understand why if I weren't more concerned with Teresa's stubborn fascination with McKay's goon. "Really, Lisbon, I know a bad boy has some allure, but you know Pulaski is trouble. The man is a career criminal."

"To you, he's even less than that, isn't he?" Teresa's low, ferocious voice commands my focus. "He's a mark. Which means that he's beneath notice, beneath compassion. His feelings don't matter. He's a pawn in your game." Her eyes tell me that she knows what that feels like. Shame silences my retort.

Mostly because she has cause to complain of being used and manipulated by me. But also because I can not deny that I thought little of Pulaski as an individual until Lisbon caught his eye. Then I had to pay attention for Lisbon's safety and my own peace of mind. And he turned out to be more than I expected.

Would the case for rationality be helped if I demonstrate that the man is not an insignificant entity to me? "Aaron Pulaski was raised by a working class mother after his father was put in prison for domestic abuse. He considered himself the man of the house, helped raise his younger sister, and in spite of strong support from a loving extended family fell in with a very rough crowd in highschool. He has been in and out of trouble for most of his life, but he has the brains to make something better of himself. He just chooses not to. Because there's more money in his current line of work then in saner, more honest jobs." I look at her earnestly, willing her to hear my concern for her in my assessment. "He can be charming, but he's only out for his own interest. Do you really want to go in there and hear his sob story about the raw deal he was handed?"

Lisbon lifts her chin. She is surprised that I took time to read him thoroughly, pleased that l reported the good and bad together, and still irritated that I am pushing my own agenda here. It is the latter response that wins out. "It so happens that I have dealt with my share of charming manipulators. I usually manage to hold my own when someone tries to feed me a line of bullshit."

Ouch.

I see Abbot lift his eyes to the ceiling, supplication all over his face. While I had pegged him as an active Baptist, I had never caught him in the act of praying before. I wonder vaguely, while recovering from Lisbon's latest verbal blow, why this disagreement of all things rates that kind of desperation.

Does he know something that I don't? If Lisbon is angry enough to confide in Abbott about my actions, perhaps she needs a real apology. Even a public one.

I meet her eye, soften my voice, and give her my best approximation of contrition. "Look, Lisbon, I understand that you're still mad at me. I was wrong to try to minimize you. I took you for granted, and I am so sorry. But you already made your point abundantly clear last night."

This only angers her further. I can see it in the tension of her face as she tries to keep her cool. "It doesn't look like it to me. To me it looks like you don't trust my judgment."

"Of course I trust you, Lisbon. It's Pulaski that I don't trust. He's playing you, and you're buying it."

"Do you hear yourself? Jane, I'm a good agent. You've seen me interrogate hundreds of suspects. And now you're saying I'm too gullible to question Aaron Pulaski? You shouldn't be influencing my boss on how I conduct myself professionally. Get out of my way and let me do my job!"

In my exasperation, I find myself raising my voice, in spite of my efforts to control my temper. "Why are you fighting me on this? What is the point of interracting further with this creep? There is no good that can come of it!"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Jane. You might be surprised."

Wylie's voice from the door startles me, but I manage to adjust my posture to take him in without appearing off-balance.

Abbott is immensely relieved to have someone intervene to dispell the building tension. He rises from his desk and approaches the young man, his eagerness concealed under his usual smooth detachment. "Agent Wylie. How did Pulaski's phone call go? Anything of interest to report?"

Wylie hands the phone off to Abbott. "The phone call was...emotional. My guess is that Pulaski's sister is on her way here as we speak. He tried to tell her not to come. Didn't sound like she listened."

I smile in spite of myself. Wylie was paying good attention, as I directed him to do. He has a sharp mind and a good heart. But my first priority is turning this news to advantage. "There, Lisbon, you see? His sister will urge him to tell the truth and give him the necessary comfort. He really doesn't need you..."

"Actually, I disagree." Wylie's interruption brings me up short. He has always deferred to me, looked up to me like a star-struck kid. Who asked his opinion, anyway?

"Would you care to explain that further, Agent Wylie?" Abbott is showing genuine interest. He can't actually be reconsidering his decision not to send Lisbon in there?

Wylie shoots me an apologetic look, but his voice is firm when he returns his attention to Abbott. "Pulaski is really shaken up. From what I saw, both in person and on the tape of his talk with Fischer, I think he has reached a crisis of conscience. He knows that he's going back to jail. His natural reaction is to try to fight it, focus on protecting himself at all costs. But there's something else making him want to confess and try to make things right." Wiley paused, glanced at me again, then directed his attention to Teresa. "Whatever the reason, it has to do with Agent Lisbon."

I cross towards Wylie with a posture that signals dominance. I enter his personal space, a move calculated to make him literally back down. My eyes lock onto his with an assertion of power and authority that is too subtle to be perceived as active aggression, but is undeniably forceful. I try to assume an impassive facade, but my voice betrays me. "I don't see anything like that. This man takes pleasure in hurting people. He enjoys taking what he wants by violence, he uses women, and he has aided and abetted murder. A man like that doesn't have a conscience."

Wylie manages not to move away or avert his eyes. His expression is serious and sad. Wise beyond his years. "Everybody has a conscience. Not everybody listens to it. If somebody starts to listen, shouldn't we encourage that?"

Rage bubbles up like bile in my throat. I struggle to keep my face and voice calm. "Reading people is what I do. I have been watching Pulaski very closely since yesterday evening. If he had changed that much, don't you think I'd notice it?"

Now I see Wylie trying to school his expression. Can he begin to understand how I loathe pity? He can't keep it completely off his face, as he quietly says, "Even you can't see everything." His eyes drift towards Lisbon, and I know in that moment that he did review the video feed from last night's party. As I had suggested.

How much did Wylie see?

Enough to know that my opinion in this matter is far from impartial.

He looks back at me with pleading eyes. "It will be okay, though...you don't have to see everything. Just enough to do what's right."

Staying angry at Wylie is nearly impossible. This time I am the first to look away, irritated. It's only his opinion. He's just a kid, however intelligent. Why does his dissent bother me so much? It isn't like he gets to decide. I walk away towards the vast office windows.

Then Abbott's voice lands the decisive blow. "Agent Lisbon, in light of Wylie's informed recommendation, I am inclined to give you the opportunity to prod Mr. Pulaski's conscience." Incensed, I look towards them and find in Dennis' face a profound certainty, and in Lisbon's a surprised relief. "You are an excellent agent. I am sure you'll get the job done."

The tension is gone from Lisbon's posture, and she actually smiles at him. "Thank you, sir."

A loud clatter and the pain in my foot are my first clues that I have kicked over something hard and metallic. Restraining the fury burning in my gut is like trying to ride a tiger. It terrifies me.

"Jane?" Abbott's voice is full of concern as he stoops to right the small trash can that sits by his desk.

I don't meet his eye. "I'm fine, fine," I lie through my clenched teeth. "I just tripped." A quick scan of the room shows expressions of mixed shock, worry, and skepticism. Not good enough, I berate myself silently. They mustn't see my pain, rage, and dread. How can I possibly regain control of the situation if I can't control myself? "Here, let me get that," I tell Abbott as midly as I can manage, kneeling behind the desk to pick up the spilled contents of the wastebasket that I upturned in a surge of wild wrath. Trying to slow my breathing and heart rate. Trying to hide my emotional reaction with business. Trying to make my mask of invulnerability fit over my expression of betrayal.

Just what I need. For this thug to have his chance to declare undying love for Lisbon. I can easily imagine her response. It would fluster her, but she wouldn't let that show. Maybe it would even flatter her a little bit. But she'll be professional. Use his interest to draw out a good confession. Maybe even agree to write him in prison. Out of pity and misplaced sympathy. She wouldn't mean anything by it, of course. But how will I ever make her trust me again if she is keeping contact with a convict who despises me, who sees me for the manipulator that I all too often am?

And what if he did worm his way into her affections? Or if he began to blame her for extracting the information that sent him back to prison? How soon would he be on the street again?

I find myself angrier at Dennis Abbott than I have ever been. Even when he tried to renege on the deal he signed to get me back stateside. On that occasion I understood exactly why and how he was trying to demonstrate his mastery over me. But I cannot furnish a single excuse for him to expose Lisbon to Pulaski without my protection. Unless he's spiting me for some reason.

If there was a God who cared about justice, He would make sure that people like Abbott stopped questioning my judgment and my methods of securing justice. In fact, they should be thanking me for making their jobs easier. Instead they try to thwart me at every turn.

At least 12 good ways to punish Abbott for his about-face bud in my mind, and I let them blossom, fed by pent up frustration. After all the good I've done, the people I have helped, the justice that I have enacted, why can I never catch a break?

Suddenly, Lisbon is at my elbow gathering the scattered remnants beside me. Her face has softened, but I avoid her eyes as I pick up the bits and pieces from under and around the desk. "Hey. Jane. Listen, I know this is hard for you. But we all know that this is the right thing."

I smile to keep from grinding my teeth. "I know no such thing. I think this whole idea is a mistake. But what do I know? I'm only a consultant. Somehow I thought my opinion might matter to you, at least." I try to make my tone light, but the bitterness leaks out however hard I try. I can tell that Abbott and Wylie have stepped out of the office, but some of the sense of betrayal is from how Lisbon has misread me.

This isn't at all what I wanted. I had hoped that this would be an opportunity for us to reconnect, to recapture some of that magic that used to be between us. Since that briefing when she joked that we were all in "the wrong profession," I wanted to give her a taste of the glamor of being an art thief. It was a thing she would never do, but like the job she loves it has enough danger to be exciting. Yet there is a freedom to it that I so wish I could share with her. Of all the 428 plans that I had concocted since I returned to the states, trying to seize the happiness that I know we have both wanted, this one was the best. The only one that I was certain she couldn't object to in any way. It didn't require any major deception of her or the rest of the team. Indeed, I communicated pretty well with them, I think, once I had worked out the details. It didn't involve me changing her life without her consent. It just meant doing our job the way we once did. Helping innocents. Catching criminals. Everything I thought she could want.

It was also a way of rewarding myself for giving her space, refraining from using my skills to unduly influence her. For six weeks I had gone without a single relapse. It had not been easy, by any means. And I had hoped, if all went well in this con, to tell her. To sincerely express my feelings for her, as terrifying as that idea is. For a while, it was all so close, so real. Holding her, as if she were really my lover. Teasing her, laughing with her, getting a reaction that showed how well we know and understand one another. Seeing desire and pleasure in her eyes when I looked at her, touched her.

And then everything spun out of control.

Could it possibly get any worse? Is there any way to salvage this situation?

I determine to try to make things right. "I truly am sorry, you know. I have been trying... you have no idea...how hard I am trying to be honest, and to communicate better, and not to meddle with your life." Why is it that when I am playing people I can say all manner of outrageous things with eloquence, but when I try to speak the truth from my heart it comes out all tangled, if at all? I try again, crouching in the shaddows behind Abbott's massive desk, still not looking at her directly. What a coward I am. "I don't want to control you, Teresa. I only want to protect you. You... without you, I would never have lived to find... I wouldn't have survived. And I am so grateful that you chose to come and work with me again, in spite of all that you gave up, at the end. I...I just want you to be happy. Happy... with me. Please. I know that I messed up last night. Can't you forgive me? Just one more time?"

I don't realize that I am holding my breath waiting for an answer until her hand catches mine. "Of course." Her voice trembles slightly and I breathe in hope. "I overreacted. I'm sorry too." My heart hammers at my ribcage as if eager to escape. Is it possible that my feeble, stammering attempts at reconciliation have accomplished what I wanted most? But now Teresa continues, almost sadly, "It all worked out, just like it always does. We'll just forget about the rest. It doesn't really matter anyway. It's all just play."

And with those words I know that I cannot tell her how much more than that it was for me.

"But Jane," she goes on, in a firmer voice, "You have got to trust me. I can handle myself. And this is the best way to finish the job. Can you understand why I have to do this?"

I know that I am utterly lost the moment I meet her eyes. I keep my poker face, but the sight of her regret and compassion completely overpowers me. I want to pull her into my arms and hold on tight. I want to shield her against all possible harm. I want her all to myself, so I can finally tell her what I have been trying to say for months now, and trying not to say for far longer.

I love her more than all the world. But I have no more right to tell her so than Aaron Pulaski.

"I trust you," I say, feeling as if my innards were seeping out onto the floor. What else can I tell her?

She rewards me with a smile that almost stops my heart, as she gets to her feet and puts the last scrappy bits into the circular file. After dusting off her hands, she extends one to me. I take it, marveling at her strength once more as she pulls me up to her.

Abbott reenters the room, having dismissed Wylie, with a serene smile. "Thank you both for attending to that mess. Lisbon, are you ready?"

"Yes, sir." She passes him on her way to the door.

"Wait..." I cringe at the sound of my voice, wondering if they can hear the need. "Please. Let me come with you." She stops in the doorway, looking conflicted. I force myself not to play up the pathos so that she'll take pity on me.

But the supervising agent intervenes. "Jane, you know that won't work." Abbott's voice is gentle but firm. "You were specificly excluded from Pulaski's invitation." He sighs and lifts his eyes to the ceiling with a look of both gratitude and entreaty. It's another prayer. For wisdom and guidance, protection... who knows what else.

"Well. We wouldn't want to cross Aaron, now, would we." I can't keep the petulance from rearing it's ugly head again. What am I, that I can't keep from making my fears and hurt feelings more important than supporting my partner?

I see Lisbon and Abbott exchange a look. In hers is an apology. She hoped that she could soothe the indignity for me, but all she could arrange was my acquiescence. In his is reassurance. He admires her for sticking to her guns. He's pleased that I have bowed to the inevitable. And he wants her to know that he will take it from here.

I hate the feeling of being managed.

Their footsteps recede, and I glare out into the twilight. Trying to convince myself that this is a minor setback, that it doesn't really matter. What can he tell her? To stay away from me because I'm bad news. She already knew that. And after all, maybe she should.

Teresa's teasing from long ago echoes through my memory palace. It was after I had hypnotized a bereaved family member to help her overcome her tendency to attach herself to men who managed all her choices. "'Stay away from controlling men,'" was Lisbon's best impression of my suggestion. "'Yes, sir,'" in a higher pitch, was her mocking paraphrase of the response. The irony was not lost on me.

I hate to be fooled. I find it distasteful when others use such tools to control innocents. Yet manipulation is my primary mode of influencing the world around me. Lisbon connected with Pulaski mostly because she felt that I was using her. And I was using him, too. She sympathizes. I can only hope that her compassion for him, prompted by her anger at me, doesn't cause any more harm.

Exposing the woman I love above all else to the interest of a violent criminal is a mistake that I never dreamed I could make more than once in a lifetime.

Thank you all for reading, and any reviews you can spare would be greatly treasured. Of course I know that the holidays mean family activities are paramount. So most of all, have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and if other celebrations are in your plans, I hope they are full of the joy of the season.