AN: Once again, thank you for your reviews and for continuing to read. We are nearing the end...
Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist.
2013
Monday, May 13
6:08 am
The back of his head was sore from leaning against the metal doorframe. Apparently, he had left his keys somewhere that was not his pocket. Knowing where home was didn't help much when all you could do was stare at the door.
A vibration to his left startled him from his perusal of the faint chips and scratches near the door handle. A woman's shoe came into view, then a handbag, then a face.
Her lips moved with a knowing smile as she took in his position, slumped sideways against the door. Apparently she knew him well, as her sentence was tagged with a pat on the shoulder and a hand offered to pull him up.
"Forgot my keys," he grunted, not caring to explain the whole story when he didn't know most of it himself. Let her think he had had a rough night on the town. It was true, in a manner of speaking.
He found himself being led into the next apartment over, sat down on a leather sofa, and handed a glass of water. The woman stared at him bemusedly, shaking her head at what must have appeared to be a very hung-over neighbor. The room dimmed in little slits as she spun the blinds closed and he found that a blanket had been dropped into his lap.
She looked over her shoulder and gave him one last smirk, though gentler this time, before closing the door behind her.
The last thing he remembered before he slipped into sleep was the strange familiarity of a leather couch.
2013
Tuesday, May 14
8:47 pm
Jane watched as Lisbon took her seat next to Grace. Rigsby was alive. He had known this, of course, but to have it confirmed was still gratifying. And a relief, but he tried not to think about that.
Detective Gorman brushed by, a casefile in hand. The whole process was more chaotic when observed from a distance. It was a wonder none of the police officers had been trampled in the surge of sheer energetic action that had overtaken the place.
His pocket vibrated. It was Seymour.
"Hello?" he asked, stepping further out into the hallway.
"Jane? Hey, I wanted to let you know I found Solomon."
His heart exploded. "Where?"
"Well, I looked into that Ruby woman, like you asked. Visualize was airtight, as expected, but she's got a will that's public record. She left some property in Fresno to her nephew. So I drove out here and took a look. It's a watch repair shop. They have more old clocks here than Grand Central Station. Anyway, I talked to the assistant, Charles Wheeler. He says Solomon owns the place, alright, but he's on a trip somewhere. Won't be back until tomorrow. Do you want me to set up an interview with him?"
In the time it had taken Seymour to finish his tale, Jane had caught his breath, stilled his heart, and jumped headlong into cold, hard theory. "Is the assistant still with you?"
"Yeah, he's inside. Lives in an apartment above the shop. Why?"
"Put him on the phone."
There was a rustling of cloth and the screech of a door opening. Then, a young man's voice came over the receiver.
"Charles Wheeler?"
"Charlie, yes. Who is this?"
"It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you remember exactly what Shelby Solomon said to you before he left. I want you to think back to that day, think back to the words he spoke to you, and tell me exactly what they were."
The young man sighed into the speaker. "Um…ok. Well, he said 'I'm going to away for a few days. Expect me back on Wednesday.' That's all, really. Oh, and uh, 'Be sure and wash out the tea pot.' But that's about it."
"He didn't say anything else about where he was going? Anything at all?"
There was a pause, filled with the distant ticking of a dozen clocks. "No. He was acting a little strange, though. He kept staring at Mr. Hammond's pocket watch and saying "they know." He doesn't usually talk while he works, but Mr. Hammond is very particular about his watch and Mr. Solomon might have been nervous about adjusting the second hand. Well, not nervous exactly. He never gets nervous. But Mr. Hammond said it was running a minute fast, and Mr. Solomon told him it was only off by about a quarter of a second. It's a tricky business, you know, in those old watches…"
Jane had been ignoring the majority of Wheeler's monologue, choosing instead to focus on the distinct feeling of triumph growing in his chest.
"… Oh, and he talked about going to see a lady named Rose. I'm not sure who that is, but he's never talked about her before. I don't think she's a customer—"
"Rose?" The glowing triumph chilled. "Did he say anything else about her?"
"Uh…"
"Think! Did he say anything else?"
"No. He didn't," Wheeler bit out indignantly. "All he said was something about meeting a lady named Rose at the end of the road. That's it. And before you ask, he didn't mention the name of the road or where it—"
Jane slammed the phone shut and spun on his heel, ignoring the insistent vibrating in his pocket as he strode back to the bullpen.
"Lisbon!"
She turned quickly at the sound of her name, her eyes meeting his and freezing. He must not have hidden his panic well.
"Wake up Grace. Now. Get her to call home."
Lisbon's gaze questioned, but she moved to shake Grace's shoulder.
Within a minute, Grace had her phone out and was dialing. As each ring brought another, the tension in the room grew palpably. By the twelfth ring, the phone had slowly come to rest in her lap.
"They didn't answer," she whispered.
2013
Monday, May 13
8:10 pm
Someone was shaking his shoulder.
"Gway, Grace," he mumbled. Or thought he did. What was wrong with his voice?
He opened his eyes to see nothing but the dark outline of a shape in front of him. An attempt at struggling to sit up was met with a slicing pain behind his eyes. He grabbed his head.
The shape moved away. A few seconds later, a dim light was flicked on and the shape, a woman in a red pantsuit, pressed two pills and a glass of cool water into his hand.
He grunted his thanks and, with as little movement possible, swallowed the pills. Sweeping his gaze around the room, he could find nothing familiar about it. But he was discovering that didn't mean much.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and the woman's face lowered into his line of sight. Her lips moved. "…grace…work…didn't…keys…now…"was all he caught. And frankly, he didn't care. All he wanted was to lie back down and forget about trying to remember what he had forgotten. Forgetting about having a head sounded good right now.
But the woman caught his elbow and, with some effort, helped him to his unsteady feet. They made their slow way to the door, which was open a crack and easily swung aside to reveal a little old woman wrapped in a navy blue cardigan. She grinned at him, moved her mouth in greeting, and held up a golden key dangling from an embroidered tag reading "Rigsby."
His key. His spare house key. He could have hugged the woman. Instead, he gave her a tired grin in return, took the key, and slid it into the lock on his door. It fit.
2013
Tuesday, May 14
8:49 pm
"Try it again," he said, reaching for the phone cradled in Grace's hands.
Grace looked up, the first spark of life showing in the determined set of her face. "Why? What's going on, Jane?"
Jane took a quick breath in, searching for and finding Lisbon's gaze before beginning, slowly, deliberately. "Seymour found him. Solomon. He left last Friday. He told his assistant he was going to see someone called Rose."
They stared at him for a few suspended seconds. "You don't think he meant—?"
But Lisbon's eyes told him she knew exactly what he thought he meant. She turned sharply. "Grace, call that number again."
Grace had already left the room, leaving them to trail quickly after her.
"Jane." Lisbon's voice was urgent as they hastily descended the concrete stairs, the stairwell's heavy metal door clanging behind them with unhappy finality.
A plastic rectangle was pressed into her hand. "It was the last number dialed."
They spilled out into the parking lot and followed Grace through the pools of orange light cast by the metal streetlamps.
Grace yanked open the car door, but was stopped by Lisbon's hand on her arm.
"Grace—"
Grace's eyes flashed dangerously as she whipped around. "I might not know exactly what is going on here, but I know that look." She gestured at Jane. "It's Red John, isn't it?"
Without waiting for confirmation, she shook off Lisbon's hand. "This is my child. My child. Don't you dare try to stop me."
Lisbon shook her head. "I wasn't trying to stop you. But do you really think you should be driving right now?"
She was already in the car with the engine started. "Yes. I do."
2013
Tuesday, May 14
8:34 pm
The digital alarm clock on the bedside table was broken. Oh, it told time well enough. The radio worked—most of the time. But it had the nasty habit of ringing both at the set time and exactly twelve hours later. No amount of fiddling or claims of "I'll fix it later" seemed to be able to set it right. Eventually, they decided to let well enough alone, as none of them were usually home at six o'clock at night to hear the alarm anyway. It would ring until they got home, and then they would shut it off. It became as much a part of their routine as switching on the lights or tossing the keys on the kitchen counter.
Rigsby thought he remembered something about an alarm clock as he heard a distant beeping. As he awoke more fully, he remembered the clock's usual position on the bedside table to his left and swung his arm lazily in its general direction. A mechanical crashing brought him the complete, startling awareness that, not only was he hearing a beeping from his alarm clock at home in the middle of the evening, he was hearing. For the first time in nearly three days, he was hearing noise that didn't come in buzzing screeches or faint vibrations. He could hear.
With that realization came another, and another. Memories flashed by lazily, and he snatched at them, managing to hold on to some long enough to imprint its image into his mind.
Not everything was clear, but he remembered enough to jerk up from the bed and dash out of the room, not caring that the dent left by his flinging the door into the wall would be cause for Grace to yell at him for a good three hours. In fact, he hoped she would.
2013
Tuesday, May 14
8:55
Grace was driving with an abandon that left even Jane clinging to the edge of his seat. Her eyes were flitting wildly between the dark canvas of the road and the lit screen of her cell phone as she tried desperately to get a hold of her parents.
When the call had come about Rigsby, they had left Rosie with her obliging grandparents. Now, Grace was fervently wishing she had been herself enough to insist on bringing Rosie with them, although a bustling police station was really no place for a toddler.
"Damn!" She tossed the phone into the ashtray, gripping the steering wheel so hard that the whiteness of her knuckles was visible even in the dark car.
Something flashed across the small screen, and Jane reached over to pick up the phone.
"Grace?" He dared a fleeting look at the redhead. The bandage on her forehead was slowly peeling off, threatening to flap down over her eyes if another inch of the adhesive fell away. She spared him a nearly feral glance before returning her eyes to the road.
"It says you have a message here from yesterday. From a Gina?" Jane waved the phone. "Is that someone important?"
And by important, he meant immediately relevant to their situation. She shook her head jerkily. "No. No, she's just a neighbor. She—wait." She took a gasping breath. "He might be home. He might have gone home. Play it."
Jane obediently pressed the center button and put the phone on speaker.
"Hi, Grace. It's Gina from next door. I wanted to let you know that Wayne is on my couch right now sleeping off what looks like a pretty nasty hangover. He was locked out this morning. My guess is that he left his keys at the bar. I called your office, but all they would tell me is that you're away. I hope you took some time off. You definitely deserve it, working all the time and with little Rosie keeping you busy at home. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. I'm going to try and get Bernice to give me your spare key after I get home from work so Wayne can sleep in his own bed tonight. Call me back. Okay. Bye."
"Oh my God," Grace breathed, nearly letting go of the steering wheel as her hands unclenched and grew limp with the rest of her body. "He's ok. He's home," she whispered, as if to remind herself.
Lisbon leaned in from the back seat. "When was that message from?"
Jane flicked at the screen. "Six fifteen yesterday morning."
"Give me the phone," Grace all but demanded, snatching the device from Jane's hands while still managing to keep the car from veering off the road.
She pushed the number one. All she got was a toneless beeping in her ear.
Keeping one finger on the 'redial' button, she stamped her foot on the accelerator and the car lurched forward.
2013
Tuesday, May 14
8:55 pm
Rigsby stumbled into the kitchen, nearly knocking a bowl of apples from the counter in his haste.
"Grace!" he yelled hoarsely. It hurt his throat, but he kept on anyway. "Grace!"
He staggered through the living room and flung open the door leading to Rosie's room. "Grace! Rosie!"
The crib was empty. He tore at the blankets anyway, leaving the mobile spinning in a dizzying jerk of color as thrown cloth collided with paper birds.
As he continued to move through the apartment in a whirlwind of desperation, he felt more and more pieces fall together in the back of his mind. It was as he was checking the front closet for the fourth time that he remembered why his wife and daughter were not there. They were in Iowa. Iowa…
He ran once more to their bedroom and yanked his suit jacket from its position, crumpled on the floor next to a leg of the bedside table. The search of his pockets was made more difficult by the slight tremble in his hands, but he soon found the small, black phone.
He pushed the number one. All he heard was a toneless beeping in his ear.
Keeping his finger on the 'redial' button, he hurried to the kitchen, picked up the landline, and dialed the number written neatly on a card taped to the wall nearby.
Two rings. The slight clatter of plastic on plastic. Then, "Agent Van Pelt's desk, Agent Bailey speaking…"