Author's notes:

Thank you to the great writer Sue Shay for her support, encouragement, and guidance on this chapter and the whole project! Looking for a short suspense story that packs a punch? Sue's "Danger on Donner Pass" is one of my favorites of hers; it's a complete story told in 18 drabbles.

I do not own the TV show The Mentalist and get no compensation from it. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes only.

Notes on the chapter title follow the end of the chapter.

Chapter 16: Danse Macabre

All Patrick Jane wanted to do was go into the warehouse, glance around inside, and get home to Teresa. The quicker the better.

The odor of burnt plastic, charred wood, and melted wiring assaulted his senses the moment he set foot in the fire-ravaged interior. Still, it felt good to walk around after their three-hour car trip through the darkness. As he picked his steps carefully, he scanned the floors and walls for any clues linked to Red John.

Wainwright walked in the lead followed by Rigsby. Patrick brought up the rear which was fine with him. They advanced at a slow pace, stopping to assess every twist and turn through the debris.

"Squeak."

Not long after they entered a noise straight above them caused all three men to lift their gaze. A lone rat scurried along a catwalk. Rigsby spied it, and after a nervous laugh the three set out again.

"Thump."

After moving another thirty feet, a loud crash froze each man in place. Looking across the open expanse to where the sound came from, Patrick saw pieces of the metal roof hanging down through the ceiling in that area. All that kept them in place were stray sections of insulation. One piece of insulation had given way, and a large section of sheet metal had dropped to the concrete floor below.

Lagging slightly behind the other two gave him a chance to think.

What is it that feels wrong to me?

Two things that came up in the last day troubled him, one bigger than the other. The bigger of the two was how Red John was so aware of the situation about Tom Wilcox. While Patrick went after Wilcox with gusto because of his attack on Teresa, he had to admit that Wilcox' crimes didn't set him apart from many other criminals - even with his attack on a CBI agent. Yet Red John had followed those crimes and more ominously had known that Wilcox committed them. All of that pointed to an inside source of information, a prospect that alarmed Patrick.

The other thing that troubled him was personal. While Patrick and Teresa's behavior since her attack surely suggested to the outside world that their relationship was changing, that wasn't the kind of thing that people became aware of quickly. Yet Wainwright seemed to know all about the two of them.

Those were two mysteries he wanted to get to the bottom of.

Wainwright and Rigsby had stopped about twenty feet in front of him in a large room. Something on the floor had gotten Wainwright's attention. Even though he was hunching over, Patrick could see the excitement with which he was rifling through burnt papers that appeared to spill out from a charred file cabinet.

That doesn't look right. Why are those papers on the floor and not anything else?

As Wainwright continued to examine pieces of paper, Patrick stepped beside Rigsby. Now both of them stood behind Wainwright, and they exchanged glances that asked the same non-verbal question: Why is that on the floor?

The answer? The charred paper was the cheese, and the room was the trap.

Rigsby was the first to notice the gas pouring into the room, and he grabbed Patrick's shoulder to spin him around to see it. Wispy white vapor flooded in. Now Wainwright looked up and gasped at the gathering cloud.

"Slam. Click." "Slam. Click."

The two doors on either end of the room shut at the same time followed by the sound of two locks closing. Rigsby went to one door to begin throwing his weight against it while Patrick did the same with the other. Wainwright joined him at his door but they made no headway.

Rigsby quit his door to stumble over to the other two men.

The gas is beginning to get to Wayne. Me too. We've got to work fast.

Patrick felt light-headed, and Wainwright started to sway. Rigsby held his stomach. Regardless of their condition, they had to keep trying. By nods and glances, the three men summoned enough coordination to hurl themselves at the door at the same time. It didn't budge. They nodded to each other again and took a second crack at it. Still no effect. Now Rigsby staggered around, grasping at the air to hold onto something. Patrick grabbed him but realized it was futile - only a matter of time before the fumes would drag both of them down.

Patrick looked over to Wainwright who was fighting to stay upright by leaning against the wall. His hands searched for something, anything along it to hold him up. It was a losing effort.

As Wainwright sank to the floor they made eye contact. He tried to speak but no sound came out. Patrick could still tell the words he mouthed: "I'm sorry." With that last effort, Wainwright collapsed in a heap.

While the cloud of vapor swirled thicker around them, Patrick and Rigsby gripped each other's arms to prop themselves up.

Wayne and I will be on the floor just like Wainwright in seconds.

As their strength ebbed, the pull of gravity drew them. First Rigsby next Patrick sank to his knees. Rigsby's grip on his arm pulled Patrick to the floor with him. His head swimming, he watched Rigsby's body cease to move.

Patrick's thoughts turned to someone far removed from this nightmare.

I love you, Teresa.

Thick clouds of pungent gas flowed in eddies before his eyes as his head hit the hard surface of the floor.

Teresa Lisbon sat on the sofa in her living room with one hand drawing her knees up to her chest and the other hand fingering her crucifix. How long had she been in that position? She lost track. All she could do was rock back and forth.

Please come home to me, Patrick. Please.

Patrick blinked his eyes open. He lay on the floor where he had fallen. Rigsby was still beside him - was he alive? Patrick pushed him so that he rolled onto his back. Looking closely at Rigsby's body, he could see the rise and fall of his chest.

He's breathing! That's good.

"Rigsby. Rigsby. Wake up. It's Jane." He grasped his shoulder and shook it hard. In response, Rigsby grunted. "Rigsby. Wake up."

Rigsby opened his eyes but had a hard time focusing. Patrick waved a hand in front of him.

"Over here Wayne. It's me, Jane."

Rigsby rubbed his hand across his face.

"Are you okay?" asked Patrick.

"Aside from a headache? Yeah."

"Same here."

Rigsby continued to shake his head.

"Where's Wainwright?"

Wainwright. Patrick hadn't thought about him. The two men looked around at a room empty besides themselves.

"Supervising Agent Wainwright is no longer with you, Agent Rigsby."

Red John. Patrick knew immediately who the voice was. Glancing at Rigsby confirmed that he knew it too. Patrick moved to stand but a wave of dizziness forced him to sit again. When Rigsby tried the same thing he ended up sprawled on the floor.

"You shouldn't move for another few minutes. By then the effects of the gas should be fully gone from your system. Forgive me. I gave you a little too much of it."

Both men scanned the walls and ceiling to see where Red John's voice came from. Tapping Patrick on the shoulder, Rigsby pointed out a small speaker embedded in the ceiling.

"Where's Wainwright?" Patrick asked.

"Patrick, I really had not expected you two to come along with Agent Wainwright. My guess? He compelled you to do so. Intense young man, wouldn't you say?"

"Where's Wainwright?" Patrick repeated.

"Patrick, over the years you and I developed a history. I'll admit, for a while I even fell into this notion that you were a worthy nemesis. But I was wrong; I let my emotions get the better of me concerning you. It started when you insulted me long ago. Painful to admit but true. Yours was a game I shouldn't have lowered myself to play."

"So you've put me in my place. Back to…"

"Oh, you're smart. Just not smart enough to warrant the attention I lavished on you. What's the old saying? Live and learn."

"Back to…"

"Now Luther Wainwright. Whatever his personal weaknesses, he was different. What a powerful intellect! Luther had a supple mind. Men like him I admire, I envy. They grace our world with their presence. If they're your ally, they strengthen you. If they're your adversary, they challenge you. Even when someone like that is your adversary, doesn't he strengthen you in the end as well? That was Luther Wainwright - a man to challenge me, to bring out the best in me."

"Where is Wainwright, you bastard?"

"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. I don't like that tone or that language from you. It's unnecessary. Don't like being told that someone like Luther outshines you? I know the feeling. One thing you and I have in common is shame, Patrick. About our pasts, our shortcomings. But it also spurs us on. The important thing is that we not let that shame drive us insane. I do what I need to do to prevent that."

"We're not talking about me."

"Oh but we are, Patrick. You're just not in the same league as someone like Wainwright or myself. Enough of this chatting. We all have things to do, places to go. Patrick, Agent Rigsby, I've detained you far too long. In a moment I will release you. Do forgive me for not being a more accommodating host. You can pick up Luther Wainwright on your way out."

Rigsby and Patrick looked at each other. With a shrug of his shoulders, Rigsby began to pat down his clothes.

"Looks like I've got everything I came in with including my gun."

Patrick felt his clothing and found the same result.

Click.

Both men turned to the sound coming from the far door. Rigsby motioned for Patrick to fall in behind him, and with gun drawn he approached it. A soft push from Rigsby's fingertips made the door creak open. He stepped outside.

"Oh, shit."

Patrick saw the gun in Rigsby's hand shake while his gaze froze on something before him. Moving beside Rigsby, nausea seized Patrick when he followed his line of sight. A growing pool of blood puddled beside his right foot.

Pulling out his cell phone, he fought to control himself as he dialed a number.

"Cho."

"This is Jane. Rigsby and I are at the warehouse outside Salinas. We just found Wainwright. Red John butchered him."

To be continued.

Author's notes:

Camille Saint-Saëns composed "Danse Macabre" in 1874.