Chapter Twenty-Four: Life
Sheriff Hamilton had radioed a few minutes ago with the news:
The male body lying dead and burned inside the Jorsten home was not Patrick Jane.
It was an unexpected twist. Something bright, and hopeful, that gave fresh bounce to Officer Ryan Kelly's footsteps as he widened his search around the Jorstens' property, calling out,
"Mr. Jane? Mr. Jane, can you hear me?"
Crickets sang and nightwind rustled. Mr. Jane did not answer.
Ryan kept walking and shouting for the CBI's missing consultant.
Ever since he'd joined the force six months ago, Ryan had been regaled with stories about the legendary Patrick Jane. Two of Ryan's fellow officers had actually worked with Mr. Jane on past cases. One swore up, down, right and left that Patrick Jane was the best detective he'd ever encountered in his lifetime. The other officer disparaged Mr. Jane's strange methods for getting confessions, and the consultant's "generally unprofessional demeanor."
Having never met the man personally, Ryan withheld judgment. He did not know whether Mr. Jane was a true psychic or a good guesser, a clever man who knew exactly what he was doing or a barely-restrained lunatic who took wild risks to get results.
But Mr. Jane did get results. No one could argue with that.
Ryan knew that a long list of murderers, rapists, and kidnappers were in prison thanks to Mr. Jane's efforts.
Ryan also knew, because everyone did, that Mr. Jane's own family had been murdered.
Patrick Jane had come home one night to find a note taped to his bedroom door. Ryan had seen photos of what lay beyond that door. He would never again have to wonder why two seasoned, veteran cops had vomited after exiting the Jane crime scene.
Ryan himself was married. His wife was waiting for him at home right now, busying herself with laundry and dishes and emails. When those things got finished, she might decide to scrub the bathroom tile, or shampoo the carpet. No matter what time Ryan's shift ended—11pm, 2am, 4am—she would always be wide-awake, listening for his cruiser to pull in. She claimed she could not sleep without him beside her.
Their two-year-old son, on the other hand, would be sprawled face-down in his crib, oblivious to the world. He needed his beauty rest at night, if he was going to have a proper day full of terrorizing ants in the backyard and plastering Elmo stickers on the banister.
Just thinking about his wife and son made Ryan smile without even realizing it. They were the air in his lungs, the warm blood surging through his heart.
If he ever came home and saw a note taped to the door…
If he ever walked into a room to find his wife and child in pieces…it would be over for him. Ryan was sure. No chance to keep living with collapsed lungs and an empty heart.
But somehow, Mr. Jane had found a way – not just to continue living, but to do so with decency, using his skills to help other victims. Victims like him.
For this, Ryan respected the man.
And as he walked in ever-growing rings around the Jorsten home, searching the darkness, Ryan did so with the hope that Patrick Jane had, once again, found a way to survive.