Sorry on two counts; first the woefully long time I took to update, and two for the quality of this offering. This chapter really got away from me, I struggled. I'm ashamed to say, it's got seriously bogged down, the words wouldn't flow, I lost Woody's identity along the way and Jane has become a mood swinging mess that I think has become totally OOC, but I've tried so hard that I feel I must post it anyway and hope that the final chapter will come together more successfully. Anyway, read on brave Mentalistas.

Thanks also for all the very flattering reviews to the first chapter, which I've been too lazy to acknowledge ... makes me feel even worse about this one ;)

Oh by the way I was so pissed off with it that I haven't proof read. So beware errors.

Barely an hour passed before Jane was woken by the familiar aroma of frying food and the less welcome sound of Hotel California being whistled badly off key but with obvious enjoyment.

His vision cleared just as two mismatched plates, laden with generous slices of fatty ham and topped with a couple of tasty looking eggs, landed with a clink on the tiny table top wedged into the cramped floor space of the camper. The vehicle's owner stopped whistling, plonked himself down opposite him and grinned mischievously, "Thought that would get your eyes open soon enough," he teased. "Hungry?"

"I'd have preferred the original," came the grumbled reply.

Jane complained about the whistled assault on his ears, but his po-faced reaction soon changed as he stretched out, straightened himself to sit properly and looked down at the unexpectedly delightful sight of two enticing golden yolks, smiling up at him like little domes of sunshine.

"Eggs!" he exclaimed on the back of a long, grateful sigh. "How did you know?"

Woody beamed at the grown man who displayed all the innocent, wide-eyed wonder of a small child.

He threw down an assortment of cutlery, "Who doesn't love an egg, eh? Tuck in," he instructed.

"Exactly … Ambrosia," Jane agreed heartily and selected a bone handled knife and a tarnished silver fork which he rubbed absently on the soft fabric of his shirt sleeve, "…food of the gods, my friend," he declared.

The two men ate in silence, just like old friends, their peace and quiet only interrupted by the singing of the kettle Woody had set on the gas burner to boil water for a drink.

When Jane had finished, he placed his knife and fork neatly, at an angle, and sat quietly for a moment longer, looking pensive, but content, while his host took his time. As he pondered, he found that he was pleasantly surprised. This time his food hadn't been tainted with guilt and sadness, remorse and desperation. Unlike this morning's diner breakfast, which he'd been unable to eat, it didn't taste like cardboard.

It amused and pleased him that the magical effect his favourite food usually had could be so radically altered by time, place and company; that a man in a clapped out old van could influence his taste buds this way, when restaurateurs and café owners invested millions and still couldn't make him happy, if he wasn't. Even with eggs. That the absence of one particular woman could make food resemble processed wood pulp and ditch water and a humble hippie could work a miracle of reversal was testament to the imense power of human emotion. The combination of Woody and eggs was soothing to his soul.

Almost before he knew it, a slow smile was even beginning it's valiant fight to escape the veil of Jane's obvious depression. The smile twitched beguilingly at the edges of his lips, and with it shimmering light edged into his eyes, transforming gloomy grey into mysterious pacific.

This subtle but significant change in demeanour was so encouraging, so compelling that Woody couldn't fail to seize on it; the perfect opportunity to satisfy the niggling curiosity, the interest in the human condition, that training had instilled in him years ago and still lingered.

This man was a story waiting to be unraveled.

Woody struck while his subject's guard was still weakened by the comforting flavour of the eggs.

If there had been ice cream, Jane would have been putty in his hands.

"So, Richard Kimble," he asked, out of the blue. "What did you do? Who you on the run from?"

Almost immediately Jane's face froze, but not quickly enough to warn Woody not to continue, so he waved his nicotine stained fingers around, indicating Jane's tired, but expensive three piece suit and well worn linen shirt. "I mean, this has to be a disguise. Right? But a man doesn't go on a road trip dressed for the office … so it's not gonna fool ..."

As he spoke he watched the colour drain from the man's face, felt the waft of warm air when the breath deserted his lungs, saw his body sag beneath the tailored shoulders of his jacket and his eyes go to some darker time and place. Then he saw Jane carefully compose himself, his gaze purposefully averted and breathing slow and deliberate, until he lifted his curly blond head, looked steadily back with a stony stare and simply said.

"Yeah. I've seen The Fugitive; who hasn't? And no, I didn't kill my wife. I just got her killed."

Woody sat, mortified.

Jane rose and silently left the van.

And the kettle whistled, shrill and piercing.

Woody ignored the kettle and waited, listening. He expected to hear the slamming of a door, the angry growling of an over revved engine, followed by the skidding and rumble of the RV pulling away at speed.

It never came.

So, after what seemed to be an appropriate length of time, he lifted the boiling kettle off the stove and turned off the gas. He stepped cautiously over to the door and peered into the gloom, before venturing outside to see Jane sitting cross legged in the dirt on the opposite side of the road; a darkly romantic silhouette bathed in the rosy light of a rapidly fading sun.

Raising his voice a little to be heard across the breadth of the highway, he called out.

"I'm sorry," was all he felt able to say. It felt inadequate, but then, what words were ever enough.

The reply was slow to arrive, Woody was still debating whether to cross the road and try another approach when it came.

"You weren't to know."

Jane's voice was small, emotionless, and could hardly be heard, even in the near silence of the deserted highway. "I don't suppose I'm notorious everywhere."

Woody walked over and sat down quietly beside the hunched figure; prepared to listen, or just sit.

"May I?" he asked as he lowered himself to the ground, neither expecting nor receiving an answer.

Only the faint plaintive screech of a lone bird of prey in the distance fractured the charged atmosphere.

"But you're right, in many ways," Jane eventually continued, not acknowledging the other man's presence, only staring without seeing, at a spot between his feet. "My wife is dead."

His voice dropped til it almost dissolved away into the approaching night. "And my daughter. A long time ago."

He whispered through an anguished breath that he drew in in little gasps.

There was another painful pause before he added, louder and a bit more brightly, "And I am running away … sort of. And I suppose you could call this a disguise. Has been for years … one way or another. But it's what I'm comfortable with."

Then he lapsed into more silence and it seemed as if he'd said all he had to say.

For several long minutes, Woody sat, looking out to the horizon along with Jane; a consciously non-threatening mirror of the lonely man's pose. Now he turned and looked him up and down, getting a feel for his state of mind. The vibe he got was of deep sadness, but little more. Maybe resignation. Certainly, there seemed to be no animosity.

"Kettle's boiled," he announced, getting to his feet with as little fuss as possible. No mean feat, the way his old knees were these days. "Want a cup of tea?"

Jane shifted a bit, making himself more comfortable in the sandy earth.

Woody didn't wait around for an answer, but when he returned clutching two steaming mugs in one hand and swinging an old oil lamp in the other, Jane looked up at him through the gathering gloom, for the sun had finally disappeared. His face now spoke of shamefaced gratitude. And he wore a bright, but forced smile.

"I owe you an apology," he explained. "I abused your hospitality…falling asleep like that. Must have been more tired than I thought. Haven't been sleeping too well. Many things on my mind. Sorry I over reacted."

He let the smile slip slowly off his face, wiped his hands on his trousered thighs, a nervous tic, and accepted the mug that Woody offered. He looked down into the greenish liquid solemnly and wafted the steam with the practiced hand of a connoisseur, then he proceeded to test the temperature with tentative lips.

After a few cautious sips, he caught Woody's eye with another wan smile.

"This is lovely. Delicious. Thank you," he said with undeniable sincerity. " Now, I'll just drink up and get out of your hair. You'll never have to see me again."

This was something Woody had not expected, since Jane hadn't stormed off immediately, so he turned with determination.

"No," he insisted, gently but firmly.

"Really, I should…"

But a strong hand on his shoulder as he made a move to rise, kept Jane on the ground.

"You're not going anywhere, Paddy, my boy. Just relax."

Woody looked at him sternly. "You needed that sleep," he told him. "Now you need to talk. I reckon you don't do that often enough, eh?"

He grinned wickedly, "Besides, you wouldn't deny a worn out old dude a bit of company, would you. Intelligent chat can be a bit hard to come by on the road. Specially lookin' like I do."

Jane sat looking up at the man with the little yellow smiley on his jacket. A little frustrated. Wishing he was somewhere else, but knowing he couldn't be where he wanted to be. And something about this man made him a little apprehensive, with his eagerness to help, insistence that he talk. And his kindness … he wasn't comfortable with kindness.

The traveler dragged a hand through the tangles of his shaggy grey hair, snagging the slender golden band that resided on his gnarled finger. A sudden reflection of the oil lamp's golden glow off the ring caught Jane's attention and tugged at his already taught heartstrings.

It made him shiver.

And a cog turned in his shrewd brain.

"Thought you weren't married," he remarked wryly, trying to deflect, but inwardly grimacing as his mistake punched him in the gut. He was off his game. Allowing his subconscious to bring up subject's that were better buttoned down ...

Woody whipped his hand away from his head, and looked at the ring briefly, wondering if he might be considered a hypocrite. "I'm not," he said, "It's symbolic."

Jane managed to keep the muscles of his face temporarily taught, under control, just for a while, but he'd been having trouble with that all night, so they betrayed him.

And Woody, being an observer of all things human, saw the slip. He saw Jane flinch and glance at his own hand and twist Angela's ring uneasily.

Not in the same way as yours, of course," he hastened to explain. "But it means a lot to me,"

" Oh .. yeah. Well …" Jane muttered.

If he'd been in the bullpen, it would have been time to retreat to the break room and dump his tea down the sink.

Unfortunately he wasn't, so Jane shifted uncomfortably, feeling the tug of solitude, the comfort of his own company. No questions to answer. No justifications to be made. Only having to relive the memories he chose to revisit.

But Woody changed the subject. To another source of pain. Caught him on the hop.

"So, anyway, tell me about this new gal you're shying away from," he suddenly asked.

Jane covered his discomfort with a long draught of the tea he couldn't throw down the sink; a distinctly different potion from the one he'd been served before, but no less pleasant, just more refreshing. He settled himself again and looked up at the man; not so different from himself: clever, good at thinking on his feet, deflecting, probing, but also a lonely man, a little bit melancholy and, like him, running away from, rather than toward something. But undecided. Conflicted.

Woody was intriguing.

What the hell, Jane thought, fortified by the tea. Nothing to lose.

"Well," he said seriously. "I should warn you. It's a long story."

Woody was somewhat taken aback, but pleased.

"O… kay… Then we should go back inside, before it gets cold or the coyotes bite our backsides."

….

...

They didn't appear to be the hands of a killer.

Large enough, maybe, and therefore strong, but they were soft, with long artistic fingers, well manicured and clean, and when he spoke they moved with an eloquence and ease that belied sensitivity, intelligence and wit. But when at rest … well it seemed they were seldom at rest; constantly rubbing finger against finger, flexing with nervous energy. But still, it was hard to believe them capable of taking a life.

"So, how did it feel?"

Jane was shocked. This man was direct, unnervingly so. No one had ever dared ask that question before. In more than two years no one had actually put him on the spot. They always skirted around it. No one. Not even Lisbon. Especially not her.

He found he hadn't even analysed the question himself.

"I .. I .. don't know… " he stammered.

"OK"

He'd lived through it, then put it away behind a locked door in the palace. He'd lived with how it felt, when something on occasion would trigger the memory, but he'd perfected the art of concealment so no explanations had ever been necessary. He could gloss over the feelings, tell the story with detachment, and people seldom dug too deep, out of embarrassment or shock. And he'd only had to do it a couple of times, except when he used the story for his own purposes when he could relate the facts and dress them as required. Sometimes he'd found this to be cathartic. But he had never actually thought about those feelings, analysed them, justified them or confronted them.

For some reason, tonight the detachment seemed to extend to his emotions as they related to Red John's death. Maybe that had something to do with the current reason for his anxiety. It took priority among his worries now; the precarious state of his relationship with Teresa. In fact his whole future. Their whole future … because like it or not his future was inextricably bound with hers and he knew he wanted it to be.

The Red John thing was, as he'd told Lisbon, 'done' 'over' and he'd moved on to another, albeit connected, crisis.

As he thought, and Woody sat quietly observing, he discovered that the prospect of exploring his feelings of those moments and of what he'd done, gave him some sense of relief. It felt like he might be drawing a line under the subject and adding a full stop, and there was something about Woody and the atmosphere of his little piece of sixties make-believe that made him less reluctant to talk.

"I suppose it was like an out of body experience," he found himself explaining, quite dispassionately. "The most intense ecstasy, indescribable … like it wasn't really me."

He was quite calm, looking down at his hands, the hands of a killer, resting on the table, relaxed, quiet.

"I could hear a voice telling him to confess. My voice. I don't remember feeling my hands on his neck, just the anger building, but not really anger. Something else. Then an implosion of relief and weakness. Shaking. I couldn't stop shaking and wanting to cry."

Woody coaxed gently. "And after."

"Nothing. Emptiness."

"What did you do?"

"I ran. I'd already used up all my credit with the justice system, the FBI were gunning for me and Blake was everywhere. Didn't have anything planned. Hadn't expected to come out of it alive, or even care. Even put a gun to my head."

"What stopped you?"

"Teresa."

"What was her reaction?"

"Never found out. I phoned her, straight after, but it went to voice mail. Left a message, telling her I was alright. Then I ran. Spent two years, living in some kind of sunshiny bubble on a Venezuelan island, walking around kidding myself I was happy, smiling at people, thinking it was real."

"Did you keep in touch with her, during those two years?"

"I wrote her letters, nothing special, just telling her what I was up to, which wasn't much. I didn't know if she received them then, while I was writing, couldn't risk revealing my location, but it kept me sane."

"Not love letters then?"

Jane shook his head ruefully and huffed. The first emotion he'd shown since they'd sat down to properly talk.

"I told her I missed her … but not how much."

Woody gave him a moment, moved on.

"But she waited for you?"

"Well not exactly. We had never been together in that way and it was always complicated between us, mostly because of him, Red John, and I was not entirely blameless. I can be difficult, " he tried a self deprecating smile but it came out ugly. "And I was hopeful when I returned, but we'd forgotten how to communicate and I was still more screwed up than I thought. Still am I guess."

"But you're with her now?"

Jane's voice cracked to a pained whisper, and he sought solace in the painted ceiling of the VW, which someone, not Woody, had decorated with a filigree of delicate winding branches and colourful little birds.

"I was. Think I still am," he said. "If I haven't thrown it all away. I'm something of an expert at that."

Suddenly, his epic tale of love won and lost, of new love found and now in perilous danger, became much more difficult to tell. Jane's dispassionate resolve to tell his story began to crumble in the face of the helplessness he'd been feeling lately. A hopeless spiral of fear had been dragging him down since the day he declared his love for Teresa. It seemed he was being punished all over again for being happy.

He dropped his head and cradled his whole face in his hands, suddenly weary, spent and dispirited.

Woody discretely got up from the table, busying himself by putting away the tea things and the plates that were hurriedly shoved aside when they'd left the van earlier. He went to the small cubbyhole over the sink and returned with a half full bottle of bourbon and a couple of small tumblers.

He poured a small amount into each glass and pushed one over to Jane.

"Here. Go easy though, it's all I've got," he instructed. "Don't talk any more, if you don't want to. But it's cool either way. It'll do you good. And I'm a good listener."

Don't talk if you don't want to. It'll do you good. I'm a good listener.

Jane let those phrases ferment and swell, until a thought that bothered him began to tumble around and take form as a hunch. The cogs started to whir and tickle him with a sudden flare of clarity. A glimpse of the old certainty that had been so absent these past days.

A good listener. Only talk if you want to.

Instantly the enigmatic nomad became a bit more transparent to him.

He raised his head in deliberately dramatic slow motion. Slightly red rimmed and bitterly sad eyes connected with shrouded, knowing eyes that saw everything but gave away no secrets; so similar to the reflection in his bathroom mirror most days. On the days when equilibrium ruled and he was ready to face the world. Not on the days when things were good, when he was with Lisbon. On those days light shone back.

"And I think you're a dreadful old fraud, Mr. Free Spirit. But you're wearing your mask right now. You're as rooted in conventional thought as the rest of them. Who do you think you're kidding with all these hippie trappings? It's all smoke and mirrors, isn't it … idealistic magic, delusions, illusions. Hated your old life didn't you, but it's still hiding behind that mask."

Jane rolled his eyes around the van with a smirk on his lips. "But I'll have a drink with you, and I'll talk. If you will. Nothing much to lose,"

He made as if to reach for his wallet, "How much d'ya charge?"

Woody took the challenge in his stride, a twinkle rising from behind his mask. "Takes one to know one Mr. Psychic, but you shouldn't beat yourself up so much about what you used to, you're very good at it. After all it's what much of society's all about; promising the earth, delivering what people think they want and turning a profit. There'll always be weak, stupid and gullible people. Besides, it's all just a matter of degrees of exploitation. And perception."

The smirk deserted Jane's face as he began to protest, fingers twitching with irritation, eyes skittering in sockets darkened by tiredness.

"Where the hell did that come from. That's all bull," he spat, voice low but sharp and brittle. "What I did back then was wrong. I lied. It got my wife and child killed … I'll always be …"

"No. That was Red John. And you're not that man now." He let it sink in. "Are you?"

Woody held Jane's attention with calm strength and complete sincerity and the conviction born of his stillness, commanding and reassuring despite his small stature and drifter's garb.

Jane felt himself being … well …Janed.

He felt his anger shrinking back.

So he pushed it away with a huge expulsion of breath, and took a swig of alcohol to smooth the edges off his nerves, then let himself fall back against the elephants on the Indian cotton throw, arms loose in his lap and stared at the birds on the ceiling until he felt calm return.

After a few moments he lifted his head, sighed softly, and with a bashful smile, ashamed at the volatility, the lack of control, he'd just displayed, he looked at Woody.

"Oh, I think I am ... but I'm trying."

Woody spread his hands, flat and wide and open on the table. He lent slowly forward, just enough to make his point, but not enough to threaten.

"Look man, tragedy made you a different person, that's obvious, inevitable," he paused for thought, considering how much he himself wanted to reveal. "OK, I left my old profession, what ever you think that was, for less dramatic reasons. It was never a good fit anyway. And now I'm a different person. It is what it is. Besides other things got in the way …"

Again interest was piqued and tentative confidence restored,

Jane straightened up a little.

"Betty …?"

"She was Elizabeth back then, still is to me. Changed everything. Together we were a force of nature … no choice but to set out on our grand adventure, ditch the day jobs, upturn professional restrictions, find freedom," he stifled an ironic, mirthless laugh, "Two disillusioned dreamers, full of misguided idealism … but the perfect dream seldom lasts, does it Patrick? Difficult thing to pin down. Floats away like cotton candy on the breeze."

"That it does … " nodded Jane in sad agreement.

"Anyway, she and I've both moved on. Just like you're trying to."

Jane felt himself wilt at the reminder of an eternity of trying. Constantly being urged to try. And failing.

"You have no idea what … nobody knows …"

"I know Patrick, you think there's no comparison. And I don't mean to belittle your past or your current troubles. But you and I, we're both different men now. Shaped by our experiences, but the core of a man still remains, we're both still the same people. Both still resorting to wearing our disguises, but the same man inside. We just have to find the best way for us in this world."

The scepticism radiating from the body beneath Jane's smartly tailored three piece disguise was palpable, but Woody soldiered on. He could never resist a challenge.

"Look," he said earnestly. "I may not be exactly what you assumed I was, and I reckon you've already sussed me, but I'll bet my Betty against your Airstream that I can help you."

"She's called the Silver Bucket." Jane told him plainly.

"Wanna tell me some more then? Let me help you?"

"Couldn't hurt, I suppose.

I'll try to update soon as,don't hold your breath ... but I promise I will.