2. LOST AND FOUND

It took them six days to find her—six of the longest of his life. Jane was by turns lost and focused, combing through what small evidence had been left behind, wishing desperately that he would see something, find anything that would lead them to her. Cho was a bastion of calm, though Jane could only guess at the inner turmoil that silently drove him. How he managed to stay so completely in control of himself, Jane couldn't fathom. Rigsby couldn't sit still, couldn't interrogate enough, couldn't phone enough, couldn't do enough. Grace was relentless in searching, pushing. Only once had she suddenly excused herself to stalk to the ladies' room, barely controlling her urge to run, returning twenty minutes later, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. She cried only once after that, but stayed at her desk, blurred gaze locked on her computer screen, refusing to waste time away.

Finally, they had a breakthrough, oddly with Lisbon's help. When they had exhausted what they thought were all avenues of investigation, Jane had suggested going through her computer files. They were all surprised that Lisbon kept a running journal of criminals she put away—where they were serving time, how much was left of their sentences, when they were released, where they ended up, which ones had threatened her. It pained him that she kept a record of their hatred and anger, their desire for revenge against her.

While the team had counted the days, Lisbon had lost track. She had been taken by the father and brother of a serial murderer she had tracked down and testified against six years ago. Already emotionally bent, prison had broken him. After three years in general population, he had spent two years in the psych ward, tormented by waking nightmares until he had finally, in a rare moment of lucidity, figured out how to kill himself. Jane didn't know what their ultimate plan had been. They probably didn't even know, beyond wanting to make her suffer.

Thankfully, the father had been no rapist, wanting to only use his fists and feet against her. The same could not be said for the son, however. They had heard the gunshots as they approached the rundown shanty in the middle of nowhere, causing them to abandon silent caution for the frenzied rush to save her, praying it wasn't too late. Even Jane had prayed . . . or wished . . . something . . . he wasn't sure.

Tired of his father's refusals to let him have what he wanted, the son had shot the father. Certain of his triumph, he had neglected to shut the cellar door. They crashed into the house and followed the sound of her screaming, Cho rushing ahead and down the stairs with such speed the others could not keep up. One shot then they were all through the door. No one questioned why the son was lying in a heap across the room from her, half of his head blown away, Cho standing over him, clenching his gun, panting deeply in silent, still unquenched rage.

Grace moved to him and put her hand on his shoulder, and he calmed under her touch.

"Cho." Her voice was only barely there as she slid her hand down his arm, covering his gun, willing him to release it into her grasp.

During Grace's exchange with Cho, Rigsby had moved immediately to Lisbon. Jane stood in the doorway, his thoughts a jumble of shocked noise. She whimpered, and his mind cleared, bringing his surroundings and Lisbon's circumstances into sharp focus. The cellar was small and dark, only a bare low-watt bulb lighting the space, controlled by a switch outside the door. There was a bucket on one side of the room, probably the source of the stench. She laid on a pallet of dirty, blood-smeared fabric of some kind, curled tightly into a ball, her back to the room. One arm was extended above her head, her wrist encased in what looked like a manacle from the Middle Ages attached to a chain that was secured to the block work of the wall, allowing her just enough freedom to move to the other side of the narrow room but not to the door. Her jeans lay discarded a few feet away from her. Judging by the evidence at hand, Cho had made it through the door just in time. Rigsby was trying to touch her, but she kept whimpering and pulling away.

"Try just talking to her first." Jane couldn't bring himself to come any further into the room. His reasoning was that she would want her team to handle this, but if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was so nearly overcome with relief that they had found her that he could not trust his actions if he came any nearer to her. Even so, standing on the fringe, he knew what she needed. Rigsby looked at Jane as if trying to decide if following his instruction was really the thing to do and, not having any other ideas, turned back to look at her where she lay. Without touching her, he leaned only his face a little nearer.

"Boss? Please let me get you out of here."

Her body stilled, and slowly, slowly she straightened. A tentative unchained hand reached out behind her towards him. He looked back at Jane, uncertain exactly how to proceed.

"Just take her hand and hold it. You'll know when she's ready."

Rigsby did as he was told. Grace stooped to the lifeless body across the room and retrieved a small, archaic key from its jean pocket. She slipped to Lisbon's side and wordlessly released her from the iron circlet as Cho stood a few feet away, now calm, watching and waiting. Her small hand twitched in Rigsby's larger one, like an injured bird that couldn't decide if it should trust. She stilled once more, and he felt her barely relax. Keeping hold of her hand in one of his, he slid the other under her shoulders and turned her toward him. Jane swallowed, tight and pained as Grace covered her mouth too late to stifle her gasp.

Lisbon was unrecognizable. Her eyes were swollen shut, her jaw tight and displaced. There were bruises circling her neck, and her blouse hung open, torn apart around what had been a row of neat, small white buttons. Her bra was ripped nearly in two. The skin exposed along her torso was a range of colors, shades of blue and purple to green to brown. Her face, clothes and hands were spotted with dried blood. Rigsby sobbed once quietly as he lifted her in his arms. Apparently unable to spend their madness, they had beaten her every day—as recently as that morning.

They walked to the front door as a unit, Jane and the team curved around her to protect her from the elements, both natural and human. Grace halted their procession before they cleared the threshold to make their way out to the waiting ambulance. She found an old blanket and wrapped it around Lisbon, murmuring, "She can't be seen like this."