Red Bones, Red Bones- Chapter 8
He walked.
He walked like she had walked.
He walked.
He walked because there was nothing left for him. He walked because she loved him. He walked because it was his fault. He walked because she was dead. He walked for his mistakes. He walked for the love he had lost. He walked for him.
Red John.
Red John the psychopath. Red John the serial killer. Red John the captor. Red John the villain. Red John the angel. Red John.
Because he was everything. Red John. He was the wind in your hair; he was the light in your eyes; he was the blue of the sea; he was the saint in the devil; he was the earth that made up the world.
He was everywhere.
And it drove him crazy.
He was everywhere. He was everything. There was no way that Jane could escape. There was no way he could forget. There was no way he could ever forgive himself for what had happened, that night, oh so many years ago.
This was what his life had come to.
This was what he had become. A desperate old man seeking revenge against the devil. Seeking revenge against a saint. He was a ship in the ocean, just waiting for the iceberg that took him down even when he had survived every storm. There was nothing that could save him now. There was no way out.
His time had come.
Time to join them on the land of the unknown. Time to end his suffering. Time to take the weight of the world off of his shoulders. Time to release the world of his sins. Time to say goodbye.
So he felt nothing.
He felt nothing as he walked towards the end. He felt nothing as he said goodbye without saying any words. He felt nothing as he prepared to take his life.
And it came down to that. He was walking. He was walking to the end. He was walking to his future. He was walking to his past. He was walking to his present.
He was walking to the end.
XXX
"The victim in place of Charlotte Jane was Lily Ingram. She was reported missing about a week before the death and abduction of Angela Ruskin-Jane and Charlotte An-" "You know we know their names, right?" Lisbon asked, cringing at the repetitive use.
"I don't have to, but whilst recording my findings it creates a stronger legal case. That is, if they need to use my notes. I thought you wouldn't mind.. Jane.." She looked around. "Jane isn't here."
Lisbon's eyes widened at the realisation. No one had seen Jane since yesterday.. The strange noises outside of her motel room.. The fact that his car hadn't moved since yesterday…
Where is he? She thought franticly, pulling out her phone to call him.
No reply.
"Van Pelt, Rigsby take his car and look around for him near the motel.. Cho, take Booth's car- is that OK? The two of you can take the West side of town. I'm going to cover the area near the war memorial." She curtly left the room, followed quickly by the agents and confused stares from the scientists.
They had to find him.
XXX
He could hear the sirens. He could hear the confused shouts of the scared people. He could hear the police, tryng to convince him not to do it. He could hear it all.
But he didn't hear any of it.
He didn't hear her pull up. He didn't hear the woman he loved, the reason he had to do this running towards the barrier that the police had set up. He didn't hear her call his name.
He only saw the end.
He only saw himself, slowly removing his jacket, sitting on the edge of the railing. No point in ruining the best tailored suit he had. Then he was untying the shoe laces, laughing out loud.
He was ready to go.
He was ready to say good bye.
So ready, that he had turned it off. He had turned his senses off, in preparation for the ice cold water he would hit when he fell to his death. What a place to die. Arlington Memorial Bridge. His love, standing so far away and yet, she was so close.
Closer than he had thought.
She was coming closer, trying to stop him. Tears were drowning her eyes and yet, she refused to cry. She was slow, and her pace was gentle as she got closer.
He could have this! He couldn't have the woman he was going to die for try to stop him! He couldn't.. He had to.. He had to die, to save her.
He had to die to save them.
He took a deep breath, and pushed himself forwards.
XXX
How could he be doing this? How could the man she had loved, the man she had given up everything or be sitting on the edge of a bridge, about to take his own life?
No.
She couldn't have that.
She couldn't loose him.
She had lost so much, so many, Jane was right. It was hard for her to deal with loss, and it was even harder for her to trust anyone after she had lost so much. She wouldn't.. She couldn't pull herself back together.. If he.. If he did this..
No.
She couldn't loose him.
She couldn't loose the first man she had trusted with her heart since her mother had died, and her father became the alcoholic that claimed his own life. She couldn't loose her reason for living. She couldn't loose her first, her only true love.
She wouldn't loose him.
She couldn't.
But how could she save him? How could she save the man who had just taken off his shoes and his vest, sitting on the edge of a bridge? How could she stop the pain inside of him from spreading?
How hadd she done the same for her brothers, when they were children?
XXX
He pushed himself forwards, so close to the edge now. So close to the end.
So close to them.
It was almost over. It was almost time to end the pain, end the suffering that he had felt. It was almost time to say goodbye; to her; to the team; to the Jeffersonion; to the squinterns; to the carnival; to him.
To Red John.
It was almost time to rid the world of the plague known as Jane. He was the last one. His dad was dead, he was an only child. He had no uncles, or aunts.
No more Janes.
That was the way it should be. He had accepted that now. He had accepter that there was never meant to be a Jane family, anyway. They were all sinners. They were all perpetrators of crime, not the victims they had made themselves out to be. Not the people they had chosen to be. Not the identities they had taken.
And then he heard it.
He heard her.
He heard her last attempt at keeping him alive.
He heard her sing.
XXX
London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down my fair lady.
She sung. She sung like an angel. She sung like an angel, her notes only reaching his ears. She sung for him. She sung for his life, for his hope, for his love.
She sung for Patrick Jane.
Build it up with wood and clay,
Wood and clay, wood and clay,
Build it up with wood and clay, my fair lady.
XXX
Because he wasn't a monster. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't a fraud, not any more. He wasn't all the things he had made himself out to be. He wasn't the man his identity said he was. He was Patrick Jane, he was a man. He was a widow. He was a widow who had fallen in love again. He was a widow who had fallen in love again who's daughter needed him.
His daughter.
The little bundle of joy, the little ball of life who he had created, the little bundle of joy who would always count on him. The little bundle of joy who needed him now.
His little bundle of joy.
His little Charlotte, the girl who needed him. Needed him more than ever.
He had a chance.
He had a chance to redeem himself. He had a chance at getting his life back. He had a chance at falling in love again. He had a chance.
He had a choice.
Take the easy way out, or take the chance.
Take the easy way out an sacrifice his daughter, sacrifice his love, or take the chance.
Take the easy way out, and kill her, or take the chance, and save them all.
And he remembered. He remembered the three promises he had made, both to different people, both from different chapters of his life. He had promised to save them, promised to care for them, no matter what it took. No matter who it hurt, who it killed, he would café for these women. He had already broken a promise. He had already gone back on his word.
But it wasn't too late. Two out of three is no saint, but it is better than nothing. Saving two out of every three will save them. Keeping two promises out of every three will not make him trustworthy, but it will make him a better man, a better father, a better lover, a better husband. All he had to do was keep his word. Not like a saint, but like a father. Like a husband. Like a lover. Like a co-worker. Like a friend.
And Patrick Jane was good at not being a saint.
A/N- Sorry for the slow update! I really wanted to get the suicide right! I have a few friends who have been in this situation, and it's really hard to be in Lisbon's shoes here. Although I haven't ever actually sung to anyone myself, a few of my friends have said music helps them think, helps them stop to see hwat they're doing. Just a littl heads up, if anyone ever trys to commit suicide, don't tell them that they have so much to live for, or any of the crap you see on TV (none of that is even remotly true.)
This chapter was inspired by Maybe This Time, by OK Go... Reviews? :) :)