This is the english version of "Les Contes de l'étang" first chapter, "La règle de trois".
« Well, well, look who's coming! Hey there, doggy… »
Patrick Jane fondly pats the head of the black and white dog who has just walked through the tall grass to join him. Tail wagging happily, the animal greets the man in a blue linen suit with enthusiasm, as any good dog should. However, it's kind of hard to perform this canin ritual perfectly, when you only have three legs. But Jane does not blame him.
« Yes, I'm happy to see you too, doggy… You do recognize me, I see. And I haven't forgotten you either… Number Three! » he smiles, crouching down to pet his furry friend.
The cheerfull reunion now duly celebrated, Jane heads for the big log a little further, the dog on his heels, and sits there facing the pond that borders the old cabin.
The number 3… Jane remembers that the young Gabriel Osbourne, who claimed to be a psychic — may he rest in peace — once told him that he would be cured by the number 3. Of course, back there, Jane had openly mocked these so-called visions.
Come on, what did you take me for, Osbourne? If anyone knows how to trick suckers, it's Patrick Jane.
The number 3 can be found everywhere in everyday life, therefore the chances of meeting it are extremely high. The triangular shape is so common, as are the three primary colors, the three-petalled flowers, the three-lobed leaves, the tricolors flags …
While stroking the dog, who had quietly put his head on his thigh, Jane mentally begins to list the "3" he'd met since the beginning of this day, just to test his memory.
This morning he had had three toasts for breakfast, and drunk three cups of tea. On his way back here, he had bumped into a group of three feds coming out of the FBI headquarters, and then, as his car stopped at a red light, he had seen three laughing teenagers cross the intersection.
Along the road, there was a huge billboard showing an ad for a Japanese car brand, its logo made of three red quadrangles, and further on another advertising poster illustrated with three big colored balloons. Then he had passed three cars — Why are some people driving so slow? —, crossed two roundabouts with three roads…
Yet, upon reflection, even his rational mind has to admit that, sometimes, there are a few funny coincidences.
Once the title deed of the small cottage in hand, Jane had noticed that the original name of the area where the humble wood house was located was "Three Pines". The cabin's address is 2703 Red Oaks Drive, and if he adds 2 + 7 + 0 + 3, he gets 12, and 1 + 2 equals… 3.
The property has 24 acres of land. 2 + 4 equals 6, another multiple of 3. His neighbors, the Johnsons, who have their house further away, on the other side of the large oak grove at the back of his plot, have three children, and apparently, three cats.
The sound of a roaring engine draws him out of his thoughts.
Oh, here they are.
The very reason why the consultant left the FBI office and his beloved wife in the middle of the afternoon.
For today is an important day: the day when the renovation of the old cabin begins. Following Jane's plans, a part will be dismantled to allow the building of a new wing with two large additional rooms, which will give the new cottage the shape of a L.
In a cloud of dust, the truck and its trailer stop near his Airstream. Two big pick-ups follow and park next to it. Oh, come on, three vehicles…
Jane steps forward to shake hands with the tall bearded man getting out of the truck, on which is written in red letters: Bruce and Sons, Home building.
« Hi, Mister Jane! How have you been since last time? »
« Never better, Mr. Bruce, and eager to see you at work » Patrick says while shaking the contractor's big calloused hand.
« I'd like you to meet my two sons, Charlie and Frederick. You'll see, I can assure you that the work will go fast with these guys! »
Jane shakes hands with the two smiling beefy men who have just gotten off the pick-ups. Behind them, a fourth worker joins them, breaking the "series" of three.
« And here comes Willie, my nephew » Jeffrey Bruce says, « He is the one who handles the backhoe like a boss! » he adds, pointing at the small bright yellow digger tied up on the truck's trailer.
While Jane gets his fingers crushed by the handshake of the 6 foot 5 - 264 pounds nephew (at first Mentalist sight), Jeffrey has already retrieved a copy of Jane's drawings from his truck, and is telling his sons where to unload the boards, beams and joists for the future cottage's extension. Their future home.
I'm going to have a new house, Jane thinks. A home, a family, there'll soon be three of us.
These last few weeks, since the wedding, he has barely tought about anything else. He has been dreaming about it. Dreams about measurements, nails, square meters, bulkheads, plaster, frame, power connections.
Sometimes, he dreams of babies too, of baby bottles, of Teresa's belly growing rounder day by day, of the soft scent of baby lotion.
Yesterday, he had dreamed of Charlotte. He was holding her at arm's length, making her spin in the air and she was laughing, laughing, and so did he, and their laughter mingled. But soon, the little body slipped from his hands and Charlotte flew away from him, as if sucked into the sky. And despite all efforts of her father who was screaming her name, his entire body and arms desperately stretched out towards his child, she was slowly fading away to disappear as absorbed and dissolved by outer space. Jane's impotence had then become an intolerable pain, tearing his heart out.
He had awoken with a start, short of breath. Lying next to him, Teresa was staring at him, frowning, with her hand on his sweaty forehead.
He knows she worries about him. She is probably wondering if he's ready to be a father again, because inevitably this will rekindle many memories. Good and bad. Yes, you will have to face your old demons, at some point. Face the fears.
He had promised Teresa: from now on, they will look on the bright side.
Easier said than done. But he had promised, and he has to keep his word.
A home, a family... It all seems so far away. He had lived ten years from motels to motels, slept (when insomnia left him alone, that means rarely) on a makeshift bed resting on trestles in the CBI attic, or lying on his old and worn leather couch. He had had nightmares on a dusty mattress on the floor of his Malibu deserted mansion, laying under a serial killer's macabre and bloody signature.
Sometimes, sleepless nights after sleepless nights, he had driven aimlessly with Brahms or Mozart's for only company, and had ended up collapsing on to the back seat of his faithful DS Citroën for a few hours of bad sleep, before returning to the CBI headquarters in the morning.
Sometimes, sleepless nights after sleepless nights, he had walked through the deserted streets of Sacramento, and had entered shady bars to relish on nightlife scenes, rich in colorful and borderline characters, while knocking back a few glasses of bourbon.
His little pad on the island in Venezuela had been little comfort, while he had faced loneliness there. The ocean, the blond sandy beaches and the bouncing dolphins… It had been nice, but so far from Teresa Lisbon, everything seemed gray.
But today, the sky is blue, the workers are busy helping with the building of his new home, and tonight he will tenderly stroke Teresa's belly, her bulging belly who carries the promise of a new life.
« Willie! » Jeffrey raises his arm, « On three, two, one! » The shackles fall and the digger is released.
Patrick Jane smiles.
