chapter eight

Bad Sun

xxxxx

Twenty four hours and eleven full boxes of case reports later, they are no closer to making any headway on the presumed murders of Gary and Melissa Cooper. Neither Martin Howell nor Karl Lutz was interviewed in connection with the young couple's disappearance, although both men were confirmed in the Bay Area at the time. The fact that the bodies were never found complicated matters; officially, this remained a missing persons case, although unofficially, the Coopers were assumed dead long ago.

Lisbon finds herself giving in to feelings of frustration and futility as she retreats to her office, anxious to get her own quick temper away from those of her three agents. Even the always affable Rigsby had muttered a few choice words at their latest dead end; they finally tracked down the convenience store manager - inconveniently named John Smith - only to find that the John Smith in question died six years ago. But Jane had been worse than the other three combined.

He had been unusually helpful with even the more tedious aspects of going through the old case, including volunteering to go through an entire box of faded, handwritten interview notes, a task he would never deign to undertake under normal circumstances. That alone had been enough to raise her concern. Since he came clean about his suspicions the precious afternoon, he had been on his best behavior. She knows that he feels guilty about keeping his theory from her and she appreciates that he did not want to worry her unless it was absolutely necessary. However, they'd had many similar arguments in the past. She could only hope that this time, this case, would be the one that would finally drive that point home for him.

From her vantage point sitting at her desk, Lisbon can see her three agents sitting at their desks, all hard at work. But as usual, it's Jane on whom her attention falls. He is sitting up on his couch, his familiar blue teacup in one hand and a file in the other. She wonders how he's truly coping with all of this. He seems different than he did with Red John cases in the past, which she supposes does make sense, yet she still worries. There are traces of that familiar madness in his eyes.

She isn't even sure that he himself has noticed.

With a heavy sigh, she turns her attention back to her own work. She pulls her own bible from its proper place in her second desk drawer and turns to the verses she recorded on a post-it note. Jane believes these verses are a message sent to single her out, and perhaps there is something she can glean from careful reflection that Jane might not notice. As she places the bible down on her desk, she catches sight of Edmund sitting right where she placed him the afternoon before, and she smiles to herself. Only Jane could get her a stuffed turtle as an apology and get away with it. Her mood lightened, albeit just slightly, she tries to make sense of the riddle before her.

After nearly half an hour, Lisbon realizes the words on the page have started to run together, and one quick glance around the bullpen tells her that her agents are not making any progress either. Even Jane, usually a master at either appearing occupied or completely disinterested, seems unable to feign either of those moods, instead opting to run one hand through his hair as he casts the file down; a rare show of weakness from him.

She glances at her watch: almost 4:00 on Friday afternoon. As much as it pains her to admit it, every avenue of their investigation has currently reached a dead end, and after the overtime they've been putting in over the last week, there is simply nothing left for them to do for the time being. Their best course of action - their only course of action - is to go home, rest, and start fresh on Monday. She will continue the investigation on her own over the weekend; she imagines Jane will as well. But three overworked, overtired agents will be of no use to her when Karl decides to strike again, and she needs her agents at the top of their game.

Lisbon reluctantly gathers up her notes and heads to the bullpen to dismiss her team.

xxx

Just under two hours later, Lisbon turns the corner onto her street at a steady jog. Her breath comes in heavy pants as she passes the familiar homes on her block. She feels a gentle breeze against her face and hears the pounding of her feet against the pavement, and she finishes her run with a final burst of energy as she runs up her front walk. Although the late afternoon temperature has already begun to fall, she welcomes the cool air that greets her as she enters her air conditioned apartment.

Upon arriving home from work, she had immediately traded in her professional slacks and loafers for running shorts and trainers in the hopes that at least a short run would relieve some of her case-related stress. It had, but not by much.

She allows herself a few moments' rest, reclining back against her love seat as her breathing returns to normal. Her muscles ache slightly, the pleasant consequence of a particularly strenuous work out, and her eyes close as the temporary adrenaline rush wears off slightly.

Lisbon rises somewhat reluctantly from the sofa and heads into the kitchen, quickly locating her take out menus in the drawer directly underneath her phone. She picks the first menu off the top of the pile and begins to dial, eyes skimming the menu quickly as she decides at random what she wants to order. It's still a little too early for dinner and she hasn't been especially hungry all week, as is often the case when she feels increased stress, but she makes it a point to go through the motions all the same.

The teenage boy on the other end of the line tells her that her total is $21.71 - she could barely remember what she had ordered - and her food will be there in 45 minutes to an hour. Lisbon scarcely has time to acknowledge this before she hears the familiar click and the return of the dial tone. Unfazed, she hangs up her own phone and begins to make her way up the stairs. She would have plenty of time to shower and change before her food arrives, and then she would be alone for the weekend with nothing but her case files and Jane's theories on the delusions of a mad man.

Within minutes, she stands in her shower as the water cascades over her, and her hand reaches forward, grasping the hot water faucet and increasing the temperature. It burns at first, the stream now near scalding, but it still is not enough to burn away the pessimism and despair that she has been fighting all day - all week - since the moment they arrived at the rest stop to discover Jennifer Howell's body.

In the privacy of her own home, she has no other excuses to keep those feelings at bay.

xxx

Although she does not linger in the shower, the sun is beginning to sink low in the sky by the time Lisbon emerges from her bathroom. It fills her living room with its soft light, and its rays reach out to greet her as she makes her way back downstairs. She settles in on her sofa and turns on the television, selecting one of the cooking shows she has stored on her TiVo. The television serves as an ideal distraction for her current frame of mind; she allows herself to focus on something other than the case for a little while.

Lost in her own world, it takes a few moments for her to register the pounding at her front door. She frowns; her food isn't due to arrive for at least another twenty minutes.

However, when she opens the door, it is not a teenage boy holding a bag with her dinner who greets her. Instead, it is a young man in his mid to late twenties, tall and thin with red hair and freckles. He must have a pale complexion under normal circumstances, but he appears now as the embodiment of pale as a ghost, his face contorted in sheer panic.

"Are you Teresa?" he stumbles over the words, trying to spit them out too quickly in his current state.

"I am," Lisbon confirms, trying to remain neutral in expression so as not to agitate him further until she knows what is going on. "Can I help you?"

"I..." he chokes out, "I called 911 already, but my sister mentioned that she lived next door to a cop and..."

Your sister, she wonders to herself, and then realization dawns on her. "You're Anna's brother," she gasps, more to herself than to him. The nausea that she has been fighting back all week suddenly returns full force, settling deep in her stomach and causing bile to rise up in her throat. She doesn't need Anna's brother to tell her what has happened - doesn't want to hear the words, even as she knows the truth - but his broken reply comes nonetheless.

"I knew something wasn't right. I found her lying on the floor, there was blood everywhere. She's not breathing. I think... I think she's dead. I think she's been murdered."

In one quick, fluid motion, Lisbon rushes to her bookshelf, grabs the nearest glock she can find, and reverts to on duty cop mode. Before she is conscious of her actions, she has called the team back in and contacted Hightower at home to report the crime.

Standing in Anna's living room, with Anna's brother (whose name, she finally recalled with some difficulty, was Sean) on the phone to his parents just one room away, Lisbon attempts to survey the grim scene in front of her with careful, professional detachment. Her efforts are in vain the moment she lays eyes on Anna's body.

Where Anna had once been a beautiful woman, her body now lay mutilated practically beyond recognition. The wounds that cover the expanse of her frame are deep and erratic, made in escalating anger, and the blood that pools around her is still bright red and fresh. Anna could not have been dead long.

Was he here when I came home? Lisbon wonders to herself. If we missed each other, it would not have been by much. Would she have had a chance if I had come home earlier? Could I have saved her?

The possibilities haunt her more every second she stands over her neighbor's lifeless body.

The two women had been friends, and while they had not been close by any means, the message that Karl sent was abundantly clear, even without reading the note that Lisbon is certain Karl left somewhere on the body.

Casting her eyes around the living room once more, Lisbon is struck by one of the crucial differences between Red John and his mentor. Jane always said Red John was a showman. She recalled Jane's words when they'd worked a copycat case nearly three years ago: You see the face first and you know. You know what's happened and you feel dread. Then, and only then, do you see the body of the victim. Always in that order.

But where Red John had been a showman and his crime scenes had reflected that, Karl is a showman in an entirely different way. Karl does not stage a scene; at least, not one for the victim's family. Every action is deliberate and serves his own agenda, but that agenda is primarily concerned with proving his superiority over his former student. He does not leave a mark on the wall to inspire dread the same way Red John had; Karl channels that into even greater violence, leaving the mark directly on the victim instead.

As a result, each crime scene has been more gruesome than the one before.

Lisbon is grateful when CSU begins to make an appearance and, one by one, her own team arrives on the scene - Jane first, then Van Pelt, Cho, and Rigsby. Sean is still sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly forward, and although all three of her agents offer to take his statement, Lisbon insists on taking it herself. She can sense Jane lingering just beyond the kitchen door as she listens to Sean's account of what happened, but her consultant is mercifully silent for the duration. When she finishes, she sends Sean to a hotel; he has seen more than enough already.

Rejoining her unit in the living room, she finds that even Agent Hightower has arrived at the scene and is already deep in conversation with Cho.

Lisbon stands back and allows the rest of her team to work, but Jane ambles up beside her, offering a supportive smile. "Did you know her well?" he asks.

"I knew her a little, but not well," she shakes her head, her voice quiet and subdued. "Not really. But she used to run cross country, and sometimes..."

"Say no more," he finishes. "You were friends."

Lisbon exhales, grateful that he understood without her needing to explain any further because at that moment, Hightower motions them over. In her hand, Hightower holds the note that had been on the body, the note Lisbon knew was there.

Hightower lays the note out on her gloved palm so that they can read it with ease; Lisbon only needs to read it once. No hints or games this time, just a simple, direct threat.

Now it's personal.

"Lutz is escalating," Hightower says matter-of-factly. "And I would consider this a direct threat. I think we need to assume that Jane is correct in his theory that Lutz is going to come after you, Lisbon."

"I was home, and he was here," Lisbon counters. Her eyes scan the scene in the living room once more and land on the sight of Erica, the medical examiner, bent over Anna's body. "If he wanted to come after me, why didn't he do it then?"

"I don't know why he didn't come after you this time, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't if the chance presents itself again." Hightower pauses, frowning in consideration. "Since I can assume that you'll turn down any protective detail, do you have somewhere else to stay tonight?"

"I'll be fine!" Lisbon protests insistently.

"I'm not taking any chances," Hightower commands with a tone of finality with which not even Teresa Lisbon would dare argue. "He obviously knows where you live, and until we can be certain that you are safe, I don't want you staying here without a protective detail. So it's your choice: stay in a hotel for a few days, or tolerate the protective detail. At the very least, it will give the rest of us some peace of mind."

"Fine," Lisbon agrees with a reluctant sigh. "I'll just go grab a few of my things."

"Pack for a couple of days." Jane, who has been hovering silently for the duration of her conversation with Hightower, finally speaks up. But it's what he does not say that speaks volumes.

We don't know how long it's going to take to find him, so it might not be safe for you to come back here for a while.

A chill runs down her spine at the thought, but Lisbon turns without a word and escapes to the would-be comfort of her own home.

Standing in the shadows in her bedroom, the familiar space suddenly seems foreign. She begins to pack her overnight bag, then shakes her head and abandons that for the larger suitcase she rarely ever uses unless she's going back east to visit her brothers. She moves slowly but deliberately, packing her things on autopilot.

When she finishes, she gives her bedroom a careful once-over. Her bed is made, but the rest of her room is a state of disarray, slightly more so than normal. The blouse she wore yesterday lies crumpled on the floor by her hamper in the exact spot it landed the night before, her favorite leather jacket is strewn on top of her dresser, and several pairs of shoes have become an obstacle that she must step over if she wants to access her closet. She has simply been too exhausted, too world-weary, and any moment she has to herself has been spent in restless slumber.

All things considered, the change of scenery might do her some good. She can read case reports from a hotel room just as easily as she might from her living room sofa.

Outside, Jane's familiar blue Citroen is parked parallel to her own vehicle, visible in the glow of the streetlights, with Jane leaning back against the passenger door. Noticing her immediately, he meets her halfway.

"Please don't tell me Hightower is sending you with me for my protection," Lisbon teases weakly, attempting to play down the palpable tension in the air between them.

For her efforts, Jane smiles back in self-deprecation. "Oh no. This arrangement is solely for my protection."

She laughs. "As long as we're clear on that."

"Hightower knows where I'm taking you," he says, his tone suddenly hushed and serious. "But no one else. She thinks this will be safer than putting guard detail on you, and I agree. We don't know... We don't know if there's someone on the inside."

Of course, she realizes instantly. Red John had moles too. There's no way to know who we can trust.

"My credit card will still be traceable, as will any Bureau card that we use," Lisbon concludes with a frown. As soon as Jane raised the possibility of a mole in the CBI, another concern came to mind. "And if there's someone on the inside, they'll be able to access the records."

"Ahhh," Jane replies quickly, but where his voice would normally be controlled and confident, now it is sincere, even concerned. He offers a reassuring smile. "We've taken that under consideration. Everything will be taken care of. Just trust me."

Finding nothing quite so disarming as a sincere Patrick Jane, she gathers all of her wits and raises an eyebrow. "'Just trust me'?" she says in jest, giving a good-natured laugh. "How many times have I heard that before?"

Jane laughs, soft but genuine, and together they walk toward his car.

"Well in that case," he quips, his eyes alight, much more like his usual self, "I suppose you can carry your own bags."

She rolls her eyes, but she feels a sense of relief - slight, but present - as she climbs into the passenger seat of his car. They ride in comfortable silence: Jane, for once, not fiddling with the radio stations; Lisbon gazing out the window at the quiet streets, the people living their lives without giving the horrible headlines more than a few moments' thought.

Lisbon thinks of Anna, of Anna's parents and her brother Sean, and of Jennifer Howell and Paula Connelly. She thinks of her family and her team and Hightower, then finally of Jane.

She knows that Karl's actions are only going to get worse, and she can only hope that she can be everything that they need. Her professional armor is growing fragile beneath the weight of this case. More than anything, she needs a quiet night to recollect herself.

Maybe a few nights in a hotel wouldn't be the worst thing, she muses to herself.

But for the first time since Jane put the car in drive, she begins to take notice of where they are. They have been driving for almost twenty minutes, and all Lisbon has seen is residential areas. As a matter of fact, Jane is turning into a private subdivision, and most of the hotels are on the other side of town.

"Jane?" She narrows her eyes, her confusion evident in the crease in her forehead. "Where are we going?"

"Patience, my dear Lisbon. You'll see in just a minute."

He dismisses her question quickly and keeps his eyes on the road. The car begins to decelerate, and there's not one hotel in sight, just a tree-lined street full of private homes.

"Jane!" This time, she speaks more forcefully, her tone insistent, as the car continues to decelerate. "Where exactly are you taking me?"

At that moment, Jane brings the car to a complete stop, pulling up along the sidewalk. He shifts gears and puts the car in park.

"This isn't a hotel," she observes, mostly in question.

"I know it's not," he answers immediately. When he turns to look at her, he appears forlorn and subdued, as though whatever he is about to tell her is certain to disappoint her. Silently, she promises to temper her reaction if at all possible; she would never consciously cause him pain, not if it could be avoided, and Jane has only been acting in what he believed to be her best interests.

Lisbon reaches out and touches his arm gently, waiting patiently for him to explain.

"I talked it over with Madeleine, and she agreed," he continues, his tone not exactly quiet, but not quite animated either. "So we decided that I should bring you to the one place no one would ever think to look for you. My place."

She looks at him blankly, not sure she's heard him correctly. Somewhere nearby on this quiet suburban street, a dog barks and headlights flash; someone else is returning to their quiet suburban home. But not Jane. Not to a place like this. Not here, in Sacramento.

Jane shrugs and flashes her his best smile, outshining the street lamps in its brightness.

"Welcome to Casa Jane."

xxxxx

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A/N: So obviously the updates are just going to be a little bit slow in coming no matter what I do, but they always come. We're not going to talk about how long ago Yana sent this chapter back to me. Since then, I have moved three times (yeah, you read that right) and written about 30,000 words of Big Bang fic (which for those of you who follow the other stories I write, will be updated tomorrow as promsied). I forgot to mention it last time, but the title for Chapter 7 was from a Snow Patrol song. The title for this chapter is by The Bravery. This is probably my favorite chapter so far.

Thanks, as always, to those of you who have stuck around for my glacier-paced updates. Please sign in when you review, especially if you have questions. That way I can answer you! :-)