RED MIST, a mentalist fanfic

Disclaimer : The characters are all Bruno Heller's, I just read into their thoughts and behaviours and am inspired by them.

Author's note : Continuance of the stories RED LETTER DAY and RED OR DEAD…Red John lives on…

Thanks to : The fabulous, the beautiful, the booty-licious Baker man! J

RED MIST

"JANE! STOP!" yelled Lisbon.

There was a crazed expression on the CBI consultant's face as he held the knife aloft. His right knee was pushing firmly down onto the stocky man's ribcage and stomach, and his left forearm was pinning him down across his chest.

"What are you waiting for Mr Jaaane?" wheezed his captive. There was a gentle quality to his strangled words. "Do it! I won't struggle – just like your wife didn't struggle when I straaddled her."

Jane's eyes burned. Pure hatred poured from them. The rage that filled him had been building for so long now. This was it – finally – the moment he had been waiting for; the moment he had imagined in his mind's eye so many times before. He was going to make this bastard pay, make him suffer, and watch him die slowly.

"I'm going to gut you like a fish, you despicable son of a bitch," he hissed. His jaw muscle twitched like a rabid dog.

Lisbon was desperate. She stood with her weapon drawn and pointed at her 'colleague'. Rigsby and Cho were on either side of her in similar, albeit somewhat uncomfortable, stances.

"PATRICK!" shouted the small brunette. She never called him that and, by doing so, hoped that it would distract his attention for just long enough. She'd seen that haunted obsessive look on his face before, but this time it glowed so fiercely in his eyes that it truly scared her. He was adamant, determined and so sure that this was his nemesis…but he was wrong, and she knew it. Trying to convince Jane of that fact, at this particular moment, was going to be nigh on impossible. He had waited so many years for this moment, and no matter how much she tried to understand his torment and reasons for behaving this way, she couldn't allow him to do it.

"It's NOT him!" she cried. "It's NOT Red John!"

The psychotic look didn't dissipate from Jane's stare but there was a slight flicker of recognition at the sound of Lisbon's voice. The skin just beneath his left eye twitched. He shook his head slightly as he raised his gaze and looked up at her.

"Oh it's him alright, Lisbon." His saucer-like eyes moved to one side as if listening to an inner voice. "It all fits – I should have seen it earlier; the voice; … his name; …. Rolltide…" His breathing was rapid. "He's Red John… He killed my wife and daughter…and now I'm going to kill him." Jane's fingers twitched as his eyes dropped back to his captive. The man grinned up at his captor, calmly daring him with his look. Jane clasped the knife even tighter and began to bring it downwards.

"JANE! NO!" screamed Lisbon.

Cho and Rigsby glanced at each other, and at Lisbon, fearfully. They knew what they were supposed to do, but they were never supposed to find themselves in this position. It was like time had slowed down. In the split-second it took for their eyes to leave each other and return to the scene in front of them, their boss had taken the decision away from them.

A shot rang out.

There was an audible grunt, followed by a light clatter as the blade fell to the floor. Jane's mouth was open and a puzzled frown creased his brow. In slow motion, he slumped slightly and slid from his quarry. His left hand made contact with the ground as he tried to steady himself and keep in a sitting position, but it buckled and he fell backwards – all the while his eyes and face conveyed a look of surprise, pain and disbelief.

Lisbon was already racing towards him, replacing her weapon and yelling at Rigsby and Cho to call the paramedics. There was a look of horror on her own face; she couldn't actually believe what she had just done.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Two days earlier, Hattiesburg, CA

Rosalind Harker was hesitant. "I don't know about this, Peter. I'm not a part of that world…" She stared, blindly, to his slight left, seeing nothing through the cloudy, almost opaque, lenses of her eyes.

"You'll be fine, Rosalind. 24 hours, that's all. You'll enjoy yourself. It's a symposium for blind and partially sighted musicians; everybody there is just like us. It's good for you to get out now and again," responded her trusted friend. He too suffered from impairment of vision, although he wasn't completely blind like her.

"But I'll feel so self-conscious!"

Peter laughed, "Trust me, nobody will be taking any notice of you!" he joked. She slapped him playfully on the arm. He bent to pick up her overnight bag. "Now come on or we'll be late. I don't want to miss the opening act; Bach's Brandenburg concerto No.2. Simply divine!" He led her carefully down the steps from her front porch and made sure she was seated in the vehicle, before opening the tailgate and placing her bag next to his.

Once he was behind the wheel, and both were fastened in, he said, "Ready?"

She took a deep breath and smiled, "As I'll ever be."

Slowly, he turned the wheel and they headed off down the dusty track. Neither one of them were aware of the black SUV, obscured by foliage and fauna, that turned onto the track after them.

CBICBICBICIBCBI

Sacramento, CA

Officer Blake Powell ran his hand through his short, brown hair and yawned. It had been a long shift. He'd been called out to several domestic disputes and was getting bored hearing the same excuses over and over again: 'Sorry officer...it was just a little argument that got out of hand' and 'It won't happen again.' He was also sick and tired of the fact that none of the victims ever wanted to press charges – 'He didn't mean it'; 'It's just the drink that causes him to act up'; 'That bitch of a neighbour needs to keep her nose out of our business!' Stupid women - same old, same old.

He pulled his vehicle into the lot at the back of the precinct and went inside to collect his things and sign out for the evening. His shift was supposed to end at 7 pm and it was now closer to 8.30 pm already. Cindy would be pissed – another dinner in the dog, so-to-speak. Still, he loved the fact that she cooked for him. In fact, he loved pretty much everything about the woman that had been his wife for close on 13 years now – well, except maybe that she sometimes used his razor to shave her legs. He smiled at the thought of her legs; the gal sure had a set of pins on her; they ran all the way up to her armpits. He remembered sliding the garter all the way up them on that hot, humid day – the day they got married in a little church back home in Montgomery, Alabama. He felt his muscles begin to relax at the memory and the tension of his shift drifted away as he drove the short 15 - 20 minute journey home.

Cindy was seated on the couch reading a gossip magazine when Powell walked through the front door. It was a modest little place, but they liked to think of it as home – for now anyway, they kept telling themselves. The transfer to California was only supposed to be a temporary one; it just hadn't worked out that way.

"Hey honey," he said, as she glanced up.

"You're late. Dinner's in …"

"..The dawg?" he interjected.

She smiled and shook her head. "That predictable, huh?"

He raised his eyebrows and grinned back at her. There was a slight lilt to his accent, an elongation of his 'a' vowel. "You're not maad?" he asked softly. He hated spoiling meals that she had taken the trouble to prepare.

She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. He glanced at the staircase and then said, "I'm just gonna take a shower and then what say we go out and get something to eat?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

She shrugged again. "Okay, whatever."

Inwardly, he felt a little irked at her response, but then that was Cindy – she wasn't too big on showing too much emotion at one time.

As he entered the bedroom, Powell got the strangest sense that there was something amiss. His eyes scanned the room. Nothing seemed to be out of place, yet he couldn't shake the feeling. He sighed, flopped heavily down onto the bed and began to unlace his boots. It was then that he noticed it.

Cindy was still on the couch when he pounded down the stairs clutching a leather handcuff holder. A cold, pained rage filled his eyes.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded.

Cindy looked up, startled. Her eyes fell onto the object in her husband's hand and for the briefest of moments there was a flash of fear; the fear of discovery. She tried to shrug it off quickly.

"Looks like your 'cuff holder," she answered.

"It's not my 'cuff holder, I'm still wearing it." His voice was combative.

"Oh. Well…maybe it's your spare one?" Cindy was running out of ideas. Her face flinched as soon as she said it, as she remembered that he didn't have a spare one. Her eyes widened. She knew he could tell she was lying. He took a step forward and she got up off the couch, moving quickly to position herself so that it was between them. He was a well-built man, not too much muscle, but not soft either. At just under six feet tall he towered over her diminutive, slender frame. She was afraid of what he might do – there was a strange look in his eyes.

"Who is it?" he demanded to know. "How long has it been going on?" There seemed to be pure venom in his usually gentle voice; yet at the same time, he seemed small and vulnerable.

Cindy began to cry. "I'm sorry, Blake….I am so sorry…" was all she managed to utter.

CBICBICBICBICBI

O'Flaherty's Irish Bar, Sacramento, CA - 10.30 pm

The loud ceili music made conversation almost impossible, but then most of the regulars didn't go there to talk. Blake Powell was slumped on a stool at the end of the long mahogany bar. He was staring blindly at the row of empty shot glasses lined up in front of him. Despite his stupor, he became aware of a presence at the side of him. A familiar looking man stood pointing at the stool next to his. He didn't need to speak; universal bar language told Powell that he was enquiring about its availability. Blake waved a hand, "'S'all yours," he slurred.

"Thaank you," responded the figure, in a soft voice. It had a high, nasal quality to it, as well as a very slight southern lilt. He looked at the drunken man. "Just got off shift?" he asked. Most of the clientele of this place came from the field of law enforcement in some capacity, so it was a good bet that the guy would be a cop having a few drinks to shake off the day.

"Nope," responded Powell, slightly belching the word. "Got off hours ago."

The figure nodded at the bartender, who placed a beer down in front of him. He then nodded towards Powell, "And whatever my friend here is having." The bartender rolled his eyes slightly – he knew where that guy was heading; still, he poured out another shot of bourbon, as requested.

Powell looked up at his new acquaintance. The guy did look familiar, but he couldn't quite place him. "Thanks maan."

"Roy," said the man, by way of an introduction. Powell nodded and held out a hand.

"Blake," he responded. They shook each other's hand uncomfortably, as it seemed like too formal an action for a place like this. Recognising the lilt in the stranger's voice he queried, "Alabaama?"

"Meridien, born and bred," came the reply.

Roy looked at his beer bottle and ran a finger through the condensation that had formed. He didn't look at Powell when he said, "I can see thaat you're troubled about something; a woman."

Blake snorted a short laugh. "Yup." He stared at his shot glass. "What are you…psychic?" He laughed grimly.

A closed smile formed on Roy's lips at the irony. "No, not really… It was obvious by your dejected stoop… and the large number of glasses you seem to have acquired here." He motioned towards the tiny regiment of empty shots lined up on the bar. "Women can do that to you." He took a swig of his own beer and placed it back onto the bar, still staring straight ahead.

Powell looked at his little army and then at Roy. His eyes drifted to the black hood on the back of the man's top, then back to the glasses and finally to his drink, as he agreed with a repeated nod of his head and quietly mouthed, "Yep, they sure caan." His eyelids were getting heavy, as was the weight upon his shoulders. He had been struggling with the idea of ending it all, once and for all; he'd really blown it with Cindy, - assault and battery, and rape. His career would be over, not to mention the jail time he was looking at. He was contemplating ways to commit suicide when this familiar stranger had engaged him in conversation

Roy turned to face Blake. He leaned closer to the man's ear, briefly tapping him gently on the arm. Although quiet and gentle, his lilting voice could clearly be heard over the music. He said, "Women… Always pulling you every which waay, baack and forth…baack and forth….baack and forth…" He looked at his subject, whose eyes were beginning to droop. "I can help you….if you want. You can do something about these feelings you have….You can lose all that pain. You want to do that, don't you Blake? You want the pain to go away… and never come baack."

Blake was listening to the man's words. He felt sleepy. Their soft sound seemed to be lulling him into relaxation, a state he hadn't felt in hours. He breathed deeply; the alcohol in his system seemed to be taking effect. He found himself nodding, and swaying, to the hooded man's words. He felt another gentle tap on his upper arm, stood up without thinking and followed Roy out of the bar and into the night.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Hotel, Southside, Sacramento, CA

Rosalind was glad Peter had talked her into going into the city. She had thoroughly enjoyed herself and hadn't felt self-conscious at all. There had been so many interesting people at the symposium, and the music had been magical. She'd listened with rapture at the talent displayed by these so-called 'challenged' individuals. Her favourites had been the pieces by Sibelius and Mozart, and of course, Bach. The Brandenburg concertos had brought back some happy memories for her, of times gone by and an old friend. She smiled.

The news came on the television, which she had turned on as background noise, breaking her reminisces. There was a report of a local woman who had been murdered by her husband in a jealous rage; a story about a politician who had been indicted for fraud; and a piece about the closure of a local newspaper print works. Compared to the previous reports, the latter seemed almost like light-relief. It seemed that the paper had just gone out of business after 25 years due to falling numbers in circulation, brought on by the recession – people just weren't buying it anymore, choosing instead to get the free news from the TV and the internet. Rosalind sighed; all you ever heard these days was bad news, doom and gloom. It was late, anyhow. She had an early start in the morning. Peter would be collecting her from her room at 8 am. She switched off the TV and was just about to start her routine of getting ready for bed when there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" she asked, standing close to the doorway.

"It's me, Rosalind," replied a gentle, lilting voice.

There was a pause as recognition set in. Rosalind opened the door slightly. "Roy?" she asked, not quite believing it.

"Hello, Rosalind. Can I come in? I want to explain." Roy stood in the doorway. He was dressed from head to toe in black clothing. His hood was up, covering his features and on his hands he wore black rubberised gloves. At his side stood Blake Powell, dressed in an identical manner, and carrying a small hook-shaped knife.

Seeing none of this, a smile formed on Rosalind's face. In her head she could hear the Bach performance from earlier that evening. She took a step backwards and gestured, blindly, with her arm for him to enter the room.

"Thank you," said Roy politely. Both he and Blake stepped over the threshold and into the room; with Powell shutting the door quietly behind them.

CBICBICBICBICBI

CBI HQ, Sacramento, CA

Agent Wayne Rigsby was reclining in his chair. His feet were crossed and perched on the corner edge of his desk as he screwed up yet another piece of paper. He then launched it backwards over his head in the direction of the novelty basketball hoop that was affixed to the wall at the side of his area. He missed…again.

Grace Van Pelt was staring despairingly up at the ceiling above her desk. Her hands rested on the keypad of the laptop in front of her – desperate to actually type something, or cross-reference something, or just do something. She had never known it to be this quiet in the Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit…ever. Somebody was always murdering someone, somewhere in the area - just not today it seemed; and as the team had wrapped up their previous case the day before, they simply had nothing to do…except wait.

When the phone rang, there was almost a stampede to reach it.

Cho got there first. In his inimitable style he uttered very few words in response to the voice on the other end of the line. His eyes glanced over at the brown leather couch against the brick wall of the bullpen as he scribbled an address down onto a scrap of paper. He hung up the phone.

Rigsby and Van Pelt were looking at him in anticipation. Cho breathed deeply and said, "Looks like Red John is back in town."

At the mere mention of the name, Patrick Jane sat up from his lying position on the couch. He stood up, without speaking, and walked over to the others who were sliding their paddle holsters into position. It was at that point that Agent Teresa Lisbon stepped into the bullpen.

"The AG's office just called. They think they have another Red John case for us. A woman's body was found in a hotel room on the south side of town…smiley face on the wall."

Jane asked, "Do they have an ID?"

Lisbon shook her head, "Not confirmed yet."

Cho held up his piece of paper. Lisbon nodded, "Is that the address?" He nodded in the affirmative. Lisbon took a deep breath. Previously this case would have gone to Agent Sam Bosco's team, but several months back there had been a tragic incident where Bosco's team had been murdered right there at the CBI. Somehow, Red John had managed to manipulate Bosco's assistant into taking out the lead team – all because he wanted Patrick Jane back on the case. And as Jane was the consultant linked to her team, it was obvious that they would be given back the case. It was times like these when she missed Minnelli, who had retired after the loss of Bosco's team, leaving her instead with a new female boss; Madeline Hightower. Lisbon wasn't quite sure she even liked the woman, much less trusted her. God, she missed Minnelli.

She shook the memory off and, gesturing with her head and her eyes, said simply, "Let's roll."

CBICBICBICBICBI

Hotel, Southside, Sacramento, CA

The scene was a hive of activity. Crime scene techs were busy fixing the scene and marking and removing evidence. Lisbon could already see the familiar crying smiley as she flashed her badge and entered the room. As she did so, one of the techs turned around. His ID badge introduced him as Brett Partridge, but she needn't have bothered looking as she recognised him from the two other occasions their paths had crossed. She acknowledged him with a nod and he turned back to what he was doing. Having sighted Partridge around Lisbon, Jane rolled his eyes and exhaled heavily as if to say 'not him again'. Each time they had previously had the displeasure of being in each other's company, the man had irked Jane considerably. The feeling was mutual.

Lisbon took a step towards the body on the bed which was covered by opaque plastic. Jane followed. They stood for a second. Lisbon glanced at the consultant, then she pulled back the sheet. Jane's eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he took in more air. He wanted to look away, but for a few seconds his stare seemed anchored at the deep, elongated, bloody gouge on the woman's neck. Eventually, he tore his eyes away and blinked hard. There was an expression of great disgust on his face.

"Oh my god. It's Rosalind Harker," exclaimed Lisbon.

"What?" Jane hadn't looked at the woman's features, all he had seen was Red John's signature cutting style. His gaze found her face. She stared blindly at him, through her fear. Quickly, Jane pulled the plastic completely from the body and flung it aside. It almost landed on the crime scene tech.

"Hey!" shouted Partridge, who had been watching the two colleagues, whilst continuing to photograph the scene.

Ignoring the protest, Jane looked at the woman's feet. Her toe nails had been painted in blood. His eyes pulled away, missing the slight smear on one of them. "It's him," he stated simply, "It's Red John." There was an edge of the manic to his voice. Lisbon's eyes were now also wide. She looked to the consultant with disbelief. Their gaze connected.

Partridge interrupted the moment with the same amount of scepticism he'd shown at previous scenes. "Oh yeah? And what amaazing power did you summon up to come up with that one?" As he spoke, he waved his hands, fingers outstretched and wide, Fosse style, - like a wizard casting a spell. Jane's brow creased in disdain as he looked the tech up and down, and did not bother to respond to the man's idiotic question. Instead he looked back at Lisbon, about to speak. But Partridge wasn't finished.

With eyes that mocked, he continued, "I mean…what makes you sooo certain this is the real deal?" He gestured to the body and the smiley. "Looks just like the other cases you were so sure weren't Red John, if you ask me."

This time Jane responded by stepping up close into the tech's face. His eyes were brimming with a mixture of disdain, anger and disbelief at the man's complete and utter incompetence. Partridge flinched and stepped slightly backwards.

Lisbon took a small step forward and reached out to touch Jane's arm. "Jane." Her eyes swung to the side as she said it.

The consultant didn't speak. He just glared into Brett's eyes for a second and then brushed past the tech and left the room. In his wake, Lisbon looked at Brett, and by way of an apology shrugged and said, "It's nothing personal." She then followed Jane out of the room.

Partridge exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath. Staring venomously at the doorway, and not for the first time, he muttered, "Jerk!" in Jane's direction.

Lisbon found Jane further along the corridor of the hotel, pacing up and down. She chastised him with a look. His eyes quickly swept sideways as if conceding that she was right, but it was barely noticeable. The brunette sighed, "Why kill Rosalind Harker?"

Jane's eyes darted quickly as he thought. "She was a threat…a loose end. He knew she'd spoken to us, and he couldn't risk leaving her around," he theorised.

"But how? The only other person that knew we'd spoken to her was Sheriff Hardy and he's dead..." Lisbon didn't look at him, but she sensed Jane's eyes had just flashed a mixture of guilt and regret. She continued, "…And what was Harker doing in Sacramento? She as much as told us she barely left her house." The agent-in-charge was having trouble piecing it together. It was at that point that Cho strolled up.

"Talked to the first responder. Body was found this morning by a man named Peter Douglas. He and Harker attended a symposium for blind and partially sighted musicians at the concert hall last night. He arrived to collect her this morning at around 8 am. When she didn't answer the door he called Reception. The manager came up with a key."

Lisbon's head motioned that at least part of her query had been answered. But she was still somewhat puzzled. "How did Red John know she was here, and how did he get in?"

Jane shrugged a shoulder as if it was obvious. "He must have been watching her. As for getting into the room…" His head dipped to one side, "…that would have been easy….she wanted answers as to why he left in the first place. All he had to do was knock on the door… She let him in." His eyes widened, emphasizing his certainty.

Lisbon sighed deeply. Her mouth turned down at the corners as it shrugged an acceptance of Jane's theory. "Makes sense, I guess."

"Got something," announced Rigsby, joining the others. "I was just talking to one of the tech guys and he said that they may have found a partial print in the blood on one of the toenails, and another one smeared in blood on the doorknob." He raised his eyebrows in a 'good, huh?' manner. There was a touch of excitement in his look.

Jane's eyes narrowed at the news. He was struggling with the idea – it didn't fit. Lisbon noticed the conflict on his face.

"What? That's good news, right?"

Jane exhaled. "Red John doesn't leave evidence behind; he's too clever for that."

"But you said yourself this was definitely him. It's his cutting style. The smiley is the first thing you see; and the toenails were painted with blood – just like your wife's." The last part was said in a hushed tone, like she didn't want to upset him with the memory.

"Yes," acknowledged Jane. "It just doesn't fit." He stared blindly into space; the cogs of his mind were going into overdrive.

"Well, anyway…" began Lisbon. She looked at Rigsby. "Get Van Pelt to put a rush on forensics and see if we can get a match to those prints. We're done here." Wayne nodded and flipped open his phone.

With car keys in hand, Lisbon turned and they headed towards the stairs. After several steps she realised that Jane wasn't with them. She stopped and looked back down the corridor. He was still standing where they'd left him; staring into space, and deep in thought.

"You coming?" she shouted. The noise was enough to draw Jane out of his cogitative state. He looked up, his eyes acknowledging her question. He nodded unhurriedly, and made his way towards them.

CBICBICBICBICBI

CBI HQ, Sacramento, CA

"Eureka!" exclaimed Van Pelt and gave a pleased-as-punch, but slightly puzzled, smile as she hung up the phone, which she had been glued to for the past two hours. The rest of the team looked up at her from the small conference table in front of Cho's desk. She looked at them, then glanced at the piece of paper in her hand, and then back to their looks of anticipation.

Lisbon was impatient. "Use your words," she demanded.

Grace got up and stepped over towards them. "I finally managed to get hold of the lab tech who was processing the prints from Rosalind's toenail and the bloody smear on the …."

Lisbon interrupted before she could continue, "And? Did you get an ID?"

Van Pelt looked at her boss with a hint of annoyance at not being able to deliver the punch-line without interruption. She carried on regardless, "He emailed me copies of the prints and I ran them through several databases…" Lisbon's eyes demanded the punch-line. "Get this…I got a hit….well, two actually." Her smile reappeared, but only for a brief second because Lisbon was now actually tapping her finger on the table at a rather erratic rate. Grace's eyes moved from it to the printout she had in her hand. The look of puzzlement and uncertainty returned. "You're not gonna like it," she said looking at Lisbon.

Teresa's eyes narrowed. Grace finished off quickly, "Both hits [?] came from our database."

"The CBI?" asked the small brunette. Her brow creased and she could feel a headache threatening, but she needed confirmation, "They're cops?"

Van Pelt nodded. "Yes. Well, kind of… One is a uniformed officer by the name of Blake Powell….and the other…" She glanced back at the printout. "…is on the civilian database. Get this, he works in forensics."

"Dammit!" exclaimed Lisbon as her evidence began to be pulled from right underneath her. She hated it when people were sloppy in their work. "What's his name?"

"Brett Partridge," came the reply.

At this news, Jane rolled his eyes and shook his head. He knew that idiot was an incompetent buffoon. Now he had proof.

Lisbon sighed heavily, "He was at the scene. Damn fool probably touched the body." She looked back at Van Pelt. "Check with the first responder's list of people who attended the crime scene; see if Powell is on it. We need to know if he contaminated the scene."

Jane nodded and gestured a 'what she said' with his eyes as he raised his hand in Lisbon's direction, pointing at her with his finger. Grace smiled. This time she was one step ahead of them. "Already did. Powell was not listed as being one of the officers there. I was just on the phone with his Captain…" She paused dramatically, "Powell didn't show up for his shift today. No one has been able to contact him."

Lisbon's expression changed from deflation at having nothing, to sudden interest that maybe they had a potential suspect. "What was his name again?"

"Blake Powell," repeated the red-head.

Jane's lips repeatedly mouthed the name and his eyes signalled that he was trying to piece something together. There was a familiarity about that name, but he couldn't pin it down.

Lisbon moved up a gear. "Pull his file. I want to know everything about him; where he's from, when he joined up, every precinct he's ever worked in, everything."

Van Pelt nodded in acquiescence. "Yes Ma'am." She nodded curtly before remembering something, and then added, "Oh, Powell's Captain mentioned something about trying to contact his wife, but she wasn't answering the phone either."

"You got an address?" asked Lisbon. Grace handed her a piece of notepaper. Bossily, she barked, "Cho, Rigsby, you're with me."

Lisbon strode out of the bullpen followed by her two male agents and Jane, who dipped his head slightly to one side and grinned at Van Pelt's sulky expression at being the one left behind, as usual. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically, and then jogged a few steps to catch up with the others.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Powell residence, Fair Oaks, Sacramento, CA

Cindy Powell had tried her best to cover up the bruising around her left eye with make-up, but it was still pretty obvious what had happened. She told them that after Powell had confronted her about the 'cuff holder, he had chased her around the room and finally pinned her down on the couch.

"Was that when he beat you?" asked Lisbon. The young woman gulped, glanced at Rigsby and nodded in response. The experienced agent gestured with her eyes for Cho and Rigsby to step out of the woman's eye-line. Rigsby's height, in particular, seemed to making the victim even more jittery. They did as signalled. Only Jane remained near the woman, seated on the armchair opposite the couch where Lisbon had placed herself next to Cindy. He let Lisbon lead the interview.

"Did he do anything else to you, other than hit you?" asked the brunette gently. The blonde woman's eyes brimmed with tears as she looked at the floor. Her face crumpled and her breath came out in juddering sobs as she nodded. Lisbon glanced at Jane. He took his cue to leave and headed for the door, gesturing with a nod of his head that Rigsby and Cho should go with him.

Several minutes later, Lisbon appeared on the front porch. The small group of men were stood by the Suburban, waiting. The agent-in-charge filled them in. "She doesn't know where Powell is. After she admitted to the affair with an Officer Michael Patrick, Powell beat and raped her. He then stormed out of the house and she hasn't seen him since." She looked at Rigsby, "Get on to victim support and have them come over. She may be willing to testify against him."

The tall agent pulled out his cell phone and began to dial as they all piled back into the vehicle.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Grace was waiting for them when they walked back into the bullpen. She held a buff coloured file in her hand.

"Officer Blake Powell. Born in Montgomery, Alabama where he grew up, attended High School and College. Attended the University of Alabama on a football scholarship…"

Although Jane was already listening - as he positioned himself in his usual spot on his leather couch, legs crossed - his ears pricked up a little more at the mention of the University and football. Van Pelt continued.

"Joined Montgomery Police Department right out of University. Met and married Cindy Finch in '97. They moved to California in '98 – Powell transferred to LAPD. He transferred again to Sacramento PD in 2006. Been here ever since. Has a few citations for being 'heavy handed' on the job, but no convictions or priors."

Lisbon nodded, "Nice work."

The brunette then looked at Jane, who was deep in thought. His left elbow was resting on the arm of the couch and he was unconsciously rubbing the tip of his thumb along the inside of his middle and ring finger. His head was nodding slightly as if he was affirming something to himself, whilst his eyes seemed to be allowing him to see into some distant place.

"Jane?" Lisbon tried to get his attention. She wanted to know what was going on in that mind of his. She repeated his name.

Jane suddenly became aware that she was looking at him. He directed his gaze towards her, "Hmm?"

Lisbon raised both eyebrows, "Thoughts?"

"About what?" asked Jane, clearing his throat.

The crease at the top of Teresa's nose wrinkled as she looked at him sceptically. She didn't believe he hadn't been paying attention to Van Pelt's research. This was a Red John case. She had a slight suspicion he was holding something back; what, she didn't know, but the suspicion was there. With Jane, Lisbon was often the last person to find out his thinking.

"About Blake Powell," she said. She eyed him suspiciously, with her face turned slightly to the side.

"Oh him…" Jane answered. He shrugged slightly then went quiet again, as he mulled something over.

"Him," repeated Lisbon, getting ever so slightly exasperated. She wasn't the most patient person in the world and Jane's reticence was beginning to get on her nerves. "Jane?"

Patrick looked up at her and realised that she was expecting him to say something. The forefinger of his left hand found and gently tapped his lips, as he thought of something to say. His eyes travelled across each of their faces as he breathed in deeply and exhaled.

"Yes, well. His print was found at the scene, so that makes him a natural suspect…" His eyes slightly rolled upwards and sideways to emphasise.

"You think he could be Red John?" asked Rigsby.

Jane shrugged his head to one side with an unsure groan. "Hmmm…Maybe. Unlikely. Red John wouldn't leave prints at a scene unless he wanted us to find them. Most probably a false clue."

Lisbon sighed heavily as if what Jane had just said was fact. She hated having her chain yanked. "Red John planted Powell's print?"

Jane gestured a shrug with his hands as well as his shoulders. "I'm just saying…it's a possibility."

"But how would he get Powell's print? What's the connection?" She raised her chin slightly.

Jane shrugged again.

"So that leaves us nowhere…again," groaned Lisbon. Placing her fingers against the top of the back of her neck, she attempted to dispel some the tension that was forming there.

She looked back at Jane, who had gone quiet again. Something wasn't quite right. Jane was too quiet, too calm. Normally, when it came to Red John cases, he would be pacing up and down, with the eyes of a raging bull. Lisbon was getting more than suspicious, she was getting worried. Jane was up to something – she knew it. The trouble was, if she confronted him about it he would become defensive and lie point blank about it. She decided to wait, and keep a close watch, even more than usual.

Jane was trying not to make eye contact because he didn't want them to see that there was more certainty behind his own eyes than he was letting on. So many things were ringing true about this guy; his name for one – Blake, as in William Blake, the poet. When Red John had had Jane at his mercy several weeks previously, pinned to a chair unable to move, he had recited the first verse of Blake's poem The Tyger; the fact that Powell had played football at the University of Alabama – whose rallying cry was 'Rolltide' – something else the serial killer had uttered; and being a police officer would have given Powell access to all the crime scene files, not to mention unchallenged access to the CBI headquarters to be able to poison Rebecca, one of Red John's many minions and killer of Bosco's team, to prevent her from giving anything away about his true identity. Everything seemed to fit. Of course, the team wouldn't be able to complete this jigsaw puzzle just yet, as Jane had kept a few of the pieces hidden from them. Red John was his. He didn't want any stupid laws stopping him from exacting his right to avenge his wife and daughter's murders.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Cho put down the handset to the phone on his desk. He turned slightly in his seat to face the rest of the team.

"That was forensics again. Seems they found more evidence at the crime scene…"

Lisbon's eyebrows raised with interest. Jane looked up. Cho continued.

"There was a small camera secreted away within the TV unit. They said it was so small they missed it the first time around. State of the art apparently – just come on the market."

Lisbon needed to know more. "Did they get a serial number?"

"Yep," answered Cho, holding up a piece of notepaper. "I'll run a search on it. See if I can find a list of manufacturers and stockists."

Lisbon nodded, then added another question. "Was the camera connected to anything? Some form of recording device?"

Cho shook his head. "No. Looks like a type of webcam, feeding live images back to a remote computer. I'll see if we can get an IP address and location."

Lisbon continued to nod her head, as if she was thinking that some of the pieces of this puzzle were finally coming together. But she felt like she was missing a vital part. She looked at Jane. He was still cogitating over something but there now seemed a slight uncertainty to his expression, as if something was nagging at him. She sighed loudly and returned to her office.

CBICBICBICBICBI

CBI HQ, Sacramento, CA – later that night.

Jane had been mulling over all of the leads and new information all afternoon and into the evening. Everything was starting to fit. The only anomaly was the camera. He was trying to tie it in with all the other pieces when Cho announced that there was a call for him on line two. He picked up the handset.

"Hello. This is Patrick Jane."

There was a pause at the other end, followed by an intake of breath. Jane listened as a familiar sounding voice began to speak.

"Do you know who this is?" it asked. The nasal quality seemed to enhance the slight southern lilt.

"Yes," answered Jane, turning his back to Cho so that he wouldn't be overheard.

"Good," replied the voice. "Do you consider yourself to be a smaart man, Mr Jaane?"

Jane breathed in deeply. "What is it that you want?"

"We need to meet."

Jane exhaled. "Where?"

The voice replied with a riddle. "Read by some, but not by all. And so the numbers starts to fall…You have one hour to figure it out." Then the caller hung up.

Slowly, Jane withdrew the handset from his ear, but didn't hang it up immediately. He was thinking.

"Everything all right?" asked Cho, who had noticed Jane's stance.

"Hmmm? Oh yes. Everything's fine. No need to worry," replied the consultant hanging up the phone. He looked over at Cho and shrugged a shoulder in a trivial manner.

As he looked back towards his couch he noticed a copy of the day's newspaper on the table at the side. His eyes registered it and seemed to pause momentarily in their sockets, realising something. A connection was made. Jane grabbed his jacket and told Cho he had to run on an errand and that he shouldn't be gone long.

CBICBICBICBICBI

About twenty minutes later, Cho, Van Pelt and Rigsby walked into Lisbon's office with some more interesting news.

Grace spoke first. "We ran the serial number on the camera [?] Turns out that that particular piece of hardware was purchased last week, online. I got the postal address from the company that sold it – it's a store, just outside Hattiesburg."

Lisbon's head turned slightly to one side as she listened. This lead might actually be going somewhere. "That was where Rosalind Harker lived….What store?" she asked.

This time it was Cho who spoke. "The same store Rigsby and I checked when we were looking for stockists of the elephant Dumar Tanner bought for Harker."

Rigsby interjected, "Yeah, I remember. The store owner said that his son was a bit of a Techno-sav and had installed a state of the art CCTV system in the store. Plus it would also fit with that projector we found at the warehouse when Red John abducted and tormented Jane last year."

"Great. Let's go check it out." Lisbon grabbed the keys to the Suburban from her desk and headed out the door. Suddenly she stopped, looked across the bullpen and then back at the others. "Where's Jane?" she asked.

Rigsby answered unconvincingly. "Er, he went to…er…get…something."

Lisbon glared at him. "Where's Jane?" she asked again.

Van Pelt's eyes chastised Rigsby for being so lame at thinking fast. But judging by Lisbon's expression, she could tell it was time to 'fess up. "We don't know."

Lisbon's eyes were demanding. Grace continued. "He got a phone call about twenty minutes ago, said he had to run an errand. He left."

The brunette was immediately suspicious. "Phone call? ... From who?"

Van Pelt shrugged.

"On his cell phone?"

"Er, no," answered Cho. "It came via the office line."

Lisbon's eyes swung to the side. She didn't like this one bit. Something was up. "Van Pelt, run a trace on all incoming phone calls to Jane's extension in the last hour."

Grace looked at her boss with puzzled concern. She didn't like spying on her colleagues and wasn't quite sure why Lisbon was so uneasy.

"Now!" demanded Teresa. As she followed the red-head to her desk and waited impatiently for the information, she pulled out her own cell-phone and hit speed dial. "Dammit!" she uttered when there was no reply from Jane's cell. Rigsby and Cho glanced at each other. Now they, too, were beginning to share their boss' unease.

"Okay…" commented Grace, tapping the keyboard expertly. "Tracing numbers to Jane's extension…" There was a brief pause as the computer connected with all of its data and retrieved the requested information.

"Number 916 555 0199. Listed as …. That's weird…" she muttered.

"What?" Lisbon was beginning to get agitated.

"The number is listed as being recently disconnected… It's at 2100 Q Street, Sacramento. That's a Midtown address…more precisely the premises of the Sacramento Weekly." Van Pelt paused, trying to wrack her memory. "Wasn't that the newspaper that just shut down after 25 years? I'm sure I heard something on the news about it."

Still with the keys in her hand and looking at Rigsby and Cho, Lisbon uttered "With me."

Grace looked up, the request in her eyes to accompany them was denied as Lisbon ordered her to stay there in case Jane returned. They would check out the place and if it was nothing, they would continue on to check out the store near Hattiesburg. Jane would have to explain himself to her later. It was going to be a very long night.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

2100 Q Street, Sacramento, CA

Blake Powell was ready and waiting. He knew what he had to do. His new friend, Roy had prepared him. They had had a long talk about the problems he and Cindy had and how they could be resolved. Blake's recollection of the whole conversation was a little bit fuzzy in places, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom. However, he remembered the solution that Roy had come up with and it seemed that the man understood his pain.

Powell was to wait at the disused print works for 'Officer Patrick'. Then he would be able to exact his revenge on the adulterous son of a bitch. Roy had been precise in his repetition of the enemy's name. He told Blake that 'Patrick' was himself married, and that one of the ways to exact revenge would be to make slurs against his wife. That he should prepare himself for the final release from his pain by remaining calm and getting 'Patrick' to kill him. It would be okay, Roy had said, because that way Powell's pain and distress would end but 'Patrick's' torment would be just beginning. Blake couldn't argue with that logic; he wanted his pain to end and he didn't mind how that came about. He looked forward to the release. Stealthily, he made his way further in to the print works' paper storage area and held his position behind a large roll of printing paper which had been left in place.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Jane parked his Citroen outside the large building. He could see that a side door was slightly ajar. He got out of the car and began to walk over to the entrance. He stopped at the doorway and peered inside. There was a gentle vibration in his waistcoat pocket as Lisbon tried for the umpteenth time to get a response. He was tempted to answer it. He pulled the phone out and looked at the brunette's image on the screen, and then inhaled deeply and switched the phone off, replacing it into the same pocket. This was something he had to do alone. Besides, it was better that she had no knowledge of what he was about to do. Hesitantly, he stepped through the doorway into the darkened, deserted building.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

Lisbon almost took out several civilian cars on the highway as she pushed her foot down hard on the accelerator. Her two male passengers were grimly holding on, trying hard not to slide around in their seats. Although the journey would take less than ten minutes, to Lisbon, ten minutes was just too long. She pressed her foot down as far as it would go.

She spotted Jane's car immediately and screeched to a halt at the side of it. All three leapt out, unclipping safety catches on holsters and withdrawing their weapons as they headed towards a slightly open door.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

Jane wished he had brought some kind of light source with him. It was difficult to see clearly in the dim light of the building. It seemed that somehow the emergency lighting had been activated, but it barely illuminated the ceiling, let alone the cavernous space of the print works. He paused briefly on a corridor. There were several doors along it. Jane wasn't sure which way to go or how many of the off-shoot rooms he should check. He reached out and tried the first handle. The door was locked. He exhaled the breath he had been holding and looked at the other doors. Slowly, he checked each of the other handles; all were locked. His fingers tapped subconsciously against the pocket of his waistcoat; the one containing his phone. He looked down at the ground for a moment as if contemplating something; then he looked back up and stepped forwards towards the end of the corridor. He arrived at the only doorway left. It led into a wide open space; the plaque on the wall at the side of the door informed him it was the paper storage area. Tentatively, he continued towards what looked like a giant roll of paper abandoned in the middle of the room.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

Swiftly, the team plunged through the open doorway into the recently abandoned building. The dim light caused them to pause for a second until their eyes adjusted. Zig-zagging their way through the short corridor that led to the printing and paper storage area, Rigsby and Cho checked a variety of doors, all of which were locked and secured. Lisbon stepped forwards to the final doorway and into a cavernous space.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

Jane paused briefly as he reached the paper roll. Fear and adrenalin - mostly fear - flooded through him. He gulped slightly, took a deep breath and began to move forwards again. As he reached the edge of the paper roll, he heard a familiar voice hiss, "Paatrick!" and then felt a thudding blow rain down on him, knocking him a little off balance. As he turned he saw a flash of metal as a rubber-gloved hand attempted to slash at him with a hook-shaped blade. His reflexes kicked in immediately and he struck out his arm. The blade was knocked from his assailant's hand as the two of them collided in a body blow. They both fell to the ground and began to struggle.

Powell, it seemed was the stronger of the two, and soon managed to gain the advantage, pinning Jane down, but he hadn't bargained on Jane's need to avenge his family. Adrenalin flooded through the consultant's veins aplenty and gave him enough strength to somehow push Blake off balance. There was a frantic scrabbling, this time for the blade which lay a short way off. Jane reached it first and managed to get himself into a position where he now had the upper-hand. Powell no longer fought back. He just looked up and grinned. The plan was working.

CBICBICBICBICBI

The sounds of a scuffle drew Lisbon's team's attention towards the large roll of paper in the centre of the room. They were able to make out the shape of two figures struggling with each other. They trained their weapons in that direction and began their rapid, but stealthy, approach.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

"JANE! STOP!" yelled Lisbon.

There was a crazed expression on the CBI consultant's face as he held the knife aloft. His right knee was pushing firmly down onto Powell's ribcage and stomach, and his left forearm was pinning him down across his chest.

"What are you waiting for Paatrick?" Blake wheezed. There was a gentle quality to his strangled words. "Do it! I won't struggle – just like your wife didn't struggle when I straaddled her."

"I'm going to gut you like a fish and watch you die slowly, you despicable son of a bitch," he hissed. His jaw muscle twitched like a rabid dog and there was a crazed determination in his saucer-like eyes.

Lisbon was desperate. She stood with her weapon drawn and pointed at the consultant. Rigsby and Cho were on either side of her in similar, albeit somewhat uncomfortable, stances.

"JANE! NO!" screamed Lisbon again.

A shot rang out.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Sutter General Hospital, Sacramento, CA – early hours

Lisbon sat at the side of the bed. Her eyes took in the various tubes and wires that led to a number of different machines, all of which seemed to have some data glowing from small screens.

He was going to be fine, the doctor had said. The bullet didn't cause any major damage, just some soft tissue. It would heal, but would just need time. There wouldn't any permanent disability, only a slight scar.

She sighed, closed her eyes and cricked her neck from side to side. When she managed to prise open her exhausted eyelids again, she became aware that Jane was looking at her. A half smile formed at the corners of her mouth. She was just about to ask how he was feeling when he spoke.

"You shot me!" he accused.

Lisbon looked slightly downwards. "Yes…I had to. You were about to kill an innocent man."

Jane stared at her, sulkily. "But you shot me!"

Lisbon's eyes glided slightly sideways, her head echoed the movement. "Yes, I know…sorry about that."

Jane sighed, glanced down at his right shoulder and winced slightly. At that moment the door to his room opened and Cho stepped inside. The agent's eyebrows rose as he acknowledged that Jane was awake. He looked at Lisbon.

"Hey boss..." He nodded in Jane's direction, "Jane."

Patrick seemed pleased to see an ally. "Oh thank God…Cho, arrest this woman…" His eyes pointed at Lisbon. "She shot me."

Without expression, Cho responded with, "I know." He didn't move.

Jane was incredulous. "What?...You're not going to…" He pointed his left index finger at the small brunette.

Cho shook his head and still didn't move, "Nope."

Jane was indignant. "What happened to your so-called laws? I thought it was illegal to shoot an unarmed man."

This time it was Lisbon who was incredulous. She blurted out, "You were wielding a knife!"

Jane shook his head indifferently, "Meh…. I wasn't wielding it at you!"

Teresa exhaled loudly and shook her head. Her lips were slightly pursed – sometimes Jane could be so childish. "The point is…I had to do something…and fast, to stop you from doing something you would regret."

Jane rolled his eyes at her attempt to justify her actions. "Yes…" His head was on one side and his voice became whiny, "…but did you have to shoot me? You couldn't have just shouted or something?"

"I did!" was her exasperated reply. "You wouldn't listen."

A faintly guilty look flashed across his face as he remembered that she had shouted, but he didn't want to admit the truth. He pouted, "But you shot me." He really couldn't believe she had actually done it.

Lisbon had had enough now. "Yes, I did. Now get over it, or I'll have to shoot you again." Her eyes said that that was the end of it.

Patrick pouted some more, like a chastised child, but remained quiet. There was a pregnant pause as they tried to avoid eye contact. They both looked up at the sound of Cho shuffling from one foot to the other. He had been listening to the exchange with a degree of amusement, though his facial expression had never changed.

"Yep. Well…" he began. "Anyway, Van Pelt did some more digging…"

He went on to tell them that Blake Powell definitely wasn't Red John because there were a lot of inconsistencies; things like the fact that Powell hadn't been anywhere near the locations of some of Red John's victims when they were killed. Some of the dates just didn't match up.

Jane shook his head. "But it all fit…his name…Rolltide…" He tried to figure out where he had gone wrong.

"You mentioned that at the print works. What does it mean? What about his name? And what is the significance of 'Rolltide'? asked Lisbon, a little perplexed.

Jane glanced at her guiltily. He realised he would now have to share the information he had thus far kept secret, and take a hit for keeping it from them. "His name…Blake – as in William Blake…"

"The poet?" Lisbon was more confused than ever. The line above her nose creased.

"Yes, the poet. When Red John killed Dylan and Ruth and injured Wesley Blankfein [?], when I was tied to that chair [?], he recited the first verse of 'The Tyger' by William Blake."

Lisbon frowned, "But you said he didn't say anything."

Jane shrugged his good shoulder uncomfortably. "Yes. I know. Sorry."

"And 'Rolltide'?"

"It's the rallying cry of the University of Alabama's football team," Patrick explained.

Lisbon's expression displayed further confusion as to how that was relevant. Jane realised he needed to give an additional explanation.

"Kristina referred to it when she got a 'message' for the waiter at the restaurant on our date…and Red John said it just before he left."

Lisbon was a little irritated by the fact that Jane had been withholding potentially important leads in the case. "And just when were you going to share this information?" There was a slight pause, then she added, "Wait…did you say 'date'?

Patrick ignored her last question. He glanced downwards, "I know. I'm sorry...jeez! The point is that it means Red John is either from Alabama or spent some time there. Powell fitted perfectly. How did I not see it?"

Although he seemed a little embarrassed at his genuine mistake, he was more annoyed with himself for getting it wrong and wasting valuable time on another wild goose chase.

Lisbon was sympathetic. "I know. I thought we might have had him too, but we didn't have all the evidence then that proved he wasn't Red John. I guess the red mist descended. But after you left, Cho and Van Pelt turned up another lead." She told him about the trace results on the camera and that Rigsby and Van Pelt were following it up as she spoke. It seemed to placate him a little. "Also, we have Powell in custody…Cho and I are going to question him when we get back to the CBI about his connection to the real Red John crime scene. He knows something. He could lead us right to Red John." She paused before beginning to explain why they weren't there right now. "I just had to make sure…"

Jane interrupted. "What? That you didn't kill me when you shot me?"

"Not gonna let up on that, are you?"

"You shot me!" he exclaimed.

Lisbon sighed heavily, a smirk played on her lips. She rolled her eyes and began to head for the door. Before leaving she turned back to him. "Get some rest," she ordered.

Cho remained in the same spot he had positioned himself in when he'd first arrived. He looked at Jane. Jane pointed at the door with his left finger, his eyes echoed the movement. Quietly he said, "She shot me." With his eyes he informed Cho that maybe he should do something about that.

There was a hint of amusement in Cho's eyes and he shook his head fractionally. "Later," was all he said, as he also left the room.

Jane nodded his head as if his non-verbal order had been received. Then he winced. Feeling sorry for himself, he pulled a pained expression, glanced down at his damaged shoulder, and sighing loudly, laid his head back onto the pillow.

CBICBICBICBICBICBI

CBI HQ, Sacramento, CA – early morning

Blake sat in the sparse room, waiting. He had been sitting there, alone, for several hours now. He continued to pull at the metal edging on the table. It was starting to come away from the main part of the desk. An idea came into his head. It was something Roy had said might happen, and had prepared him in the event of his arrest. He looked at the large mirror that covered one wall of the room and remembered that maybe he wasn't quite as alone as he had thought. He knew as a cop that the 'mirror' was one way glass and that he was probably the subject of observation. He moved his other arm in front of him, shielding his picking action from view. It wouldn't do for someone to ruin his plan B.

After several more minutes, he was able to prise a piece of the metal from the table itself. It tore with a jagged ferocity, cutting into two of his fingers as it detached. Excellent. It would do perfectly. Slowly and deliberately, Powell looked again into the mirror as he stabbed the metal fragment into his wrist and dragged it upwards toward his inner elbow, slicing his vein wide open. He grinned and exhaled deeply as blood spurted across the table. He then allowed his mutilated arm to dangle at his side and watched as the red liquid began to form a large pool beneath his feet.

CBICBICBICBICBI

Lisbon had just deposited her jacket in her office when she heard the shouts. Hurriedly, she ran towards the interrogation room where she could see an officer outside on his radio demanding EMTs. She sidestepped him into the room and saw Cho kneeling in a pool of blood over Powell's limp body. Both of his hands were clamped along the prisoner's arm and were holding it up in the air.

"Oh no!" whispered Lisbon, realising that it wasn't just Powell's blood that was draining away, it was the main lead they had on Red John; not to mention probably also her career. Cho looked up and shook his head slowly from side to side. Teresa slumped gently backwards against the wall. 'Great.' First, she shoots a member of her own team, and now this. How was she going to explain a suspect's death in custody to the new boss? The woman had already made it perfectly clear that she had it in for the diminutive brunette. Shooting Jane – the unit's 'golden boy' hadn't gone down well; Hightower seemed to have an unusual fondness for him. She had already told him that he could get anyway with pretty much anything, barring murder. Lisbon had just made sure he didn't make that mistake. In fact, hadn't she just prevented the need for Hightower to discipline and lose her 'golden boy'? Still, thought Lisbon, none of that would make any difference to the fact that their main suspect had just successfully committed suicide pretty much right in front of them. Sometimes she hated being the boss.

CBICBICBICCBICBI

Two days later

Lisbon rolled her eyes as she looked at the empty leather couch near the corner window in the bullpen.

"Where's he gone now?" she whined, getting fed up with Jane's perpetual vanishing acts.

"Right here," he announced as he stepped in from the kitchen area, followed by Van Pelt, who was carrying his cup and saucer for him. He sat down on the left seat of the couch and exhaled a whimper. This was coupled with a pitiful frown on his face as if he was feeling sorry for himself. His right arm was in a gray immobiliser sling and he pushed his head gently into the cushion behind him. Grace placed his tea on the small table at the side of him.

"Thank you, Grace," he said weakly.

Lisbon rolled her eyes again at his pathetic performance. "I should have left you in the hospital," she stated bluntly, then added, "But they got fed up of your little tantrums. You know they helped you [?] and all you did was complain and insult them."

He turned his head towards her. "Meh….they wanted to put me in restraints!" he argued.

"That's not such a bad idea," Lisbon muttered loudly. She turned her attention to Rigsby as Jane pulled a childish face at her.

"You get anywhere with the location of the store owner's son yet?" she enquired.

"Nope. Nothing. Father says he just took off, didn't say where. He seems to have vanished into thin air. A regular Houdini," reported Wayne.

Jane held up his left hand, finger pointing upwards and interrupted. "Uh…that's a popular misconception. Houdini was an escapologist, not an illusionist. He escaped from things. No vanishing necessary….Apart from the fact that it's physically impossible for anyone, or anything, for that matter, to vanish…." Before he could finish his diatribe, Lisbon cut him off, turning her back on him and her attention once more to Rigsby.

"Are there any other relatives he may be visiting? A girlfriend maybe?" asked Lisbon. She had that sinking feeling again that Red John was slipping back out of their reach.

"Er..no relatives to speak of. Father said he was a loner, didn't seem to show any interest in women as such. Was too wrapped up in his interest in electronics." Wayne shook his head slowly. He glanced at Van Pelt and sighed. He could not understand this guy's thinking at all.

"What about the IP address the camera was feeding back to? Did we get a location?" Lisbon was desperate for some good news.

This time Grace answered. "No," she said, sounding irritated at the fact that they weren't getting anywhere. "It was routed through several IP addresses…whoever did it certainly knew what they were doing. There's no way to trace it."

"Dammit!" cursed Lisbon. She pursed her lips in a slight sulk. A few seconds later, resigned to the fact that their leads were drying up, she breathed down her nose. "Okay…keep working the Renfrew connection to RJ Solutions, and keep pressing the father...he has to be in contact with his son at some point."

"Yes, boss." Rigsby returned to his desk and Van Pelt began tapping on her keyboard again. Lisbon turned back to Jane.

"You've gone awfully quiet," she said, eyeing him with suspicion.

Jane's gaze returned from a distant place. "Hmmm?" He raised his left eyebrow in her direction.

"You're not keeping anything else from me, are you?" Her face was turned slightly away from him and her eyes were narrow.

Jane was put out at the accusation. "Not at all!" His eyes gestured a 'jeez' look. "I was just thinking."

"Yeah. You do that a lot….Care to share?" It was more of a demand than a request.

Jane looked at her. "I was just trying to figure out Powell's voice…I know I've heard it before. I assumed it was when Red John spoke to me, but …"

"Oh, I can shed some light on that," interrupted Van Pelt.

Lisbon and Jane looked at her quizzically. The red-head explained. "Remember when you were temporarily blinded?" A little more quietly she added, "And I almost got you killed by dating a psycho?" she chastised herself with her own eyes. She still couldn't figure out how she had been so dumb.

Jane breathed out, "Grace, you got to let it go…Everyone makes mistakes." He returned the attention back to her explanation. "Powell's voice?"

Grace gave a fleeting smile to acknowledge there were no hard feelings on Jane's part. "Er…yeah. The officer that brought you back to the CBI when you left the hospital [?] … It was Powell. That's where you must have heard it."

Jane's head moved slightly backwards as he mouthed, "Ah ha." He breathed deeply. It was another loose end that seemed to be tied up, but he didn't feel any comfort from it. Nor was he completely convinced that he hadn't heard Red John's voice previous to the poem recitation.

Lisbon looked at him. She sensed dissatisfaction in him. Still, there was nothing else she could do about it at this moment in time. Red John was still out there…and there were still some leads, at least, to follow up on. She went back to her office leaving him to cogitate on his couch.

Jane watched her go and then slowly and carefully swung his legs up on to the couch, shuffling slightly downwards into a lying position. He winced as the movement jarred his injured shoulder; then he closed his eyes and began to think.

The end….for now.

PLEASE REVIEW.