The Long Way Back

Chapter 1: To Austin, With Regrets

Abbott

Abbott was tired.

Tired and pissed.

The flight back took ten hours, starting with the spine-jarring, back-wrenching puddle-jumper taking him - them - from the island to Caracas. He was on his way home, a place he had been far too little in the one year, eleven months, and twelve days since the take down of the corrupt California Bureau of Investigation.

Dennis Abbott relaxed into the blessedly soft cushions of his FBI SUV, glad he'd driven to the airport. That let him to go directly home instead of horsing around with cabs or, worse, sharing a ride with the agents escorting the perp-would-be-FBI-consultant. Fischer left earlier. In the morning they would meet with Patrick Jane in the Austin FBI office. It was essential to be fresh.

Patrick Jane. Last piece of a very complicated puzzle. He snorted softly. Started out a raid at the request of the California governor. Ended up a hunt for four‑thousand corrupt in law enforcement across the country. He had done an exemplary job, reaped mountains of praise, gotten flattering interviews from news outlets. The only person he disappointed was himself. He had solved 3,999 pieces of the puzzle. The one piece yet to be put in place was at the center, its heart. Tomorrow, he promised himself, I deal with the last piece.

Jane

Ten hours and a world away from Margarita Island, Patrick Jane wearily stepped out of the FBI van. Three agents firmly escorted him to a nondescript building a mile from the Austin FBI headquarters. 'Hotel FBI' was what agents mockingly called the facility intended for short term detentions during investigations. Rarely, "persons of interest" were held as long as necessary. Jane jerked his arm from the agent's grip. Three, really? I'm not Arnold Schwarzenegger. Heavy-handed cops. The agent frowned disapproval but didn't renew his grasp. They reached a room down a short, featureless hall. Two agents stood outside the door while the third entered with Jane.

Jane turned and spread his hands in silent question.

"Strip to your waist."

"What?"

"Strip to your waist. To check for tattoos."

The heavy, cold blanket of suspicion and threat settled around Jane's shoulders, too familiar after a decade hunting Red John. The right side of his mouth pulled up in a crooked grin. "Let me guess. A three red dots tattoo."

No response.

Jane shed his jacket – itself an odd feeling as he hadn't worn one for two years – and then his island-made patterned shirt. The agent positioned Jane under the ceiling light. He used a point-and-shoot to photograph Jane's left shoulder from different angles, all close up. He turned toward the door–

"Wait," he said as Jane moved to don his shirt.

–and got an equipment case from another agent. He withdrew a lamp, set it on the small table and plugged it in.

"Sit here. Do not look directly at the light." He took more photos. Different wavelengths could reveal marks invisible to the naked eye. He finished and packed up the equipment.

"You meet with Supervising Agent Abbott at 9 tomorrow. Alert the guard If you have an urgent need." Jane stayed silent. After a moment he turned and left. The bolt slid shut. Loud. Final.

Jane slumped, tension draining from his shoulders as he relaxed for the first time that day. He looked around. The room had a bed, an easy chair and a small side table. It was utterly unadorned. Cell, then. A tiny bathroom was equipped with towels, soap and shampoo. With a sigh, Jane shed the rest of his clothes. A long hot shower settled him. He finished, then shrugged and donned the same clothes. A tray of food had been dropped off while he showered. Uninspired, but edible. He ate and knocked on the door to return the tray.

"Thank you." Jane's good manners were ingrained, especially for the ranks, people at the bottom. He'd been one of them much of his life and found a little respect went a long way.

He again shed his clothes. He washed his underwear, left it to dry on the shower rod, and turned in. The Spartan accommodations were no worse than his in Venezuela.

Sleep eluded him. The FBI doesn't send four agents abroad to lure a murder suspect to the US. He ignored the contract Abbott had presented. Jane took as a given that governments lie, believing only actions. Fortunately, actions suggested the FBI wanted more than nailing a serial killer's murderer, especially when all they had was dubious circumstantial evidence. –FBI probably does want me to work for them. Someone does, not Abbott. His boss – bosses? Someone went to a lot of trouble to fetch me. He chuckled at their bait. Kim's attractive enough, but everything about her shouts 'cop.' Letting Otero's thugs beat me up didn't exactly win me over. He shifted uncomfortably, groin still aching from yesterday's beating. Will Abbott cave? He sighed and set it aside. Tomorrow. He refused to think about Lisbon. His demand to see her was a long-shot. Lisbon was why he returned, but he wouldn't lie to himself by thinking it would be easy.