A/N For those of a sensitive nature, the clue is in the title...

Chapter 8: There will be blood

The furrow of concentration between Lisbon's eyebrows deepened as she scoured the case notes looking for any possible clue that they might have missed. With no new leads on the Red John case it was taking a back seat to more pressing issues, and with the 6 o'clock deadline fast approaching they didn't get more pressing than this case. For all their exhaustive case work they still hadn't made a breakthrough, and the kidnappers were threatening to kill the hostages if the parents didn't pay up. They all knew that even if the parents paid up a happy outcome was by no means guaranteed, so they were desperate for a breakthrough.

Rubin sauntered into the bullpen unexpectedly, there'd been a trustees meeting that morning in Sacramento so he had an excuse to visit his favourite agent. Lisbon raised her eyebrows enquiringly, although it wasn't a great secret she preferred to keep her private life out of the office, and she hardly had time for a diversion at this juncture no matter how pleasant.

"I come bearing gifts." Rubin held up a paper carrier bag from the upmarket deli, which was full of Lisbon's favourites. He cast his eyes around the team, mentally identifying each of them without introduction, based solely on Lisbon's description. Finally his eyes settled on Van Pelt. "Ah you must be Grace, exquisite as a Rossetti redhead." Van Pelt squirmed in embarrassment at the unsolicited compliment, and much to Lisbon's amusement looked apprehensively in her direction.

Rigsby's face was thunderous as he turned to Cho, muttering creep out of the corner of his mouth. Cho responded with an enigmatic smile, keeping his eyes firmly on his paperwork.

Deciding to put Grace out of her misery Lisbon breezily responded. "I assure you we employ Van Pelt for her brains not her beauty, she's our resident computer geek." Van Pelt bristled with pride; praise from Lisbon was a rare commodity and was valued more than anything Rubin could say.

Rubin glanced at the case board. "So this is the case that's been keeping you so busy." He cast his eye over the whiteboard more methodically. "Have you made any progress yet?"

Cho's ears pricked up, he was well aware of Rubin's reputation in criminal psychology. "Nothing to speak of. The deadline is tonight. Can you see anything?"

Rubin tapped his chin thoughtfully, then took the photograph of the brunette off the board. "If you look closely the eyes are a little bit too close together. She's clearly resentful of her prettier friend, who has everything going for her. The boys only talk to her to get closer to her friend. It would kill two birds with one stone if she could get rid of her friend, and get enough money to set herself up for life in the process."

"She's been kidnapped for Christ's sake, her parents are worried sick." Rigsby butted in irritably.

Cho was interested. "No go on. You think she's involved with the kidnapping somehow?"

"Just a hunch." Rubin studied the family snaps. "See there's no familial resemblance at all - she's probably adopted and has no affinity with her adoptive parents."

Cho looked at Van Pelt for affirmation. "He's right. Kayleigh Masterson was abandoned by her mother as an infant, and was adopted by the Masterson's soon after. She has a history of minor misdemeanours, nothing serious but she's a troubled girl."

Cho stood behind Van Pelt while she pulled up Kayleigh's file on screen and they decided a plan of action. Even Rigsby showed a grudging respect, not liking Rubin, but still grateful for the lead.

"Ah well, I must go. Let me know how it works out." Lisbon nodded gratefully in Rubin's direction as he left them to their work.

The team went into overdrive and the case was soon solved without any casualties, an unrepentant Kayleigh would be spending the foreseeable future behind bars.

Later that night when she'd finally wrapped everything up, Lisbon called Rubin to let him know the outcome. "I think I owe you a meal after that."

"What's on the menu?" Rubin teased.

"Whatever you want." Lisbon replied enigmatically.

Lisbon had soon realised that there was more than a touch of the libertine to Rubin, it surprised her to find that her boundaries were more flexible than she thought. A new life opened up to her that would have surprised her closest colleagues, but she reasoned that they were consenting adults and not doing anyone else any harm. Lithe yet surprisingly strong, Rubin bent her to his will.

She was surprised how quickly she'd gotten in so deep, it wasn't as if Rubin dressed his interest up with romantic intent, but there was a mesmerising quality to him that drew her in. He made no promises to her, for all she knew he wasn't even exclusive, but while she was with him conventions meant little to her.

Like the Maestro of an orchestra he knew how to elicit the maximum sensation from each movement, varying the tempo as the pitch changed from the rumbling low notes of desire to the trembling high notes of arousal, awakening an almost painful symphony of sensations as the nerves endings exploded in one final crescendo.

He challenged her perceptions with his moral nihilism, contending that nothing was intrinsically right or wrong, the principles she held dear were merely society's expectations rather than universal truths. Much to his amusement her hand would instinctively go to her crucifix when she was troubled; she was far less comfortable with his moral quirks than his sexual peccadilloes. Lisbon still believed there was an inviolable link between someone's earthly actions and their destiny, but Rubin would gently mock her lack of sophistication when she tried to counter his assertions.

She had no illusions that she was anything but a passing diversion to Rubin, but nevertheless she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Unable to resist the draw and not wanting to either.

Against Miller's express wishes, security had reported the incident with Luis to the police. Lisbon had welcomed the opportunity to revisit the establishment as it gave her an excuse to see Patrick Jane again. It was obvious from the outset that Miller wanted to let things drop, so after going through the formalities Lisbon changed tack. "If you don't want to take this any further, I've just got a few loose ends to tie up with Patrick Jane."

Miller shifted uneasily. "What do you want with Patrick? I thought you'd moved on."

"New information has surfaced that I'm not at liberty to discuss. I need to see Patrick Jane." Lisbon wasn't inclined to justify herself to Miller.

"Well you can't, he's indisposed. You should have told us you wanted to speak to him." Miller folded her arms defiantly.

"I can see him, and I will see him. Even if I have to get a warrant brought over here. Anyone would think you had something to hide." Lisbon narrowed her eyes examining Miller's expression, she looked guilty as hell. Sam was right there was something going on.

Miller laughed. "As you wish, but he's had a bad few days now that his memories are returning, and we've had to medicate him. I doubt you'll find him forthcoming."

Lisbon wasn't sure what to expect, but she was unprepared for the empty shell of a man disconsolately slumped in the chair. He raised his head slowly, like some noble primate defeated by the indignity of his situation. The red rimmed eyes engaged with Lisbon's. She wilted under his unwavering gaze, the unspoken accusation hitting home more effectively than any words could ever have done. Torn by mixed emotions about the man, who may or may not have murdered his family, she felt a sense of shame that they hadn't respected the decision of the jury and afforded him greater protection. As the saying went, the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to stand by and do nothing.

Releasing her from his accusatory stare, Jane lowered his eyes and withdrew back into his silent fury. Lisbon knew she'd get nothing more out of Patrick Jane, the system had conspired to drive him into a dark and disturbing void. Miller's self satisfied smile was a dead giveaway, this was undoubtedly her doing.

Miller was far from finished with Jane, she'd deliberately allowed Jane time to come to terms with his delayed grief, and the more he remembered before the final session the better. As Jane was surly and unresponsive with everyone else, Sam had been drafted back in as the only person who seemed to have any influence over Jane. But even he made little headway, Jane barely ate or drank having no interest in life or in this world.

For all his sorrow at the memories that haunted him, there was a nagging voice at the back of his mind that filled him with a sense of dread, suggesting that the worst was yet to come. He had no idea where this voice had come from, but it would whisper dark thoughts that Jane didn't think he was capable of. He loathed Miller with a vengeance for what she had put him through, he still hoped his carefully laid plans would pay dividends on that front, but there were times when he felt he could squeeze the life out of her without any compunction.

He'd always been a rogue, with little or no conscience about parting people from their money, but this feeling of violent rage was something new. The once brilliant morning star that eclipsed all others had been cast down to earth and was a dark shadow of his former self.

Mindful of Jane's outburst at their last encounter, Miller took the precaution of having Jane shackled to his chair before she started what would hopefully be the final session. Unable to resist the trigger that Miller had implanted in the previous session, Jane was soon back in a trance. They were back in the corridor and there was just one door left, he tried to look away but Miller's voice was insistent in drawing him ever closer to the door. Jane swallowed hard when forced to read the note on the door, although he already knew what lay behind the door, he shied away from opening it.

"You know what's behind there Patrick, but let's consider events leading up to this. There were reports of a disturbance earlier in the day – perhaps in the privacy your home things were said and done that you regret, and something snapped inside you."

"No! I'd never hurt Angela or Charlotte." He responded emphatically.

"Perhaps, but what if it wasn't you? Maybe the anger unleashed something dark and dangerous from the recesses of your psyche. Those voices that you normally discount as the mere rumblings of discontent started to shout down your logic – the sound was deafening as the voices pummelled away at your defences, and bolstered your sense of injustice. How dare they speak to you like that after all you've done for them? So ungrateful! So unfair!"

Jane screwed his eyes up tight and clamped his hands over his ears, unwilling to suffer the insidious effect of Miller's poison.

"You know there's some truth to what the voices are saying. You can't deny you haven't thought it from time to time. Just look around at what you've given them, and yet they still complain about the hours you work. Don't they know these things cost money? You have to keep working at it - today's headliner is tomorrow's has been. You do it for them. It's time you stood up for yourself. Honestly they would test the patience of a saint...and you're no saint are you Patrick?" She paused briefly for dramatic effect. "It's time to open the door now, just push it open and tell me what you see."

"No, I can't!" He shook his head vehemently, but her voice drew his attention back to the scene.

"There's something respectful about the way the bodies have been positioned, almost like an act of love. You didn't want to do it, they made you do it."

Getting increasingly more agitated, Jane started to rock backwards and forwards. "Just stop it. I didn't do it. I'd never do that!"

"No, but John would. Remember John your secret friend, the one you keep hidden from everyone? Maybe John couldn't stand to see everyone taking advantage of you and took control."

She paused to let that sink in, before taking up the narrative speaking very slowly and persuasively. "He's there now isn't he? Probably telling you what he'd like you to do to me, I can see it in your eyes. Just let John out Patrick, and you'll feel better. It wasn't you that killed them, it was John. It was John that cut them and let them bleed to death. No mother should have to see her child die like that, and listen to their cries unable to help them. She didn't understand it wasn't you but John, and went to her grave believing that you that had killed her. The only way to clear this up, is to bring John out into the open once and for all. John reveal yourself, stop hiding in the shadows."

The red mist descended, no man could listen to that without being affected. Jane launched himself across the table, grabbing her by the neck and slowly tightening his grip. Miller hit her panic button, and struggled against him, only the table between them stopping him from getting enough leverage to do any lasting damage. He was like a deranged beast when the attendants finally dragged him away. Oddly Miller felt a sense of exhilaration from the adrenaline rush, and derived satisfaction from knowing that others seeing Jane in that state would back up her theory of Jane's alter ego.

Jane was distraught at the vision that Miller had conjured up, that he or some part of him had killed his family. For sure, he always knew he had a dark side. His callous disregard for people outside his inner circle allowed him to view everyone else as marks, but he'd always looked after his own. He had no doubt that this dark side came from his father, having seen the depths his father would go to when crossed. Suddenly the idea of committing such a heinous crime while possessed, no longer seemed beyond the realms of possibility.

He'd contemplated ending it all, not wanting to live with the memories that haunted him. Jane was fatalistic enough to know that death was the end, there'd be no touching reunions on the other side. The end was the end. But what a blessed release it would be to be freed from this torment, even if he didn't deserve to be freed.

Jane's imagination ran riot, picking up on Miller's carefully planted suggestions. Before long all he could see was blood everywhere, his darling Charlotte and Angela painted in shades of red. His hands were dripping with their blood, and he knew that all great Neptune's ocean wouldn't wash their blood from his hands.

Miller was uncharacteristically animated after the positive feedback from her publishers, the latest developments had been well received and she'd secured a further advance. With a derisory glance around her, she was counting down time to the day when she could say goodbye to the drudgery of day to day therapy.

Sadly her celebrations were to be short lived, as unknown to her Luis had received another incendiary letter about Miller. Coming on top of a visit from the police, he was now convinced that Miller was setting him up as the fall guy, and no one messed with Luis, especially not some jumped up bitch, who looked down on everyone. It was his word against hers and he knew who they'd believe. Of course dead people can't talk...

With her head still in the clouds she drove down to the main gates, contemplating a rosy future in some academic cloister, well away from the front line. Security remotely opened the gates as she approached them, she tried to slow down before the main road, but the brakes were unresponsive and the car shot out into the freeway. Miller desperately fought to try and bring the car back under control, but when the oncoming truck caught her rear end, imparting a new momentum she had no chance. As if in slow motion the car lurched off the freeway, crashing through the barrier and ending up in the lake. She tried in vain to open the doors, but the outside pressure held them closed. As much as she fought it, there was no escaping the encroaching waters that filled her watery jail. As sheer terror set in, her oxygen starved brain succumbed to the involuntary impulse to take a breath. Now she knew how Patrick Jane had felt.

Back in the hospital Patrick Jane was totally unaware that his fiendish plan had come to fruition, he was too wrapped up in his own travails to be remotely aware of the poetic justice meted out to Miller. It had all come too late for him, the damage was irretrievably done.

Once the cut brake pipes were confirmed by forensics, it fell to the CBI to investigate Miller's murder. Although Jane clearly had a motive he was soon discounted once they saw the state of him, believing he had neither the means nor ability to instigate the crime. Miller's book may never be finished, but her legacy was to take an already troubled man and make him believe he was a serial killer.

Although Lisbon never brought up her work when she was with Rubin, he had a habit of casually leading the conversation back to her current cases, and would offer a professional insight without being asked. In truth Lisbon was coy about discussing her work with him, as it would invariably result in him launching into a detailed analysis, which just highlighted the yawning chasm between their worlds. While no slouch on the subject, Lisbon was less taken with the esoteric aspects than the practical applications of psychology.

Rubin's highfalutin theories also underlined the fundamental differences in their beliefs. He saw nothing wrong with the pleasure principle, arguing it was merely an expression of the id, the dark and inaccessible part of our personality that was a cauldron for our basic, instinctual drives.

There was a more reckless feel to Rubin since Miller's death and Jane's descent into madness, their relationship was increasingly more a congress of flesh than of minds. He took a perverse delight in pushing Lisbon too far, too fast, almost relishing her discomfort. For the sake of her self-respect, she knew she should cut her losses, but there was something addictive about their relationship. After this anything else would just seem so ordinary. She rationalised that everything was under control, and made sure it didn't spill over into her work. Besides what could possibly go wrong?

Rubin had been particularly interested in a new lead they'd been following on the Red John case, and Lisbon working away for a few nights in Stockton seemed to renew his ardour. She wondered if maybe she'd been a bit too available, perhaps a bit of distance was all that was required to keep the flame alight.

Rubin stretched out languidly on her sofa as she busied herself making some drinks, he was pontificating about serial killers in general, trying to elicit a response from her. Perhaps his interest had been piqued because Lisbon had been particularly unforthcoming about her trip away.

Lisbon listened to his theory that most serial killers had unhappy childhoods that psychologically damaged them, and started applying his theories specifically to Patrick Jane. Lisbon was surprised how well informed he was about the case, but rationalised that he'd probably been going through Miller's notes.

Rubin slipped easily into the mind of a serial killer as he started to break down the Red John case in chronological order, commenting how the modus operandi had evolved over time. He was getting carried away with his own insights and started to pace the room as he spoke, as if delivering a lecture. Like all natural performers he just had to push it that little bit too far, and brought up a little known fact about one of the victims, Carter Peak.

Lisbon had her back to him at the time, but must have subconsciously stopped in her tracks. They'd only just been called out to the site where Carter Peak's body had been discovered, and that particular fact wasn't public knowledge. Her mouth went dry as she considered the implications.

Falling back on her training she weighed up her options, well aware that her gun and taser were both out of reach on the other side of the room. She tried to tell herself she was overreacting, there had to be a logical explanation, nevertheless she mentally mapped out her escape routes. Play it cool Teresa, don't let him know that you've noticed anything wrong. The kitchen was a dead end and to be avoided, so she nonchalantly made her way over to her desk where she kept a back up weapon, all the while keeping half an eye on Rubin's movements.

He was still espousing his theory, although she detected a slight change in tempo, as if he was only half concentrating on what he was saying. Just as she was about to open her desk drawer she felt his presence right behind her, she scanned the desk top for any viable weapon and steeled herself for fight.

Rubin let out a weary sigh. "Sometimes Teresa you're just too sharp for your own good. Such a shame. I had high hopes of you." She felt his breath on her neck. "You really are quite lovely – what a waste."

No one at the hospital could explain how Patrick Jane escaped that night. Some siren voice had lured him through the open doors, somehow Jane knew he had to obey the call, it was his destiny. He followed the hypnotic voice without question. The car delivered him to a nondescript block of condos, and he felt a faint prick on his arm before he was bundled through the open door with the words. "There's someone waiting for you Patrick."

His head started to swirl and he dropped to the floor, the walls seemed to be closing in on him as everything spiralled out of control. A flickering image appeared before him of his family in happier times, and he tried to reach out to them, but the image had a retro feel to it like some old cine tape projection from a different era. Angela walked barefoot towards the virtual screen, her image translucent, she held her hands out in supplication."Why Patrick? Just tell me why?"

He dropped his head in shame, but feeling her gaze still upon him he raised his eyes to meet hers. "I don't know why, it must be in my nature." Angela's screams echoed in his head as she was sucked back by some invisible force, growing ever more translucent and distorted as she dissolved into the aether. A faint voice floated back from the distance "I really thought you loved me..." Jane collapsed in a heap, the cold tendrils of remorse took a grip on his heart, causing it to race uncontrollably before he finally blacked out.

When Jane awoke he noticed a light at the top of the stairs, and knew there was someone waiting for him there. The bedside light cast a pale glow on an ethereal figure, asleep like some faerie princess on the bed with her hair carefully fanned out on the pillow. She stared aimlessly into the night, her eyes unfocussed like dead green pools, the slightly parted lips giving a surprised look to the face that was unmistakably Agent Lisbon's.

Jane approached with a reverence, as if transfixed by the sight of the ghastly pallor of the exposed white skin in sharp contrast the with livid slashes, from which her lifeblood had drained. Instinctively Jane reached out for the bloody knife and stared at it, bewildered that his mind was a blank, and yet knowing beyond all doubt that he must have murdered Agent Lisbon just as he'd murdered his family. The time had come to end it all, this world held nothing but torment for him. It would be a happy release, and with two swift strokes across the wrists the deed was done. A twisted smile formed on his face as he lay back against the foot of the bed, and he traced out a smiley face in the pooling blood. "It will have blood, they say. Blood will have blood."

Cho hadn't been particularly concerned when Lisbon missed their early morning gym session, although she normally texted if she wasn't be coming. It wasn't until Rigsby called, to say that he'd been trying to contact Lisbon, to let her know that Patrick Jane had escaped, that the alarm bells started to ring. Cho dashed to Lisbon's, where he found a disgruntled neighbour hammering at the door, complaining about the sound of the piano music emanating from her condo. "That damned music has been playing all night, you'd think an officer of the law would have more consideration."

Cho rang the bell furiously, hoping against hope for an answer, before pulling out the spare key that he held for such an eventuality. He fumbled with the lock, having to turn it twice before entry. Swallowing deeply with a sense of dread, he slowly ascended the stairs having little doubt what awaited him.

Cho screwed his face up in abhorrence when he finally entered the room, fighting off the wave of nausea that welled up, it took a few moments to regain his composure. It was impossible to be detached in the circumstances but he tried his best to be professional, he owed that much to Lisbon. It was clear that both were well beyond help, the bruising on Lisbon's arms was a sure sign that she had not passed quietly into the night. For all his anger towards Patrick Jane, something at the crime scene felt off to Cho, and yet the evidence spoke for itself.

Not wishing to hang around any longer than he had to, Cho called the crime in and made his way outside, gasping for fresh air by time he reached the front door. No longer in control of his emotions, he kicked out aimlessly at the first object in his path."Dammit Lisbon, why you of all people?"

The CBI had been torn apart by Lisbon's death. Minelli resigned as soon as he decently could, he knew his heart wasn't in it any more. Bosco constantly railed against the system that had failed to put Patrick Jane away when they had the chance, he privately vowed that he'd never let technicalities stand in his way again. He grieved silently, Lisbon was never his, but a little bit of Samuel Bosco died with Teresa Lisbon.

Under Cho's leadership, the SCU team stepped up to the mark, putting personal feelings to one side they relentlessly chased down the evidence, exactly as Lisbon taught them. Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Cho had insisted on closing out some of the open leads, often in his own time. On reflection he realised that Lisbon's door had been double locked when he'd fumbled with the lock, and the whole scenario didn't make sense if someone had locked the door from the outside. If Cho hadn't had a key, they would have just kicked the door in and no one would have been any the wiser. Rigsby told him he was just imagining things, but Cho was clinical in his recall and remembered every detail. Cho knew in his bones there was more to this than met the eye, and clung to the hope that the DNA results off Carter Peak's body might finally throw some light on the subject, after all everyone had to slip up sometime.

The hoardings had been put up on the windows of the mental hospital, the trustees deemed its reputation was irreparably damaged, and most of the staff and patients were being absorbed by nearby facilities. An unhappy chapter closed in Sam's life, too many lives had been wasted. For all the evidence to the contrary, Sam still struggled to believe everything they said about Patrick, the man he knew just wasn't like that. Sam blamed Miller for unleashing the blind rage that consumed Jane in his final days.

The finger of blame had been pointed at Sam in the wake of Jane's escape, but it was nothing to do with him. Nevertheless Sam's reputation was tarnished as he stood accused of getting too close to a patient, and his future prospects were bleak. Unexpectedly Dr Rubin had taken him under his wing, they'd gotten talking at Lisbon's funeral both feeling out of place, and heavily outnumbered by the strong police contingent that came to show their respects. The end result was that Sam had been offered a temporary position in Rubin's faculty, with the prospect of further training at the end of the contract.

Rubin emitted a self satisfied grunt as he penned the catchy title, you needed a hook that would get people interested before venturing into more serious territory. The key was to keep it accessible enough for the proletariat to read, with enough content to satisfy the critics. He had to admit Dr Miller's notes were well put together, she'd done a sterling job in pushing Patrick Jane over the edge, and providing the perfect alibi. Such a shame about Teresa, she'd been a work in progress and was just getting to the interesting stage, but needs must...

Rubin winced when he accidentally cut his finger on a sheet of paper; he watched the blood drip from the cut with a lurid fascination. He dipped the tip of his fountain pen in the fallen drop and drew out a little red smiley face, before resignedly scratching it out. "Farewell old friend, all good things must come to an end."

His thoughts turned to his latest fancy. Rubin had no particular preferences one way or another, and Sam had jumped at the chance of working with him. Sam's loyalty really was quite touching, he was like a young pup eager to please his master. Rubin chuckled lasciviously, it was so much more satisfying corrupting someone good and moulding them to your ways.

Rubin sat down at his desk with his fountain pen poised at the ready, confident his next book would be a best seller. The Angel of Death - Inside the mind of a serial killer

"Who knows exactly what goes on inside the mind of a serial killer, especially one as complex as Patrick Jane. The man who had everything, fame, fortune, good looks and a loving family, but something dark lurked beneath the surface, another side to him that would not be suppressed, the side that manifested itself as Red John..."

A/N Many thanks to everyone who has followed this grim little tale. I'm sure it hasn't been an easy ride.

I must extend special thanks to Fiasco Way for being a sounding board throughout, and for making some great suggestions, in particular the role of Dr Rubin, which I adopted with alacrity. It was so much better than my original idea.