Still Seeing Red

Chapter 12

This was no ordinary dream.

When he opened his eyes, it was to the view from the master bedroom suite at the Malibu beach house. It had large wall-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean on three sides, and one of the windows was open a crack, so he could hear the rush of the waves and the gulls. It was very early morning, the sky streaked with pink and purple as the west coast sky caught up with the sun.

A woman's hand was on his chest, and he looked over to see his wife, still dreaming deeply next to him, her chestnut hair spilling across the pillows. Strange, he thought, why this should feel so odd. It was only natural. He was a lucky man, after all.

A bump in the bed in between them both and a slow smile spread across his face. Ah yes, the wedge, her mass of golden curls untamed and wild, her dark lashes closed over soft pink cheeks. She would occasionally crawl into their bed if she'd had a bad dream. Her imagination was as vivid as her father's, and she moved and talked in her sleep like he used to. He reached down a hand, stroked her hair, breathed in the scent of them, and decided that at this very moment, he was blissfully happy and undeserving of any of it.

Suddenly, the pink and purple of the sky became an angry red, and fire burst through the windows of the Malibu house, burning up the hardwood, the drywall, the bedding and the bodies in one swift swath. He hadn't even the time to cry out before the flames and the darkness consumed him.

When he opened his eyes, it was to the view from the master bedroom suite at the Malibu beach house. It had large wall-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean on three sides, and one of the windows was open a crack, so he could hear the rush of the waves and the gulls. It was very early morning, the sky streaked with pink and purple as the west coast sky caught up with the sun.

A woman's hand was on his chest, and he looked over to see his wife, still dreaming deeply next to him, her dark wavy hair spilling across the pillows. Strange, he thought, why this should feel so odd. It was only natural. He was a lucky man, after all.

He only vaguely remembered the black tank top and loose cotton bottoms she was wearing. They were hideous. He obviously hadn't bought them for her. He'd have to change that soon enough. She looked like she'd just come from swimming in the ocean. She looked like she was dreaming about sharks.

He smiled, thinking about how very pretty she was when asleep, her mouth in a little pout, her dark brows drawn in and furrowed. Again, something seemed odd, but he wasn't about to fight it. It had taken a lot of work to get her here.

A bump in the bed in between them both, and his smile grew wider. Ah yes, the wedge, her mass of dark curls untamed and wild, her dark lashes closed over soft pink cheeks. She would always crawl into their bed, no matter what the excuse, for she was a strong willed and stubborn little creature, and he loved her like crazy. She was wearing jammies like her mother, red and orange and black – Lightning McQueen? Who the hell was Lightning McQueen? She was such a tomboy. Just like her mother.

He reached down a hand, stroked her hair, breathed in the scent of them, and decided that at this very moment, he was blissfully happy and undeserving of any of it.

"Wake up, baby boy. Time to rise and shine."

Evangeline Makepeace was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, completely obliterating the view of the ocean.

"Go away," he muttered, somehow not entirely surprised to find her there.

"Sorry, cherie. Not until you tell me to my face."

"To my face," he repeated, but knowing now that the moment had been lost and was unlikely to come back. He tried to put a pillow over his head, but his hands were sore and unwieldy and he couldn't find a pillow. "Now go away."

"Nuh-uh, sleepyhead," came another voice, and he looked to see Teresa Lisbon standing on one side, arms folded across her chest. He frowned, wondering how she could be in two places at once, and much preferring the one in his bed. She was quieter. "We're not going anywhere until you wake up."

"I am awake."

"Then open your eyes."

"They are open."

"No they're not."

He sighed and to prove it, he opened his eyes.

And promptly shut them again.

"Damn."

"Sorry, cherie," said Evangeline.

"I was in Malibu. It was nice. Quiet. Very quiet."

"Uh huh. Come on, baby. Come on."

He opened them again, blinking as Rigsby came into focus, then Cho and Van Pelt, and a doctor. Curses, it was that incompetent ER doctor from before, the Latina with the attitude. She was standing with a clipboard in one hand and an Xray in the other. And with a sickening twist in his gut, there was Kristina Frye in a wheelchair on the other side of his bed, looking marginally better than she had earlier.

He was in a hospital room, not much different from the one last week, with pale green walls that would make a well person ill. He hated hospitals, hated doctors, hated being sick or laid up or anything that might cause someone to feel pity and therefore superior. As if on cue, the doctor stepped forward.

"Well, Mr. Jane, I can see you've been taking things easy, like I advised."

"Well, yes. Took a trip to the ocean, did a little home renovation, enjoyed a little barbeque…"

She held up the Xray. "You have increased intercranial swelling, Mr. Jane. You are putting yourself at great risk of stroke, aneurysm or edema –"

"Yes, yes. Well, if you would care to tell these 'psychics' to leave my brain alone, I would be just fine, thank you."

"You have post-concussive syndrome. You could die from this."

"I could die from many things. Life's like that."

"I will not be responsible if you discharge yourself again, against medial advice. Do you understand?"

"Will you go away if I say yes?"

He didn't need to wait to find the answer to that, as she snorted, turned on her heel and marched out of the hospital room. Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances, grinning.

Kristina Frye rose from her wheelchair and leaned forward, almost hovering over him. He shrank back in the bed, eying her like one might watch a cobra rise from its basket.

"Thank you, Patrick."

"For what?"

She smiled. "For hearing me." And she leaned closer, kissed him on the forehead, lowered herself back into her chair, and wheeled out of the room.

Jane made a face and wiped his forehead, a little boy receiving a kiss from a least favourite auntie.

"Well, I best be going too, baby boy. I got 9 ladies who came all the way from Monterey for you.'

He looked impressed. "9 women?"

"Mais oui. But they paid good money for some booths, and I got a Fair to finish up." Makepeace lifted her large frame from her chair at the foot of his bed and moved around to squeeze his hand. "Next time when I call, you'll pick up?"

He grinned warmly. "I'll pick up."

And she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, and pulled away to study him one last time.

"The best of us, cherie. The very best." And she turned to throw a smile at Lisbon and Van Pelt before lumbering out of the room.

Jane did not wipe his cheek this time, a little boy receiving a kiss from a most favourite auntie.

Cho looked at him, arms folded. "I'm not going to kiss you."

"Me neither," said Rigsby. "It would just be wrong."

"Wrong, and creepy."

"Yeah. Wrong and creepy."

"We're ladies' men."

"Yeah. We have our reputations to uphold and… you know, stuff."

"Oh thank goodness for that," grinned Jane, and they left the room as well.

Van Pelt was chewing a nail, studying him.

"And you," he said. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Lying."

She studied him some more.

"You are SO psychic it's not even funny."

And she turned and left the room, leaving Jane and Lisbon and silence.

He sighed and looked at her. "I knew women would save the day."

She grinned. "It's all about the X chromosome."

"Absolutely. Gustavson?"

"Dead. You were right."

"Of course."

She smirked. "Fingerprints match, at least what's left of them…"

Jane made a face.

"His mother died two years ago. She was a small town clairvoyant in Stanton. Lived in a large, two storey house with, naturally, a large front porch and gardens in the front. His dad was Air Force, died 14 years ago, like you figured. It was just the two of them, no other siblings. He was a member of the LAPD, but kept getting reassigned because he kept flunking psych evaluations. It's amazing he even made it on the force in the first place."

"Because cops are such well-balanced, well-adjusted folk…"

She smirked. "His poor partner, Ferrare, doesn't know what hit him. Never suspected a thing. He's pressing charges against us."

"Sweet."

She tried not to grin. "He transferred to Sacramento 8 months ago. How did you know it was him?"

"Oh I didn't. That one threw me for a loop. I wasn't exactly functioning on all 8 cylinders these last few days."

"Right. Nothing unexplainable at all going on inside your head."

"Concussion, you know. Post-concussive syndrome, actually. The doctor said so."

"Right."

"Swelling of the brain."

"Right."

"Nothing paranormal or supernatural, just physiological. Medical." He tapped his head. "Intercranial."

"Right."

"Perfectly rational. Understandable. Explainable."

"Right, right and right."

"I'll rest now. Everything will go back to normal."

"Right."

"I hear an unhealthy note of skepticism in your voice."

"Right." And with another smirk, she pinched his toe and left the room.

He watched her go. "No kiss?" he asked the empty room, and sighed, closed his eyes and went back to Malibu.

__________________________________

He did, in fact, rest for a few days, two in hospital, and two at the CBI HQ. He was positively lazy, in fact, not budging from the couch except to mooch copious amounts of food from any and all units in the station. He had a couch-load of books to read, after all, and he'd spent good deal of his time finishing up his 'research'.

She came back one morning from a routine briefing with Minelli to find all his books gone.

"Ah," he said, smiling at her. "Merle came by to pick them up. They're library books, after all. They come with a due date."

"Like bologna," she said, observing his red picnic bag on the floor.

"Well, yes. I've offered to take her for lunch at the park. A sort of 'thank you' for all her help."

"You're a cad. And what amazing mysteries has all your research helped you solve?"

He leaned in to her, conspiratorially. "That you can't sum up a woman in any book. They are far too complex for that."

She pursed her lips. It seemed like a good conclusion.

"Ah, and here she is now…"

Lisbon turned, eagerly expecting to see an octogenarian toddling her way through the bullpen. What she did see caused her jaw to hit the floor.

Merle was a supermodel.

Tall, leggy, dressed in a figure-hugging cream suit, red hair piled in a loose knot on the top of her head. She saw Jane and smiled a perfect smile, and pulled her tortoise-shelled glasses from her deep blue eyes, pulled the pins and let her hair down, tossing it from side to side like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

Every set of eyes in the office was on her, and she vamped straight up to the consultant and laid a perfectly manicured hand on his sleeve. She smiled at Lisbon, a you-haven't-got-a-chance-in-hell kind of smile. It set Lisbon's teeth on edge.

Jane was beaming.

"Teresa, may I introduce Merle. Merle, Teresa."

"Pleased to meet you," breathed Merle.

"Charmed," swallowed Lisbon.

"Patrick was so kind to donate so many wonderful women's books to our library. You must be so proud of him."

"Yeah. He's a regular philanthropist."

"Are we ready, Patrick?"

"Ready, Freddy. I've got lunch and a book." And he held up a copy of Dorothea Gavin's hardcover, BITCHfest. "This looks like a fun read."

He cocked his elbow, Merle slipped her elegant arm inside and they turned to walk away, Jane throwing a little wave and huge grin back at Lisbon, swinging the red gift bag as they left the room.

For some reason, all eyes fell on her now.

"Get back to work," she snarled, and all eyes promptly did.

She stomped back to her office, cursing Patrick Jane, men, feminist and non-feminist literature and all things of a confusing, frustrating and sexual nature, when she spied a small box on her desk.

Frowning, she picked it up, gingerly opened it.

It was a pair of earrings, delicate silver Celtic knots, the very pair he had bought in Monterey. They were beautiful and she couldn't help but smile.

Delving deep into the world's greatest mystery, the key to deep unfathomable heart of a woman, and of course, Patrick Jane had struck gold. And she realized, with her trademark lop-sided grin, that he in fact needed no 'key'.

He could simply pick the lock.

The End