Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist. In fact, I only really took notice of its existence a few months ago. Title and lyrics come from the Weezer song of the same name.

A/N: This is my first Mentalist fic. The show really reminds me of the X-Files which I loved as a teenager so I wanted to take a stab at writing something for it.

This is very AU-ish. Extremely so, but it was kind of a thing in X-Files fanfic to take them out of their own world, maybe due to the supernatural element of the show. So, I wanted to try it out with Jane and Lisbon. Don't worry- they're still the same people, just in different circumstances.

EL SCORCHO

I'm a lot like you so please
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting
I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me

-Rivers Cuomo

Early October, 2010, in a world similar, but different, to the one we know, in which Red John does not exist, and Lisbon's father never died….the question to ask is would they have still met? Well, of course they would have. Even in other worlds fate remains the driving factor, if you believe in such things, that is.

Somewhere between Reno, Nevada and Sacremento, California on the I-95

This story begins, like many before it, on a dark and stormy night. It does not however, feature any ghouls, goblins, spirits, magic, princesses to save or princes masquerading as amphibians. The vehicle hurtling through the aforementioned rain swept night was not a carriage made of pumpkin slowly leaking away its spell at midnight. It was a mint condition, lovingly restored Citroen DS-21 (model year 1969, thank you very much), and the driver despite his occupation, and fairy tale good looks, was no prince, and definitely not a saint.

The Citroen's lone occupant and driver, Patrick Jane did technically make his living as a psychic, but he'd be the first to admit there was no such thing as mediums or magic. Well, he wouldn't admit it out loud of course, that would just be bad for business, but the truth, like light and water, always seems to make its way into cracks in the darkness.

For Jane this tended to happen in the middle of the night, when he lay, covered in expensive sheets next to his devoted wife in their beautiful home. The bed would get wider, separating him from his true love, the room would get smaller, and all of its lavish trappings seemed to press down upon him. Insomnia had been his night time companion more than his wife lately, and he'd begun to wonder just how long a man could continue to lie for his daily bread. The answer was elusive, but the money his misled clients continued to pay him to look into their future or contact lost loved ones was very real and present, so he kept at it despite the lack of sleep.

He'd told himself when he'd left Nevada, where he had been headlining a sold out show for the past month, that it was only home sickness that spurred him on. This was partially the truth, but it certainly did not constitute a whole truth. He knew in his heart of hearts that it wasn't his wife and child he was running to when he'd hastily backed up a bag after tonight's performance and hit the road. Instead, if he was honest with himself, something he'd never been until recently, it would be obvious he was running away.

His conscience, like any new born, was waking him up every hour on the hour whenever he tried to sleep. It didn't matter if he was sleeping in his own bed or in a five thousand dollar a night suite in Vegas. He couldn't sleep and it was starting to grate on him. He relied on his superbly honed observational skills to pull off his "psychic" feats, and insomnia was starting to rob him of his wits. Jane knew he wasn't magic, but his clientele did not, and it wouldn't do for them to find out.

Earlier that day…in Vegas

Today's performance had rattled him. He'd made a sophomoric mistake and told a woman named Sally that her dead mother forgave her for some vague slight he would not (could not) define. He'd then watched in horror as Sally had collapsed into hysterics and screamed the truth aloud. Her mother had nothing to forgive her for, she'd done nothing wrong. Instead it was her mother who owed Sally an apology. A year ago Jane would have known this. He would have found the telltale signs of having endured abuse in Sally's words, in her body language and written on her face. It would have been no great leap to assume if she wanted to contact her mother that the dead matriarch was in fact the abuser. He'd slipped up today, and it hadn't been the first time, but it was the worst and most public display of his newly acquired incompetence.

He'd done his best to contain the incident. This usually involved turning on his natural charm and charisma, and it worked exceptionally well he found on female clients. He knew his job and his con, and the first rule was never let them see you sweat. It wouldn't matter that he'd made a mistake if he never let on that he did. In that room, on that stage, he was-as he always was, in any setting, with any client-the one in charge. Jane knew he could manipulate a person's emotions and thoughts easily; so he did.

It could have been a disaster. The audience could have turned on him, and a tiny part of him willed it to happen. Then the decision to quit the racket and go straight would be made for him. Thoughts of quitting the con and the stage came and went quickly as Jane refocused his mind to the task at hand and the people relying on him at home. He pictured his wife and daughter, and remembered their reliance on his income. Then he smiled. It wasn't the kind of happy and unguarded smile one expects a father and husband to produce at the thought of his family. Jane's smile was bright, and electrifying, but it also held an edge of hardness. It was a smile meant to disarm the recipient and lull them into a false sense of security. Lately when he practiced this smile in front of the mirror (every facial expression he would use during a client's session got the same treatment) he could swear he saw a snake staring back at him.

Once his smile was in place Jane moved towards the woman with purpose and cast his voice low and soothing while repeating Sally's name. Several more crooning words were added and spoken at the same pace as his footsteps. It was only Sally that he really needed to hypnotize, but Jane would tame the entire audience with the same words if he had to. Hypnotizing people without their consent was not his favorite trick to pull, it felt more than a little dishonest, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

As usual, his considerable skill, combined with his ethereal looks, worked like a charm and by the time he'd come to stand over her in the audience Sally was no longer confrontational. Instead she was just mentally and physically spent, exactly the way Jane wanted her. People are far easier to control once they've been flayed apart emotionally. This fact had saved Jane's skin many times and Lady Luck was not quite ready to abandon him just yet it seemed.

Jane remained crouched next to Sally and offered soothing words until she could stand, but only while being supported by him, of course. This way it didn't matter that his careless words had been the catalyst for her undoing, all that mattered now was she could not stand, could not breathe even, without his help. To Sally and the audience Patrick Jane was once again their savior. He was a spiritual and gifted man who took time out from his life, from his family, to share his power with them. The mood amongst the crowd quickly shifted from tentative rebellion to gratefulness.

Jane continued to smile as he helped Sally back into her seat. The zeal she had displayed while denouncing her mother and Jane was now dedicated to thanking the man holding her tightly. She'd never doubt Patrick Jane again. It wasn't his fault her mother's actions had left Sally repressed, angry and cynical about the world. After all, hadn't she heard from other audience members that Mr. Jane had helped them deal with painful memories and broken childhoods in his private practice? Sally felt ashamed of her actions and promised herself that the next time they met she would be one of those private clients, and she'd pay him twice whatever his asking price was. He would heal her, just as he had healed many of the people sitting around her.

Jane walked back to the stage followed by thunderous applause and the sinking sensation that he'd done something very wrong. When he had peered into Sally's adoring eyes before returning to the spotlight, he'd known her thoughts as truly as if they were his own. She was devoted to him now, another disciple ready to worship at the house of Jane for an exorbitant fee. Jane sighed inwardly and took a few deep breaths to regain his composure before turning around to face the audience. The spotlights glinted off of his silver suit and tie, his smile was eerily genuine and his voice jovial as he asked his followers who would like to be read next. He watched with a mixture of relief and disgust as thousands of hands soared skyward, and the crowd reached a fervor pitch. In the back of his mind a long forgotten song was playing…

He's got the whole world in His hands

He's got a-you and me brother in His hands
He's got a-you and me brother in His hands
He's got a-you and me brother in His hands
He's got the whole world in His hands

The show had ended on a high note, but Jane's spirits were low. The Sally incident bothered him and drove his thoughts to the point of distraction. Mistakes happened to other people, common people, less intelligent people than Patrick Jane. He couldn't afford foul ups in his line of work. The con only worked as long as the people continued to believe, and the people would only believe if he never gave them a reason not to.

After the show he stood staring at himself in the bathroom mirror and tried to strategize and reason his way back to copacetic. He could keep doing this. Keep lying for money until his daughter was college bound. His family was already wealthy and living well off of the tainted fruit his practice bore, but that rapper his now teenaged daughter listened to was right, "Mo money, mo problems". His wife and child were used to their pampered lifestyle, and he loved them so he could deny them nothing, this meant he had to continue working, for them, always for them.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips and Jane watched his own face grimace in the mirror. He found it infinitely ironic, and darkly amusing that his wife and child had no idea what inner demons he battled to keep them well heeled. His daughter, once more loyal to him than even his most ardent client, was now thirteen and, like all children her age had decided her father was profoundly un-cool and his job meaningless expect for its role in providing for her material wants. She didn't know exactly what it was her father did for a living, she never had, and as a child it hadn't mattered to her because she'd loved him unconditionally. Then the missed birthdays and empty seats at school plays and piano recitals had started to rack up as the years went by and her father's practice grew. Now all she would say when people asked about her father's work was, "He's away a lot", and there were many conditions that had to be met in order for her to be civil with him.

Jane continued to stare at his reflection for several more beats, and then he was in motion, ransacking the room for the essentials he'd need to make his get away. He paused momentarily from throwing things into a hastily grabbed bag and considered changing his clothes. His clients expected some razz a ma tazz from him and the shiny suits were are far as he was willing to go when conceding to this fact. Still, he had no particular urge to be caught in his daily life in a silver suit. He longed to be able to face clients in his preferred clothing of choice; a sober, three- piece suit, in gray or black; jacket optional. A glance at the clock told him there was no time to switch outfits if he wished to make it out of his room before his after show grace period was up. Soon his manager and the stage director would want a quiet word with him to discuss the "Sally Incident".

So he left immediately, bag in hand, still wearing his flamboyant costume and paused only to trade in his silver wing tips for the battered brown boots he'd worn religiously for years. He told his wife he kept them around to remind him of his humble beginnings and how far he'd come since. He never told her the truth, that he really kept the boots around to remind him that it didn't matter how shiny his suit was, or how smooth his hair, the man on stage, he wasn't the real Patrick Jane, just a glossy mask that hid a soul of real substance. A soul that was increasingly restless and troubled by how the man on the outside made his living.

Jane took the hotel's service stairs to avoid being seen. The help wouldn't tell on him, and his handlers, glossy people like himself, only took the elevator. He bypassed the lobby entirely and followed the stairs straight into the parking garage where his Citroen sat waiting. Jane always experienced a moment of pure pleasure when he spotted his car. It was one of the few indulgent purchases he's allowed himself to make once his practice took off. Everything else went to housing and clothing his wife and child, and whatever was left over went straight into savings and investments. It didn't matter what his wife thought, or how clueless his daughter was, Jane knew he couldn't keep the con rolling into old age. In fact, lately he'd been thinking more and more about retirement at the tender age of forty. He was already rich several times over, and it wasn't like his family needed more money. He knew his wife might prefer for their income to continue to grow, and she would no doubt stud her arguments against his retirement with words of need, as opposed to want, but Jane knew the truth. He was starting to remember the very real difference between a need and a want, and he was inclined to side with necessity, not frivolity, these days.

He nearly laughed out loud at the reflection beaming back at him from the driver's side window as he approached his car. The man smirking back at him looked every inch of frivolous in his shiny suit and Rolex. A casual observer would never suspect him of harboring niggling moral doubts or financial worries. He tore off his jacket and tie before entering his vehicle in the hopes that it would lend his appearance some gravity. With one last glance back at the hotel service exit Jane gunned the engine and sped out of the car park.

It was still early evening and sunny when he left Las Vegas. He had agreed to perform three sold out shows a day in return for a large sum of money from his promoters. Today he'd only completed one show, the "Midday Extravaganza", and he wasn't sure he'd ever go back to Vegas and complete another. It would make his manager crazy, his wife aghast and most certainly mean over time for his lawyer, but Jane was past caring. There had been a time in his life when he'd used his skills to survive hand to fist, and never asked permission to do anything. He'd come and gone as he wished, conned who he could to get by and never said please. He had no urge to be that desperate man again, but he did envy him his freedom. It was, he decided, as the city gave way to dessert in his rear view mirror, very unlike him to take orders from anyone, and he wondered when he'd become so domesticated.

He silently pledged to work on his wife until she saw the value in his ultimate goal; to extricate himself, slowly if need be, from the con. He had investments he could cash in, and he was no where close to poor anyway, quite the opposite actually. The more Jane thought about it the bolder his aspirations became. It didn't matter that he'd just run out on a six week long commitment in Vegas, after all he'd done four weeks. What more did they want from him? His practice could be wound down in the space of a year. He'd cull his client list down to the regulars who could be counted on to support his every decision, and pay him cash no matter how ludicrous his actions. He'd make his wife see reason. It would be better for their marriage, and could only help his strained relationship with their daughter, if he was home more. Yes, he was quite decided on it, Patrick Jane was going straight.

As proof of his resolve Jane turned up the radio and threw his silver tie out of the window. He rummaged about in the glove compartment until he found the long forgotten Ray Ban Wayfarers he'd worn as a younger man. After he slid the sunglasses onto his face he shoved his free hand into his slicked back hair and rubbed until his natural curls sprang free from their sticky confines. When he caught sight of himself in the rear view mirror Jane smiled, and this time he saw no trace of a snake.

Still earlier that day somewhere between Las Vegas and Tonopah…

His good time didn't last long. He'd just made it past Nellis Air Force Complex when his cell phone started to ring. He had expected his management to notice his absence and to try and contact him accordingly, but he hadn't worked out yet exactly what he was going to say to them to offset the damage he had caused. Jane didn't like to have important conversations, especially not ones about money and legal contracts, unless he was sufficiently mentally prepared and each word had been carefully chosen to produce the desired effect. Plus, he was a wild man now, and living dangerously. Wild men let their calls go to voice mail. He considered turning his phone off completely, but he wasn't ready just yet to totally sever that connection.

An hour later his phone was still ringing incessantly and Jane made the executive decision to switch it to vibrate only, but he'd continue to check the call display. That was a fair compromise, and he was beginning to suspect he wasn't a man for compromises anyway. But, a conscience was a hard thing to shake once awakened, and while it made him less inclined to continue in his chosen occupation, it also made him soft hearted towards the people who had helped him achieve greatness. Thus, when his Blackberry alerted him to the fact his manager was calling for the fifty-sixth time, Jane decided to answer the phone.

"Hi Bernie."

"Patrick? Where the hell are you?"

Jane adjusted the rear view and made faces at his reflection. "Dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know? How did you get somewhere unknowable? Were you knocked unconscious? Are you hurt? I almost hope you're hurt because there are two thousand angry people in your audience right now and I have no idea what to tell them."

"I'm not hurt. I'm great in fact. I haven't felt this good in awhile."

"Jesus, you're on drugs aren't you? Look Jane, it's no big deal, it happens to a lot of famous personalities. I have several other clients with similar problems. Just tell me where you are, and I'll come get you. We'll tell the crowd you have food poisoning, or I don't know, that you're powers are tapped out from the last show. Then we'll reschedule and Bob's your uncle."

"I don't have an Uncle Bob Bernie. And, I'm not on drugs."

There was a pause in conversation as Bernie Schwartz, agent to the almost famous trades persons who service the stars, let out a long suffering sigh. "So, you're not hurt, you're not cranked out of your head, and I'm guessing you aren't drunk".

"Not drunk."

"Then why pray tell are you not on stage right now?"

"Meh…I didn't feel like it."

"Oh well, that's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Hold on, I'll go tell Mr. Ciccone, the owner of the Palms Hotel and Casino, the man sponsoring your show and, may I remind you, paying you far more than your cheating ass is worth, that you won't be performing tonight because you don't feel like it. I'm sure that will stop him from suing the shirt off of both of us, while breaking our knee caps."

"No one's going to get sued or have their knee caps broken Bernie. Just stay calm. Calm and relaxed-

"Don't pull your mumbo jumbo on me Jane! Don't forget I know what you really are-a two bit con man in a fancy suit!"

Jane rolled his eyes behind his Wayfarers. "If you know exactly what I am Bernie then you know I won't let anyone sue the shirt off you. What haven't I talked my way out of in all the years you've known me?"

Bernie rubbed his temple and nodded his concession. "I know Jane, I know, but this, this means lawyers."

"Lawyers, schmyers…tell them I look forward to doing battle."

"Jesus Christ. We're fucked."

Jane realized he'd overstepped the mark, and worked to reign the conversation in. "No, no Bernie, it's not going to come to that. There's not going to be any legal trouble. Here's what you're gonna do. Are you listening Bernie?"

"No."

"Bernie."

"Fine."

"You're going to tell the audience and Mr. Ciccone that I'm unavailable because I'm tapped out. I finished my show, the show in which Ms. Sally Peters had a bit of a break down-

"Yeah, I meant to tell you congrats on that. Are you hearing my sarcasm Jane? Because that was quite the fuck up my friend."

"And now we're going to use it to our advantage. Listen carefully Bernie. Sally Peters mother was a sadistic witch who tortured her children. Do you know what happens to people like that when they die Bernie?"

Bernie was well aware that Patrick Jane didn't believe in an afterlife so he knew his was the beginning of another masterful con and this fact imbued him with hope. "No Patrick I don't. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"They get worse. They become demonic. They pray on the life force and happiness of their victims, such as Sally, from beyond the grave. And if anyone, like myself, gets in their way they attack."

"I see."

Jane watched the dessert rush past as he free styled. "And you know Bernie, after every show my spiritual receptors are wide open and raw. It's a natural side effect of what I do."

"Of course it is."

"After my show I returned to my hotel room to recover and compose myself for the next performance. At this time I was accosted by the angered spirit of Mrs. Peters looking to seek revenge on myself and Sally for outing her as the evil thing she is. I valiantly battled with the spirit, besting it of course, but not without using considerable stores of strength. Right now I'm vanquished and cut off from the spirit realm, and I couldn't possibly perform."

Bernie looked skyward and both blessed and cursed the day he first met Patrick Jane. "This could actually work."

"It will work Bernie. And, if it doesn't tell Ciccone I know he's faking it with his wife and his mol. Tell him I know what he's up to on those weekend trips with his pal Silvio and it'd be a shame if the world found out. There's no such thing as the Gay Mafia Bernie, it's just something The Republicans made up."

"Jane we can't threaten a man who is Vegas royalty. Not unless you want to wear cement shoes."

"Sure we can. And, it won't come to that, I promise you. Give them the Ma Peters story and be done with it. If any threatening does have to happen, I'll do it myself when I get back."

"And when will that be?"

"I'm not sure."

"Jaaaane."

"Fine. Give me forty-eight hours Bernie. Let me see my family. I've got some things I need to tell them."

"Forty-eight hours? Jane where are you? Are you driving?"

"Yes."

"And you think forty-eight hours is going to get you to Malibu and back with time to chat? Not unless you've got a time machine my friend."

Jane hadn't considered this. Bernie was right. When he'd thrown together his things and made his escape Jane had assumed he'd run to his family, but now he wasn't sure. They didn't feel like the safe haven he needed at this moment. That was troubling, and something he'd have to dwell on later.

"Never mind where I am Bernie. I've got to be at least half ways to Reno now. I can make it to Malibu. Just you watch."

"Look, Jane, you know you're not good with distances, and that contraption of yours, it isn't made for long drives."

"What you talking bout Willis? I'll have you know an armored version of this car saved De Gaulle's life during an assassination attempt. They shot out two tires and it still kept rolling. This car-

"Yeah, yeah I've heard it before. Look Patrick, I know you haven't been sleeping. I'm not sure you should be driving. Listen, I'll feed Ciccone and the crowd the Ma Peters story, but you should stop in Reno. Get a room, relax, do whatever you need to do, deal with this mood and then come back here tomorrow and put on a show."

"No can do Bernie. I want my forty-eight. It's Malibu or bust."

"I'll get you your forty-eight. But Patrick, for God's sake, don't spend the whole night driving. You're not fit for it, obviously."

"I'm fine."

"You're crazy. And it's gonna get dark soon. Promise me you'll pull over in Reno and that you'll call Elizabeth. I'm gonna call her regardless, she should know that her husband's gone nuts."

"Oh no come on Bernie, don't call Liz."

"Then you call her."

"I'll call her."

"In Reno. From a hotel room, preferably before you go to sleep."

"We'll see."

"Patrick!"

"I'll call her Bernie, jeez, get off my jock."

"I don't even care what that means. I'm going to go deal with our sponsor. You deal with your wife."

"Whatever."

"Good bye Jane. You call her, because I'm going to."

With that final promise Bernie disconnected the call, and Jane tossed his phone on the passenger seat. He would call his wife, just like he promised, but not until Reno, after all that was part of the promise too. He turned the radio back up and leaned back. He figured he had at least two hours before Reno. Then he'd consider stopping. Maybe he would get a hotel room like Bernie suggested.

Two hours past Reno, with nothing left to say…

It's said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Jane didn't believe in heaven or hell, but he understood the sentiment contained in that old saying after spending two hours engaged in a protracted argument with his wife. Reno had come and gone, and he'd observed it entirely from the interior of his vehicle. Elizabeth had been angry enough to find out he'd ditched a show. She became livid once he tried to smooth things over by explaining his new life plan. Jane was ashamed to say that at one point they'd devolved to yelling at one another. He'd put an end to that by taking a few deep breaths and pitching his voice down to a more soothing and persuasive octave. He hadn't managed to convince Elizabeth that his plans to retire were sane or doable, but he had promised her they would talk seriously and sensibly once he got home.

His wife had also encouraged him to stop for the night, to sleep on his decision. She, like Bernie, implied that it was just the lack of sleep getting to him, making him think absurd thoughts. Jane was tempted to tell her just how right she was about the insomnia, and how off she was about everything else. He resisted the urge however, because it wouldn't do to antagonize her any further.

Four miles outside of Auburn, California…or back to where we started, somewhere between Reno and Sacremento on the I-95…

All he could do now was concentrate on getting back to Malibu. He'd blown through Reno, screaming into his phone and begging his wife to listen to him. It was coming up on midnight and he'd been driving for nearly eight hours. To make matters worse when he'd crossed the state line into Northern California it had started to rain. It occurred to him then that he'd gone entirely the wrong way. He could have made it to Los Angeles much quicker if he'd simply left Vegas and headed for Barstow. If he was really honest with himself, he'd gone in completely the opposite direction from his home, and his show. Thoughts like those were dangerous and useless right now. He'd get to Malibu, even if it hadn't been his intention at first to go there, he'd just take the scenic route.

Not that there was much to see as the rain got heavier the closer he got to Sacremento. At least he figured he was near Sacremento. He hadn't passed a real city in ages, just a bunch of little towns. According to the rain obscured road signs he was passing, another small town, one called Auburn, was just a few miles away. Jane debated stopping. He hated small towns. Lenny Bruce was right, after you saw the cannon in the park there was nothing to do. Small towns reminded him of his misspent youth in a travelling carnival, and Jane loathed reminiscing about the past. To stop or not to stop, that was the question. His body was screaming out for food and rest, but his busy mind was telling him to make it to Malibu as quickly as possible.

At that moment, fate, which Patrick Jane most certainly did not believe in, took the decision out of his hands in the form of a scared animal. He barely had time to brake before the deer shot out into the rain covered road. The Citroen began to hydroplane and Jane no longer worried about hitting the animal, it had pranced off to safety, but he held serious misgivings about his ability to not crash his car. The vehicle spun in circles for what felt, to Jane, like hours and seconds all rolled into one. When it came to rest its nose was pointed not towards Vergas, or Malibu, but Auburn.

Jane rested his head against the steering wheel and tried to steady his breath. When he raised his eyes to peer into the night his headlights were fixed on a road sign that read; Auburn, four miles. Four miles, he could manage four miles. He'd accept whatever accommodations Auburn had to offer, because he wasn't driving any further than four miles tonight. It might not be manly to be frightened off the road by a deer, but Jane wasn't concerned about manliness, he was, as always, concerned about survival. It was better to live to fight another day than to go out in a stupid blaze of glory. Plus, hydroplaning in the boondocks didn't really count as a glorious blaze.

Jane pulled over and called 411. He had no idea where one stayed in Auburn, and he figured an automated list of hotels was better than driving about aimlessly. He absent mindedly dialed the three digits and waited to be connected to a prerecorded voice over.

"Hello?"

Jane blinked. There was a person on the other end of the phone; a real person. He'd thought those had been dispensed with the moment the first cell phone rolled off the production line.

"Hi?"

"Can I help you?"

He honestly didn't know. "Um, I think I dialed the wrong number?"

"This is Auburn Information honey. I'm Susan I work at the police station. I'm dispatch. We don't get a lot of crime here, so I answer all calls, 911, 411, you name it."

"Uh, Okay."

There was a pause for several beats while Susan, "I work at dispatch", tried to determine just what kind of a situation she was in. "Hon, are you okay? Are you injured?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? No, Susan, I'm not injured. My name's Patrick and I need a place to stay, in Auburn, for the night. Can you help me with that?"

"Oh, well, that depends. Are you cute?" Susan let out a rapturous laugh and then it was Jane's turn to pause.

"Er…

"I'm just kidding hon. You'll want to go to Teresa's place. I mean, there's other places, but you won't get the same service."

"So what's the address of this Teresa's Place?"

"First of all, it's not called Teresa's Place. It's called The Auburn Inn, and are you calling from a cell handsome?"

Jane smiled in spite of it all. "Yes, Susan, I am."

"Then I tell you what, I'm gonna make like AT&T and reach out and touch you. I just texted the directions to Teresa's to the number on my screen. How's that for service? I bet you thought we were too hokey here in Auburn for texting hey Patrick?"

"You caught me."

"Do you think you can find your way?"

Jane peered at the directions flashing across the screen of his Blackberry. They seemed simple enough. How could he get lost in a town of 13,000 people?

"Yeah I'm good."

"Well, I'll give Teresa a call and let her know to expect you. It's pretty late. She should still be manning the bar though."

"The bar?"

"Yes the bar. The Auburn Inn is a fully licensed bar, restaurant and hotel Mr. City Boy. We do get tourists you know."

"My apologies Susan from dispatch. I meant no disrespect to your lovely town. And, thank you, sincerely for all your help. If you don't mind I'm going to try and get in from the rain."

"Ain't that what we're all trying to do honey. You call back if you run into any problems. I'll be here."

"I will. Thank you."

"That's what we're here for."

Jane hung up and set about navigating the Citroen towards The Auburn Inn. It didn't take him long to drive the four miles into town and once he got there the directions Susan had sent him were easy to follow. He was so confident in his ability to find his way around he considered detouring to see if the town had a park, and if it contained a cannon. When in Rome and all that jazz. The incessant staccato of rain on the Citroen's roof reminded him that he needed to get off the road and into a warm bed; preferably after an even warmer meal.

The Auburn Inn was more of a house with a bar attached once he got a good look at it. Despite this, he liked it immediately. The building was quaint, and well kept. He could tell that in daylight the paint job would be white, the shutters red, and the flower boxes a riot of colour. It was a world away from the architectural marvel made of glass and treated lumber that awaited him in Malibu, but it would do.

He parked as close to the entrance as possible and got ready to make a dash through the heavy rain. He surveyed the car's interior and made a rash, and not altogether understandable decision to leave his phone in the glove compartment. He grabbed the small bag containing his toiletries and a change of clothes. With one last glance at the glove compartment he ran from the car and straight Into the Auburn Inn, where unbeknownst to him, he had a date with destiny.

I'm a lot like you so please
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting
I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me

TBC…..in which we meet this world's Lisbon…