I do not own any of these wonderful characters, and I'm merely playing with them in a nonprofit manner. No copyright infringement is intended.

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You shatter the CD into pieces just as it has shattered you, and you turn to stare out the window. You need to look away - anywhere except at Lisbon.

You're avoiding her eyes because you're afraid of what she will see. That you're in danger of falling apart. That you worry you can't keep her safe any better than you kept Annie and Charlotte safe.

You let a huge sigh escape as you struggle to maintain control, using every biofeedback technique you have at your disposal. It's the only thing keeping you from screaming right now.

Just when you thought you had a real shot at catching the bastard. You had it narrowed down to seven people. Seven. You were so sure you finally had the upper hand. You included Lisbon because you dared to hope that this might actually be the end. That together, you might be able to stop him.

Great job, genius, you chide yourself sarcastically. In reality, all you've accomplished is to paint a big fat target on the back of the only person who really matters to you.

That panicky thought spurs your heart rate upward, and you have to work hard to get control again. Slow down. Deep breaths, slow, deep breaths. Now more than ever, you know you must keep your wits about you, or everything will be lost. Most of what you thought you knew is shifting under your feet, undermining your confidence.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lisbon rise and walk toward you. You feel the weight of her good hand on your shoulder, and she says words she couldn't possibly be certain of, just because she knows you need to hear them.

"We'll get him. Somehow."

Her touch has upset your delicate equilibrium and you inhale sharply. You're sure she can feel you trembling. Suddenly, your insular despair overwhelms you in a tremendous wave, and you turn around and wrap your arms around this precious woman in a fierce, desperate hug.

You can feel her warmth, her breath in your ear, the steady beat of her heart against your chest - and you hold on for dear life, soaking up her courage like a sponge.

"I'm sorry," you whisper in apology, your voice husky with emotion. You don't know what else to say. You despise yourself for putting her in danger. You're sorry for the life you led, for failing your family, for making Lisbon's life difficult so many times over. You're sorry for so very, very much.

"No," she says gently. "This is not your fault."

Maybe not completely, but you know that this maniac is going to start killing more people just because of their connection to you. And that crushing dread has pushed you very close to the edge. You recall all too well where that edge is and what it feels like to experience the helpless shame of falling over.

"We're going to get him," she reiterates her gallant promise, and though her claim may be foolish, it blunts your anxiety and offers you the whiff of hope that you need. You know she must be bewildered and frightened, and yet here she is, holding you together. Maybe it is still possible for us to catch this monster, you reflect.

Your shaking gradually subsides and you release her tiny frame, cautiously allowing your eyes to meet hers. You hope she sees the enormous gratitude in your gaze, because words would feel flimsy and inadequate.

You can see in her eyes that she is ready and willing to take this on, and so you know you must, too. In this moment, you realize the bond between you and this remarkable woman may be undefined, but it is also undeniable. There is only one way you can respond to her, so you manage a small smile of pure bravado and agree.

"We have to."

"We can do this," she assures you one more time. You know she's trying to convince herself as well, and you are humbled and inspired by her bravery. You have no idea how Red John deduced your list, but you begin to go over the possibilities in your head. You know there must be a logical answer. There's no such thing as psychics. Of that, you remain sure.

"We need a plan," you state quietly. There is much more to be said between the two of you, but this is not the time. There is work to be done.

She nods. Just then, her phone vibrates in her pocket and she checks the ID. "Bertram." You see panic rise within her and then she shakes it off and answers calmly, "Director Bertram." She pauses, listening, and then she replies, "I'll be there in twenty minutes," and snaps her phone shut.

"What does he want this late?" you ask. It's nearly five-thirty.

"It's about an old case." Her relief is palpable.

"I'll be back in the morning," she tells you. "We'll figure out something. A plan."

"Okay," you agree as you both move toward the door.

"I'll be back," she repeats as you let her out of your attic. When she is gone, you slide the door shut and lean back against it, thinking. Thinking about your options.

It doesn't take long for you to reach a very important conclusion. You know this hunt may require several plans before it is over, but there is one alternative you realize you must have – the one plan you cannot share with Teresa.

Spurred by a sudden sense of purpose, you pull out your phone and make a call. You ask Grace to find you some numbers of suspects you've interviewed over the last month, and you're thankful she doesn't ask why.

You must assume now that the walls of the CBI have eyes and ears, so you go out and buy four clean phones. Then you pick a secluded outdoor table at a coffee shop and begin. You start through the list, and on your fifth call, you hit pay dirt with a man who was a suspect in a case quite recently.

"Hi Gary, Patrick Jane here. Remember me? I'm the guy over at CBI who got that agent to cut you lose after you got picked up a couple of weeks ago. " You listen to his question. "Yeah, that evil little woman cop," you confirm, and you grin in spite of everything. It only takes him a moment to place you.

"Yes, I'm the dude with the vested suit, but I don't think it's all that out of style," you say defensively. He thanks you for "springing him," and wastes no time in asking what you want now.

"Where would a man go, hypothetically, if he were to, say, want to obtain a handgun? On the down low. Say, a nine millimeter - maybe a SIG Sauer 228? Hypothetically." You know that's the kind of gun Cho uses, so it must be good.

Gary allows he might know a man you could talk to and even offers to set it up. He calls back in under five minutes and tells you to be in the parking lot of Fallon's Classy Lady Lounge at one am with eight bills, and reminds you they don't take credit cards.

A real wit, that one, you shake your head. But, he's giving you what you need, so you withhold any pithy comments that cross your mind. "Thanks, Gary. I'll be in a vintage blue Citroën."

"A what?" he asks you.

"He'll recognize it," you assure the man, and neither of you bothers to say goodbye.

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It's a hot, windy night in Sacramento, and it takes you about thirty minutes to get to your destination. The address is a fair distance out of town. Finally you see the neon sign, and you ease the Citroën into the gravel parking lot of the Classy Lady Lounge, a ramshackle wooden structure with no windows. The bass laden music must be deafening on the inside, you note, and you sincerely doubt there's a classy lady within miles.

Your windows are down and the gravel pops underneath your tires as you guide the car all the way through a parking space, just in case this is some sort of set up and you need to leave in a hurry. There are several cars in the parking lot of the seedy looking establishment, but all the patrons appear to be inside enjoying the "entertainment."

You let the car idle while you wait. In a couple of minutes, a man in hooded sweatshirt appears from behind the building and casually makes his way toward your car. He's carrying a small gym bag, and he greets you with a question.

"You Mister Vest?" he asks, and peers in to see that you are indeed dressed in a vested suit.

"Yep, that's me."

He wastes no time. "Eight hundred cash. Not a SIG - fresh out of those. Glock 26 – nice piece."

"That'll do," you assure him, because that's the gun Lisbon uses. He hands you the bag and you pull out the gun and check the action. You satisfy yourself that everything appears to be in good working order. "Ammo?" you ask.

"Threw in a box of hollow points. Call me f*cking Santa Claus."

You rummage around in the bag and locate the box. "That'll do fine," you nod. "Merry Christmas."

You count out the money in the car below the level of the door, so he can see it, but no onlooker could. You fold the eight hundreds and slip them into his hand, and then he ambles away while you put the car in drive and slowly make your way back out onto the pavement. You smell beer and sweat and depravity as you pass the open front door of the club, and the throbbing beat of the music dies away gradually as you hit the main highway back toward Sacramento.

When you get back to the city, you stop in a deserted grocery store parking lot. You pull out the piece and inspect it more carefully. It's in good shape, and the grip feels cold in your hand. You load and safety it, and hide it carefully underneath your seat, where it will stay.

Back at CBI, you return to your attic, but you're calmer now. You know that if worse comes to worse, there's one sure way you can protect Teresa Lisbon from Red John. Because the only reason he would kill Lisbon, is to hurt you.

"I'll always save you," you told her once, and you intend to keep your promise. You failed Angela and Charlotte. You will not fail Teresa, even if it means not getting your revenge. With this knowledge, you're able to drop off into a fitful sleep until a knock on your door awakens you. You squint into the morning light, and realize it's her.

You slide back the door to reveal a freshly determined Lisbon, folder in hand. "Good morning, Jane," she says as she whisks by you. "I've got an idea!" You smile to yourself at her tenacity. She has already spread her papers over your desk and she calls to you impatiently, "Come on, Jane, look at this."

You approach her and catch her eye, rolling yours around to tell her you're not sure who might be listening or watching. "Lisbon, I can't do this on an empty stomach, can you? Let's go get some eggs!" you suggest with gusto.

She catches your subtext and agrees, gathering her papers. "Yeah, I'm starved, too." You note yet again what a terrible liar she is. Your hand at her back guides her out the attic door.

Outside the air is cooler this morning – it's a lovely day and you take a deep breath in appreciation. Eggs with Lisbon suddenly sounds marvelous.

"We'll get him," she told you yesterday, and she wasn't lying. Buoyed by her stubborn resolve, you're beginning to believe it again yourself.

And if not, you think of your last resort in the floorboard of the Citroën, and you know you can at least keep her safe.

"How about Carol's Diner?" you ask cheerily. You know it's her favorite.

She reads your sideways "thank you" and her smile is genuine as she flips her hair and accepts, "Sounds great."

You will catch him. You have to.

The End.

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I'm curious as to whether my experiment in second person Jane worked for you as a reader. Any constructive comments would be appreciated as I'm trying hard to improve my writing. Thanks for reading.