FIC: Acrimonious (9-2-2/21)
Title: Acrimonious
Author:
sirenofodysseus
Disclaimer: …it’s probably better that Bruno Heller owns The Mentalist, really.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After FBI Agent Susan Darcy is overheard telling Special-Agent-in-Charge Luther Wainwright that Patrick Jane may be working with Red John, Red John steals Jane’s body and begins to destroy the team’s lives one-by-one.
Spoilers: Brief spoiler for The Crimson Hat (4x24), but the rest of this story is set after Something Rotten in Redmund (4x20).
Warnings: Violence, language, drug use, sex, non-con situations, mentions of child abuse/domestic abuse, negative character portrayals, major and minor character death.
Pairings: Red John/Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon, Wayne Rigsby/Sarah Harrigan, Kimball Cho/Summer Edgecombe.
9 2/2--
Carefully, he placed both plates of chicken alfredo down on Teresa’s wooden table within her brightly lit kitchen before he took a seat and poured them both a glass of red wine. Red John watched Teresa take a slow sip her of wine with a smile across his lips and waited-somewhat impatiently-for her to start in on her still-warm plate of pasta.
“Lancaster came to see me today, right before my meeting with Wainwright.” Teresa stated as she picked up her fork near the plate and stabbed one of the corkscrew noodles with it.
“What does he want now?” Red John asked her, though he wasn’t interested in the topic of work or Lancaster’s stupidity. He just wanted Teresa to eat her meal that he had laced with a date rape drug, so he would be free to kill Kayla Rivet without Teresa’s knowledge that had even left her side in the first place.
“Lancaster wanted to apologize for his behavior.” Teresa said, in between chews. “He said that he should have allowed for us to question the Shannon’s, as we might have closed this case much faster.”
“We might have also gotten a fresh lead on Elizabeth Shannon for him, as well.” Red John replied after he had taken a sip from his own wine glass. Teresa nodded in agreement.
“Do you think she’s still alive?”
Red John blinked in her direction, the wine glass still pressed against his lips. “Elizabeth Shannon is most likely dead.” And buried in her parents’ basement, Red John added quietly. They had been allowed into the Shannon’s home once and the family; a perfectly “happy” set of two parents and a young son, had just screamed warning to him. The young boy-Gabe-had seemed genuinely troubled at the loss of his big sister but the parents hadn’t even batted an eye at the thought of losing their firstborn child. “Probably better off that way though.” He muttered under his breath. No child deserved to be treated poorly by their parents and he wondered if young Elizabeth Shannon had often wished herself dead, much like he had once done every time his father had stepped into the room with something to beat him with.
“Why do you say that, Patrick?” Teresa questioned and he heard the soft clink of her silverware hitting together.
“It’s been more than forty-eight hours since her abduction.” Red John lied. “Any chance that the little girl had to be found alive would have diminished by now.” Teresa said nothing and he heard her swallow roughly.
“This is good.” Teresa quietly stated and he silently thanked her for the subject change. “Where did you get the sauce though? It tastes a bit strong.” Red John briefly took his eyes off of her to glance down at the plate to find that she had eaten almost half of the food.
“I bought all of this from the counter mart up the street; I had to make the sauce from scratch.” Red John said. Teresa had almost nothing in her kitchen, aside from coffee and the random piece of fruit, which wouldn’t have helped him create a meal for her. “They have good bread.” Teresa shook her head, but took another bite of her food anyway. “Is there something wrong with my cooking?”
“You tell me.” Teresa replied with a gesture toward his untouched plate. “You haven’t eaten any yet.” Without argument, he grabbed his own fork and took a bite of the food.
He made a face. “It needs more salt.” Teresa chuckled softly as she handed him the salt shaker from atop the table and he poured a small amount into his food. “I think I might have also added a little too much cheese. I’m not entirely too sure, but nothing can ever have enough salt.”
“A lot of things can have more than enough salt, Patrick.” Teresa argued, before she pressed her hand to her mouth and yawned. He raised his eyebrow in surprise; he hadn’t thought that the drug would have worked that quickly although the combination of a date rape drug and a glass of wine might have helped speed the process along. “Popcorn, for instance.” She continued on, after she had finished her yawn. “Overly buttered popcorn is fine. Overly salted popcorn is not. Nobody wants salty popcorn.”
“Aside from the birds, who I’m sure would eat anything given the chance.” Red John pointed out to her and Teresa stifled yet another yawn behind her hand. “Tired?”
Teresa shook her head. “It’s been a long day. The shower didn’t help much, I guess.”
“Ah.” Red John knew she was lying, but he wasn’t about to call her on it in case the comment made him look suspicious. Instead, he chose to offer her more wine. “Would you like some more wine?”
“Sure.” Teresa held out her half-empty wine glass and he topped the glass off for her with his own glass of wine. He watched her take another sip before she slowly sat the glass down on the table and stood from her seat, while her body wobbled dangerously. Red John continued to smile.
It’s show time, he thought.
“What’s wrong, Teresa?” Red John asked, feigning concern. Teresa glanced at him, her eyelids slowly drooping. “Teresa?” He repeated softly.
“I think I’m going to bed. To sleep.” Teresa muttered. “All of a sudden, I’m sleepy.”
“Let me help you.” Red John offered his assistance and he stood from his seat to take hold of her upper arm; her body wobbled dangerously again as he started to help her back to her bedroom. Teresa said nothing to him until after he had freed her from all of her clothing and had pulled the blue comforter to her chin.
“Love you.” The brunette muttered with her eyes closed after he had finished pressing his lips against her warm forehead. Red John stared down at her, his throat suddenly tight with some foreign emotion.
“You don’t love me.” Red John muttered. His voice was tight. “You love Patrick. You always have.”
The room fell silent again, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and Teresa’s soft breaths, as the woman’s breathing eventually evened off into a deep and restful sleep. Red John stepped away from her bedside and cursed under his breath and not for the first time, Red John hated Patrick Jane with every fiber of his being for having picked Teresa Lisbon as his closest and dearest ally.
Red John scowled, as he eyed the stalled Chevy vehicle on the side of the road; the yellowing headlights from the old vehicle shone brightly, while the driver-little miss high and mighty of Missing Persons, Junior Agent Kayla Rivet-held her hand to her ear. He chuckled to himself at the dread he knew she ultimately felt, before he pulled up behind her vehicle and opened his car door to be greeted by the Californian heat.
“Mr. Jane?” Dear Kayla sounded so very confused to see him and her confusion-laced tone was like music to his ears, as he slowly approached her. He watched her remove the sleek cellphone from her ear, looking slightly distressed at the smoke coming from her vehicle. “What are you doing here?”
“I live in this part of town.” Red John said, coolly. Kayla accepted his lie with the nod of her pretty little head. “I was driving home, when I noticed you.” He eyed her smoking vehicle in contempt. Whichever one of his men had tampered with her vehicle had done an excellent job of masking any foul play and he felt the bizarre need to reward them, which he quickly squashed in silent disgust. He allowed his men the gift of living for perfectly executing every order, and he only acknowledged their silly mishaps and screw-ups with death. Even months after the procedure, Jane’s intrinsically “goodness” still lingered and it continued to half-amuse him and half-disgust him. Kayla shook her head with a frown, ultimately removing a lock of hair from her loose ponytail. He watched the stray lock cascade down her bare and slim shoulders, for the woman must have removed her suit jacket due to the heat, and Red John bristled with masked excitement.
Kayla’s life would soon cascade through her hair, down her back, onto his gloved fingers, into the glorious shape of a smiley face upon her wall, which would grace others with a much higher meaning than what her life was ultimately worth. Red John knew that he had to gain her trust first and then gain access into her home, before he could even acknowledge her truth purpose via death.
“I honestly have no clue.” Kayla interrupted his thoughts with the shrug of her shoulders. She uncrossed her arms from her chest. “One moment, my vehicle was fine and the next? Everything is smoking and my car is making strange noises.” A nervous laugh escaped her, as she crossed her arms against her chest to stare down at her vehicle. “I was getting ready to pop the hood when you pulled up, but the latch is stuck.” He nearly smirked at the visible lie written across her face. Women like Kayla-headstrong yet lacking in the natural ability to lie-were so naïve and predictable, it was almost pathetic. Even without sparing her arms a glance, he could see the usual signs of lying in her face-difficulty in maintaining eye contact and the slight reddening of her face-and he could hear the lie in her voice, which made him itch to pull out his knife with the intention to punish her where she stood. Habitual liars, like Kayla Rivet, had absolutely no place in the world and he knew she would eventually get her comeuppance.
Of course, he’d let her think that she had gotten away with her lie, just so her punishment was a million times sweeter for them both.
“I’ve never been good with cars.” Red John replied; his father, before his tragic death, had always been a natural in the shop and with his hands. Red John mentally smirked. His father had once said he’d never be good with his hands, and he had shown that bastard differently. Kayla’s frown deepened. “However, I can give you a lift home. It’s the least I can do for a fellow CBI comrade.” He flashed a warm and genuine smile toward her, hoping to draw her into his fabricated web of safety but the hesitation written across her face told him she wasn’t completely stupid or naïve. After all, how much of a coincidence could it be to run into somebody you had just exchanged heated words with almost every day during a case, in the middle of nowhere? He could almost hear her thoughts, which bounced around in her head: what he is doing out here? Should I trust him? He continued to smile, as he spoke again. “I’ve been told that the heat is more dangerous than the raccoons,” he spared a quick look at the surrounding moonlit forest, “or maybe it’s the other way around?” He heard her nervously laugh and he knew, before she even opened her mouth to speak again, that he had her right where he wanted her: trapped with no way out.
“Okay,” Kayla said with a hesitant smile, “just let me grab my purse.” He nodded in allowance and watched her turn around to open her car door, before he allowed himself the smallest of victory smirks to creep across his face.
Agent Kayla Rivet would be his first of many victims as Patrick Jane and his last as Red John. It, of course, would sting to see all the credit for Red John to go to Patrick, but Red John had extremely important plans that hinged on the hope that Patrick would go down for all of his crimes.
He heard her car door slam shut and he wiped the smirk off his face; he didn’t want to scare her off, especially after all of the hard work he had put into get her to say yes. Kayla turned to face him and he led her to his vehicle, where she opened the passenger door and got into the vehicle before he opened the driver side and sat down.
“Where do I go from here?” Red John asked after he had shut the driver side door. Kayla glanced around the vehicle, which he ignored; the lack of having of a seatbelt wouldn’t kill her, he was positive of that one. “Agent Rivet?” Kayla glanced back at him.
“Keep going straight,” she finally responded, “my house is at the bottom of the hill.” Red John started the vehicle once again and in the silence, they drove on. From the corner of his darkened vision, he could tell that Kayla was on edge and he smiled faintly; Kayla, even after she had left them all, still irked him. She had annoyed him with her constant visits and with her never-ending low blows toward Red John. He shifted his attention from her to the road ahead, where he noticed that all the houses along the dark stretch of road were completely isolated by yards of land and gated entrances.
Except for the gated entrances, Kayla’s neighborhood was absolutely perfect. He could torture her for hours on end and nobody would hear her musical screams or come running, which made his last kill the most savory. “My house is this one coming up.” Kayla leaned forward and pointed her finger toward the medium-sized white house hidden behind a light-framed iron cast gate. Red John nodded, as they slowly rolled up to the gate and Kayla motioned for him to roll down his window. “Type in 64892.” He nodded again, before he stuck his hand out the window and pressed his fingers against the smooth silver keypad. The gate slowly parted open and they continued forth onto the expansive property. “Once you leave, the gate will open automatically.” He said nothing again until he parked in her empty driveway, his headlight beams bright against the white paint of her garage double doors. He turned his vehicle off, before she spoke again. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Jane”
“It’s no problem, Agent Rivet.” Red John answered, as she opened the car door. “Have a good evening. I’ll see you around.” Kayla nodded and he watched her step from the vehicle, hesitantly. Voicing his falsified concern, he spoke up. “Is something the matter, Agent?” He doubted that she suspected that anything was wrong, considering she had given him the passcode into her home.
Kayla bit her lip, her face flushing in the pale moonlight. “You gave me a ride home; the least I can do is offer you a drink before you go.” Red John merely smiled. Agent Kayla Rivet, owner of a registered gun or not and dealer of serial killers, had just made it a million times easier for him to exploit and end her.
What an innocent little lamb, he thought with a large smile and a brisk nod to her; I’m ready to lead her to the slaughter.
He opened his car door slowly and stepped onto the concrete of the driveway, before he followed her inside the one story home after she had unlocked her front door with a nervous laugh. She motioned him into the house and shut the door behind her. In the near darkness, the main foyer wasn’t anything impressive to look at, but it held family portraits and he grimaced at the cheerful faces. Happiness was a false front, designed to make all other emotions pale in comparison.
“We have to keep our voices down,” Kayla whispered, as she led him into the kitchen and flipped on the light; the room was tastefully, if not somewhat tackily, decorated in pale blues and yellows, “my daughter is sleeping.” Kayla glanced up at him quickly; her blue eyes bright and he almost immediately recognized the look of a mother’s pride upon her shadowed face. Her look of pride was enough for him to decide that the killing of Kayla and her precious daughter would be the most perfect exit strategy and the beginning springboard for Jane’s “psychotic break”. Two final killings; a mother and her precious youth, much like his first two vengeful killings of Angela and Charlotte Anne Jane had been, would spark his final plan into action. Red John heard the gentle hum of the refrigerator and he glanced down from the blue ceiling to stare at Kayla, whose body became bathed in the pale yellow light from the appliance. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any beer.”
“That’s all right.” Red John replied. “I don’t drink beer.” It wasn’t technically a lie, but she didn’t need to know that. He tended not to drink any alcoholic beverage on the nights that he had planned to kill someone, even if the wine from earlier had been the rare exception to make Teresa relax.
“I have water, soda, pink lemonade, or milk.” Kayla spoke again, as she glanced back down within her medium-sized refrigerator. “Although,” he watched her pick up the white milk carton, “the milk might be spoiled. Kenny, my forgetful husband, doesn’t exactly remember to check these things. His job keeps him away most of the night as he works as a security guard for California National Bank” The night just kept getting better and better. A little girl and a husband, who wouldn’t discover his wife or child until well after they had already been killed and he was long gone from the scene.
“I think I’ll have some pink lemonade, if that’s okay?” She nodded and he watched her grab the see-through container from the refrigerator, as he slid into one of the barstools at the dark marble kitchen island. Neither of them anything, until Kayla poured the pink liquid into a purple mug and sat it down in front of him. “Thank you,” he said, as he held the cup to his lips and sipped-pink lemonade, while not his absolute favorite, had a bitter taste and he liked it for the taste that lingered on the tip of his tongue.
She took her own cup and joined him on the opposite side, before she said anything. “You’re an extremely peculiar man, Mr. Jane.” He glanced at her over the rim of his cup. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. Yet, you helped me. Why?” Of course, Kayla would voice those questions within the safety of her own kitchen; it was a common phenomenon for all women, who thought they could protect themselves. Kayla knew she had protection within her home, she just didn’t know he had ways around those protections.
“And not get the chance to gloat?” Red John teased. Kayla’s cheeks flared bright red. “I did save Junior Agent Kayla Rivet from the various dangers lurking in the dark, after all.” Kayla rolled her eyes in response and he finished off his cup of pink lemonade with a smile.
“Thanks again though,” she responded, “Kenny won’t be home till late and I hate leaving my daughter by herself.” He waved her thanks off. “Let me walk you to the door.”
He stepped off the barstool, before he addressed her. “Agent Rivet, may I use your bathroom first?” Kayla nodded and she motioned for him to follow her down a long dark hallway, which was adjacent to the now dark kitchen.
“The bathroom is in here.” Kayla told him, as she stepped into the room and the hallway became flooded with light. Red John nodded and stepped past her into the colorful fish decorated mess of a bathroom. “Let yourself out when you’re finished, okay?”
“Sure.” He gave her a small smile, before he closed the bathroom door and turned to the bright blue shower curtain with a grimace; the neon red and yellow fish were absolutely revolting to look at. Without another thought, he began to dress himself down-he quickly shed his light gray jacket and matching vest onto the floor and rolled up his white sleeves to the crook of his elbows-before he pulled out his single pair of black kitchen gloves from his pants pocket and sat them on the porcelain sink. His gleaming and trusted kitchen knife, which he had hidden in his jacket pocket, would be removed soon enough.
Firstly though, he knew he needed to attend to his nearly bursting bladder. Red John turned toward the white toilet, which remained tucked away in the corner of the small room, opened the plastic lid, unzipped his pants and managed to relieve himself without completely undoing his pants. The last thing he wanted or needed, especially while killing was the urge to relieve his bladder. Leaving the victim for one moment, even if you thought they couldn’t move due to an injury, made the difference between being arrested and getting away with it-most victims, seriously injured or not, could at least get to a phone and dial 911 for various purposes. Stale urine, Red John had discovered from his first victims, lingered and nobody wanted to smell that.
He zipped back up his pants, flushed the toilet, closed the lid and washed his hands, before he pulled the black gloves smugly to his wrists and removed the knife from his discarded jacket pocket. Red John, with a twisted smile upon his face and a knife in his hand, left the bathroom and started down the dark hallway. Behind one of the doors, he heard hushed voices and carefully, he grasped the silver doorknob and opened the door-Kayla’s back, draped in a sexy little white number, greeted him, as she stood over the queen-sized bed.-his thoughts (and certain body parts) buzzed with the idea of having a little fun with her body, before he ended her life…but Jane’s bitch, Teresa, had already finished him off with her dirty little mouth earlier and he had felt satisfied enough (at the moment) to leave Kayla alone.
“Move over, sweetie.” Red John heard the voice of a mother talking to her precious child and before he could change his mind (or she could turn to face him), he pressed the blade of his knife against her throat and sent a sickly sweet smile toward the wide-eyed blonde haired child, who stared at him unblinkingly. Kayla tried to shake him loose with her elbows, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being able to do so, as he slowly dragged the tip of his blade across her exposed throat. Kayla inhaled, sharply and she stopped struggling.
Red John grimaced. He had wasted all of that precious time and energy on her and she wasn’t even going to fight him back? It absolutely disgusted him.
“You might as well fight me, Agent.” Red John purred into her ear; warm and comforting, soft and deadly. “I wouldn’t want your precious child to think that you’re a coward, Kayla. You’re a CBI agent. You have a gun. Do something.” Kayla made no movement again and he sighed into her ear. “If you don’t play along, I will kill your child first and I will make you watch. Can you imagine her blonde curls, matted with blood…?” Kayla struggled against him again, and he darkly chuckled. “You’re weak, Kayla. How did they ever let you into the CBI? Did you perform illicit favors for Agent Wainwright in his office?” Kayla tried to elbow him again, which he avoided with a laugh. “Did he tell you how agile and beautiful you were? Does your husband know how much of a whore…?”
“I’m going to blow your fucking head off!” Kayla cursed, which ultimately amused him. Kayla thought her words would scare him off, make him rethink his actions, but it never would. Her words, much like the last words from Angela Jane, would fall deaf on listening ears. “I hope you burn in hell, you asshole!”
Red John rolled his eyes at the all too familiar response. "There's no such thing as hell," he felt her tense against him, "and you're a fool for believing otherwise." He heard her breath hitch, and before she could scream, he sliced the sharpened blade across the throat and tossed the body away from him onto the white-sheeted bed. The blonde-haired child, who stared down at her lifeless mother in confusion, let out a high-pitched cry of mommy and daddy, when he swiftly silenced her with one shift motion of the blade across the small throat of the child.
He walked toward the body of the mother and stared down at her for a brief moment. He pondered about how he should go about the cutting of the figures before him.
Each cut meant something to him. It said, whether anyone ever realized it or not, something about him. Each cut showed a passion, a passion that could never be fulfilled with paint or a pen. The many artists that he had come across in his journeys throughout the years had always commented on paint strokes in hanging portraits on museum walls; the various emotion that was shown through every stroke of the brush that they had made. It took an artist's eye to be able to catch the minuscule amount of detail. He felt the same way when it came to how he approached cutting his victims; each cut showed raw emotion and if they had just looked close enough at the bodies, they could figure out everything that they ever needed to know.
However, no cop, detective, forensics team or consultant had ever looked hard enough and therefore, he had continued to get away with his killings. With a certain amount of sadness, he realized that this would be his final kill using his signature. He had to make sure that it would be the finest piece of artwork that he had ever crafted.
Red John stared at the neck of Agent Kayla Rivet and considered slicing it clear through, beheading her immediately, but reconsidered. He penetrated down through her chest with great force; he could feel the knife ripping through the heart, which only served to make him smile in delight. He stopped once he hit the naval and sliced at her bare legs. He then went back to the chest. He pulled back on the skin he had just cut open, in order to get more of the seductive red liquid, and he could hear the bones crack, as he ripped her chest open; the sound, he figured, belonged to the now broken rib cage.
He allowed for the blood to run freely, before he moved over to the child. The child's brown eyes were open wide in fright, as they stared back at him. He knew he wouldn't have to cut as deeply into the child, since the mother would supply him with enough blood to draw his old friend onto the wall.
He cut down the child's chest rapidly and watched as her white nightgown, decorated with the face of a dark-haired, ruby lipped princess on the abdomen, soaked into her. He then opened the child's mouth with his gloved hand and sliced through her tongue. Red John closed her mouth and watched as blood secreted from her small mouth and ran down her cheeks. He smiled, he watched the bloody mess of mother and daughter run together and pool on the white sheets.
“You’d remind him so much of his wife and child,” he felt the overwhelming need to whisper to the silence, “that is why you both needed to die.” Red John dipped three of his fingers in the bloody mess, before he moved to the empty space of wall above the two victims. “So, I can continue to live my life in harmony and he can die.” He placed his three fingers onto the wall and the grinning smile, which had given him a purpose for the past fourteen years, began to form before his very eyes for the last time. “Goodbye, my old friend.” He whispered to the face upon the wall, before he left the bedroom and softly shut the door behind him.
--
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five 1/2 - Part Five 2/2 - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine 1/2 - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen - Part Fourteen - Part Fifteen - Part Sixteen 1/2 - Part Sixteen 2/2 - Part Seventeen - Part Eighteen - Part Nineteen - Part Twenty 1/2 - Part Twenty 2/2 - Part Twenty-One