Mentalist Aftermath

_Thank you to Cumberland River Relic and Sue Shay for their friendship and valuable critiques of my stories. _

_This story is a direct sequel to Sue's "Too Soon to Go". Originally we planned to do a 3-way story but it soon became clear that Sue's writing style and mine were too different to do this effectively so we decided not to progress it further. The chapter here is a one-shot and will only make sense if you read Sue's story first. It's in my favourites list. Thank you to Sue for letting me borrow her premise, situation and original characters. I hope that you enjoy this potential insight into Jane's life in Venezuela. As always, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts if you would like to leave a review._

_Usual disclaimers apply._

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><p>Reaching the water barrel, Jane lifted the bucket, dousing his shins with the cleansing torrent. Again and again he swilled himself down. The sun-warmed water caressed his legs and feet, washing away the traces of Sophia's last illness.<p>

Dipping the bucket once again, Jane lifted the pail above him and upended it. Water cascaded over his head, front and back, invigorating and refreshing. Shaking his head, dog-like, he cleared the worst of it from his face and hair before standing for a moment under the mid-afternoon sun. Drips from the hem of his sarong splashed on and around his bare feet, as he slicked his hair back with his palms. His discarded sandals looked OK, cleansed by the deluge.

Time to tune into each sense; to ground himself in the rhythms of life as he'd done so often when overwhelmed. The sun beating on his wet back was pleasant, although it still held a hint of its ferocious power, and the slight breeze teased the hairs on his forearms. The smell of ocean salt and fish scales filled his lungs, making his nose twitch, and the after-taste of that last Tom Collins coated the back of his tongue. Looking up, he marvelled at the beauty of the clear azure sky, a sight that never failed to cheer him. In the background he could hear Father Rudy, the priest's soft voice lilting as he engaged his parishioners outside Maria's door, but with a hint of authority and steel rarely heard.

In Jane's chest, he could feel the bleed. Pure anguish and sorrow gushing out from deep within. It pulled him down like he was indeed haemorrhaging from the aorta as he remembered the agony on Maria's face, the torment of a parent having to bury their child. Something that should never be.

He needed to get out of this place. Find some solace and some clean air. He needed to breathe.

Turning away from the pier, with its aura of decay, Jane headed inland, through the village centre and up towards the hill which overlooked the settlement. The hill on which the church was situated. Progress was slow as his feet shuffled like they were encased in concrete and his lungs burned with the exertion. His energy was draining like a lock was being emptied into the ocean. But he wasn't going to give up. Not here. Not now.

Pulling himself up the path and onto the shoulder of the hill, Jane looked up as St Saviour's loomed above him, the stone edifice contrasting with the more ramshackle dwellings in the village below. To the side of the church, the graveyard spilled across the hilltop like flotsam and jetsam trapped at the high water mark.

Seeing a bench on the approach to the main entrance, Jane sank down wearily, head resting in his hands, as the memories overtook him. Poor Sophia. From the moment that he'd stepped into that hovel earlier, Jane's memory palace had gone into overdrive and now the images raced past his closed eyelids as he relived the dying child's last moments over and over again. And as he watched her mother, denial mutating into despair and a frantic pleading. Then her crumpled form, bending over the dead girl cradled in her arms.

Gasping as he fought back the rising sobs, Jane gripped the timbers of the bench so fiercely that his short nails sank into the wood, pushing back the flesh of his fingertips till the nail quicks protested. As he forced his inhalations to gradually deepen, he gathered his self-control, slamming shut the door of Maria and Sophia's room in his mighty fortress. He'd seen enough dead bodies, hadn't he? After a decade with the CBI, they were hardly a novelty. And enough dead children too. Tragic but not so unexpected. Exerting his control with an iron will, he blocked the new stream of images. Crime scenes the length and breadth of California. Mutilated bodies. Ravaged relatives. His time with the SCU was history. Past tense. Over. It wasn't going to haunt him now.

Standing up, mindful of the mid-afternoon sun baking him relentlessly, Jane sought the sanctuary of the church. Not to pray, of course. Even now, having known non-pious but truly devout people like Teresa Lisbon and Father Rudy, religion wasn't for him. But the church would provide a calm and cool respite from the tropical heat. Not to mention that it always helped him feel closer to Lisbon. He just hoped that Father Rudy didn't catch up with him and re-commence trying to save his shattered and worthless soul. If indeed, he had such a thing.

Turning the heavy iron handle, Jane slowly pushed the church door open, careful not to disturb anyone already in prayer. Silence, stillness and a blessed coolness owned the space, like stepping into another dimension, a parallel universe in a more temperate region of the globe. Jane kneeled in the back pew, his hands clasped with his forehead resting on them.

_I'm looking for Lisbon's God. Not mine, I don't have one. And if I did, I would only spit and scream and cry at all the pain, all the injustice. So many broken lives, people dead when they should be alive. It's a good thing that I have no God. That he belongs to the brave and the good, to better people than I._

He remained still, lost in contemplation, for a few minutes, before reaching up and stretching as he stood, inhaling deeply. It was no good. The restlessness in his body was getting stronger, even though the concrete block in his chest wasn't shifting. Making his way to the door, he slipped out, back into the afternoon sunlight.

Whilst he could do nothing for Sophia now, there was still something that he could do to help Maria.

Jane made his way to the small tool shed at the edge of the graveyard. Not locked. Of course. Inside were two spades, some secateurs and loppers, a bucket and a battered, rusty lawnmower. Grabbing one of the spades Jane walked over to the newest area of the cemetery. Aligning himself with the last grave, he used the spade edge to mark out the dimensions of a child's coffin. Then, bending his back, he hacked at the vegetation, clearing it until he could see to remove the sod with short horizontal strokes, stacking the different sections of turf neatly at the side of the area. That done, he began to dig in earnest, hurtling the spade down with all his strength to break up the root systems and dislodge the pebbles and larger rocks, welcoming the percussive shock from the stones as it jarred his wrists and shoulders. With each pulse of grief and sorrow he worked the earth, burning off his distress as the ground yielded, making space for Sophia's grave. Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes and trickling further, dropping off his chin. His clothes were soaked and his skin burned from the combination of sweat and sun. But still Jane worked, digging out the dirt by the shovelful, uncaring of his clothes or his raging thirst.

Later, as the day was sliding into evening, Jane climbed out of the rectangular hole and collapsed in a heap on the grass, utterly spent, his mind and body drained.

As day turned into dusk, and dusk into twilight, Patrick sat up and brushed the soil from his hair and clothes. Soon it would be dark enough to see the stars.

"Patricio, you're here!" Father Rudy emerged from the church porch carrying a basket. Approaching Jane he unfolded a blanket and threw it over Jane's shoulders. "You must be getting cold now."

Jane turned to acknowledge him, smiling as he caught sight of the basket contents. A flask of tea and some freshly baked cake, no doubt from one of the ladies in the village. Father Rudy joined him, sitting on the graveyard ground, and poured the tea, which Jane took gratefully.

"Looks like you've been busy?" Father Rudy gestured at the open grave. "That was kind of you, Patricio."

"Meh," Jane shrugged.

"And thank you for your help earlier. I've left Maria in the care of Francesca Delores and Bernadette Michelena. They will comfort her as much as anyone can, and Bernadette is making all the necessary arrangements."

Patrick nodded, thinking about the retired old lady who was everyone's mother in times of trouble and the efficient, no-nonsense schoolteacher who commanded the respect of even the most untamed teenagers. A good combination. They would indeed get things done.

"We plan to hold the funeral tomorrow," Father Rudy continued, "after the day's catch has been processed. I expect the whole village will come."

Jane grimaced at the naiveté in his friend's voice. "Hardly. Enough of them resented Maria and I heard Mrs Escobar, charitable as she is, saying that Sophia was a demon-spawed runt from hell."

The priest drew in a shocked breath. "What!" He paused, shaking his head. "We'll have no more of that, I promise you. A child is a gift from God, irrespective of race, creed, gender or health. And I will make sure that my parishioners understand this tomorrow. It shouldn't take a lot."

Jane glanced at him, the smirk obvious on his face, but the priest continued.

"No, Patricio, you don't understand. Communities like these see so much loss that when tragedy strikes they pull together. I promise you, Maria will be looked after. I know that she was an outsider before, and I know that it won't compensate for the loss of Sophia, but people will be there for her. Francesca will make sure of that if there are any problems, though I don't expect them. This isn't like living in a large city. It's a family of sorts."

A family. Jane flinched as Lisbon's words from so long ago echoed in his ears. Her family, the CBI and her team, had been destroyed. He only hoped she was coping with it all.

Pushing his thoughts back down, Jane shrugged, looking away down the valley towards the sea. "Fair enough."

Father Rudy contemplated him in silence for a few moments before slowly asking, "And what happened to your wife?"

Jane froze momentarily,_ oh-oh, here we go, _before carefully schooling his features into practised indifference. Taking a long, slow breath, he did the same to his voice.

"Why do you ask? What makes you think that I'm a widower?"

Father Rudy mirrored Jane's posture, also looking away to the pier.

"You wear a wedding band but after 6 months here it's clear that you're on your own. You've never so much as looked at the village girls, from what I've heard. And you've found your way here as a way to escape some terrible pain. Am I right?"

Jane sighed, a little theatrically, before replying. "Yep, she died. While ago now. Hit and run. We used to live in Missouri. And yes, now that I have no other ties, I came here to find peace. To soak up the sun and be lulled by the waves. What of it?"

The priest nodded softly, still looking down the valley. "And children?"

The coldness in his voice shocked Patrick as he answered, "I have no children to my name."

Flinching, the priest fell silent. Both men sat quietly, watching the flickering lights in the village as the stars became clear in the night sky. After a while Father Rudy spoke again, in carefully considering tones.

"You know, I've been a priest a long while. And we try to be there for people at their highest and lowest ebbs. To assist them through sickness, loss and pain. And there's one thing that I've noticed. If someone has suffered a traumatic experience, like the loss of a spouse or a child, and they see someone else undergoing the same trauma, there is an instant connection, a recognition of kinds.

"Still, what do I know? I am just one man amongst many."

As he got to his feet, he continued, "I hope I haven't caused any offence, asking about your family? I apologise if I misread the situation or caused you unnecessary pain."

"Nah," Jane flexed his knees to stand, groaning as the seized, overused muscles were forced to work again, the cold from the ground having taken up residence in his bones. "None taken." He wrapped the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

Smiling, the priest said, "I'm going to call on the Delgados and see how the arrangements are progressing. Keep the blanket for now. Just drop it back when you're done."

Jane followed the priest down the hill and back into the village, shuffling as he resisted the pain and stiffness in his limbs and back from unaccustomed labour. Just before parting ways near Jane's hut, Father Rudy turned to ask one more question.

"Will you be coming to Sophia's requiem?"

Jane laughed. "Oh Father, surely you know better?"

"I do," Father Rudy agreed, "but you will always be welcome." Turning off the main pathway, the priest headed off into the night.

Once home, Jane found a change of clothing and cleaned up, intending to find a dark corner in the cantina and seek blessed oblivion in a whisky bottle to the point of being carried home. But instead, exhaustion overtook him and he fell asleep on his makeshift bed.

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><p>The following morning, when Jane headed to the seafront bar for tea and eggs, he was surprised by the somber mood. No-one joked with him or even greeted him. The whole village was in mourning. Even at the small post office, where two of the village women conversed in muted tones, nobody had a smile for him. It was draining.<p>

Jane sought solace by rambling along the beach, as far away from people as possible, looking for interesting seashells. From what he'd overheard as he headed to the shoreline first thing, Sophia's requiem was at 3 o'clock and the boats would be back in early.

At 3.30pm, when he was sure that the village would be deserted, Patrick made his way up through the streets and onto the hill overlooking the settlement. He walked around the church, settling himself against the back wall, out of sight and out of mind of any mourners, and waited. He didn't need to see the gritty, puffy eyes or the salt-tracked faces to know what was going on.

Later in the afternoon, after the last of the mourners had gone and no more voices could be heard, Patrick made his way back to the tool shed, grabbing the spade once more. He may have no interest in the spiritual but there were still practical things to do.

Jane worked in silence, pausing often to stretch the muscles complaining about the previous day's labours and to ease out his aches and pains. He was about half way through returning the earth back into the grave when Father Rudy joined him, sleeves rolled up and wielding the other spade. Together they finished the burial of little Sophia.

As Jane took the spades and returned them to the shed, the priest nipped inside, coming back with a book which he held out.

"Last time I was up at Sandy Vale resort, the manager gave me this. It had been left by a guest and he was going to throw it out, but given he knew I speak English, he passed it onto me instead. I've already read it. If you would like it, take it."

Jane took the book, curiosity winning out, and turned it over to read the title. 'Sherlock Holmes. The Hound of the Baskervilles.' He threw his head back as laughter bubbled out. Yep, fate had it in for him alright. At least it wasn't 'The Lone Ranger.'


End file.

Mentalist, Friendship, Tragedy