Un peu en retard cette année pour la fic de Noël, je vous livre deux échantillons de ce que je vous concocte...

En attendant la suite, vous pouvez revivre mes visions alternatives de la série Mentalist que je suis avec assiduité pour votre plaisir autant que pour le mien et vous livre une revue des épisodes déjà diffusés et inédits en France.

Après Totally Insane, imaginée l'année dernière pour vous faire patienter en attendant la saison 4, et Protégez-moi de mes amis, l'année précédente, voici les introductions de deux fics qui me sont venues à l'esprit au cours de cette année, mais que je n'ai pas encore eu le temps de terminer.... Souhaitant que ces quelques lignes aiguisent votre curiosité,  je vous informerai de la suite dès que possible...

Bonne Lecture et Joyeuses Fêtes!

Intemporelle, l’enquête peut avoir été vécue par le couple Jisbon à n'importe quel moment de la saison 3, avant le "fameux final". Quoi qu'ils éprouvent, ils n'en diront rien.

Chapitre 1 - « Les fantômes ne tirent pas sur les gens … »

CBI, Sacramento, fin d’après midi.

-          Jane, vous êtes là ?  demande Teresa d’une voix à peine audible, alors qu’elle fait

glisser la porte de « son cagibi ».

Elle entre dans la pièce à pas de loup et le regarde en souriant. Il est allongé sur le lit de fortune qu’il s’est improvisé avec un vieux bureau et quelques bricoles, insondables.

Elle s’avance vers lui, une moue circonspecte aux lèvres. Comment fait-il pour tenir là-dessus ?

Ses boucles blondes chiffonnées couronnent son visage d’ange, auquel elle a appris à ne pas se fier. Paradoxalement, quelques rides barrent son front tandis qu’il esquisse un sourire plein de quiétude. Elle retient son souffle et s’approche en silence.

Il semble dormir d’un profond sommeil. Un léger ronflement ponctue sa respiration tranquille, qui soulève sa poitrine à intervalle régulier. Entraînant dans un ballet alangui ses mains croisées sur son ventre. Elle a du mal à détacher ses yeux de ses doigts longs et fins, parfaitement manucurés, qui témoignent du soin qu’il sait prendre de sa personne.

Et tranchent avec son allure parfois débraillée, quand il émerge, après s’être assoupi, lui qui ne dort jamais bien longtemps. 

Elle s’attarde sur son alliance qu’il ne quitte jamais. Signe de son éternel attachement au lourd passé qui l’a conduit à faire partie de sa vie. Elle déglutit mais sa bouche reste sèche. Le malheur qui le frappe est la cause de leur rencontre. Elle en éprouve comme une honte, mais elle ne peut s’empêcher d’y penser. Il est ici. Et elle en est heureuse.

-          Lisbon ? Sa voix douce la tire de ses pensées.

Vous me regardez dormir ? murmure-t-il avec un sourire taquin.

-          Je ne vous regarde pas dormir ! Nie-t-elle farouchement.

Il se relève doucement, l’air amusé.

-          Vous me regardez dormir. Répète-t-il sur un ton facétieux.

Il s’étire comme un chat, les bras en avant.

-          Je ne vous regardais pas dormir ! répète-t-elle en haussant le ton, pour toute défense.

Je n’osais pas vous réveiller. Vous aviez l’air si paisible … ça ne vous arrive pas si souvent.

-          Je ne dormais pas de toute façon. Objecte-t-il, en baillant.

Réprimant une folle envie de s’étirer complètement, il esquisse un petit mouvement du bras droit, tandis qu’il se gratte le dos avec le pouce de l’autre main.

-          C’est ça. Vous réfléchissiez. Affirme-t-elle avec malice.

Vous ronflez quand vous réfléchissez ! Se moque-t-elle, en espérant lui faire changer de sujet.

Il sourit de plus belle.

-          Ouououhhhh … rit-il sous cape, en haussant les sourcils.

Vous me regardiez …

Elle remue la tête en signe de désapprobation avec une moue désabusée. Quel gamin !

C’est pourtant vrai qu’elle prend plaisir à le regarder. Il est plutôt bel homme après tout. Y’a rien à jeter !

Pas très grand, pas très baraqué. Sa stature est pourtant idéale pour elle, qui a eu la chance d’être réconfortée à l’intérieur de ses bras. Dont la musculature à ce qu’elle a pu mesurer est fort honorable. Une finesse athlétique qui renforce « un petit côté surfeur », en contraste avec la classe toute britannique de sa posture habituelle. Sa mise, généralement élégante et raffinée, impose une certaine distance, dont privilégiée, elle s’est depuis longtemps affranchie.

Elle s’est déjà laissée aller avec délice à se lover contre sa poitrine, assez large pour contenir un cœur plus vaillant qu’il ne voudra jamais l’admettre, bercée par sa voix à la note séraphique, si apaisante, quand elle n’allait pas bien.

Et en dépit de son comportement exaspérant, elle le trouve attirant, elle doit bien le reconnaître. Mais, elle est la sœur de trois frères, qu’elle a pratiquement élevés. Et ses frasques d’adolescent attardé la fatiguent. Trop, pour envisager la moindre relation sérieuse avec un homme, qui sous ses airs de Peter Pan, masque mal un chagrin des plus handicapants. Certes, un homme malheureux éveille dans le cœur de toute femme le désir de le consoler, mais elle le sent bien loin de se résoudre à se laisser faire.

Elle lui lance son regard le plus noir et affiche son air le plus sévère.

-          Ça suffit ! On a une affaire ! Maugrée-t-elle en lui balançant un coup de poing dans le bras.

Ce qui a pour effet de raviver son sourire enjôleur. Il se frotte l’épaule en mimant exagérément la douleur.

-          On a une affaire ! Dit-il avec un sérieux théâtral. Il s’assoit correctement au bord de sa couchette et fait mine d’écouter avec attention.

De quoi s’agit-il ?

-          Un meurtre. Dans la Baie.

-          Hum, hum … et … pourquoi ça n’est pas la criminelle qui s’en charge ?

-          Euh … La police locale est dépassée. Ils font appel à nous … rapport à votre statut « d’ancien médium » …

Il hausse un sourcil circonspect qui lui évite de poser la question, à laquelle Teresa répond sans conviction.

-          … parce que … selon les premiers témoignages, celui qui a fait le coup … est un fantôme.

Pour toute réponse, il écarquille les yeux en grand.

-          J’savais qu’ça allait vous plaire. Sourit-elle.

Une fois dans la voiture, il remet ça !

Au volant, Lisbon fulmine. Sa mine réjouie et pleine d’espièglerie a le don de lui porter sur les nerfs. Surtout quand c’est elle qui en fait les frais !

-          Vous me regardiez … chantonne-t-il.

-          Vous allez arrêter avec ça ? Je ne vous regardais pas dormir !

-          Il n’y a que les amoureux pour se regarder dormir … continue-t-il de la provoquer sur le même ton.

-          Vous allez vous taire à la fin ? Je ne vous regardais pas dormir. Je vous laissais profiter d’un repos mérité.

-          Mais vous me regardiez …

-          C’est bientôt fini, oui ? !

Il s’enfonce dans son siège en affectant l’attitude d’un garnement qui s’est fait gronder.

Il dodeline de la tête sur un rythme qui laisse deviner qu’il continue sa chansonnette, à l’intérieur de son cerveau dérangé.

-          Vous arrêtez maintenant ! Lui intime-t-elle, à l’évidence fatiguée de ce petit jeu.

-          Ne rougissez-pas Lisbon. Se radoucit-il. C’est agréable de savoir que vous m’appréciez.

-          Quand vous dormez ! Ah ça oui ! Le reste du temps vous êtes ingérable !

Il encaisse la pique en faisant la moue. Il se redresse et prend une attitude plus mature. Il lâche un profond soupir.

-          Ne vous fâchez pas Lisbon, je vous fais marcher … ça fait passer le temps. On n’est pas arrivé.

Le trafic est plutôt dense à cette heure de la journée et elle va devoir le supporter encore un bon moment.

-          Je le sais bien. Et ça commence à m’énerver ! Vous n’en n’avez pas marre de jouer les sales gosses tout le temps !

Il sourit en pouffant à sa remarque, qui le plonge néanmoins dans un étrange silence.  Il sourit à nouveau, en soupirant.  « Tu n’en n’as pas marre de me provoquer ! Espèce de sale gosse ! »

Il lui arrivait de lui parler comme ça de temps en temps. L’image de son épouse le haranguant, un peu à la manière de Lisbon, lui apparaît comme dans un épais brouillard. Tout à coup le voilà revenu  plus de dix ans en arrière. « On ne dirait vraiment pas que tu es devenu père ! Regarde ta fille, elle bien plus sérieuse que toi ! »

La blonde chevelure de la petite Annie lui fouette le visage avec douceur. Elle rit aux éclats, à califourchon sur les épaules de son papa. Elle ne doit pas avoir plus de quatre ans, dans ce souvenir là. Un de ceux qu’il tire au sort, à la moindre occasion.

Pas un jour ne passe sans que leur souvenir l’envahisse. Il sourit. Mais son cœur se serre. Le parfum de cette chevelure … le sourire de sa femme, leurs rires mêlés …

Les yeux dans le vague, il laisse échapper un soupir.

-          Qu’est-ce que j’ai dit ? Vous êtes vexé ? S’inquiète Lisbon.

-          Hum ? Non. Se reprend-t-il … Il lui sourit,  mais elle sent que le cœur n’y est pas.

Je pensais … je pensais aux fantômes … tente-t-il d’ironiser.

Ça ne tire pas sur les gens … les fantômes. 

Belle diversion.

-          Non, mais ça peut resurgir du passé. Rétorque Teresa, comme si elle avait pu lire dans ses pensées.

Il fronce les sourcils.

-          Mouais … vous croyez ?

Here you can read few scenes I though about … to built a story which could take place in France. In the future … of course, at the time, I have only the back ground of the show, until the middle of the fourth season … (and I imagined that, around the episode with Stiles at the beginning of season three.)

So you can feel the process. I have flashes … scenes come and see characters born … I put them together … (of course thinking about a global outline) … Sometimes, the process is different … but, I want to share it with you now. Even the story is not over … for I want to show you a way of writing.  Mine, for this:

Considered himself as a psychiatric case, imagine Jane in front of a woman, who’s racking her brains, much more than he has ever done.   … and she’s convinced that He is Red John. Enjoy …

« Jusqu’à la lie … » (“Until last sip”)

Jane is going to France to find out what Brett Stiles plans there. The French officer who asked for his help, knows al lot about Red John …

Sacramento. CBI Headquater

« How far are you ready to go to catch Red John? »

The message on Patrick’s cell-phone sounds like a presage.

      - Lisbon!

shouts Jane. He runs to Teresa’s office, hanging his phone.

      - News from Brett Stiles.

She says with a big smile, putting down her own phone.

      - Brett Stiles?

-          Yes, he’s in France.

She says. 

              A French officer of Interpol has just called me.

-          In France, Lisbon. In France.

Answers Jane with the largest smile she has ever seen on his face.

-          What are we talking about?

Says Lisbon.

             You don’t hope …

She knows what means the look in his eyes.

-          A French officer is asking for our help …

 he whispers.

-          She only asked for any information …

she says, wagging her head.

-          But we can help, Lisbon. We can help. At least … we should help!

He insists, jumping as a 10 years boy.

           We go, don’t we?

-          Go? … go where?! Are you crazy? We can’t go in France. Can’t work there.

-          Yes we can.

Assures Patrick.

            We can go in France.  You can go there for Holidays, can’t you? So you can go there

            for work as well… and if we can be a service for the French police …

            why wouldn’t we ???

-          Doesn’t work like that.

Corrects Lisbon.

            We are a local Federal Institution. We have no authority in foreign countries.

             Even we asked for Stiles extradition.

-          I’m a consultant Lisbon. You forget this. … Anybody can ask for my consulting. Even in far away countries.  And that’s France Lisbon!  France! Imagine! Good wine, “Jambon-baguette” … you will love that! I’m sure you will!

-          No way …

She says.

            We have enough work here. Stiles knows the ropes. And he still supervises here!

            We have another woman missing at Vizualise. The case is as important here as

             anywhere else. And we are working on it!

Grace enters the room, clearing her throat. She puts a folder on Teresa’s desk.

-          Hum. I f you don’t come, I take Grace with me.

He says with a cunning smile.

XXXX

Charles De Gaulle’s Airport.

Roissy, France. 4PM local hour

-          Agent Lisbon. Thanks for coming. Veronique Belmont. We appreciate for your help. We really need your assessment. 

A radiant blond hair woman welcomes the duet. Shaking each hand with an exaggerated zeal.

-          Mister Jane. It’s an honor. I’m really found of your work. I studied in Quantico for the past two years and I worked on the fascinating case of Red John. I hope we will have time to talk about, quietly, together. I have my theories. You would be interested, I hope so.

Patrick suddenly stops looking all around, like an enchanted kid. He stares at her.

-          Oh really? Sure I will.

-          We will have a briefing in the train. It will be more comfortable than by car.

She goes on.

             Stiles is entrenched behind people in some kind of an ashram six hundred kilometers

             South. It will take around three hours to get there.  

             And we have a murder in the region. You will have a shock.

XXXX

CBI Headquarter,

Sacramento, 11AM.

-          We can make it here, don’t worry Boss.

Says VanPelt on the phone.

             Cho is a good leader. He and Rigsby are on the field. People in Vizualise are not

              cooperative but they’ll make it.

French countryside. Between Paris and Valence, around 5PM

      -     Tell me what you’ve got.

Answers Teresa. Sitting in the rapid train, going south.

             Here we have somthing big. Very big...

She looks down the file Belmont gave her. Photographies are disturbing. The young woman could have been killed by Red John.

…. --- …

Patrick is buying food at the bar, having fun with the waitress.

Back to the seats, he puts sandwiches on the small table.

-          You have to taste that!

He invites Teresa. Winking at Veronique.

             I’m always hungry.

He smiles.

             Do you want something?

He gently asks, as he puts down the bottles of water.

-          No thanks, too early.

She answers softly, not to disturb Lisbon in her conversation.

           But ‘have something for you.

She says, malice in the eye. She takes off a bottle of wine from her bag.

            I didn’t mean to give it to you so soon, but … I think you will appreciate with your

            ham … It comes from one of my friend’s domain, not too far from where we are

           going.  I’ll pick you up.

Winking at him, in return.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Le Chais du Prieuré. 

Veronique’s friend’s domain.

Veronique is leading Patrick through the vineyard. He is enthusiastic. They enter a vault behind the house. She invites him to sip a good wine.

-          Taste this one. You will tell me.

She fills up two glasses and they clink.

-          Hummmm.

Jane appreciates.

-          You are smart Mister Jane. So smart. I’m really impressed how smart you are.

Jane is smiling. Suddenly, not very sure that is a compliment, feeling such a threat in her voice. He shrugs his shoulders.

-          Not so much.

He answers, ironical.

-          You know I was working for the FBI for sometime and I had the opportunity to read many reports about you and Red John.

Here they are. She told him she had informations about the case and he is impatient to ear.

-          I’m fascinated by your work for the CBI. You have solved many cases. Lots.

She says, with admiration. Having another drink.  Jane’s following. The wine is really good. But he wants to stay alert.

-          … some of them in few days. Some took less than an hour. You are some kind of a genius.

Jane is quite embarrassed. Smiles with modesty.

-          Don’t push. I only do my job.

-          Oh you’re doing much more than that. Don’t be modest. May I ask you a personal question Patrick?

-          Go ahead.

He drinks a little more to seem cool. Smiling.

-          Is that only because of your wife and kid’s death that you’re jammed on Red John’s case? Or is that he is really smarter than you?

His smile blots out.

-          He is … smarter. Obviously. And he has connections.

He answers seriously.

-          Connections, you say …

-          Yes. It seems he always knows any of my moves.

-          … Before you are even thinking, don’t you?  And how do you explain that?

-          ‘Don’t know. Connections …

-          Hum. And … from your point of view, where are those connections? In the CBI?

One of yours, Jane. Is that one of yours that makes Red John has always a step in advance? Who do you think it is? What do you feel about that?

The situation becomes strange. The tone of the conversation gets aggressive. Jane feels a bad sensation. Some kind of a physical discomfort. His temperature is growing up and breath is hard.

       - You know what I think?

She goes on.

          I think you’re too smart not to find him. All those years long, what did you do? You know so much about him. And seem to be unable to link up the signs and the evidences. It is really strange, on behalf of such a prestigious detective. Don’t you think so?

-          You think … you think I’m Red John …

He says in a breath. Feeling sick.

-          No.

She denies.

            I don’t think You are Red John … I think Red John is YOU.

-          What?

Jane feels very bad, nearly turn faint.

            What  … what did you put in this glass?

-          Are you all right? 

She asks, pretending to be kind.

            We’d better not mixed different wines …

She smiles.

Patrick feels worse. He knows he will soon fall asleep.

-          Just relax Patrick. It won’t hurt. I just have to check few points and you will help me.

We both have to know Patrick … if Red John is or not, a part of you … Believe me … I can deliver you of him …

XXX

-          How do you feel ?

 she asks, gently looking in his eyes.

Jane hardly wakes up. Sitting on an iron chair. Tied up. He tries to keep his eyes opened. He takes a deep breath.

-          As bad as you expected … I guess.

He complains.

-          I’m sorry.

-          What was it?

he asks in a sigh.

      … What sort of drug did you use?

Hardly moving his coated tongue.

-          Whatever … 

She comes close to him and talks beside his ear.

            I had to be sure.

She whispers.

       … and this drug … is very sure. You were unable to lie Patrick. Now I’m sure you told

            me the truth.

-          I’m not… Red John.

He asserts with a thick voice, a desperate look in the eye.

-          I know. Now, I know.

But please, forgive me, I had to be sure … You’re not Red John and you don’t have anything to do with him. Never conniving … now I have the proof. Isn’t it a relief for you as well? … To be sure.

They stare each other. Jane looks awful. Not only scared, but very disturbed in face of this disconcerting women.

-          I got very personal informations about you, Patrick. Very personal. I swear I will      never talk to anybody. And now, I know I can trust in you. I will give you a personal information about me, too. Very personal. Then you will understand that we are quite similar. You will see how much our destinies are close.

-          You’re crazy.

He says, trying to move his hands, hurting his wrists.

-          Yes. As mad as you probably were, at the time. And may be … you still are.

She is calm. Talking softly.

            Can you imagine that you are not lonely in your sadness. Can you imagine that

            Red John has put some other people in such a sorrow that they …

            He is not YOURS.

She raises her voice.

            Can you admit that someone has exactly the same reasons to want to see him dead?

            Do you realize how many people he has killed for real? Do you believe that Bosco

            and his team are the only cops that he has assassinated ???

            They’re not. … I don’t know how he’s doing this, but when a cop is on his track,

             he knows. And he eliminates the threat. Immediately. No matter if he only has

             to break his career or to murder him.

Jane is listening. Waking up, still hardly breathing.

             Last year he gave me a reason to get as upset as you are. I’m mad at him, you know.

             Cause…  he has ruined my life. Just as he did once, with you.

She cries.

             Working on the case, I had reasons to doubt that … you … you are clearly working,

              yourself.

             Yes I thought you could have been involved, in your wife’s murder.

             Yes, I suspected you could take advantage of the situation. I was asking my self why

             … why … and what you are capable of …

She becomes incoherent.

    XXXXX

Patrick arrives too late. Veronique is lying on the floor, breathless. He tries to practice artificial respiration, but fails. She dies.

Out of breath himself, he seats back on his calves. Very sad.

-          It was impossible to save her.

Stiles says, right in his back.

            She was already dead … with them … Which thing you understand, don’t you?

He whispers.

Jane puts his hands on his knees, tight fists. Clenches his teeth.

-          Don’t move!

Warns Stiles, as Jane tries to stand up.

            OK. Just stand on feet. Slowly.

He says such as Jane can understand he has a weapon.

            And … Hands up. Please.

Patrick complies. And turn slowly.  Stiles smiles.

             I didn’t say, turn.

-          You… foul bastard.

Jane complains, looking disgusted.

-          Oh, please, Patrick. I can understand your anger. But stay polite. You’re much more exceeding all this. You get so much class …. Tut tut tut …

-          Why did you kill her? Wasn’t necessary. It’s me you wanted …

-          True. I wanted you. And I got you. See. You’re there. Exactly where I wanted you to be. Right in time! See how it’s been easy to get you to come here.

Stiles is very proud.

            But I didn’t kill her. Don’t have to. She knew exactly the dose, you know. She was

            perfectly aware. This is her job. And she was good in it. If she has drunk …

           it’s ‘cause she …

           See. Probably she couldn’t support what she has done to you. After realizing the

           manipulation. Too bad. But … everybody is not as strong as you are, Patrick.

           But that’s classy! Decide to commit suicide. As a pure antic philosopher would have

          drunk the cigüe to the last sip.

           Believe me, I had no reason to kill her. I was so grateful for having brought

           you here.

-          So then. All that for that … but why here?

-          Here ore anywhere … You drove me away from my home! I had to run around the world to escape.  May be I should thank you for that. I met a lot of interesting people … but that was not my choice. And I hate the idea that a … someone like you is capable to compel me to go away. I wanted to have my revenge.

And it’s been so easy … and funny, to make you run after your favourite whimsy.

More and more pride of his trap, Stiles is jubilant.

            You think I am Red John, don’t’ you?

-          You are?

-          Ah, ah … you would like to know …

But, I won’t give you this pleasure, Patrick.

I will never tell you about what I know about Red John. And I know a lot.

Stiles takes his time, savouring each second.

     Red John is a myth. You will never catch him.

Stiles comes closer. He takes the bottle on the barrel and pours a drink. He takes the glass and considers the colour of the fluid carefully.

            And even if …

He goes on, walking slowly towards Patrick.

            … you ‘d been capable one day, to catch ME … you wouldn’t be sure.

            You will never have in the mouth … the taste of Victory.

Now right face to face he holds the glass in front of Patrick’s eyes just like he wanted to make a toast.

            Speaking of taste. Drink that.

He orders.

-          That’s it.

Answers Jane.

             You kill me that way.

-          No. Don’t be scared. I won’t kill you Patrick, not yet. It’s so pleasant to play with you.

I have not ended with you.  Drink. You will only take some rest. You deserve it. Trust me I control the proportion. You will sleep for few hours. Just enough to let me quit, quietly.

Stiles hold his gun and threatens.

             Or may be you prefer to give me the pleasure to force you to gulp it down.

He plays with the trigger.

              I wouldn’t like to have to shoot in your head.  Drink. If you want to live a little more.

              Drink.

With the gun close to his face, Patrick takes the glass to his lips. And drinks.

-          Thirsty? More!

Patrick drinks again.

             Good. It’s good, isn’t it? More!

Patrick has to dink all.

              Right. Don’t worry Patrick, I am not killing you. I told you. We have not finished,

              yet. Don’t you feel weak at the time? Don’t you feel how insignificant you are in

              fate’s hands? Right now.  Poor Patrick. Veronique was right. Your mind is so

             confused that you can’t see the evidence.  

             Unless you have all the pieces of the puzzle, you are not able to put them together.

            And even if … you could make it … as a miracle… you wouldn’t see the Big Picture.

The Big Picture. Patrick has ever heard the formula. He feels bad. Doesn’t know if he will die or not … breathless than ever.

           I’m not killing you.

Repeats Stiles.

            I really love so much … playing with you Patrick.

The glass is falling down the floor. Patrick turns faint. His body falls next to Veronique.

Stiles puts two fingers on his throat, takes his pulse, smiling. And leave the cellar.

XXXXXX

Charles de Gaulle Airport

Roissy, France.

In phe plane, back to US

-          Hey hey …here is your additional blanket.

Says Lisbon, sitting on his side.

-          Oooh, thank you Lisbon. You’re such as a real mother for me.

Answers Jane, shivering. He huddles under the blanket.

-          Yes. Sometimes, it seems you need one.

Tucking in, she smiles at him.

             Don’t let the air coming in …  or you’ll be cold.  Doctor says  that this lasting effect

             will disturb you for a while. But everything’s gonna be all right in few hours. You’ll

             be fine when we’ll reach west coast.

-          Good.

Patrick still feels sleepy.

-          You’d better try to sleep. Hope it won’t be a bad trip.

-          I’ll be all right.

-          Do you still love France?

-          As a matter of fact, France is still a beautiful country, full of very kind inhabitants. Bad part is … they have as many of insane people than at home.

Teresa agrees and smiles.

The captain says his speech. She turns to him and smiles again.

-          I have a surprise for you.

She says.

She takes a white packet off her bag, in front of her feet.

             I couldn’t let you leave, without a last sweet thing …

She unpacks the sandwich Jambon Baguette.

-          Teresa …

Patrick is touched.

-          You eat. You sleep. Just relax. And take some rest. … I’m watching.

-          Thank you Lisbon.

He says, blinking.