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Jane frightened her sometimes.
It wasn't that she thought he was a danger to her--no matter his half-threats or ominous declarations, he wouldn't attack her. But the look in his eyes when he talked about Red John... She fully believed that when Jane found him, he would wrap his hands around his throat and strangle him with no remorse.
He looked cold when he talked about it. Hard. Full of calm but deep and raging hatred. It was so unlike the man she knew most days--under the mild mannered and cheerful façade, he could be manipulative, rude, tricky. But in the end, he was a good man. He was kind, and clever, and he cared about people. That much was obvious from every case they worked. He wasn't... dangerous. Not really.
But seeing him talk about Red John. What he would do to him. It was funny, in a way, because it suddenly reminded her just how dangerous he could be with his dazzling smiles and flawless lies, his mind tricks and machinations. And the irony was, that wasn't the weapon he intended to use--he absolutely intended to use his own two hands to kill Red John. No tricks or mind bending, no hypnotism or conning. Morbid curiosity had her wondering if he wanted to give him the same knife wounds he gave his victims, gave Jane's wife and child--or if he wouldn't have the stomach for it.
Normally she'd say he didn't. If Jane were to kill someone, it'd be efficient and quick. No pain, no mess. But he wouldn't kill someone, so that didn't matter. Except Red John was always the exception, wasn't he? Jane would kill him. And he would want him to die slowly. Painfully. Like his victims had.
Or maybe there was no exception. Maybe Jane had always had that ruthless streak, and he just hid it too well. Maybe with Red John he just didn't care for the deception.
Maybe he'd always had it in him to be a killer.
When it had been a while with no leads on Red John, no mentions of him, she could let herself forget that feeling. Because, really, she did know him, and he just wasn't a killer. She knew how to read people, even if she was no con artist or psychic. And Jane wasn't cold-hearted. He could play people like a violin, sure, but ultimately, he wasn't cruel, he wasn't uncaring. He could use people, he had used people in the past, but he was hardly a sociopath. He didn't go around hurting people for fun.
But then that bloody red smile would appear again, and Jane's eyes would get that wild, cold look. He'd get more reckless, more cruel, more desperate. And suddenly she'd be back to wondering if she knew him at all.
And this case. He was back at it again, saying he would rather be dead and Red John caught, and she knew it was complicated and hard and that Red John was a horrible monster but she wished it wasn't like this... She understood his desperation, even if she could never truly know his pain, she understood why he wanted revenge. But murder wasn't the answer. She got it, but he had to see that, she had to make him see that... or stop him, if it came to that, even if he never forgave her for it.
And in the aftermath--there, in front of that old farm house with Maya Plaskett shivering in oversized clothes and Red John's accomplice being wheeled away... It all happened so fast, Dumar breaking free, shooting an officer, and then pointing the gun at her.
Before she could even fire, or do anything to protect herself, another gunshot went off, loud as thunder, and Dumar fell to the ground.
She turned to look and there was Jane, holding a shotgun.
And it wasn't like she'd imagined, those cold eyes and complete lack of remorse, the dead and blank expression. In fact, he looked scared.
After a moment, he looked down at the gun like he wasn't sure why he was holding it, and dropped it like it had burned him, hands flinching away as if disgusted to even being touching it. It clattered to the ground, and Jane looked a little sick.
Dumar was Red John's accomplice. He was a disgusting little man, kidnapping a girl to be "his own" while helping murder her sister, and shamelessly planning to kill them, too. And shooting him was in defense of others, Jane arguably had every right to feel justified.
Maybe it was just giving up the potential lead on Red John--in fact, that probably was part of it--but it seemed like more than that.
Jane had never shot anyone before.
It was funny, she'd imagined--or tried not to imagine--what he might look like after killing someone in cold blood a hundred times before. Whenever these cases came up, it was hard not to. He spoke so casually of it, like putting a bullet in Red John's brain was the same as grabbing some eggs at the grocery store.
She hadn't thought of what his face might look like after killing someone in self-defense--no, not self-defense. In defense of her.
And wasn't that something? He'd been fully willing to give up his own life for the hunt for Red John. And give up a lot more than that, too. But not the life of a member of the team.
Not her life.
He'd willingly shot their only lead to stop him from hurting her.
And he looked a little sick for having done it.
He was already at Dumar's side, trying to get one last lead, back to that desperation. But it was reassuring, as silly as it sounded when she thought it later--he hadn't enjoyed it.
Even shooting an evil man, one who was trying to hurt someone else, he didn't enjoy taking revenge. Taking a life. He didn't do it with the cold, remorseless face of a killer, with steady hands and a smile. He just looked like Jane. Tired and upset and shaken, but Jane.
And Jane, it turned out, wasn't a cold-blooded killer after all.
This didn't mean he wouldn't try to kill Red John. In fact, it was all the more reason to stop him. It might just break him further.
But at the end of the day--the long, exhausting, awful day, with three people dead and a killer loose in the world--at least she was comforted with that knowledge.
Patrick Jane was not a killer. Not in his heart.