.

I don't own these characters. D'oh. It is a testament to their hold on me, however, that a year after the series is over, I still feel compelled to write about them. Thanks, Heller. No copyright infringement intended.

AN: This will be a three part story. The initial chapter covers Jane's life before the CBI, the second will contain the CBI years, and the final chapter will finish up with his return to the FBI and the events that follow. An enormous thank you to Fiasco Way for the invaluable insight and advice on this one. I owe you.

.

.

.

"You lost it, didn't you? Everything we took in last night!" His mother's angry voice awakened Patrick from his bed on the couch of the shabby trailer.

He squinted when she flipped on the light. An instant later his father's red face came into focus and as the man leaned on the counter for support, Patrick noted his narrowed and hazy eyes. Not yet five, he was all too familiar with how his father looked and behaved when he was drunk. Clumsy. Loud. Mean. When he glanced up at his mother he saw her lips purse – she wasn't backing down tonight. He knew he had to get out.

He snatched his tattered quilt and darted past them into the crisp summer evening. His parents barely noticed – their row was escalating, just as the boy knew it would. Luckily they'd been parked in this spot for a couple of days, and Patrick knew the lay of the land. He slipped into the darkness quickly, leaving the angry voices behind.

He made his way from their group of trailers down to a little creek he'd discovered yesterday. There he spread his quilt on a sandbar. Lying on his back, he stared up at the sky full of twinkling stars. They shone impassive and predictable - never sad or angry – and their quiet constancy soothed him. Back at the trailer he knew there was shouting and crying, but here the bugs chirped contentedly and the water gurgled peacefully on its way. Nothing would bother him here, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

When the rising sun awakened him, Patrick returned to their trailer. His father lay snoring in the back bed, but his mother was already up and gone as usual. She worked in the carnival master's office and they started early.

He checked the counter, and sure enough, there was his sandwich, sitting on a paper plate. She always remembered. He smiled and crawled up on the kitchen stool to eat his breakfast.

Two show stops later, his mother got a bad headache one night – so bad that she went to the hospital. She never came back. His father told him something in her brain had burst.

"You're gonna have to step up here and be part of the act now. No more freeloading," his father informed him. "Pull your own weight."

After that, Patrick made his own sandwiches.

888888888888

"Do you have a library card, young man?"

He jerked his head up, startled. Completely engrossed in his book, he hadn't noticed the trim, silver haired librarian approaching the table where he sat reading.

"No, I don't…have it with me."

She astutely sensed he was about to bolt. "It's okay if you don't have one," she reassured him. "I was going to show you how to get a card of your own. So you can check out books and you won't have to sit here all afternoon to finish one if you don't want to."

She didn't understand at all, the boy noted. He came to the library to get away, and in more ways than one - physically, from his father, who would assign him scores of menial jobs if he caught him idle, and mentally, when he disappeared into the myriad of worlds contained in those books.

It would be nice to take a book down to the lake, young Patrick considered. He could read in the shade of that huge oak tree he'd discovered. But he had no address. You had to live someplace to get a library card – that much he knew.

"I'm with the carnival in town. I work with my dad. We're just passing through."

"Ah," she said, frowning. "What are you reading?"

He showed her his current book, a Sherlock Homes mystery.

"How old are you?"

"Nine." She peered at him with skepticism.

"I'm a good reader," he explained, flashing a sunny smile.

"You must be," she nodded, amused at his confidence. Her young guest wouldn't have spent the last few afternoons glued to books he didn't understand, so she figured he was telling the truth. "What's your name?"

"Patrick." He left off the 'Jane' out of habit. His father had taught him never to volunteer his surname, just in case someone remembered them from a previous visit.

"Well Patrick, if you could check out books to read, would you?"

"Yes. Ma'am," he added for good measure. He'd decided she meant him no harm, and he was well aware that older people liked good manners.

"If I let you take a book out, would you bring it back?"

His eyes brightened at the prospect. He imagined himself lounging under that oak down by the water with a sandwich and a pilfered apple or two. "Yes ma'am." Unruly blond curls bounced as he nodded eagerly.

And that's how he was able to spend nearly two weeks' worth of blissful afternoons lying in the shade, travelling to worlds unknown, fighting dragons, and solving mysteries. To add to his good fortune, his father met "Tamara" shortly after they arrived, and had therefore barely noticed his son's absence. At night Patrick would return to the trailer and hide his book under his couch frame while they did their shows. He hoped this run lasted a long time.

One night after their final show of the evening, his father grabbed his arm. "Load up Paddy, we're leaving tonight. As soon as possible."

"Why can't we wait until the morning?" he asked. He would gladly stay here indefinitely.

"Don't question me, boy! I have my reasons." Seeing the dismay on Patrick's face, his father felt compelled to explain. "Got a fellow looking for me, and he's not very happy. Damn woman neglected to mention she had a husband."

They were leaving now? What about his library book? The wheels turned quickly in Patrick's head. Before his father knew what was happening, the boy was in motion. He grabbed the book from under his couch and lit out running.

"Come back here, boy. You're gonna be sorry!"

Patrick kept running. "Back in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder. When he returned thirty minutes later, his father left marks on him. Patrick loaded their belongings in silence and soon they were on the road.

The next morning, the librarian arrived at her work at the usual hour. As she pulled her keys out to unlock the front door, she saw something at her feet. She picked up the copy of Huckleberry Finn and smiled. Years later, she would cry when she read about Patrick Jane in the news.

888888888

Truth be told, Patrick liked working the shows. His dad was on his back a lot less after a lucrative night, and sometimes he even gave him a little spending money, something a teenager always needed. But mostly he liked figuring out the people. They were remarkably easy to read, if you paid attention.

They all missed the people they loved, and they were scared their lives would go continue to go badly. It was the human condition. If you told them things were going to get better – if you made them think the people they missed loved them? Patrick learned quickly that people would gladly part with their money to believe that. He was selling hope, and business was good. Never mind if it was an illusion.

"No different than selling stiff drinks, m'boy," Alex would insist when he sensed his son was feeling some remorse about a particular con. "We're providing a valuable service for these poor dumb bastards."

Long before the marks realized their lives hadn't actually changed, he and his father were gone – on to the next town of unhappy suckers. Did it really matter if the hope was real or not, as long as the people thought it was? If they wanted to run away from the truth, well, he was more than happy to assist them.

888888888888

"Your dad's wrong, you know."

He and Angela lay on a blanket tucked into a little grove of trees overlooking the river. This was their hideout, their place they came to be together – away from the cacophony of the circus and beyond the eyes of disapproving parents.

"People aren't fools because they trust someone. They're just nice people," Angela continued. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in this kind of business, do you?"

"I do like reading people," he conceded. "But I've had it with my father."

"I want to live like a normal person. In a home. Maybe have some friends who aren't all con men. Friends who can trust each other."

"I'm a con man…" he observed, tilting his head.

"You don't have to be. And you aren't, deep down. I trust you."

He let that sink in. It warmed him to the core – the fact that she trusted him. Loved him, even. Patrick understood she was far too good a person to be content living the carnie life. He wanted happiness for her – for them – and they weren't going to find it here. They would have to leave to make that happen. "So let's run away. Go someplace where we can do whatever we want."

She sat up, staring intently at him. "Do you mean that?"

He sat up as well, meeting her eyes. "Yes. Just you and me. We can make our own life. Away from this," he motioned back in the direction of the carnival.

"You mean it," she repeated, this time as a statement. She realized he was serious.

He sat up a little straighter. Something important was happening in this moment and he had to keep it alive. "I love you - you know that," he told her. "Let's escape from this. Just you and me."

The possibility both scared and enticed her. "When? How?"

"I've got some cash saved – that would get us started."

She nodded, excited. "I could get a waitressing job or teach piano maybe – I'm sure we could figure something out."

"I could do a little psychic work on my own." He was good at this. Why not use his talents to their advantage?

She frowned. "That's not honest work."

"Just for a little while," he added. "Then I'll find something else. After we have a down payment on that home you want."

"Okay," she acquiesced. "Just until we get on our feet."

"We can escape from this, Angie."

She snuggled closer to him. "Yes, I believe we can. Together. We'll be so happy!"

He pulled this beautiful, amazing woman into his arms and let himself believe it, too.

888888888

He was in his office adjacent to his Malibu home when he got the call. Carol Gentry, an ex-client of his, was dead. Suicide. He sighed, closing his eyes, and remembered back about a month ago. He'd told her during a "reading" session that her dead mother forgave her, and she'd become visibly upset. How had he failed to pick up on an abusive parent? He must have been tired or distracted to miss something so blatantly obvious.

Carol had never come back to him after that day, but that could have been for a lot of reasons. Yes, he'd slipped up, but he couldn't be responsible for every disturbed person who sought him out, now could he?

Enough work today, he decided, closing his notebook and heading out the office door. As he walked across the yard to his house, he spied Charlotte on the patio. She was having an outdoor tea party with a couple of her stuffed animals, and he approached them. What he needed was to clear his mind, and he knew just what would help him leave those troubling thoughts behind.

"Good afternoon, m'lady," he said formally, bowing. This was their game.

"Good afternoon, sir," she replied and acknowledged him with a curt nod. "Mr. Scruffy and I are having tea with Ms. Twinkles."

"So I have observed. After tea is concluded, how would the lady like to take a walk down on the beach?"

Charlotte's eyes brightened and she hopped up, immediately dropping the pretense. "Yes, daddy!"

"Go tell your mother," he instructed the child, and she was in the house before he finished the sentence. He was working as a psychic so he could give this to his family, he reminded himself. A beautiful home. Tea parties. A view of the ocean. It was worth it. He just needed to get away for a little while and he would be fine.

Charlotte soon reemerged from the back door at a gallop. "Let's run away down to the beach," she squealed.

"Yes," he agreed, taking her small hand in his. "Let's run away."

888888888888

As he straightened his tie in the mirror, he could feel the intensity of her disapproving glare. Since Charlotte was playing at a friend's house, Angela was pouncing on this opportunity to lay into him regarding his gig tonight. About what he did to earn them a living. He wished she wouldn't do that.

His hour long appearance on the TV talk show tonight was lucrative in itself, but the publicity would net him thousands in new client fees. It was opportunities like this that allowed their daughter to want for nothing. He was doing it for them – for Charlotte and Angela. And yet his wife insisted she wanted him to stop. All he wanted was the best for his family. Did she really want him to give this up? It was maddening.

"Patrick. Please promise me this is the last time."

"This is harmless," he insisted, smoothing down his hair. "I go on TV for an hour. Give them some smoke and mirrors. I entertain them. And that makes this," he waved his hand at their surroundings, "possible."

"It's NOT harmless. What do we tell Charlotte, huh? She's getting old enough to understand the dishonestly in this. What do we tell her, Patrick?"

"Just a little longer and we'll have enough salted away that we'll never have to worry about living out of a trailer. That's not what I want for our family. Is that what you want?"

He turned to face her. Saw the set of her jaw and the disappointment in her eyes. He didn't need this right now. Plus, he knew from experience that there was no chance of a civil conversation at this point. They should have this discussion later, after she'd calmed down.

He made a show of looking at his Rolex. "I've gotta go. They want me there by six for makeup," he lied. His call time was six thirty. He straightened his suit jacket. "Do I look okay?" he asked, trying to divert the conversation.

"Like a con man," she blurted out. "You look like a Goddamn con man is what you look like." She paused, and then added," But you're not. Not really." A tear rolled down her cheek.

He couldn't take this.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go," he replied stoically. When he leaned toward her to give her a kiss, she backed away.

"Please quit this, Patrick. Please."

"We can talk when I get home tonight." Then again, it might be pretty late. He generally stayed after at these things to drum up business. "Or tomorrow." He slipped past her toward the door. "I'm late," he lied again.

888888888888

Patrick sat on the floor in the living room of his empty house. He didn't know what time it was. He didn't care. Six months had passed since his arrogance and stupidity had resulted in the horrific murders of his wife and daughter. They were gone, and they weren't coming back. Ever. He had no one left.

He'd tried drinking himself into oblivion, but every time he closed his eyes he could still see little Charlotte's open, dead eyes staring at him. He could see Angela, the love of his life, gutted like a fish in their bed. He could smell the stench of their blood. And when he awoke after his binges, the hurt and darkness were still there, unchanged.

Sometimes he ate. Sometimes he didn't. But the pain – the pain never let up.

He couldn't take this any longer. He had to get away from this agony. It would hurt for a few minutes, and then he could leave this meaningless existence behind. He raised the serrated knife and stared at it. Surely this would do the job quickly. He looked down at his left wrist, screwing up his resolve to make a cut, when a pecking noise distracted him. In his peripheral vision he saw Murray, the lawn man, peeking in through the glass of his back door. His eyes were wide.

Patrick dropped the knife to his side, trying to hide his intentions, but Murray was already through the unlocked door, bounding toward him with a hook of horror on his face.

"No, Mr. Jane!" He punched numbers into his phone. "I need an ambulance!"

It was too late to run. He dropped his eyes to the floor and let his thoughts float away. Far, far away.

.

.

.

AN: Well, that's it for the backstory. I hope you enjoyed it! Next up: the CBI years.