Title: Charlotte's Web by Lexikal
Rating: M for graphic violence and language
Fandom: The Mentalist
Summary: Patrick Jane has lived his life obsessed with the capture of Red John ever since finding his beloved wife and daughter slain by the maniac's hand. Now, 10 years to the day after that horrific night, a young woman appears in Patrick's life, someone who threatens to destroy everything his life has become in the interim... if not his sanity, itself.
Author's Note: I am not a fan of "The Mentalist". It's not that I don't "like" the show, but rather, I am just not a huge TV watcher anymore. My sister, however, is a huge fan of the show and commissioned this piece through the magic of incessant whining and promises of crisp 5 dollar bills for each (5,000+ word) chapter. If you guys knew how horrible I was at budgeting money, it would make perfect sense. I have attempted to do my homework, and hopefully I will write something that real Mentalist fans will want to read. Please leave comments, reviews, compliments, death threats, whatever you feel like and I may or may not read them. ;) Jane is a very complicated character and I actually admire the writers of the show for creating such a multi-faceted, intriguing and contradictory person. However, I think he may be hard to write. I will try, however. Reviews and feedback are much appreciated. I think I am a slight masochist as I already know this one is going to be 100,000+ words. But I don't think I can make it any shorter, and stay true to the embryonic vision in my head. I still have to finish two CM novels, too. Apparently the exact day Charlotte Anne Jane and Angela Ruskin-Jane were killed is not known to the fans. RJ strikes me as a very theatrical sort of devil, though, so I am making the date of their murders Devil's Night 2003 (AKA "Hell Night") which is the day before Halloween. In other words, their murder date in this story is Thursday, October 30th, 2003 at 3:33 a.m. (known as the devil's hour) and I will be taking some liberties with Jane's early character. If you have read anything else I write you probably know that my novels contain a fair amount of research, and this one will be no different in that respect. If you want to give yourself chills, google "devil's hour" and "3:33 a.m" and scan the headings. I think you'll figure out the relevance between RJ's obsession with theatrics and that time. Also, when I write about specific objects I generally research the objects and buildings and make sure they exist in the "real world" and then find photographs of them from different angles. (Yeah. Sort of OCD. Can you people imagine if I was a serial killer? Muahahahaha!) For instance, Jane's bike mentioned in the first part of this chapter can be seen here: bikecatalogs dot org/SCHWINN/MODELS/Bantam dot html (turn the "dots" into periods, obviously)
When I research like this, I begin to believe my stories are real. Hopefully you will too. You might also have fun looking up random places in this story to see if they are "real" (hint, hint).
And now, on with the story... *takes a sip of tea and smiles pleasantly*...
"American eyes, American eyes; view the world through American eyes. Bury the past. Rob us blind. And leave nothin' behind."- "No Shelter" by Rage Against the Machine
"There ain't no rest for the wicked,
Money don't grow on trees.
I got bills to pay,
I got mouths to feed,
There ain't nothing in this world for free.
I know I can't slow down,
I can't hold back,
Though you know, I wish I could.
No there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Until we close our eyes for good". - "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked" by Cage the Elephant
"Soon this space will be too small
All my veins and bones
Will be burned to dust
You can throw me into a black iron pot
And my dust will tell
What my flesh would not..."
-"Soon this space will be too small" by Lhasa de Sela
"Illusion is the first of all pleasures." -Oscar Wilde
Wednesday, October 29th, 2003 9:45 Pacific Standard Time, Paradise Cove Beach Cafe
He realizes he should phone home around 9 p.m., brandy in his veins, a smile stretched over his lips like a clown's rictus and the entire world is a little fuzzy and too colorful, but that's okay. He is excited and feels like he did at ten, when he got that awesome cherry red 1980 Schwinn Bantam after seven months of pining and dropping hints and doing double duty as a magician's assistant in the "lock box".
"Patrick, another brandy?" It is someone he has only known for 5 hours, a television executive in his mid twenties named Dylan Stewart. This Dylan is a real piece of work. Teeth bleached so white they almost gleam neon blue, hair combed and slicked like an eye-tal-ee-un mobster from the 30s, two piece suit and a god awful ugly tie that probably cost waaay too much and gold and canary diamond rotar cufflinks. Ugly things. Obviously a newbie to both fame and money. Obviously doesn't know how to buy clothes that don't reek of sycophantic desperation. Patrick grins back.
"I have another brandy and I won't be able to drive home, Dylan." This is croaked out. The young TV executive stares at him, not sure if he is joking or not and Patrick Jane merely smiles back blindly. Always keep them guessing, Patty, always keep 'em guessing!
"Don't worry about that, Pat. We'll have someone drive you home."
Jane considers this. Drains the dregs of his brandy. "I guess it's not every day I get a television deal, is it?"
"No. I'd say this is a very big deal." Dylan is giving him a shit-eating suck up grin. Jane would like the kid more if he wasn't such an obvious kiss-ass.
"I better call the missus." Patrick says congenially. "I usually phone if I plan to get absolutely shit-faced on a school night."
Dylan Stewart just stares, looking a bit frozen. He isn't sure if he should laugh or agree in a serious, grown-up "oh-I-know-exactly-what-you're-talking-about" way. Jane waits a beat and leans in for the kill, and says, a bit too smugly. "I'm joking. She doesn't try to come between me and the bottle anymore." Then he wanders off to the veranda to make the cell call leaving the little executive staring at him uneasily. If Angela were here, she would swat him lightly on the arm and tell him to leave the kid alone. Something like that. Angela. She is going to freak out when he tells her the news.
He can smell the ocean on the wind. The night sky is almost dark but still a pungent gun-metal blue, spackled with the first baby stars of the evening. The ocean is navy and black, with glinting shards of white and cerulean reflecting the moon's light. Or, rather, reflecting the reflection of light from the moon. Jane has always been fascinated with the moon. It reflects so much light, it influences the tides, but it is really just a hunk of space rock with nothing on it. So little, and yet so, so much. The day he was presented with the TV show idea was a mere 19 days ago, on the tenth. The same day he'd been on the talk show and discussed Red John. Not two hours after it finished taping (it would not air for another week) he'd gotten the phone call, the pitch. 1.2 million a year to do a show every week for an hour (worked out to about 48 minutes of actual air time with the commercials). He'd go on TV and have a talk show, his very own talk show and make assessments about different crimes. Make predictions. When would the Baylor Butcher kill his next victim, what could Jane predict about that crazy clocktower sniper from Texas, that sort of stuff. In between he'd talk to audience members and dazzle them with his abilities to talk to their deceased relatives.
Jane had asked about pets. He'd very much like to connect people to their dead pets. The guy trying to lasso him into a TV contract was silent and then began to babble. Yeah, yeah sure. Scruffy the pug sends his love from puppy dog Heaven. Is having a great time and his kidneys don't hurt anymore. No problem. They could work pets into the show. No problem. Jane, phone pressed to his ear, smiled broadly at the babbling enthusiasm.
"Do you believe in me?" He asked the slightly manic voice on the line. A pause. The guy didn't know what he was talking about, so Jane clarified his question.
"Do you believe I can actually speak to the dead? Read into the minds of killers? Do you believe I am a psychic?"
There'd been a quick little intake of breath, some nervous guffaws. It doesn't matter what I believe, Mr. Jane, but honestly, dude to dude, I really do. I believe in you 1000% percent. And I know others do, too. And I know this show is going to be a hit and...
"Don't you want to know for sure if I am psychic? Before you sign a contract with me?" He'd known he was screwing around and should just jump at the offer. 1.2 mill a year for doing basically jack shit every day except for one day a week. The rest of the time walking on the beach with Angela, playing with Charlie, ordering in food. Whatever he wanted.
"Excuse me?"
"I can tell you about yourself," Jane had pressed. "I can tell you about those close to you. Those who have passed... over to the other side."
More nervous laughter. This guy hadn't been expecting this, hadn't expected Jane to try and make a personal connection with him. Probably wasn't used to personal connections or to anyone expressing an interest in him as a human being, and not a contact number.
"Uh... sure. Sure, why not." But his voice faltered. He'd been nervous. Jane smiled and told the man about his life. His dog... Rusty... Randy? Yup, Rusty, who had died when he was "about 11" after being hit by a car. His mother. Bless her sweet soul. 5...no...no... 6 years this past May. Ovarian cancer. She wanted him to know she was safe. She was with her brother.
The voice on the phone had been amazed. Simply amazed. Had croaked out "H-how did you know that?"
"I thought you believed in me 1000%?"
"I...I..."
"And I know 1.2 is not your final offer. Nowhere near your final offer, actually. 1.5 and I will consider it. Let's put 1.5 on the table, shall we?"
"I...Mister Jane... I am just the messenger, here..."
"Bob. I can call you Bob, right?" The man's name was Robert Harrison. "Just tell your boss I want 1.5 mill or I will consider other networks. I have gotten other offers." He hadn't but he'd always been like this, since he was a kid. You never accepted the first deal, and you always showed off. You made people want you. You made them damn well love you. It wasn't about the money, or the fame, or the prestige. Those were all ancillary benefits. No, you did what you did because that was how you kept the magic alive and evolved out of yourself. Anything less than suave talking and charming smiles and sleights-of-hand and all you were was an automaton doing grunt work.
And Patrick Jane was no automaton. Patrick Jane was an artist.
Charlotte had bobbed her head into his den on that day at precisely that moment, blue eyes wide and curious.
"Daddy?! Look, I made you this painting, look!" and she had wandered over, flashing a large finger painting at his face. Blues and greens and what could have been a yellow sun in a sky. Or a lemon in a grassy field. Her dress had streaks of paint on it and Jane had raised his eyebrows in a cartoonish manner and made a face at the errant paint streaks. That dress hadn't been cheap. And Angela didn't want Charlie to grow up spoiled. He reconsidered her painting. Decided he was looking at the ocean, at the beach. He knew his daughter and knew it was the ocean. Knew the yellow blob in the right hand corner was the sun. He grinned a mammoth smile and oohed and ahhed over the painting, cell still pressed to his ear.
"I can phone you back if this is a bad time?" The voice on the phone said. Stalling. To his daughter, Jane said: "Charlotte, daddy is going to get paid 1.5 million dollars a year to have a talk show on the television." Charlotte erupted at that. A happy scream. She didn't know what 1.5 million was worth, (as far as she was concerned it was only a few cents more than 10 bucks) but she knew her Daddy wanted her to be "happy", so she was.
"Would you like to say thank you to our friend, Bob?" Charlotte had nodded. He had handed her the phone and she took it and babbled into it. A chirpy "thank you, Bob!" and then some extraneous babble about ponies she liked. She liked all sorts of ponies, but especially geldings. The ones that were "dapple grey" coloured. And unicorns. Unicorns had maybe existed at one time. Maybe they had gone extinct. Maybe they were still alive in the world, somewhere far away, like Africa, or like Canada, in the woods up there. Narwhals, those were whales with horns, and they were like the unicorns of the sea, fat, blubbery unicorns of the sea up there to keep the Eskimos company and...
Jane gently took the phone back.
"Bob. Sorry about that. She's excited. You know how kids can get when they're excited." This was followed by a small chuckle. Kids.
"Mister Jane... like I said, I can't sign off on that, I can only ask-"
"You know that this is no problem. You know he'll say yes. You know it, and I know it... and I have faith in you, Bob. I am going to let you go now, though, okay? Have a good day, Bob. And stop stressing? It's bad for the cholesterol levels."
A startled silence. Robert Harrison had just got his blood test results back a week ago with a script for Lipitor. The doc had said no more bacon, and only 1 egg a week
"I'll see what I can do." The voice on the cell phone said. A bit uneasy now. To watch psychics make crazy predictions on TV was one thing. To have them suddenly tell you all about your personal life on the phone, when you had never actually been in the same room with them, was quite another. Jane had smiled, said goodbye. Hung up the phone. High-fived Charlotte and told her to go get changed before Mommy got back from grocery shopping. ("No more finger painting when you're wearing those pretty dresses, okay Charlie? That paint stains." Okay, Daddy.")
That had been 19 days ago. It was only in retrospect that Jane, now on the veranda of the Paradise Cove Beach Cafe, realized that October 10th had been a full moon. What was called the "Harvest Moon". Also called the "Sanguine Moon". The blood moon. October 10th he got the call and had asked for more money. October 10th he had made his predictions about Red John on television for the first time. Things were looking up and he was harvesting quite a lot this year. That harvest moon... that was a real piece of serendipity.
2 weeks and 5 days later, a contract with NBC for 2.1 million a year for a show with the working title: Across the Veil with Patrick Jane. He liked the title, and he was pretty sure Angela would like it too. It was catchy, without being over-the-top cheesy.
Jane stared out at the ocean now, meditative. Enjoying the moment. Breathing in the cool salt air. The sound of the ocean waves hushing themselves over the sand. There were tiki torches lit in the sand in front of the beach cafe, glowing brightly, flames dancing and lilting in the mild breeze. He pulled out his cell phone and smiled. Punched in the number. One ring. Two rings.
"Patrick?" She sounded a bit worried.
"Yeah, it's me. You're never going to believe it. I got a television show. 2.1 million a year."
"What are you talking about?"
So he told her. He told her how he'd been approached and been offered the deal with NBC and diplomatically "asked" for more money and how he'd gotten over 2 mill by dazzling the show's prospective producer with some trivia about the man's creepy scout master who had died back in the 70s while on a canoe trip in Sunriver, Oregon. How it was a 3 year contract. How she could stay home with Charlie or get into aromatherapy or maybe go for her degree and how their beach house was going to be totally paid off now (it almost was, anyway, but now nothing in the physical world was off limits) and how he could now buy Charlie anything she could possibly ever want. Absolutely anything. Angela was ecstatic. She didn't like the idea of spoiling Charlie, but the security was a Godsend. Charlie would be set for life. Of course, he could stay and celebrate. Have one of the NBC guys drive him home and maybe someone to drive home the car, too. No problem, babe.
Patrick grinned. The brandy was hitting him exceptionally hard tonight. He always smiled to himself when his wife called him 'Babe'. She did it to be slightly ironic, as there was nothing innocent about her husband. He did have, though, a slightly "childlike" personality, a strangely charming demeanour that was both precocious and strangely infantile. Angela, one night, with a little bit too much red wine in her system, had confessed to her husband that he sometimes reminded her of "an adorable newborn baby that doesn't have to cry because it can talk, and it can get everything it wants by talking, and by smiling... yes, smiling just like that!"
Angela repeated his name and he realized he had drifted off on her.
"Patrick? Do you want to talk to Charlie? She just got out of the bath and... here she is!" He could hear the devotion and the pride in his wife's voice for their daughter, and he loved her for it. They both loved their child so, so much.
Jane grinned. Heard the phone switch hands. Heard Charlie say something to his wife that he couldn't quite make out. The television was on in the background, some kids' cartoon.
"Daddy?"
"You're still up? What's my little bedbug still doing up?"
Angela hated it when he called her a bedbug but Charlie laughed, so Patrick still used the nickname.
"I just had a bath!" Charlotte sounded excited. She always sounded excited. She was so sweet, and smart, and full of life. Jane knew all parents (or most parents, anyway, the psychos didn't really count in his books) couldn't be objective about the greatness of their children, but he knew he was being totally objective in his assessment of his daughter. She was an angel. An angel on earth. Nothing less.
"Yeah?"
"You remember that shampoo you got for me? Strawberries and cream? That one?"
You could spend 400 dollars on a custom built gingerbread-style doll house for Charlie (complete with little miniature cherry wood furniture and porcelain dolls), but it was the little things that blew her socks off. Little things like strawberry and cream scented shampoo. Jane grinned. He had picked out that shampoo himself in a little boutique in Beverly Hills. He had found the pink cartoon poodle on the front especially endearing. Charlie had, too, apparently.
"Yes. I know the one."
"It smells even better tonight than it did the other night. More strawberrier."
"Really? Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know, but I think it might even be even more strawberrier tomorrow night."
"Wouldn't that be amazing? You know what? I bet you're right."
"There is a new mailman today. I saw him. He is nice. He asked me my name."
"Oh? What did you say?"
"I said I didn't speak to strangers, even if they are mailmen."
Jane tried to keep the smile out of his voice at that.
"And...what did he say?"
"He said that if a little girl named Charlotte lived here to give her this parcel from her Uncle Danny. Guess what was inside it? Guess what Uncle Danny sent to me?" The excitement was back.
"What did Uncle Danny send to you?"
"An orangutan!"
"I don't think mommy is going to want an orangutan running around the house."
Charlie giggled at that.
"No daddy, a stuffed orangutan."
"A plush one? Like Mr. Fluffington?" Mr. Fluffington was Charlie's rabbit. She had had it since the delivery room, a rabbit three times as big as she had been on the day of her birth, purchased in the hospital's gift shop by an ecstatic and uncharacteristically nervous father. He had purchased Angela chocolates, and he still remembered how she had laughed at the box of Black Magic and made a corny joke about how she could have used "black magic" an hour into contractions. She had been exhausted and sweat-drenched, but she had still laughed at the chocolates, had still cracked jokes.
"Yes! Like Mr. Fluffington, but realer. It looks just like one of the orangutans on the Discovery channel, though, not like a toy one. Like a real one. If it was made out of fabric."
"A real one made out of fabric?"
A beat. "Daddy, you're teasing me!" Charlie sounded mock-scandalized.
"Am not. What else is new since this morning?"
Charlie then told him mommy had finally got her her Halloween costume. The first costume she, herself, had picked out. Last year she had been four, but this year, five and old enough to decide. Jane had wanted to send her as an angel, or a princess. Charlie had opted to go as Nemo, from the Disney movie. Jane smiled wider. He always found his daughter charming but the effect was augmented with three brandies under his belt and a new 2.1 million-a-year television contract. The waves lap, lap lapping at his subconscious. He rubbed his eyes, mystified by the swirl of stars overhead.
"Can my little bedbug put Mommy back on the phone?" He knew Charlie would talk all night if he let her.
Charlie murmured "uh huh", told her daddy she loved him and he heard Angela come back on. They chatted for a few more minutes. Patrick Jane disconnected, smiling out at the ocean. He inhaled deeply, considered how far they had come, he and Angela, since they'd first met. The sky above him was full dark now, glowing with starlight. Magical. The nocturnal waves lapped and retreated, the ancient heartbeat of the ocean, and the night birds in the tropical trees in the hills behind him cooed and warbled their eerily beautiful night songs. Jane went back into the cafe. He'd have some water, then another brandy. Later, when he looked back on this night, he wouldn't be able to remember, not with absolute certainty, if he had told his wife he loved her. He thought so. But he wouldn't be sure.
He tried to piece things together for them. He tried, but it was hard. He'd come home around 4:30 a.m. They hadn't even ordered appetizers until midnight. Calimari. Breaded, deep fried mozzarella sticks. Nachos with three different types of cheese, ground beef, banana peppers, sour cream, black olives, garlic chives, guacamole. He could remember the stupidest details. The nacho toppings. The black outside the windows, full dark. Sycophantic laughter, more drinks. The giddy, almost self-detrustive drinking. Around 4 a.m. his head started to clear. It had been so, so late. He'd spoken of getting a taxi home, and that Dylan Stewart had soothed: "I won't hear of it, Pat. No, you'll get a ride home with me. I'll get someone to bring your car home tomorrow."
And they had done just that. There'd been strange chanting music in the car, like Gregorian chanting. This was switched off after a few minutes. Dylan Stewart opened his mouth wide like a baby bird, blinked hard. Jane had been rising and falling into dreamland then, face jammed against the cold passenger seat window. Still drunk, then.
Dyaln Stewart, eyes sparkling, boring into him like gimlets. Jane staggered, just a bit, as he got out of the passenger seat. Stupid grin at his faulty step. Stewart leaned over. Grinned widely.
"I had a great time meeting you, Patrick. I've heard a lot about you."
"Oh?"
"You seem like one hell of a guy, Pat. Glad I could meet you firsthand. I'll wait here until I am sure you're in... safe and sound." The last part, slightly sarcastic. Jane nodded, chuckled to himself and sloshed over to the front door. God, he was home so, so late. The time had disappeared there in the middle, escaped him. But he'd phoned home. Angela, he knew, would still be up, waiting for news. Excited and only acting disappointed in his marathon drinking session. She'd give him a token lecture, then kiss him on the side of his stubbly cheek and hug him. Or maybe she'd be reading under the big lamp in the living room. Or curled up in bed, sleeping, face all flushed with sleep. So many delightful possibilities. Jane reached the front door, slid the key home and turned. It seemed to catch for a second, just a second, which was a little weird as that lock had always turned over easy as anything, smooth as silk. He pulled the door open. Dylan, in his car, smiling brightly. He waved and honked, once. Patrick entered the house.
The downstairs lights, some of them, were on. Just enough that he could see, but not so many as to denote Angela's presence. Patrick forced himself to sober up. A cup of cold water in the kitchen. He rinsed his mouth out, spat. Splashed cold water on his face and felt reality surge and the warm, fuzzy drunkeness ebb away, just slightly. He turned the kitchen lights off and wandered into the large living room. Past Charlie's fire engine red tricycle, abandoned for the night. Up the stairs, a smile on his face as he pictured Charlie asleep on her side, Mr. Fluffington under her arm, thumb in her mouth, nightlight twirling pastel fairies on the ceiling. Angela would be in bed, lamp on, reading. Or sleeping. She may have very well gone to bed.
Later, looking back, he'd feel the first fingers of fear dancing on his back halfway down the hall, a shadow of a premonition. Something pinging off, for the very first time, in his subconscious, some horrible, final truth. In the subconscious world, a picosecond was an eternity. In the conscious world it would be several more seconds before his smile began to falter. The smile hitched and died as he began to read the letter taped to the closed master bedroom door.
"Dear mister Jane,
I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grubbing fraud. If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, You wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child."
There was no signature at the bottom. Jane felt the blood drop out of his head, felt something quite unlike drunkenness freeze up his brain. Oh, he knew who this was. He knew. A signature would have been utterly unnecessary. There was only one person who could have written this.
Dear God. He did not want to open this door. He couldn't open this door. Please, God, please let them be okay. Please let this not be real...
But he knew it was very real. He knew what he would find. Not the specifics, but the end result, the horror, God, he knew. He didn't believe in God. He didn't. But at that moment his brain prayed, prayed endlessly, it screamed prayers and his body vibrated with electric energy, as if he was being electrocuted. But he was really just standing still, and then his traitorous hand was reaching out, turning the bedroom door knob, even as his brain was taunting him, telling him that from now on his life- if he bothered to still live it- would be forever split into Before and After.
Red John's smiley face staring at him. Winking at him. Fresh red, oh GOD that wasn't red, red is an idea but he would call it red he would only think red, fresh red
(bloodit'sbloodJaneit'stheirbloodit'sCharliesbloodit'sAngelasbloodohgodohgodnoooo )
and, and his feet moved him into the room like a little tin soldier. His mouth jerked. His mouth jerked and his sanity could not make sense of what he was seeing. He was seeing puzzle pieces that could not fit in his reality, they would never fit, these pieces could not fit in a world where the sun continued to come up and gravity continued to hold people to the surface of the planet.
(Godarethoseherlungs? Those...those are lungs)
His thoughts were all disconnected, shattered. The image before him was horrific, lurid and unreal in its' crazy violence and he felt the scream in his belly long before it got to his lips. An animal scream, something he had no control over. His body was screaming even as his legs raced to them. To his wife. His daughter.
(lung wings lung wings he pulled her lungs out)
Charlie, facing Angela, cradled and posed on top of the sheets and wings on her back, for a crazed moment he thought he was looking at her new Halloween costume, but those weren't normal wings, they were pink tissue sacs (lungs), straining from her white nightdress wings, they were her lungs, her lungs pulled out through her back oh GOD!
Oh. God. Angela, Angela clearly dead, cradling Charlie, eyes open, glazed glassy doll eyes, a tender moment between Angela and her sanguine, breathless angel
(her wings are her lungs, he pulled her lungs out, he pulled them out her sweet dear lungs oh god)
He staggered over, he sank. He touched Angela's face. Still warm. Turned Charlie's head and could, oh God he could barely look. Her eyes were closed, her eyes closed forever, both of them.
They had been brutally murdered while he was eating nachos with guacamole and organic chives.
"I was late because I was having drinks. A contract for a television show had gone through." His voice to the cop on the other couch is dead, monotone. The cop has a serious, sad face. A well practiced, maybe half-genuine sad face. Lined and sad and somewhat desensitized. The house is buzzing with police, alien creatures all stern and stiff like movie extras. Flashing lights of cameras, worker bees dusting for fingerprints, a pair of drones asking Jane questions. Where had he been? Why home so late?
There was vomit in the hallway. That is Jane's. He has blood on his hands. On his clothing. He had cradled their bodies to his chest. Cradled them. Rocked them. There were at least a dozen people who could tell the cops he had been at Paradise Cove Beach Cafe and he doesn't care anyway, doesn't care about a lawyer or what happens now. They'd asked him if he wanted a lawyer and he just shook his head, as if clearing away a bad dream, eyes detached and far away. Because it didn't matter what happened now.
Except it did matter, because Red John had done this. Around then there'd been a hush and the police officer questioning him had gotten up and wandered away for a while. He came back sometime later, face even more serious, if that was possible. Dylan Stewart the little television executive had been found dead in his apartment, no struggle, cause undetermined. No nothing. Just no more Dylan Stewart.
"I really think you should get a lawyer, Mr. Jane."
He may have shouted "no" at that point. No lawyer. Brief exchange of potent police officer looks. This was clearly a man on the very skittering, teetering edge of sanity.
"No lawyer. I do not want a lawyer." Eerily calm. The type of calm that precedes a full-scale freak out. The type of calm that is tantamount to lifting a thousand pounds deadweight, only with your soul.
Jane got up. Blinked hard, like someone coming out of a concussion. " Dylan Stewart? He's dead?"
"Yes."
"And the others?"
"We are talking to them right now, phoning around."
Jane sat back down. Stared at the drying red on his hands. Blinked again.
"Red John did this."
He was staring at his hands and did not see the looks, wouldn't have cared about them anyway.
"I talked about him on television. I mocked him. He killed my family. He left that smiley face. He killed my wife. My daughter."
There was a buzzing in his head. Sometime later someone got him a glass of water. Told him to breathe slower, take slower breaths. He hadn't been aware he was breathing too fast, but spots were jumping in his vision.
Sometime after that he saw the black bags on the gurneys, saw the lumpy human-sized shapes in the black bags, strapped down by the orange belts so they wouldn't slide off the silent gurneys and he felt reality tilt, actually tilt like he was on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair of his boyhood days and it was a crazy, surreal feeling, everything spinning and he felt like his organs might fly out into space, his sanity, spun off like red blood cells in a vial in a centrifuge, spinning away forever.
(her lungs he pulled out her lungs)
"Patrick? I think we should have a doctor look at you. I think you're in shock."
The voice cutting through his thoughts, the words disconnected. He knew he knew those words but there was no meaning in them now. The voice could have said something like:
"Brown dog eats urine pasta sunday monday polka dot sky."
A jumble of nothingness. He blinked hard. Something cleared. He had an imaginary vision of himself sitting on a bed in an Emergency room, having some smooth-talking social worker natter at him in the same tone they used on the psychotics, the penlight in his eyes, the cuff monitoring his blood pressure, and if whatever had fallen over him like a nerve gas continued, maybe an IV.
Was this shock? This freezing, spinning, shattering away into something that was dull, like novocaine? Like reality itself had been numbed, not just the images, all fuzzy and far-away but also the meanings of things, those meanings, also fuzzy and not-making-sense? Except, on a deeper level, he knew he was in shock, and he knew they were dead, and that deeper core part was screaming, was keening like a soul in Hell. Jane licked his lips. Frowned. Stared at the cop who'd been trying to talk to him.
"What?"
The man mumbled something back, all soft and careful.
Another heavy blink. "No. I don't need a doctor."
"I'd like a paramedic to look you over here, then. And we have some people you can talk to-"
"No." No. What could they do. Watch him cry? Tell him... what exactly? How many of them had ever gone on TV disparaging a narcissistic serial killer and ended up securing the death of their partner, their child?
"Just tell me- my daughter. My daughter and... those were her lungs. Those were her lungs, right?" Normal words. So normal. How could those words sound so normal? How could they come so easily?
He knew they were her lungs, he knew it, but the words tumbled out anyway. He needed to hear the man across from him say it. None of it would be real unless someone else said it. Probably multiple times. His brain was just not processing this right. It had gotten stuck when it first saw the bloody smiley face. It had known whatever was coming would be bad, and then it had ceased to pick up new information, to connect any more pieces. And it was still not-connecting. Stubborn thing.
"I am not a pathologist, Patrick. I-" Stalling. Stalling. Patrick Jane knew stalling. Jane was the king of stalling.
He looked up at the police officer. Startingly young guy, Jane could see. Young, stern face. Intelligent, dark eyes shuttered in dark rings that made him look ill and sickly. His face looked more than a little haggard. A little horrified. More than a little horrified. This was the kind of horror show that could make or break a rookie. But the guy didn't speak like a rookie, not really. Maybe he was a rookie, though, not to the job, but to this level of horror.
(Welcome to the club, buddy)
"They weren't her lungs?"
"Patrick, I really think you should speak to someone. You shouldn't be alone right now."
He didn't respond. Then he did respond. It was, insanely, impossibly, a snorted bark of laughter. "You shouldn't be alone right now." Jane repeated dully.
Felt his lips twitching crazily.
The man had just spewed at him the type of bullshit he had heard on crime dramas in the early evening when he had sat, not that long ago, with Angela. After Charlie was in bed, watching Law and Order and similar shows, watching them because Angela found them "exciting", and Jane liked being near her, whatever the show was. This guy sounded just like one of the police officers on Law and Order. He could remember Angela swatting him playfully on the arm when he'd commented on the predictable dialogue. Sometimes, usually about three quarters of the way through an episode, all she'd have to do was glance in Jane's direction and then she'd lose it. Laughing. Just looking at his face.
"At least... at least let one of us drive you to a motel. Get you a room. Somewhere to stay, then."
Right. No way he could stay here. Stay home.
His home was a crime scene.
Jane nodded. He didn't know if his car was back yet. Probably not. Since Dylan Stewart was dead. But maybe it was. Not that he could drive anyway. He'd let them drive him away. He wasn't aware of consenting. He wasn't really aware of anything but the drying red on his hands. More drying red on his clothes. He blinked. Time stretched. Time snapped back like an elastic and someone was talking to him. Someone had packed him a bag. Someone said...
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013
"Has anyone seen Jane today?" Teresa Lisbon's voice was slightly annoyed, but under that annoyance was a thin layer of worry. Everyone knew what day this was.
Rigsby and Cho both looked up at the same time. Cho simply shook his head no.
"Uh, no, boss." Rigsby said, in that slightly guilty-sounding tone of voice he always seemed to have whenever telling someone something he knew they didn't want to hear.
"Van Pelt?"
"I haven't seen him," the young redhead confirmed, only making eye contact with Lisbon for a second before looking back down at her computer.
Lisbon nodded tiredly, pulled out her phone and wandered into the hall. Punched Jane's cell number in a little too forcefully. It rang and rang and eventually she got his voice mail.
"Jane? Where are you? It's quarter after one and I have been trying your phone all morning. Call me when you get this." Lisbon's words sounded harsh and accusatory, even to her own ears. Before she hung up, she added. "I just... I hope you're okay. Call me, Jane."
Sighing, she disconnected. Wandered back into her team's office. She went to her desk, sat down. She had tried physically going to Jane's place. No answer. If he was inside, he wasn't answering. Lisbon sat down at her desk, annoyance a poor cover for concern, but it would have to do.
The phone began to ring shrilly then. Lisbon got it before the second ring, jerked the reciever towards her ear.
"Lisbon," she said. Waited. Cho and Rigsby watched, mildly curious. Nobody was doing any work. Nobody could do any work on this day, not with Jane AWOL and god-knows-where.
"What?!" Lisbon barked into the phone, and even Van Pelt looked up at the outraged shock in her voice. "No. No, he's not here. Yes, we're on our way."
Lisbon very carefully put the phone back in its cradle. Nobody said anything. Rigsby was the first to break the ice.
"Boss? What's up?" His voice was uneasy... worried even.
"Red John... that son of a bitch killed the preschool-aged son and wife of a relatively well-known palm beach carnival psychic this morning," Lisbon sounded both enraged and horrified and shocked, all at the same time. "Same... display as with Jane's family."
She didn't wait for anyone to say anything, but instead turned and left the room. She knew they would be following behind her, and soon enough, they would all have access to the crazy, gory details, but Lisbon didn't want to see their eyes right now, their shock, their communal pain.
Didn't want to think about where Jane might be at this moment in time. The worry she had felt all morning ratcheted itself up another notch. Felt like a boa was compressing her lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt had caught up to her by the time she reached the elevators and punched the down arrow button. Before they could say anything, Lisbon had her cell phone out, was punching in Jane's number again, frowning at the cell, frowning at it angrily as if it was the cell phone's fault she couldn't talk to Jane.
One right...two rings...three rings... then: "You've reached the voice mail of Patrick Jane, please leave a message and I will return your call at my convenience."
"Jane? I need to know where you are! I need to know you are okay, so if you are okay, call me as soon as you get this. Red John... look, call me. It has to do with Red John. Call me, please."
She realized she almost sounded like she was begging. Ended the call.
Jane would call or he wouldn't. She would have to trust that he was okay.
Please review! That is chapter one. This is hard to write! Hard to get their characters down, but I hope I have done a relatively okay job. Please review with any tips, comments, trivia about the show, anything. Everything. I really need the fans to help me out with reviews on this one, as I rarely watch TV.