And Blood And Wine Were On His Hands
Prologue
He knew she was there before he opened his eyes, her scent on the summer breeze that whispered across his face.
Strawberries and sweat. He took in a deep breath and remembered how she would wake up from her naps on warm summer afternoons, crying because she was hot, hair damp and plastered to her forehead. He remembered how it felt to hold her, her warm baby skin pressed against his bare chest. And he remembered the taste of salt on his tongue after he kissed her.
He slowly opened his eyes. "Charlotte," He whispered, feeling his mouth dry out and his heart constrict inside his chest at the sight of her.
"Hi, dad," she said softly.
"You're here."
"I'm always here."
Patrick Jane smiled. "Yes, you are."
She shook her head, her long blonde hair swinging back and forth in waves. "Dad, you can't keep doing this."
He was startled at her tone. "Excuse me?"
She let out a sigh and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "It's dangerous. The risk of overdosing while you're alone….you should really listen to me."
"Well, I'm your dad," he replied with a lopsided grin. "I'm not supposed to listen to you."
"There you go with the jokes again. Everything's a joke with you!" She let out a sound of frustration and stalked by him to the bench under the trellis. She threw herself down and glared up at him.
"You're all I have, Charlotte. Cut me some slack," he said in irritation. "I come here because I miss you."
She sighed and slumped back against the bench. "You're wrong, you know."
"What!"
"I mean I'm not all you have. There are people in the real world that care for you; that want you to be happy. You don't have to come here to find solace."
"Oh really? And how would you know that?"
"Being a figment of your memory and imagination has special privileges—insights, if you will," she said in a superior tone that sounded exactly like him, a smug smile on her lips.
He was intrigued. "And what have you learned?"
She looked thoughtful. "That you are, for the most part, a kind man—except for when it comes to those who stand in your way of revenge. You are also arrogant and many find you insufferable, but those you work with love you, and you love them. But it doesn't keep you from using them to achieve your means to an end—that being your quest for revenge. That is what drives you, and it causes a lot of pain."
"Ouch," he said, putting his hand to his chest. He tried to take it lightly, but her words stung him deeper than he wanted to admit.
"The only one in your mind who, perhaps, means more to you than your revenge, is Teresa Lisbon," she said, swinging her feet out in front of her. "But she is confused by you. Sometimes she thinks you care, but for the most part she sees herself as a chess piece in the game you play with Red John."
He stared at her feeling the cold chill of shock wash over him. "She does not."
She gave him a look of pity. "She does. You use her, which she doesn't mind so much—but inside her, in a place so deep, the place where she hides her fear of her father and her lost childhood, she's really afraid that she's nothing without you."
He didn't know what to say…and for the first time since meeting her, he felt a twinge of anxiety, that what he saw wasn't all there was to this wise child-crone he happened to visit under the influence of belladonna and LSD.
"How would you know what Teresa Lisbon feels?" His voice sounded hostile to his ears, but he didn't care.
Her expression softened. "Because deep down inside, you know, daddy," she said pointing at his chest. "And I am part of you."
She got up from the bench, the sun creating a golden halo around her head. She looked like an angel from the paintings on the walls of Lisbon's church.
"No one likes to feel like they are nothing," she went on. "And you are so obsessed with the dead, you can't see the living right in front of your face."
"I—you're wrong," he protested. "Lisbon is a fine detective…" His voice faltered slightly and he swallowed hard. "And it's not a game. Like I told you before, I do it for you and your mother!"
Charlotte shrugged. "You keep telling yourself that."
"I won't have to, because it's true!" he snapped, letting his anger cover his doubt. "And you don't know Teresa!"
"And you do?" she asked, her eyes flashing. "You need your imaginary daughter to tell you how she feels—you need me to tell you how you feel!"
"You are not imaginary!" Patrick said sharply. "And I know exactly what I feel and what I am doing. I am in control!"
"Right," she scoffed. "Taking drugs is showing exactly how in control you are. You're falling apart. I'm a hallucination in your head. I'm not real!"
"You're real to me!" He cried desperately, clenching his fists.
"I'M DEAD!" she screamed, and the garden suddenly grew hostile, no longer the warm inviting place where anything was possible. His dream was collapsing around him, the drugs were wearing off. He dropped his eyes from Charlotte to the grass below—but it wasn't grass anymore. It was the hard floorboards of his attic room at the California Bureau of Investigation.
He looked up quickly, but she was already fading, and the last thing he saw before she disappeared was her eyes, a mirror of his own—full of grief and regret.
"Charlotte," he whispered, but it was only to his reflection in the window in front of him.
She was gone.
Suddenly feeling old and exhausted, he slumped back into his chair. His eyes rested on the belladonna leaves in the strainer on his desk. After a few seconds, he swiped the entire thing into the trashcan beside the desk. He pushed himself up from the chair and wearily climbed onto his bed. He closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep. He cried out once in fear and then the tears came, falling down his cheeks and soaking the pillow beneath his head.