Patrick Jane unlocked the door to his house and stood a moment on the threshold. The house was quiet, of course. There wasn't much furniture left – Susan's notes had said all the rented furniture had been repossessed – and the floor had a thin film of dust covering it. His footsteps echoed a little as he walked in. He started with the kitchen: even the refrigerator was switched off. He checked the cupboards: they'd been emptied of food, presumably to deter vermin. There were some tins: meat, vegetables, milk. Teabags and instant coffee were in glass jars. That was Susan's handiwork he was sure: very sensible and a bit mumsy, the sort of emergency rations he might expect to find in a survivalist's bunker. He grabbed a refuse sack from under the sink.
It's time, he thought.
He climbed the stairs, opened the bedroom door, saw the smiley face painted in his wife's blood on the opposite wall. The image haunted his dreams, he saw it again each time he closed his eyes but it was still a shock to see it in real life, visceral like a punch to the stomach. It was not as red as he remembered, probably the color was fading over time. Maybe one day, years from now, the bright Californian sun would fade it to invisibility but it would never disappear, it would still be there even if he could no longer see it. A bare mattress, a thin blanket were the only other things in the room. He remembered he had been sleeping here whenever he had become too exhausted to stay awake.
"I will kill him." He had said it aloud, though he didn't know why. Killing the monster wouldn't bring them back but just saying it out loud calmed him for some reason. His thoughts rang very clear: I came here, I am looking at it, I am very sad but it has not destroyed me. Dr Miller had convinced him that he had a choice. He had chosen to live so that he could find and kill Red John. The paradox of his life was his secret joke, his driving force: stronger than steel, colder than the bleak wastes of space, harder than diamond, less tangible than smoke. Choosing life for death's sake had restored his sanity. He would be the first to admit it was the worst possible reason for living but it was the only one he had and he embraced it. Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the charlatan. Then he repeated to himself I am looking at it and I can bear it. He knew in that moment he would be able to come here again.
He tore himself away from the face, turned to his closet. The rails were empty, instead the floor was piled high with clothes. From the top he picked out a few shirts, two suits, rummaged for some underwear then stuffed them all into the sack. Closing the closet he took one last look at the face that epitomised his new purpose then turned and walked away. He locked up and headed over to the car, throwing the sack of clothes into the trunk. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, breathing deeply, only now realising he wasn't weeping. He had expected he wouldn't be able to stop himself: maybe it was his meds. Plenty of gas, won't have to stop for a while. He turned the key and swung the car out onto the road.
Patrick had done a lot of thinking on the drive down to Malibu. He'd been so afraid of how he'd react, maybe his need for revenge was just his old insanity in new clothes. Now he knew that wasn't true. He had been to his house, had felt the shock and guilt and deep sadness but it hadn't brought him to tears, hadn't made him relapse into madness. Instead, and stronger, he had felt again his resolve to kill Red John. There would be time to mourn once the monster was dead.
Now he was on the Interstate heading back north Patrick's brain was buzzing again. He couldn't stop thoughts, plans, ideas, notions from sleeting through his mind in a constant blizzard. Uncharacteristically violent when Red John was at the centre of them, so very sad when he thought of his little family, he never felt he was defined by the malestrom in his head. Choices, Dr. Miller had said. His choices define him. He had chosen to become a murderer.
He had chosen to become a murderer. Oh, he'd always known he wasn't really a good person but he'd never considered himself very bad. On the rare occasions that he'd thought about it he had considered himself to be roguish, not evil, and there was a word with a winning twinkle in its eye, a charming smile on its lips. He'd never been violent. How could he be the smartest person in the room – the clever hero of his own internal narrative – if he had to resort to violence? Everyone has a line they won't cross. Now he had chosen to break even this last taboo. He had decided he would murder someone in cold blood. No, not someone. The monster wasn't a person. Normal rules didn't apply here. Killing Red John slowly, horribly, like in the dreams where he wakes up screaming might seem evil to some but would really be an act of justice. Killing him quickly would even be an act of mercy. Letting the monster live, that would surely be the evil choice.
Even as the thought crossed his mind he shook his head. No, it doesn't work like that. I will not choose to delude myself that killing Red John is a moral act. He may not be violent but Patrick knew he was still a bad person. When he framed it like that he realised he would be able to kill Red John when the time came. A bad man could end someone's life once he chose to. I know it to be a necessary act. I will be able to do it because I know I am evil enough to commit cold-blooded murder.
Only a bad man would find that thought as reassuring as I do, he mused. Patrick felt he was coming to terms with himself. He knew he had unleashed the monster on Angela and Charlotte, their horrific deaths had been caused by him even though his hand hadn't wielded the knife. If he hadn't been so blinded by his own arrogance they would still be alive. It was his fault. It was fitting that he felt the weight of it, appropriate that he should never be rid of the pain of it, right that he should have a conscience. Yes, he was a wicked man who nevertheless had a conscience. He would never again be blind to his own wickedness.
His mind made a connection and he found himself remembering some film from years ago about a vampire who had a soul. He'd taken Angela to see it because he'd known she secretly had a thing for the leading man. He'd found it pretentious but she'd loved it, watching the man flouncing about in – and out of – the frilly old-fashioned costumes. He'd spent far more time watching her in the darkness than the film, the soft reflected light flickering over her face, her expression changing moment by moment as the drama unfolded, oblivious to his gaze. They had been so young, so happy, so in love…
He let the sadness of the memory wash over him. He was no longer drowning in self-pity but it was right that he fully felt this pain. It would always remind him of his new purpose as well as his old life. A monster with a conscience, just like the film. No, I'm not the monster. Red John is the monster. He deserves death and I will give him what he deserves. The actions of two murderers might look the same but he could see the difference and it was real. He intended just one murder, in revenge, a life for their lives. It wasn't the same and thinking like this wasn't a delusion. Patrick felt calmer for having put his thoughts into order. Yes, this is who I am now.
His mind ran forward to tomorrow. He had been hoarding his sleeping pills, had enough for two more nights, but he'd been assiduously taking his antidepressants and tomorrow would see him take the last of those. Dr. Miller had wanted him to see his family doctor, often, to get more drugs and make sure he continued his recovery but he had no intention of opening himself up to any more doctors. If Patrick was a charlatan then he was certainly able to spot the same characteristics in others and doctors had them in spades. No more doctors. He was sure the antidepressants slowed him down but he feared what would happen to him when he stopped taking them.
There were three things he wanted to achieve tomorrow. He would be seeing Susan again so he should take her a small gift. From what Zack said on the phone his current rosy situation was all down to her. She'd been a great PA and while she'd been fairly generous with everyone's severance pay she could easily have justified giving herself more. He needed Zack to relinquish control of his life back to him, make sure he wasn't under any more scrutiny. And finally he needed to break into the office that night to destroy the fax from the hospital. In fact there would probably be other references to his hospitalization in his file, he realized, he'd need to get rid of them all. He'd case the joint during his visit. He expected Zack wouldn't be easy to misdirect while he did it and Susan would be even less so. He'd have to play it by ear. That's okay, I can do all that.
He drove, internally silent for a short while, until the word 'freedom' popped back into his mind. Yes, nothing left to lose. If that was freedom then Patrick knew himself to be exhilaratingly, terrifyingly free. He had nothing left to lose, nothing at all. He was no longer actively seeking his own death but he wasn't afraid of it, might even welcome its comforting oblivion when it came if he could be certain Red John died too. What possible punishment legal or illegal could be worse than what he was already experiencing at the hands of the monster? Freedom had further implications for him, he knew it, he just wasn't ready to consider them yet. I have my goal: I know my first steps. Don't try look too far ahead. No battle plan outlives the first shot.
He switched the radio on, had to re-tune it to find a station playing soft jazz. The sun was getting lower now as he half-listened to the music, driving north, his memories soothing and tormenting in equal measure.
