Red Jack to Open

There is blood and there is muffled screaming. There is garbage and spray paint on brick and a blade flashing down in darkness. There is a yellow smiley-faced button, torn from a blouse. There are struggles growing still, there is dying in the shadows and finally, there is quiet once again.

He needs to run.

"Paddy?"

And he knows that somehow, it is only the beginning of the blood.

Someone is touching him.

The red will chase him until it completely covers him.

"Paddy, are you alright."

He opens his eyes with a gasp, blinks in the darkness. He can see little, but the reflection of moonlight across the sweep of her hair. He can smell her, can feel her warm hands on him, but her words are almost drowned out by the sound of his pulse rushing like a river through his head.

"It's a dream, Paddy. Just another bad dream."

He can barely feel her as the adrenalin drains his body, leaving only breathing in its wake. He finds her hand, squeezes it to make sure she is real. She is. Very.

She leans in close. "Are you alright? Do you want to tell me about it?"

He shakes his head. "No, you're right," he says. "Just a dream."

He can see the worry in her eyes. His dreaming is not normal. At least that's what people tell him but he's never known anything different. He's been called psychic for years now. Psychic, clairvoyant, crystal child. He knows it's not true. He's just good at what he does, and that is reading people. Their body language, their intonations, their motives, even their physiology. It comes so easily for him that he usually doesn't even know he's doing it. And sometimes it's so easy, it's almost unnatural, and sometimes he wonders where the science ends and the magic begins. It's those times, and the blurring of the line, that scare him.

He is scared now and he wants to run.

"Are you sure," she asks again, a little furrow between her brows.

One look in her face and the world is beautiful.

"Yep," he says, and he kisses her hand, pulling it with him as he rolls over onto his side. She spoons up behind him, still holding him and lays her head against his back. He knows he will be lost without her.

She falls asleep quickly, but he lays there in the dark, eyes open, the image of the blood still etched in his mind, caught in the spinning of the smiley-faced button.

"""""""""""""""""

"Patrick Jane, you open your eyes right now!"

"No, no, this is astounding. Watch and learn, Ange, watch and learn…"

And he smiled like the sun, eyes still closed.

It was a beautiful morning in Reno, Nevada. The perfect morning to play hooky from work. She couldn't be persuaded – she was a good girl that way - but he had decided nonetheless, and called in 'sick' from his three jobs as soon as the alarm had sounded, waking her from her sleep and simply giving him permission to get out of bed. And so he was accompanying her to the little coffee shop where she worked. Backwards.

They had started out holding hands, but an idea had struck him. Now he was walking backwards, backpedaling down the street in front of her, holding her hands with his eyes tightly shut, a Cheshire cat smile on his face.

"I was reading it yesterday at the library—"

"You were supposed to be at work yesterday."

"Yeh. I got off early," he lied. "So according to this book, there's this part of your brain called 'the lizard brain.' It controls all autonomic actions and reactions in your body."

"I am not a lizard."

"And I can actually read what your mind is thinking by what your body is subconsciously telling me. Liiike…we're coming up to a set of lights, yeh?"

She set her molars. "Yes."

His eyes were still closed. "I could tell from the fact that you were slowing down, ever so slightly, and that your grip was getting just a little bit tighter on mine. You really don't want me to get hit by a car turning right on a red, do you? You love me far too much for that to happen..."

"I just don't want you to dent any cars. We don't have insurance."

His smile grew, and she couldn't help it. His enthusiasm was contagious. They had been walking this way for several blocks now, she walking forward, he backwards, and he had been navigating all manner of things, from pedestrians to signs, from lamp posts to the bicycles chained to those lamp posts. And now that she was aware of it, she could feel it in herself, the very subtle tensing of her muscles when he neared something, anything that might potentially trip him or cause him harm. Sometimes, he was such a boy.

"Women are particularly readable," he went on, "With their inherent qualities for care and nurture."

She tried to stay constant as she eyed the doggie doo on the sidewalk but he hopped it on one foot, clearing it easily.

"Now that was mean, Ange. Real mean."

But he was still smiling.

She grinned. "Just payback for the stereotyping."

"Meh. Its just biology. I bet this would be a great act in Vegas."

"We're not in Vegas."

"We should go to Vegas."

"I don't want to –"

"Aah, see? That was a curb. Thank you. Anyway, I was talking to Sally—"

"Sally? Sal Medina?"

"Yeh. The very one. He says they're dying for acts in Vegas."

"We just got here Paddy. I don't want to leave."

"We got here seven months ago. Ooh, ooh – wheelchair. No fair. They cheat. Remember to check the shoes."

She laughed. "We're not going to Vegas."

"Suit yourself. Say, I wonder if I could do it with just my fingers on your pulse. I bet I could. Let me try…"

Still walking, he stepped back even further from her, taking her wrists in forefinger and thumb alone. She could see him concentrating, the slight furrow in his brow, the way his grin moved from cheek to cheek at he wondered and read her. But, to his credit, he was still walking, and two skaters had just whipped around and past, and he had sidestepped to avoid a stand of fruit, all without the slightest bump or wobble.

He was amazing and she felt a rush of pride come over her.

He would astound them in Vegas.

Suddenly, he shuddered and opened his eyes.

"What?" she grinned. "The wheelchairs throwing off your groove?"

He looked around the street as if not seeing it, turning ever so slightly to the right. They were very near an intersection, a narrow side street meeting the main artery, the bright morning sun casting it in dark shadows. He remained standing for some time, staring down that side street with alarm.

It disturbed her.

She laced her fingers into his and stepped close, as if the mere presence of her body could calm him. Bumped him with her hip until he looked at her, but then he pushed off down that street and she trailed, her hand still caught up in his. It was a quieter street, one side plunged into shadow but not deserted, and they walked for two blocks before he stopped again, this time at the mouth of an alley, darker still than the street, and they squinted to make out anything against the dark spray-painted brick and the blinding sliver of early morning sun.

"Paddy," she whispered. "I don't like this."

"It's from my dream," he answered quietly. "I saw this."

"Okay," she said, believing him.

"A woman died in here. Last night."

"Okay," she said.

"There was a button, a yellow smiley face button…"

"Walmart?"

"Yeh. Maybe."

"I don't want to go in."

"Yeh."

"And I want you to promise me you won't go in."

He still hadn't removed his gaze.

"Paddy, promise me."

"I promise."

"Can we go now?"

"She was young."

"Paddy, please. I need to get to work," she tugged at his hand. "I'll call the police from there."

He said nothing.

"Please? Let's go, now."

And she tugged again, this time pulling him with her a few steps. He turned away, face white, and she slipped an arm around him as they headed back to the sunshine of the street.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It had been a long day at the coffee shop and she was tired. So tired that Ravi Daliwahl's attempts to cheer her had been met with half-hearted smiles and silence. Even the customers seemed to know she was off, and the tips were frequent and generous. It wasn't enough to lift her spirits however, and she was exhausted by the time 4:00 came around.

She hadn't kept her promise. She hadn't called the police. She had made him promise to go straight home, was counting on him to keep his promise, when all the while, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wasn't going to keep hers. It weighed on her like a stone.

So, she threw her apron in her bag, threw Ravi a little wave, and slipped out the tired glass doors for home.

She was hoping she wouldn't look as she approached the intersection, tried valiantly to keep her eyes straight on the road ahead, but the flashing of the red and blue lights caught her attention, and her heart sunk at the realization. There was already a crowd gathering, so she joined them.

"What is it?" she asked a bystander, who was craning her short neck for a better view.

"Dead girl," said the woman. "Found in a dumpster back there."

Her heart sank deeper. If that was possible.

"They think she worked at Walmart. She was wearing the colours."

Cops were moving in and out of the area, and a coroner's van was parked on the shoulder of the road. Angela narrowed her eyes, swept her gaze across the mouth of the alley. Fast food wrappers. Gravel. Tired tufts of grass growing out of the sidewalk.

"A girl's got to be careful," said the woman. "All kinds of creeps running around this city."

"Yeah."

"Late shift. No girl should be working a late shift in this city."

In the dirt, a button. A flash of yellow, two black slits for eyes and a smile. And maybe it was her imagination, but it looked like a splatter of red.

She swallowed.

Quietly, she slipped out of the crowd and back to the safety of the main street, the bright shops, the colourful windows and sandwich boards and signs. The traffic and the streetlamps that Patrick had so successfully navigated earlier this morning, and she thought of him and for the first time, was afraid.

He was sitting at the small kitchen table when she entered the apartment, a warm beer in his hand. The bottle was full but the cap was spinning, and she wondered how long he had been sitting there.

"Hey," she said.

He looked up and smiled, the sun breaking through the clouds.

"Hey," he answered, but it was a struggle, she could tell. "Did you have a good day?"

"Long."

She laid her bag down on the small table, pulled out a chair for herself. Eyed the bottle.

"Are you drinking?"

"Nah. Just thinking."

"That rhymes."

"All the times." And now he truly did smile at her, for this time it reached his eyes.

He didn't know.

They couldn't afford cable, didn't buy the paper. For all he knew, it was just another of his crazy dreams. Her mother had always claimed Patrick Jane was as gifted as the day was long. He doubted himself, but she knew, she and her mother, that this boy was special.

She took the bottle, downed a good swig herself, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and enjoyed the look of surprise on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Jane. Tell me about Las Vegas."

The End