Chapter 9 - Scarlet Thread
He slid the key in the lock, entered, tossing the mail on the table and then he shut the door behind him. The house was quiet, but he didn't really pay much attention to it, not as much as he would later, after everything was said and done.
He brushed the small bicycle from the middle of the floor, and then ascended the stairs leading up to the narrow hallway in a feathery gait, mulling over what he and his family might do for the evening. He smiled, spotting a note attached to the door, thinking he wasn't the only one making plans. Perhaps his wife had sent their daughter to the babysitters, leaving the whole house to themselves. Perhaps that's why it was so quiet.
Anticipation churning inside, he imagined, with each step, his wife waiting for him on the other side of the door. She would be wearing a feminine negligee maybe. There would be music and wine. He would open the door and find her gazing at him with big eyes and a teasing smile.
He traveled the thin strip of hallway with a large grin that drifted to a straight stare once he'd reached the bedroom door. His straight-faced stare melted to an expression of sickening dread when he realized the note was not from his wife.
Dear Mr. 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 daughter.
The long road proved increasingly empty as the streetlights diminished under a darkened, moonless sky. Patrick had been driving around for hours, after first maneuvering along the beach and unsuccessfully coming up empty handed. He was searching for the metallic, chrome Mazda he'd grown so accustomed to over the past couple of months.
He hoped he would find it parked somewhere around the outer edges of the pedestrian walkway, or perhaps by the white picket fence near the place he'd first met Corin and Abbie. When he didn't locate her or the car, he knew Corin was serious about not wanting to be found. Either that or she had actually caused an accident. The latter thought didn't do much to settle his stomach.
He was relieved, however, when he took the call from Jason, the stable boy. Jason was making rounds, later than usual when he'd noticed a car parked just outside of the stalls.
There shouldn't have been any cars there at all, but he recognized it and knew, once he'd seen her, that he was not the one to handle the situation.
The thought had crossed Patrick's mind to try the stables, but he'd wondered if that were also too easy.
It was well after ten and pushing towards eleven. Patrick really didn't want to call Rigsby, but it was better than letting the man wander the city crazed and out of his mind with worry. So, he gave him a rang while driving, explaining that he'd gotten word on Corin's whereabouts, and then did his best to convince Wayne to let him handle it.
This was not easy but, it was in the end not surprising, all things considered, his case was convincing enough and Rigsby reluctantly conceded. When it came down to it, Wayne had developed a tremendous amount of respect for the man, and he wasn't blind either … Having already witnessed Patrick's growing bond with his sister. A feat he'd never witnessed anyone accomplish until now.
Besides, who would know better about what was going through Corin's mind than someone like Jane? So, Wayne swallowed the lump in his throat and agreed to standby while Patrick tried to calm down his sister.
Jane drove slowly through the path leading to the stalls, trying not to startle the animals, and then he made the rest of the way by foot. It was dark, and nothing was moving. Strange how calm everything was, even the horses, as if the universe, itself, was grieving the horrific tragedy that had just taken place.
Apollo gave a little snort, the loudest sound above the crickets chirping softly somewhere in the blackness, when the flaxen-haired man stuck his head over the gate.
Patrick drew a breath, Corin was there, just as James said, knees curled to her chin, sitting pressed as closely to the corner of the back wall as she could manage. She was a pale effigy, staring, unblinkingly into the yellow hay. Her voice threw him a little when she finally muttered without looking up.
"What do I do?"
He sighed, opening the gate and carefully moving towards her. He slowly shed his jacket, reaching around and dropping it across her shoulders.
"Nothing."
Then he was nudging her to her feet without meeting any resistance. "I'm going to take you home now."
She hadn't so much as whimpered really, on the way to the car. This was opposite of the headstrong willfulness to which he'd grown accustomed. He'd set out to break her all along, but not like this. He simply wanted to get past her defenses, a mild version of the Taming of the Shrew, but now it seemed she didn't have any defenses left. Now, she was just a trembling, vulnerable thing, shivering under the warmth of his jacket, submitting to him so easily that he nearly accepted the guilt creeping up on him from the back of his mind.
She let him walk her soberly to the door and then, at his prompting, lowered herself into the seat. Then he shut the door behind her, and made his way to the drivers side. He paused, noting the expression on her face before starting the engine. It was a shadow of the same look she'd allowed to slip out the first time she was in his car. The day he, Corin and Abbie spent driving along the beach.
He held back a sigh, forcing himself to check the mirrors and then drove out from the stables into the street. Corin was so quiet and still that he found himself having to glance to the side to make sure she was really there. He wasn't even convinced she was breathing.
She startled him a little when she flicked her head towards the backseat. The gesture sent his mind reeling with memory like an old black and white movie.
"Chinese?" He snickered. "Uh, no. That's for us. Well, Sushi for Abbie. Peanut chicken for you."
"You bought my daughter sushi." She stared at him blankly.
Patrick flipped his chin towards the back seat. Abbie was watching him. "You told me you liked Sushi."
"I do!"
Corin frowned. "You do? Abbie, when have you had sushi?"
"At school. Miss Reynolds brought some stuff to geography one day. Sushi, Indian, and I forgot all the other stuff. But the Sushi was really good!"
"There's no streetlights." Corin whispered blankly. The otherwise meaningless observation went through him like a cold chill. He understood. Here she was, vulnerable and alone with a man in the dark. Of course this was bringing everything back. Her defenses even lower than they'd been on that night, the night this had all started. The night a strange man had driven her past the security of a well lit path and beyond the city limits into a deserted, wooded area - where no one could hear or see anything.
He turned his head with a soft smile lining his face. "Don't worry, you're safe. There's light up ahead."
He was telling her the truth, there was light up ahead. They were crossing the path of a tattered stop sign and beyond that were more traveled streets. The ones crossed by strings of power lines and red lights.
He flicked his eyes over her and then rested the palm of his hand over hers. It remained there for a moment or two until she drew back, folding her arms and leaning sideways into the door.
The oncoming streetlights drew closer, until they were flashing past, illuminating her face bleakly with cold flickers of white light.
He handled her just as carefully when they reached her house. He walked around the car and opened the door, then took her by the arm, gently nudging her to her feet. She paused again at the front steps, staring at the door.
"I could take you to Rigsby's." He offered. "Or Van Pelt's. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
It wasn't necessarily what he wanted, given that neither one could possibly understand, as well as he, just what might be going through her head. None of his comrades could ever fathom the loss as poignantly. And while they would be awkward and unsure, easily disturbed by what she might potentially say or do, there was nothing that would shock him. Realistically, there was nothing she could do that he probably hadn't already done or tried himself.
He would have the gumption to let her grieve without interfering or holding her back while thinking he was just helping her. He was wise enough to know, now, that you have to feel the pain before it gets better. Something that good intentioned people never quite grasp.
He never thought he'd be in such a position, observing from the outside as if looking at his own reflection in the mirror. Watching her stare at her own home as if it were a haunted house, just as he had the first time he'd walked in the door alone, knowing he would be alone for a very long time … If not for forever.
And while he'd noted the hesitancy to enter, displayed so noticeably through her body language, he couldn't take her to his home either. His home had ceased to be such on the day Red John took everything from him. Now it was just a place to sit when there was nowhere else to go.
An empty shell of a structure once alive and vibrant, but now dead and skeletal.
He couldn't help wondering if this would also be her fate? He'd be damned if he'd let that happen. He wasn't going to let her end up like him.
She offered no verbal response as she raised a foot and planted it like lead on the first step, and then the second until she was at the door. There was a flash in her mind, remembering when she'd accidentally swept her hand across and it opened. The recollection of her heel on the wood combined with the squeak of it giving a little under her feet did nothing to relieve her.
She stepped into her house, quiet and somber, Patrick falling in behind and closing the door. He noticed how her eyes trailed along the floor, through the living room and to the small hallway to the left, and then he steered her towards the bedroom.
"You should get into your pajamas." He prompted. She shifted her eyes, but then offered no argument, submitting to him like a child to a parent and disappeared into the bedroom.
He watched her go into the bathroom and then he made his way into the kitchen, toting a small bag he'd lifted from the backseat of his car. This was something he'd long intended on bringing her, but hadn't actually done so until now.
He opened the brown bag, revealing a copper tea kettle, which he promptly filled with water and set on the stove top, turning the dial to high.
The pine cabinets were simple, but elegant, with delicate vines etched into the outer facing. He liked them very much. Taking one of the small, iron knobs between his fingers, he swung the door back a little and reached into the cupboard, withdrawing two standard sized mugs. They would have to do since Corin didn't have any teacups. He placed a teabag in each one.
His head wrenched up towards the door when he heard the crash. He tore out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the bedroom. He could hear the sobbing then. Long, deep moans that hacked through him deeper than any knife ever could.
The bathroom door was open. He found her there, slumped upright upon the closed toilet seat. She'd managed to change into flannel pajamas, and now she was hunched over, clenching a large bottle of pills.
The bathroom was a mess. It seemed she'd had a moment of rage, although oddly enough, this wasn't a bad sign. The shower curtain was ripped on one side and bottles were scattered everywhere, a couple of them open and oozing out pearly white liquid.
She'd shattered the mirrored, cabinet door above the faucet by what appeared to have been a white, ceramic cup, probably used for rinsing after brushing her teeth, which was resting in thick chunks among the broken mirror at the bottom of the sink. Shards of silver glinted back at him in broken fragments of light.
Then another memory blurred clear in his head.
He was alone in the kitchen, staring at the silver faucet, as pieces of sunlight flickered off of it from the window above. The house was quiet. There was no smiling wife there to warm him or the sound of little feet scurrying around on the linoleum floor followed by giggles that sounded like bells. There was nothing left but vast emptiness.
An unforgiving, indiscriminate void where there was once the closest thing to heaven he thought he'd ever have.
He found the grief morphing inside him. The deep sadness intensified until it had peaked into a boiling rage. The rage vomited out of him in one long sweep of outward expression.
He tore his kitchen apart. He swung his arms around over the counter, shattering glass and throwing the dish rack across the room. When he stopped, he'd found himself surrounded by a mangled mess of glass, silverware and drops of blood from a couple of cuts on his hands. The torn out, filled in coloring book pages, that had once lined his refrigerator door, stared at him from the floor, under a splatter of flour and sugar.
He blinked at the image spinning around in his head, fresh as if it had just happened, and then squatted down, settling an empathetic gaze into Corin's eyes. Even now, he didn't regret it. Pursuing her until she'd told him her secret, until she'd learned to start trusting him.
Even after all of this, he wouldn't have done anything different, and he knew that somewhere inside her, she agreed with him. That she knew it couldn't have been any other way. He wrapped a hand around the bottle of pills and then slid a finger under her chin, tilting her head up to his. "What are you gonna do with this? Hmm? "
She let him take it from her. It was nothing but an over the counter drug, an anti-inflammatory blended with an antihistamine. It wasn't as if it were a narcotic, but still potentially dangerous if one were to be stupid or apathetic enough to take all of them.
He tossed the pills into the sink, ignoring the small crashing sound it made when it hit the glass and ceramic, and then he took her by the elbow. She flinched when the tea kettle went off.
"Ah, that's just the kettle." He assured, and then he walked her into the living room.
She'd settled into the corner of the couch, farthest from the door, when he'd returned from the kitchen, tea kettle and both mugs with him. She nestled in, curling her feet under her and giving him a disapproving look when he put a warm cup of liquid in her hands. But he grinned anyway, taking some encouragement through the smallest hint of revolt in her eyes.
"It's tea." He explained. "And it's good for you."
He experienced a fragment of gratification when she put the lip of the cup to her mouth and took a couple of sips before resting it on the coaster again.
"See?" He encouraged. "Not so bad."
He watched her stand again, ignoring him and gazing over her home as if she were lost. Her eyes fell on the bookshelf, and it didn't take him long to know why.
It wasn't a large photo album. Small compared to most. It's pale, lavender spine was protruding from the others in a way that was hard to ignore. She stepped towards it, while he observed quietly, and then she reached for it.
She flipped it open, slowly pacing as she scanned the pages, murmuring comments about each one. "This was when she rode her first horse." "This was when I took her to see The Little Mermaid."
He rose when she started talking, taking the comments as a prompt to show interest. He looked at each one, nodding and smiling a little.
She flipped another page, and then he bent over to pick up the card that had fallen out from the back of the album. He felt the small round device between his fingers before he caught a look at the front. His thumb sliding between the two sides instinctively, he absentmindedly opened it. He closed his eyes when Abbie's voice poured from it.
Oh God, it was one of those recordable cards, one that allowed a person to leave his or her own voice as a greeting for the recipient. And, a mother's day card!
Patrick mentally scolded himself, he was usually more on his game than this.
Corin's jaw dropped. She snatched the card from him, striding across the room until she was slumped into the overstuffed chair. Her fingers traced the squared off edges and then she opened it another time. Abbie's voice came out of it, filling the room as if the child were there with them.
It had been exactly Forty-Eight hours since the murders of his wife and child. The yellow crime-scene tape was still wrapped around his bedroom, and Patrick had not slept. He wasn't even hungry. He was sitting alone, staring at the wall when the phone rang.
He was thrown into a flurry of confusion at first, swinging his head around and jumping to his feet. He'd heard his wife and daughters voices, sprang up, whirled around and called their names. The intrusive beep followed and then the phone solicitor responded.
Patrick ran fingers through his hair, grabbed the phone and growled a gob of nonsense, making sure to add that his wife and child had just been mercilessly slaughtered and the only interest he had was to string up the man who'd done it by the balls.
"Did he …. " Corin's fragmented question stabbed at the memory flash, one of many and certainly probably one of many more to come. Regardless, he knew what she meant without hearing the entire thought. Had this man, this sick, disgusting pervert, done other things to the child before the end?
"No." He whispered, and she seemed to believe him as she nodded acknowledgment.
Thankfully, It wasn't a lie.
The sound of the phone startled them both. It was the land line. Patrick stood, aiming to appease it's pestering whine, ignoring the look on her face that said leave it be. They were alike in this way, never doing things just because they were told or because it was expected. He took the receiver. "Hello."
"Who is this?" It was a man's voice, somewhat brusque and definitely older.
"This is Patrick Jane, who is this?"
"Oh." Said the man. "You work with my son, Wayne. He did say you were there..."
The catch in his voice was evident, cuing that he'd already heard the news.
"Yes sir, I do." Patrick responded, clearly discerning the purpose of the call. He paced himself over to Corin, covered the phone with his hand and then leaned in a little.
"It's for you."
She eyeballed him, shaking her head as he stuck his ear back to the receiver in time to hear her father thanking him for staying with her. The gesture humbled Patrick more than anything ever had. He cleared his throat, and then offered. "Anything I can do is no sacrifice on my part, sir. I know you're anxious to talk to Corin. Here she is."
He shoved the phone in her hand. "It's your father."
She released a look of both terror and relief, then she stuck the phone to her ear while Patrick meandered towards the window. He stared out into the night, listening. Corin didn't seem to care much.
"Pop." She whispered, and then her voice cracked, "Daddy."
A subtle change from an expected distant show of respect to a touching display of intimacy.
Patrick took special note, perceiving it as an encouraging sign. She was still there beneath the tangled ball of nerves that he'd been working to soothe for the past couple of hours.
She listened to her father's voice, white knuckling the phone as if waiting for a chance to speak again. She stared at Patrick and when the voice on the other end stopped, she gulped a breath of air. "Daddy, I have … I've got to tell you something."
Patrick was glancing out into the yard, but the turn of conversation startled him enough to wrench his head back towards the living room.
The man already knew about the fate of his granddaughter. It would stand to reason, then, that this was not the secret she was about to unveil. That left only one possibility. Was she really about to tell him everything about her past? The truth about how she'd come to have Abbie in the first place?
This was far more than he'd anticipated.
He was frozen, waiting for the next words. Corin met Patrick's gaze with her own and then it was confirmed. She opened her mouth, details of the secret she'd kept from him, from her father, spilling out in broken fragments, gushing out of her into the receiver.
He was too impressed with her to even think about any self-gratification. He'd sensed her strength all along, even from the odd discourse on the beach. But now, he was simply amazed, and though he'd never admit just how deeply … He was profoundly moved.
She'd only needed someone to see her, and Patrick did see her. He saw her when they'd met, and he saw her now. Even under the wounded, grieving person gushing the contents of her anguish over the phone. He just wanted to look into her eyes and tell her. "I see you." But, something told him that she already knew.
It was clear, during the course of conversation, that Corin's father was blaming himself.
Corin was, of course, blaming herself.
It was insane and ultimately very sad, close to pathetic. A baffling, head scratching, phenomena. Victims nearly always accept responsibility for things they simply cannot control, crimes of which they are not responsible. Why is the victim always paying while the criminal gets to walk around free to repeatedly terrorize and then gloat over how clever and untouchable he is?
Patrick was no fool, mind you. Sure, he'd played the blame game at first. Initially, believing that it was his own words, his arrogance, that killed his family. But now, he was thinking straight. He knew who to blame, and it was not himself, Corin, or anyone else other than the killer.
This was Red John's doing. His and his alone, and while he might be somewhere stroking his ego at what a successful showman he was, the axe would fall someday. And when it did, Patrick would be holding the handle.
This was the thought that kept him going, that drove him to the CBI in the first place.
He stared out of the window for a few minutes before he eventually placed himself on the other end of the couch. Corin didn't seem to care much at all while she continued her conversation with a hint of relief in her voice.
Confession was a good thing, and he assumed that it was not something she'd much experience with. This made him all the more enamored. She thought she was weak and vulnerable, and was just discovering she was stronger than she realized. Stronger than she'd been given credit or given herself credit for.
The call ended after an hour or so. Patrick took the phone and set it on its base, and then returned to the couch. He didn't entertain talking to her about what had just transpired. He, surprisingly for him, didn't try to pry anything from her at all. He, instead, noticed her mug was empty and without a word, tipped the kettle over, pouring another cupful of tea inside and then offered it to her. She looked at him, sighed and then accepted it.
It was hard to tell just what she would do or say next. But he tried to read her as best he could, choosing every word methodically, purposely avoiding the usual ignorant gas that other people might naturally offer in the name of condolence and good will.
He remembered what it was like to be surrounded by the sympathetic crowd. The people who cast trite gazes at you like you are something to be pitied Eyes that view you as a walking tragedy.
They sputter propaganda such as, 'they're in a better place now' or 'everything will work out for the best' followed with a sad look accompanied by a pat on the back or the cute squeeze of a hand. So cute he wanted to squeeze back and see how it felt.
Well, none of them had ever walked into what he had, what Corin had. Yes, these people thought they meant well, but they did nothing for him and that's why he avoided them. He didn't want or need their pity, and neither did she.
Her fingers were curled around the mug that was not quite as warm as it had been, but not yet cold either. She'd been staring into the golden brown liquid as it swirled around in a tiny whirlpool. She'd told her father everything, how she'd lied to him about living off campus and then to the man who'd abducted, forced himself on her and then killed her roommate.
Patrick had waited, patiently, until he saw in her expression that she was preparing something in her head, some thought, nearing escape, but not quite ready just yet. She swallowed, and then noted somberly. "I told him."
"Yes." Patrick nodded. "Yes, you did."
"No, I mean, I told him."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly, as if agreeing with him, a dull realization glazing over in her eyes.
"Do you think Wayne will forgive me?"
She knew that now, she would have to lay everything out on the table for her brother as well. This was a secret she could no longer hover over, guarding like someone concealing a disgusting, grotesque monster in the basement. Half out of fear of the monster and half out of disgrace for it being there in the first place. Yes, the truth was coming out and she could either sit helplessly in it, or gain some small dignity in speaking it herself.
The question ripped Patrick's heart into a million pieces. Holding his eyes confidently into hers, he rose from the couch and then squatted down before her. He spoke in quiet assertion when he was certain he'd earned her full attention. "It's not your fault."
She nodded, but she obviously wasn't accepting it. He steadied his gaze on her and repeated. "It's not your fault."
She was affected a little deeper this time, and she whimpered along with a nod until he grasped her shoulders. "Corin … It's not your fault."
This time, her face twitched under the intense emotion writhing under her skin, unable to keep the large, crystal tears spilling from her eyes. This was what she needed to hear, and he knew it. She dropped her head into his shoulder and sobbed until she was dry, and then she leaned back into the chair, drawing her legs up under her.
He squeezed her hand gently, and then he was on his feet. He picked up the tea kettle and mugs and delivered them to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he was leaned back in the couch, just as he had been before, watching Corin fiddle with the edging of the overstuffed chair. Her lazy, drooping eyes marked impending sleep.
He smiled a little, observing her, and then he closed his eyes.
He wakened from a sound sleep, one he'd slipped into while settling too comfortably into the couch. He was alone and that didn't make him feel too easy. Yet, he only needed to see that the front door was still locked from the inside and then he knew where she was. It didn't take a genius, or even a mind reader, just a human being with half a brain.
He turned the corridor as if he belonged there, instinctively, as if he'd done so a thousand times before. He was rewarded when he encountered the closed door where hung a red flowered sign that read 'Kids only, No Grown-ups Allowed.'
He hesitated a moment.
It was a strange thing to have in common, but there it was and no one else could ever grasp it, this bond between them. He stared at the red sign, thinking of the painful irony, saw another flash of red in his mind, and then he opened the door.
The fish tank was still humming and bubbling a steady trickle of water. The stuffed animals were piled in the corner, as well as a stethoscope. It was funny in a way. Most parents would have bought their child a toy medical kit, but Corin allowed Abbie the real instrument.
He'd imagined they had already gone through the whole 'let's listen to each others heartbeat' bit when the instrument was new and Abbie's interest in it was at its highest peak.
Corin had taken Abbie's fascination seriously, encouraging her to explore what interested her the most. Another parent might have pushed a little girl towards dancing or even piano, considering Corin was so inclined that way, but she had given Abbie the gift of choosing for herself. He supposed it was residual issues from her own childhood that prompted her to do such a thing. A way to set right the perceived lack of support from her own parents.
He let his eyes stray from the outside of the room to the center, focusing on that damned red circle with a smile etched upon it. It reminded him of the t-shirt design that came out in the eighties or maybe it was the nineties. A simple smiley face with a bullet hole in the middle of it's forehead in addition to the caption "Have a Nice Day." under it.
If he had one of those shirts now he would rend it with his bare hands, stomp on and then burn it. At the least, he could strangle Red John with it, satisfying himself by feeling the life slowly drain out of him. And then he would release his body to crumble in a heap on the floor.
Have a nice day.
Effecting as the picture was, the image under the face stirred Patrick the most. Partially because it simply broke his heart, but also because he'd found himself identifying with it so poignantly that it hurt.
The bed had been stripped, leaving only the mattress - which had been untouched by the previously horrific scene. It reflected back in his eyes serving only to remind him even more.
It was the third day and the yellow caution tape remained, marking the crime scene. He'd not yet been able to muster the strength to venture upstairs, and so he'd spent every moment until now wandering first floor, ambling from one room to another, searching in his head for some fraction of peace, although secretly he was clenching onto unrest like a drowning person would a life vest.
This day, he found himself standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. He took the first step, and then the other until he was at the top and staring through that long narrow hallway to the closed door at the other end.
There were plenty of haunted houses at the carnival. Houses with lots of doors that hinted at scary, heart thumping things behind them, but none could measure up to the terror behind that door. No reaction he'd ever witnessed in all those years, carnival to carnival, reflected what was going through his head as the images flashed freshly through his mind.
He stepped through the hallway, paused for a moment at the door, and then he went in. He hardly remembered crawling into the bed, but there he was. He'd curled up on his wife's side, believing that if he could even just pick up a scent, a smell that she'd left behind, he could find some relief, some peace of mind.
The bed was gone the next day, and the furniture was next. He picked up the phone and called goodwill, letting them cart it all away. He was left with an empty house and an air mattress that he'd setup against the wall where he and his wife used to sleep. He'd allowed the face to remain there, marking the day. Perhaps he'd wanted to torture himself in the beginning, torment himself with all the self-deprecating thoughts. A sad barrage of guilt he beat himself with relentlessly.
But in the end, the face served as an unconscious outward expression of what would always be in his head. Once an omen of what had occurred, now an omen of what was to come. The aim to catch Red John and to destroy his life the way he'd destroyed Patrick's.
Corin had closed her eyes in the living room, after sipping the tea and then nestling into the large, cushy chair. He'd observed her, feeling somewhat accomplished, assured that she was dozing off. Now, here she was, curled up on the bare, full-sized bed, coddling a stuffed penguin under her chin. Someone else might have thought it to be a sign of pending insanity, sleeping in that bed, knowing what had happened there. Patrick, however, understood it too well.
If Rigsby were there, he would quickly usher her out, thinking he was doing her a favor, but not Patrick. He quietly extracted the quilt he'd spotted from the open double-door closet, and then unfolded it. He was draping it over her when she stirred.
He brought it up to her shoulders and then turned it back a little. She made a soft sound, rolled on her back, and then her fingers wrapped around his arm.
"Patrick?"
He turned to her, moved by the way she'd spoken his name, remembering when he'd once resorted to begging her to do so. That seemed a decade separated from the here and now.
Now his name had just fallen out of her mouth so easily, her silver eyes gazing into his. He tried to turn the corners of his mouth up a little. "I'm here."
"Don't leave." She begged slowly. "Please, just sit with me."
He studied her for a moment and then he withdrew his arm. Taking her hand in both of his, he lowered himself into the old, brown rocking chair beside the bed. "I'm not leaving. I'm right here ... And I'll be here."
She nodded, comforted by the warmth of his hands around hers. There was another long gap of empty time before either of them spoke again. He'd watched her, and she'd been staring at the door as if running thoughts through her head.
Then she whispered the question very matter of factly. It was the one thing he hadn't wanted to hear, but was very familiar with. Something that had haunted him for five years and for which he would never have an answer. "Was she scared?"
It nearly knocked the breath from him. He leaned forwards, mustering all the confidence he could manage. "Do you remember what I told you before? When you asked me about what she knew?"
"Yes." She answered, nodding her head slowly.
"And what did I say?"
"She knew something … Something was wrong. She was worried about me … That she wanted me …"
"To be happy, " He repeated along with her. "You're life revolved around hers, but her life revolved around yours. You know that don't you?"
He let that suggestion sink in, and then he continued. "She was here for a reason. She was here as long as she was supposed to be, to do whatever it was she was supposed to do. That's the way it is. We do what we're here for and then we're gone."
Corin flicked her eyes up at him again. "Do you believe that?"
She'd surprised him again. No one had ever called him out this way. He'd scoffed at her early on because he knew she had secrets, that she had to lie to keep them. But she was nothing compared to him.
He'd built a whole career out of secrets … Falsehoods. In the end, his life had come crashing down on him, crushing everything he'd built through those falsehoods. Was he lying now? Now when it was so pertinent that he be completely forthcoming?
He drew a breath and answered honestly. "I believe Abbie was brave. And I believe that she knew how much you loved her. That is where she found her strength. Now, she wants you to remember her by living. That's not magic or mind reading, that's listening to her own words."
"She wanted you to be happy."
Corin flicked her eyes across his face, and then she nodded. He'd given her something she could grasp. She dropped her eyes, staring at their hands wrapped up together, and then caught a glimpse of light bouncing off of the gold band encircling his finger. He let her trace it around his finger with the tip of her finger, wondering what she was thinking about now.
He didn't have to wonder for long. She drew her brows in as if concentrating. "Do you … Do you think he planned it this way? That he … Manipulated us?"
"Corin, look at me." His voice had taken on a soft commanding tone that she obeyed without resistance. She raised flickering lashes, set her eyes into his, and he in hers. Then he spoke. "Now, I want you to close your eyes."
He asked her again before she did eventually relax her eyelids until they were shut. Then he spoke in a warm, steady tone. "Now listen to my voice."
"I want you to think about the ocean. Think about the sound of the waves moving in and out, in and out. Think about how deep it is and how you could get so lost in it that no one could find you."
She didn't need to imagine for long. Her hand relaxed under his and soon she'd drifted off listening to the sound of his voice.
He'd erroneously assumed that this story, the one between them, had started that day on the beach. The day when two, seemingly unconnected, strangers just happened to cross each other paths - just like both of them had with other people so many times before.
But he now understood, clearly, that this story had already birthed before they'd ever met. That the meeting was a consummation of years of preparation, of pruning. Whether it be by the hand of fate or something else, he'd never considered such a thing before.
How completely inauspicious it was, once he'd started peeling back the layers.
She was Rigsby's sister, he was Rigsby's partner. She'd been victimized by the man that had victimized him as well. Even eerier was the timing. His part started five years after Corin's and now Abbie's had ended five years after that. A string of coincidences no man could conjure or manipulate altogether, maybe even an omen that he'd fought to ignore, but had Red John manipulated all of this? Could he have orchestrated it all?
It was obvious that Patrick was meant to see his artwork. Yes, it was likely that Red John knew full well that Corin, once discovering his handiwork, would call Patrick first and that Patrick would go to her before he contacted anyone else.
Perhaps the gesture was a message to both of them. On one hand, warning Patrick that he was getting too close to what he'd considered his property, and to Corin that she could never be free of him. Telling her that she was his property. Or perhaps he just wanted to further the sickening game that kept him endlessly amused. Cat and Mouse, Predator and prey.
Perhaps it was an ironic mixture of fate, coincidence and intelligence. Whichever the case, it hardly mattered now. Now when he'd looked down on her, and discovered his image staring back at himself in two silver pools of sorrow. A reflection he'd found more unsettling than the one in the mirror. And oddly enough, more comforting.
It was indeed a scarlet thread that bound them. A crimson chord that strung its way around and through them so intricately that no one, nothing could ever separate them.
They were connected far deeper than he'd imagined. He would stay with her, walking with her through this knowing that he, and only he, could understand it. Perhaps she, and only she, might be the only one who could truly understand him. He could see her and maybe he'd failed to consider until now, that maybe she could see him.
THE END
A/N - There's garbly- goop down below if you're interested, and name mentioning for my readers after the garbly-goop too!
Did you like it? I know, sad, but there's a hint of victory here too! We only know, well, up to episode nine, - wait a minute, I have nine chapters! - that Patrick found his family after Red John got through with them. We've seen glimpses of the after effects. The empty house that he comes home to and the air mattress that he sleeps on.
So, what I aimed to do here was to explore the between, from when we see him make the discovery and the grieving process. I tried to do this through Corin's grief, as if it were happening to them both at the same time.
I hope you noticed that through the progression perspectives kind of changed, moving from Corin, and then slipping more over to Patrick until in this chapter it was all Patrick. Patrick explains it when he notes that while it seemed they were merely strangers, crossing unconnected paths, they were actually on the same path.
I also hope you noticed that this was the first time we've actually heard Patrick's name come from Corin's mouth.
Also, I've discovered that I unintentionally sort of created another diversion. Some of you thought that the little italicized bit in chapter one was a flashback … It was in fact a flash-forward to this chapter.
Anyway, there's a variety of fanfics popping up on the site now and it's gratifying to see. The show deserves it - and well, all of them are adding their own flavor and spin … it's awesome!
This is the end of this part of the story, but not the end of the whole story. There will be a part two, but I don't know how many chapters and all of that.
But, it will be very forwards and not so much backward, dark thinking. Then I have another one coming that is just sheer fun. So, thank you everyone for reading and ESPECIALLY all of you who've reviewed, put me on Alert and favorites !! That is such a compliment!!
Honors Follow -
Thank you to …. Idlecrush - This stories first reviewer, You are so cool!
MasqueradeWitch and Late March - You both are so cool too! You stuck with me to the end!
Amber you know me (Yes, I do!) - I'm breathing and I'm not wearing a suit! XD
Aragornsgirl2002, BloodZephyr, Cessations, ElleKnight, Evelyn Rose, Jc6, JesusFreak213, Kai3Anime, Leafy08, Scratchit - what a funny name!, Capjack54, Henchgirl, Mwalter, Soncicemi, Neon Thunder - Hey, you didn't keep your promise! - XD lol, Tezmoore, Nicole, Penmanships, TenshiNanashi, Brook, Anna and Elfgirl325
Thank you, ALL of you!!!!!!! Some of you have reviewed every chapter, you know who you are and WOW, you're amazing!!! Most of you have me on alert or favorites or both - what an honor! I try to review for anyone who reviews me or puts me on favs/alerts. If I have not reviewed anything of yours yet ... I will, trust me, and probably more than one.
Go read the other fics now, and while waiting for my next one, check out my newest vid - if you haven't already - set to So What?! By Pink. Haha!
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