Still Seeing Red
Chapter 9
He opened his eyes to mirrors.
Mirror upon mirror, wall after wall of mirror upon mirror. Mirrors on the ceiling, mirrors on the floor. In fact, it almost made him sick – it was disorienting and distorting, and he stood stock still for what seemed like hours just to get a feel for where in the hell he was. For it most certainly was not heaven.
It was cool but well-lit, and there was a buzz, like the hum of old overhead fluorescent lights, but of course, there was only mirror. He was clutching something in his hands, something round and glassy, almost mirrored itself and when he took a step forward, it grew warm to his touch. He stepped back, it grew cool. A beacon of sorts. What was he meant to find?
He took another step, then another, the object leading him onwards, and it was with a terrible realization that he knew he was in a carnival funhouse, only of a kind he had never seen in all his days on the carnival circuit. This was good, he thought to himself. The best yet. Even he might get lost in here and he never got lost.
But there was no way back. Every step forward made the mirrors close behind him, like doors on a jail cell. He wasn't being herded, per se, but going back was obviously not an option. So he went forward, his own reflection warping and growing, shrinking and bending all around him.
There was a branch, a split, a fork in the corridor, and he had to choose. One way or the other. What was at stake? This certainly wasn't a fair maze – usually one knew the goal of the exercise. This seemed futile, unnecessary, moot. He held out the object, first one direction, then the other, and it grew neither warmer nor colder either way. He sighed, wished he had his jacket on so he could shove the damn thing in his pocket, but he just couldn't bring himself to drop it either, so he picked left when his instinct said right, just to spite himself, and started off, walking briskly.
Help me, echoed a voice. He recognized it, but couldn't say it was familiar. There was a shadow of a shape as well, a shape other than his, female perhaps, but the images were so twisted that it was difficult knowing where his reflection ended and the other one began. It was disturbing, so he tried not to look, but it was all mirrored and it made his head hurt.
It occurred to him that that was likely the goal of the exercise – to determine what was real and what was illusion, and he realized that he had played that game all his life, manipulating reality and truth just enough to keep things interesting. And profitable, because, after all, people didn't want reality as much as their illusions. He had always simply given them what they wanted, allowed them for fleeting moments to be happy, to believe in something other than the utter hopelessness of their lives, the futility, the utter coldness of fate. He himself had twisted reality, for his own gain, and it had blown up horribly in his face. Never again to do so. For no one.
He slowed. Lisbon? Had he said something like that to Lisbon? Why? When? It was just beyond his reach, when the voice called again.
Can you hear me?
The images were distorting wildly now, his own face, his own hands, and he closed his eyes, holding one hand out in front to avoid a potential wall, but not caring particularly if he hit one. The hum turned into music, piano music, Fur Elise, by Beethoven, and he slowed again, not wanting to miss it. The tone, the touch, it was so familiar, and against his better judgement, he opened his eyes, allowing all his senses to guide him now.
There were doors and corridors everywhere now, leading in every direction, and the mirrors had taken on the look of prisms, bending light and shadow, his face bent, distorted out of shape, fearsome and awful, but the music was louder, clearer, so he continued regardless, desperate to see what lay beyond, knowing he shouldn't.
The corridor opened into a room, where a mirrored grand piano sat in the center. From behind it, he could see two pairs of legs, one pair long, elegant, ankles crossed, the other short, childlike and swinging, and his throat tightened. Now he wanted to go back, and he turned but a mirror had closed it off, and there was, as before, no going back.
Jane's gonna find her. Someone had said that. Just keep moving.
He pressed his back against the wall, feeling its smooth glassy surface beneath his palm, not trusting his legs to carry him further, but knowing there was only one way to go. His breathing was coming quicker now, as he edged his way along the wall, not wanting to look, but unable to tear his eyes away. Around the piano he moved, and he could see them plainly now, both engrossed in the keys, the one gently placing the little fingers in the right places, helping little toes reach the foot pedals, keeping the haunting rhythm going with mature skill.
He closed his eyes tightly this time, wishing he could stop, wishing he could stay, knowing that for some reason, he couldn't, and his heart was thudding against his ribs, knees weak. Just keep moving, don't stop, don't look, tearing himself apart as he slid along the wall. This wasn't real, he told himself. It was a trap, a trick, and he knew if he stopped, he would never leave, and he would be stuck here forever, and part of him wondered if that wouldn't be such a terrible thing…
Just keep moving, and he felt the wall behind him angle and turn, and he released his breath as he stepped out into a corridor again and away from the music and naturally, a mirrored door slammed shut behind him.
On it was painted a red smiley face.
He slammed at it with his fists and the face shattered into more faces all laughing at him and he hit it again and again, making just more and more faces and finally the world began to spin and went black all around him.
_________________
"Where is he?" panted Lisbon as she caught up with Cho.
Cho shook his head, hands on his knees, out of breath. "Rigsby… still on his tail…"
"Damn," she stomped the ground. It was very dark now, the moon only a crescent in the early night sky. They were in the forest, a State Park/Recreation area that flanked the town on 3 sides. She honestly hadn't expected Jane to head into a forest, just assumed he would stay on the well-lit streets of Auburn, but of course, nothing could ever be assumed with Jane, and naturally, the first thing he had done after catching that damned crystal globe was bolt off into the bush.
There was a crashing and stomping of undergrowth, and Wayne Rigsby emerged from the trees. His face was scratched from branches, and he also was out of breath.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Sorry boss, I lost him."
"Jane's fast," said Cho, coming to his partner's defense.
"You got that right."
She scowled and pulled out her cell. "Van Pelt, we've lost him. It's up to Evangeline and the women, now…"
________________________
There were voices now, voices calling him up from the blackness, carrying him up from the blackness and he didn't resist. He didn't care what they did. He had made the wrong choice, should have stayed in the room with the piano, stayed there for the rest of his miserable life. He belonged there, not dead, but not really alive, trapped but happily so and he cursed whatever fate had brought him here.
Somehow, he was on his feet again. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
There was a red smiley face on the mirror in front of him. He turned around, only to find another smiley face on that wall as well. In fact, every mirrored surface was covered in bloody smiles, as well as the ceilings and the floors. Everywhere he looked, his own reflection was replaced, supplanted, changed, until all he could see was red.
"No!" he shouted at the Red, "I will not!"
The smiles laughed at him, knowing him far too well. He forced himself to take a step, then another, and struck a wall, the red smearing on his cheek. He pushed himself away from that wall, took another step, struck another wall. More red. Fought the urge to just curl up into a ball and die, took another step, another wall, more red. Trapped in the red now, the corridor closed off and began filling up with it. It would choke the life from him, he knew. He would drown it red. It was just a matter of time.
_________________________
Teresa Lisbon leaned against a tree trunk, legs weak, nerve weaker. She had done such a terrible thing. He would never trust her again, she knew. Would never forgive her. How could she have done it, placed the fate of one missing woman higher than the tenuous sanity of Patrick Jane? And at the prompting of another woman she barely knew, no less, one who claimed to be his friend. She deserved to lose his trust.
Her phone rang, and she was grateful that it lit up the dark.
"Yeah, Grace. What've you got?"
"Oh, boss, this is so horrible. You won't believe it…"
"Grace, I don't think this night can get any worse. Just tell me."
"The walls just started to bleed."
She hesitated a moment, not certain she had heard correctly. "What did you say?"
"The walls. They're bleeding red smiley faces… It's so gross. It's like a horror movie."
She dropped her head, suddenly dizzy. There were 10 psychics conducting a séance in Kristina Frye's living room. She had arranged it all with Evangeline Makepeace during the drive back from Salinas and that was bad enough. Had taken the crystal ball on Evangeline's insistence. But bleeding walls? Could things like this really happen? She had seen amazing things, bizarre things, horrible things in her career with the CBI. But this, this just took her realm of experience to a whole new level, and subsequently kicked her in the gut.
"Okay boss, I gotta go. Evangeline's, like, all weirded out. The others are trying to help her…"
There was the sound of many clamoring voices, and the line went dead.
She looked up at the night sky, at the crescent moon and the stars, and wondered what in the world she had unleashed.
_______________________
All he could see was red. It was closing in on him, sending his pulse racing, his blood pressure soaring, breaking his bones, turning him to putty, turning him into red.
Turning him into red.
No. He was blue.
Silly boy. Red suits you. Red is you. There is nothing other than red.
No. There was blue.
Red was life. Red was death.
Blue was the sky. Blue was the ocean.
Bright red. Dark red. Deep red.
Baby blue. Robin's egg blue. Tea cup blue.
Auburn Red. Russet Red. Carnelian Red.
Quickly, he needed more blue. Navy blue. Light blue. Midnight blue.
Scarlet Red. Brick Red. Crimson Red. Flame Red.
Quick, more. Cerulian blue. Topaz blue. Cobalt blue.
Scarlet Red. Rose Red. Blood Red. Your-Wife's-Blood Red.
No...
Her-Blood- Red wins.
Damn. Damn. Eyes. Blue eyes. His daughter's blue eyes, laughing, smiling, singing. Blue eyes dancing, winking, weeping, trusting. Blue eyes, big, beautiful, forever blue.
Hah! Her-Blue-Eyes win, he told the red. Red can never touch that.
And he laughed out loud, clutched the smooth round orb in one hand and smashed the red with all his might.
________________________________
Her cell phone rang again.
"Tell me something good."
"Evangeline's crystal ball just broke."
"What?"
"Just shattered into a million pieces. No one was touching it, I swear. It just shattered."
"Okay. Okay. We'll find them. Cho's gone back to call the local cops. We need man-power out here. We've got to be close."
"Good luck."
"You too."
And she folded it up and pushed deeper into the forest.
______________________________
His head hurt.
Was this what you were supposed to do when you had a concussion? Not that he knew he had a concussion. Not that he would have done what he was supposed to do even if he had one. It just would be good to know.
Every muscle in his body ached, and he realized he was on his hands and knees in the grass. It smelled wonderful, rich and wet and earthy, and he breathed it in deeply, letting it calm and soothe and restore. He could also smell wood, cut wood, cedar and pine and redwood and other things, chalky things, like limestone, drywall and paint.
He opened his eyes.
He was on the edge of a forest, at night. In the moonlight, he could make out shapes, dark silhouettes of many houses, houses without lights on the edge of a forest, and he managed to push himself to his feet, steadying himself against a tree trunk for balance. It was only then that he realized he had something in his hand, and he pulled it up to the pale moonlight to get a good look at it.
A globe made of crystal and polished glass. Kristina Frye's crystal ball. They all had one. Tools of the trade. He shuddered and dropped it to the ground, wiping his hands on his pants to rid himself of the feeling.
He took a step forward, waited for a heartbeat, to see if any mirrors would close in upon him, but of course, they didn't. Foolishness. Suggestibility. He was as susceptible as any. He hadn't slept for days, hadn't eaten either, probably still had a head injury. His threshold was very low, right now. Another step forward and he realized that he was on a dirt road in front of the houses, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
He was on the driveway of a two storey house, with a large porch, with what appeared to be the beginnings of a garden in the front.
End of Chapter 9
