Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 25)
Rating: M for graphic violence and language
Fandom: The Mentalist
Summary: Patrick Jane has lived his life obsessed with the capture of Red John ever since finding his beloved wife and daughter slain by the maniac's hand. Now, 10 years to the day after that horrific night, a young woman appears in Patrick's life, someone who threatens to destroy everything his life has become in the interim... if not his sanity, itself.
Author's note: I'm going to try and get every chapter out a bit faster, without compromising the quality of the story. Please review. This is it, guys, the Chicken Man is in this chapter! :)
"Mother Fuckers. They're going to feel pretty stupid when they find out. They're fucking with the wrong people."― Robert Kirkman, The Walking Dead, Book Six
"Before the truth sets you free, it tends to make you miserable."― Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life
"The major goal of the Cold War mind control programs was to create dissociative symptoms and disorders, including full multiple personality disorder. The Manchurian Candidate is fact, not fiction, and was created by the CIA in the 1950's under BLUEBIRD and ARTICHOKE mind control programs. Experiments with LSD, sensory deprivation, electro-convulsive treatment, brain electrode implants and hypnosis were designed to create amnesia, depersonalization, changes in identity and altered states of consciousness. (p. iii)
"Denial of the reality of multiple personality by these doctors [See page 114 for names] in the mind control network, who are also on the FMSF [False Memory Syndrome Foundation] Scientific and Professional Advisory Board, could be disinformation. The disinformation could be amplified by attacks on specialists in multiple personality as CIA conspiracy lunatics" (P.10)
"If clinical multiple personality is buried and forgotten, then the Manchurian Candidate Programs will be safe from public scrutiny. (p.141)" ― Colin A. Ross, Bluebird : Deliberate Creation of Multiple Personality by Psychiatrists
Saturday, November 4, 2013 9:10 am PST
Jane had decided to leave the truck and walk with Charlotte and Lisbon, because the streets of Hermosillo was narrow and because most of the locals walked. If they needed the truck to drive further than an hour in any direction, they'd come back and get it, but it would give him a chance to surveil the land, get a feel for the place. It would give Charlotte a chance to roam, something he knew she desperately wanted and needed to do. Lisbon had slept, and was tired, but that was more of an anxiety response than a lack-of-sleep or physical weakness problem. The anxiety wouldn't be going anywhere until Red John was dealt with. The walking was therapeutic.
Charlotte chattered at first, for the first ten minutes. Had Jane ever been to Mexico before? He told her he had.
To Hermosillo? No, not Hermosillo in particular.
Had Lisbon been to Mexico before? Yes, but only to Cancun.
Did she like it? Yes. Very pretty.
What if the Chicken Man could exorcise the demon in Red John? Could they do that? Jane didn't think that would work. They'd see what the Chicken Man had to say, okay?
What if Red John didn't die?
This made Jane stop. What did she mean, if he didn't die? Red John was a human. Humans could die.
Was Jane certain Red John was just a human? Just that and nothing else? Lisbon darted Jane a look and said nothing. Jane's jaw flexed. This was not the time for sarcasm or jokes or wide grins. Yes. Yes. Red John was just a human. Yes. He believed that.
And then Charlotte was silent. For a minute. 64 seconds. Jane counted, actually, after he realized she wasn't speaking.
Then she asked if Jane knew the significance of the number 322? He said he did not. What about 330? He did not. Charlotte asked Lisbon. She didn't know, either. Charlotte went back inside her head. For 30 seconds.
Did Jane ever have any imaginary friends? This caught his attention. He felt uncomfortable, wasn't sure why. He told her he hadn't really had any imaginary friends. Not that he could remember.
"I used to have imaginary friends," Charlotte said, and grinned.
"Oh?" Jane asked. "When?"
"When I was little," Charlotte said. Jane knew she hadn't had imaginary friends when she had been with him. So between her abduction and now. What was little? He asked her. She shrugged.
"A little bird. A blue jay. Comes hopping around sometimes, and can turn into a space alien," Charlotte finally said. Jane nodded to himself.
"Space alien?"
"Comes in the night," Charlotte said.
"Does it have a name?" Jane said. The day was warm but cool, with bright light, but not so bright it hurt the eyes. They were walking past red brick builds, white brick buildings. Fruit trees. Jane was leading them to a church he thought might be a good starting place. But they'd see what they would see.
So far they'd seen some wary looking older women with scarves wrapped around their heads. A few young children, kicking a can around. Kick-the-can wasn't obsolete here, not in Hermosillo. They seemed clean, well fed, well dressed. One was wearing a faded Pokemon t-shirt with Pikachu on the front, a bit too small.
Jane walked past the children, and Lisbon and Charlotte followed. The kids glanced at the trio of outsiders, curious but not curious enough to stop their game. They rambled on down the street laughing and speaking quickly, voices young and bright. Charlotte looked after them wistfully, like she wished she could be one of them. Join in their game. Be one of them with no past of horrors. Jane saw the sadness on her face, there and then gone.
"Huh?" Charlotte said, blinked. Looked at her father.
"The space alien that can turn into a bluebird? Does it have a name?"
"Buzz," Charlotte said. Then grinned. "Bzzzzzzz. Like the sound a bee makes."
Jane nodded. The uneasy feeling in his guts was worse. But why should he be uneasy about an imaginary playmate? Charlotte was bright, she was creative, and she'd been raised by a serial killer. No doubt she, more than most kids, would want to escape. Have a friend.
In Jane's limited experience with kids, regarding their imaginary friends, though... most imaginary friends didn't change from something realistic to something supernatural and back again. Something about that unnerved Jane.
Was this Buzz a screen memory of some sort? Some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion, or an induction technique? So much to think about. With Charlotte, nothing could be assumed to be innocent.
"Do you think I will live to see adulthood?" Charlotte muttered then. Calmly, dispassionately, as if she didn't know and didn't particularly care either way.
"Charlotte. You will live to see adulthood. I promise you," Jane said almost sternly. Lisbon was silent, following them as they continued towards the church. Jane was in the lead, then Lisbon. Charlotte trailed behind, despite her consistent pleading to get out and walk.
As they drew closer to the church and closer to the Chicken Man, she seemed to fall back. Not stop, not even slow significantly, but she didn't seem to be in the same rush to find him as Jane.
"If I live to be an adult, what I would like to do is create a machine that can prevent people from being abducted by aliens. It will be an electromagnetic machine that works with magnets, which move around the outside of a giant copper faraday cage which is built into the victim's house, ceiling, everywhere. Do you like my idea?" She spoke quickly, then stopped speaking and waited for the reply.
Jane considered her words. He had no idea how to respond to that. It wasn't the type of comment he was used to receiving, but then again, very little of what Charlotte said was common-place.
"That sounds like an excellent machine," Jane said. He didn't want to tell her he didn't believe in aliens. She obviously did, and from the way she spoke of her machine, the need for it (at least in her mind) was significant.
"When Whitley Strieber was a boy, he created a machine with magnets to contact space aliens, and burnt down part of a house," Charlotte said then. It seemed only loosely connected to the preceding sentence. But loosely connected was better than nothing.
"Oh?"
"Yes. My idea is sort of a reverse of that. To block communication with them and make them unable to operate in a certain field. Energetically unable to get through," Charlotte mumbled. She kicked a stone on the ground and it went skittering away past her father.
"I thought, though, that your imaginary friend is part alien?" Jane said, then.
"I call it an imaginary friend, because people are familiar with the term," Charlotte allowed slowly, like Jane might be a little slow himself. "But really, he is not exactly a friend. And not exactly... I am not sure, but I don't think he is necessarily imaginary."
And then she was silent. Jane looked at her, too tired and too exposed to weirdness over the past few days to be particularly surprised by anything at this point. He looked over at Lisbon and she smiled at him brightly. Bravely. He grinned back.
They finally reached the church. It wasn't Sunday, but there were two woman outside, talking. Jane approached them as Lisbon and Charlotte hung back.
"Hello," Jane said in Spanish. They regarded him, smiled back. Nodded.
"Anyone in the Church?"
They told him he could go in, so he nodded towards Lisbon and Charlotte. They entered. It was a pretty church, definitely Catholic and South American at once, old. Stained glass set into the windows, red brick, a copper bell raised above them to bring the people.
Inside it was much dimmer, candles lit at the front, flickering yellow-red onto the walls. Red, wooden pews waxed to a bright gleam. A pulpit at the front. They entered. Almost immediately, a small man dressed in a black robe appeared.
When he saw Jane he broke out into a deferential smile and hurried forward. Jane realized, almost immediately, that this man thought he recognized him, and... yeah. He thought he was Red John.
"How can I help you, Sir?" The Padre asked as he approached Jane. He cast a nervous glance at Charlotte. She seemed to ignore him, and Jane couldn't get a read on her. Anger? Dismissal? Sheesh. She could have warned him!
"I'm looking for the shaman," Jane said with a smile, but his words were strong and expectant. He would get an answer.
"Which shaman, Sir?"
"Chicken Man," Jane said, throwing a look back at Charlotte. "You know who I am speaking about."
"Haven't seen him in a few days," Padre said. Jane nodded, as if he was okay with this.
"Who would know where he is? I need to see him today. As soon as possible."
"Please wait one moment," the Padre said and disappeared towards the back of the Church. He came back almost immediately, looking flushed.
"I've sent one of the children to find out where he is. They'll ask one of the street kids. They usually know."
"Good. Good," Jane said, then began to soften his voice. Within a few moments the Padre's eyes were tired, face serene. Jane had him in a trance.
"You will not speak to me again, if you see me. You will not remember that we were here today. You will not want to speak with me, and will give me short, unhelpful answers. You will not remember me, the woman, or the girl," Jane said, controlled, calm.
Padre nodded. "Of course I won't. You're not even here. Why speak of you?"
"That's right," Jane soothed.
They waited. Charlotte got up and paced around the pews like a caged animal. Went to the front. Lit a candle. For her mother? Probably. Then, as Jane watched, she lit three more candles? For each of them? Jane wasn't a big church-goer, but weren't the candles for the dead?
Finally, some ten minutes later the Padre returned with a dusty, out-of-breath young boy.
"Tell them what you told me," Padre ordered the child. He looked at Jane and Jane smiled. The boy almost winced back a smile, eyes big and round and startled. His voice was tight, a bit too high, adrenaline-reedy.
"Chicken Man, the crazy man... they say he went out to the dessert to pick plants for his teas. His dogs are still around his house. He left a sign on his door, saying he will come back when he has his plants," the boy said quickly.
"Where is his house?" Jane demanded of the boy, and pulled out the laminated map. The boy's eyes ran over the map, focused on an area in the South-West.
"Here," the boy said. "And here, he finds his plants."
From what Jane could see, the place the kid had tapped as plant-country was desert land. He nodded his thanks. Charlotte came forward then, digging in her backpack. She handed the kid a strawberry, foil-wrapped pop tart.
"Here," she said to the boy, slowly, as if he didn't understand Spanish. "Good boy. Now go away."
Jane let it go. They left, returned to the airstream and the truck. They'd take some food, take the truck alone. The airstream would only slow them down. Charlotte ran on ahead of them, and they were back at the trailer within 15 minutes, no longer concerned on scoping out the land or looking for people. They had a direction to go in. It had almost been too easy. Jane went and got an indelible marker... drew a little house symbol where the kid had tapped the Chicken Man's house, drew an X in the desert. Lisbon got some of her stuff, some drinks, made some sandwiches, put them in a cooler. Charlotte, true to form, grabbed her DVD player, puzzled over which movies to bring.
Silly, really. They weren't going to the desert to watch movies, but Jane said nothing. She rooted through her bug, pulled out Bunsen and stuffed him in the cabinet underneath her bed. Charlotte used the toilet, then Lisbon, and then they were at the truck. Jane disconnected it from the trailer, smiled as Charlotte eagerly jumped into cab, squirmed into her little space in the back. Lisbon got in, then Jane, and they pulled out into the narrow street, towards the South and the desert. Jane visualized the little man, as Charlotte had described: short, rag-covered, bad teeth, squinting eyes.
He could almost feel him now, almost smell him. He checked his watch. Every minute seemed to be taking forever, but they were going as fast as they could go.
They were out of Hermosillo, the city itself, within 10 minutes. It was a very compact city, very condensed. Into scrub-land, red rock and cacti, scrubby bushes and rocky hills, the back wheels kicking up dust as Charlotte demanded they look for "good music" on the truck's little digital radio.
The sky was bright blue, clouds white and high, sailing across the sky. Lisbon sat rigid in her seat, eyes scanning the land like a hawk. Jane scanned. 22 minutes out of Hermosillo, driving through desert at a relative crawl, and they saw what to Jane first appeared to be a silver fox, standing in the red dust, grinning at them.
"There he is!" Charlotte shrieked happily. Jane stopped the truck, looked back at her.
"Charlotte. That's a fox," he said patiently. Did she really think this could be the shaman they were looking for, or was she joking?
"No, it's him!"
"Charlotte!" Jane snapped. His nerves were worn thin. But then again... had it been a fox, or a dog?
Charlotte had said something about the man feeding stray dogs, hadn't she? Was it one of his? He got out of the truck and looked around.
Cacti. Ancient, red land, baked by the sun. Small shrubs, some with quite a bit of greenery. Withered and ancient trees, looking a bit like stooped old men. Jane's eyes scanned the horizon. Not a human in sight. Charlotte was suddenly beside him. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called. An excited, happy shriek.
"Chicken Man!"
Jane's first impulse was to shush her. He felt paranoid, exposed. But he let her call anyway. What harm could it do, really?
"Chicken Man, it's me! I need your help!" Her voice, so high and wild, it raced across the Mexican landscape like an animal all of its own, delighted to be free. For a moment there was nothing, then the lone howl of a wolf. Was that a wolf? It was a baying noise, far off.
"It's him!" Charlotte said again, eyes bright with excitement.
"That was... I am pretty sure that was a wolf," Jane muttered. Lisbon had gotten out of the cab, too. Charlotte began to stumble off in the direction of the wolf-dog-fox or whatever the Hell it was. Lisbon followed dutifully.
"Chicken Man?! We need your help! We have to find Red John!"
The mention of Red John's name made Jane's throat constrict a bit. And here she was, yelling it out!
Of course... if Red John was already aware they were nearby. How had Jane thought they'd find this little, weird slice of Hermosillo life? He'd been expecting, what exactly? Some psychic connection? The man to appear in the road the night before? That wasn't realistic. He was flesh and blood, not spirit. Not psychic.
The wind whipped. Jane could actually see dust moving along the ground in a small little twister. Odd. It moved over towards Charlotte, five or 6 feet tall, turning counter clockwise, lazy, almost unbelievable. It was a bit windy, but this twister seemed impossible. It moved off slowly, like a living being all its own, drawn near the young girl and her shouts, curious.
Jane wasn't sure, then, what he noticed first. The small moving shape coming towards them, or the feel of the man. He blinked and there was somebody coming towards them, out of the cacti.
This somebody was small, a bit bent over. Age was hard to get a read on. At least 60, and possibly much older. His face and skin were like tanned leather, dusty, eyes little slits, shining brightly. Little gray beard with nicotine yellow. A dusting of white hair. Thin white eyebrows. He was wearing a poncho and had a necklace around his neck strung with beads, what appeared to be small animal bones, feathers... He was carrying a small leather bag in one hand. In the other hand, he had a small Swiss army knife. Jane tensed up when he saw the knife.
The old man saw Jane's reaction, laughed a strange, high-pitched caw of a laugh, and folded the knife closed. It disappeared into the brown folds of his clothing.
"Chicken Man!" Charlotte screamed, and rushed forward. He put his arms around her and laughed, and Jane caught sight of his mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth. Half of them were missing. The Chicken Man wasn't a big fan of the dentist, apparently.
"Little one!" The Chicken Man said back in halting English. Did he even know her name? He pulled away, looked her over. Laughed again. Looked over at Jane, at Jane's tense, strained face. Jane smiled back. Chicken Man laughed again.
"This is the light-shadow of Juan de Rojo?" Light-shadow? What the Hell was that? Juan de Rojo was easy enough to translate. Red John.
"Yes. This is my father. The real one!" Charlotte's voice was still too loud for Jane's comfort, but he could tell she was excited. She was all but hopping around the small man.
To Jane, well... the Chicken Man reminded him a bit of Yoda, from the Star Wars movies. He was tiny, even smaller than Charlotte. 4 foot 5? Shorter?
He was extremely old, wrinkly, with a happy, knowing grin. A red and brown faded poncho. He was out in the wilderness collecting plants, which seemed like the epitome of all his life's experience, even at a quick glance.
He didn't have any chickens around him, which Jane had more or less thought would be a given, but no doubt they were wandering all over his homestead. His eyes were a bit wild; a bit crazy and staring. They seemed to wander in opposite directions, and had an almost blind quality to them, as if the Chicken Man wasn't quite *seeing* the outside world.
"The pretty lady?" Chicken Man asked, grinning his decaying smile at Lisbon. She smiled in her Lisbon way, awkward, tired, not sure how to process this funny, old guy.
"She's my Dad's friend. Best friends," Charlotte informed him. He laughed at that.
"Best friend! Yes! Wouldn't I love such best friends!" Chicken Man's English was a bit off, but his meaning was clear to Jane. He grinned, looked over at Lisbon, shrugged. Yeah. She looked uneasy again. She didn't like people stating the obvious about their relationship.
"You were a fox today, huh? It is a good look for you," Charlotte said then. She was- yup- hopping up and down with excitement. The chicken man reached out a knobby, wrinkled old hand and petted her on the head like she was an excited dog and actually giggled.
He made a funny coocoocoo noise deep in his chest. At first it seemed like another type of laugh, and then Jane considered the fact that he had a lung cold, or a weird variant of a cough.
And then the noise hit him. It was eerily similar to the noises made by roosting pigeons. An eerie, bird-like whistle deep from within his chest, reverberating out into the bright, early day. Coocoocooooooo. Jane tried not to even hear it, because it was weird. Eerie-weird, not amusing weird.
The Chicken Man caught his reaction and barked laughter this time. His laugh was a variation of the cooing noises, but more of a "chee" noise, like a laughing hyena. No wonder he unnerved people in the town. Just the mention of him had definitely unnerved the padre at the church.
"Did you send me these? As a sign?" Charlotte said and she pulled his rosary beads off from around her neck, kissed the little rabbit's foot and held them out to him. He clapped his hands together happily, and took back his beads. He also kissed the foot, before he put the beads back on.
"I sent them good, huh, Little One?" He said, and he winked at Jane, and Jane had a sudden, strange urge to slap him because... well, because he was creeped out.
"You mean, you paid somebody to put them in our vehicle at a rest stop?" Jane said mildly, and grinned, but his heart was beating a bit too fast under the fabric of his t-shirt. The Chicken Man exchanged a glance with Charlotte, and they both grinned knowingly.
"Brother of Juan de Rojo, you already know spirits. A funny man, you are!"
"I don't believe in spirits," Jane said immediately. He was smiling, still, to show he wasn't an asshole, and wasn't scared. But he felt irritated.
"Oh, I know you believe, just not in your mind. Gringo minds... funny things. You believe in your tap-tap machines," Chicken Man said, still in English, and pantomimed typing on a keyboard. Jane sighed tiredly. He wanted the Chicken Man to find him Red John, so the beast could be killed. That was all he wanted right now.
"We are trying to find Red John," Jane said, hoping to speed this along.
"You come in nice truck!" Chicken Man said by way of a response. He was hobbling towards the vehicle. "You drive me back to my home? I sleep for you."
"We need to know where Red John is," Jane repeated, a bit more loudly. Still calm, still in control, but every moment he was feeling more and more unnerved and tired. Like time was running out, like his energy was running out.
"I make a tea. I sleep. I dream for you," the Chicken Man said slowly, eyes on Jane, eyes full of deep meaning. He tapped his bag of plants. "I find where he is, with tea."
Jane looked at Charlotte. She still had a huge grin on her face, and he realized, suddenly, that this funny, strange old man might very well have been the only human in her life for years who had offered her any warmth or love or safe attention. And at that moment, Jane felt the painful fear in his insides relax, just a little. He felt love for the man, and a profound gratefulness.
"Little one, you're bigger," the Chicken Man said to Charlotte, then. Before Jane could unlock the door of the cab, the little man had jumped up into the back of the truck. He sat waiting happily, eyes shining, reminding Jane more of a dog than a human. Charlotte followed suit, climbing into the truck's bed, sitting down next to him. They both looked at the mentalist with brilliant smiles. Small children, or small dogs, ready for a car trip! It was impossible not to smile at that.
Jane shook his head, fought back the urge to go all paternal on Charlotte and tell her to please get in the cab, it wasn't safe in the bed.
As if reading his mind, the Chicken Man grinned wider, made the chee-chee laughing noise again. "We hit a rock, Little One and me turn into crows, we fly out of the back and up into the sky, hmmm?"
Jane was beginning to realize from where Charlotte may have gotten the habit of speaking in almost-schizophrenic phrases. Jesus. Jane shook his head, grinned, then actually laughed. The laugh was his response.
"Fly up into the sky as crows. Yes," Jane said smoothly, and shot Lisbon a grin. She grinned back at him and shook her head.
"Or, me, no... me... turn into a chicken? Ha ha." Chicken Man said, and lightly elbowed Charlotte (to Jane's protective annoyance). Charlotte smiled at him benevolently, though, and patted his shoulder gently, like his bones were glass.
The Chicken Man closed his eyes and raised his head into the sun like a dog being petted, and at that moment Jane found himself wondering if that silver fox actually had been this funny little man? Just for a moment, and then he regained his sanity. Lisbon was watching the exchange, looking uncertain and amused at the same time.
Jane unlocked her door and she got in. Jane got in the driver's seat, turned the keys in the ignition, looked at Lisbon.
"He's cute. Like a wise, old elf," Lisbon said, dead-pan and Jane grinned back at her, glad for her and her acceptance of this entire, crazy situation. From the truck bed was sudden screeching laughter, both the old man's and Charlotte's. Jane glanced backwards and could see they were both open-mouthed laughing. Charlotte's face was going red, her eyes were squint-lines she was laughing so hard.
Again, Jane felt a profound sense of gratitude towards this crazy old man of the desert. If he happened to also be a fox or a wolf or a crow or a chicken? More power to him.
It took longer to find the Chicken Man's home than it had taken to find the Chicken Man, himself. 36 minutes later Jane pulled up to a small, wooden shack with a thatched roof. There were chickens outside, but only two, and they looked as ancient as their owner. Jane felt disappointed, for some reason, and pushed the feeling down. What a silly reaction... Still. He'd been expecting a huge flock of chickens, given the man's name. He'd been expecting a full-scale chicken parade and welcome home party, almost...
Next to the shack, about 20 feet away, was a relatively large steel shed, brand new apparently. It winked at them in the sun. Jane stopped the truck and got out, went around to the truck bed where Charlotte and the Chicken Man were sitting and watching Pee Wee on the portable DVD player. Charlotte had one earbud in her ear, and the other was in the Chicken Man's ear. They were grinning at the screen.
Apparently, the looming and impressive threat that was Juan de Rojo was no match for Pee Wee and his amazing bicycle.
"Um guys... um... " Jane stopped talking. He didn't know what to call the Chicken Man. Calling him "Chicken Man" seemed a bit weird, a bit... formal? So Jane just stared at him. "Is this your home?"
The Chicken Man glanced over at the shack, at the shed. Grinned. Nodded.
"American gringos got me the shed. For the babies."
Charlotte stopped the DVD player, pulled her earbud out and the Chicken Man pulled his earbud out and handed it back to Charlotte with a gentle pat on the hand. Charlotte put the player away in her bag.
"Babies?" Jane asked, but sure enough, there was the sound of a child far off. A small head appeared, then, in the doorway of the shed, shaggy black hair, asiatic features... Jane stopped, and stared.
The child was visibly deformed, face covered in tumors. Another small face appeared, and Jane could tell immediately that this child (a little girl of about 4) was blind. Oh. These babies. Right. Charlotte had said something about them, hadn't she?
"Babies," Chicken Man repeated, and waved at them. The child with the massive tumor formations on his head waved back.
The boy then saw Jane and his eyes widened a little with fear. He disappeared back into the shed to hide. The Chicken Man laughed at his reaction.
"Ah, he thinks you're the other one," Chicken Man said, laughing still, as if confusing Jane with Red John was funny. Or maybe this little dude simply laughed at everything? Jane ignored it. He did seem a touch senile. And who knew how long he had been out in the sun gathering his plants?
"Does Red John come around often?" Jane asked, scanning the area for vehicles, noises, any danger. Chicken Man shrugged.
"When he wants something? He comes. Only when he wants."
Charlotte had already climbed out of the truck bed and was standing next to Lisbon. She caught sight of something and began to run towards the shed. Jane watched her as he continued to talk to the little man.
"Why do you help him? Red John; why do you help him?"
"Powerful devil man, he is. Better me help him, or he find someone else, someone to help him even more, who ends up doing worse for money."
"But why? I don't understand," Jane said, and helped the little man down off the back of the truck. He grinned his thanks at Jane and began to hobble towards his shack. Charlotte was knocking on the steel door of the shed. Finally the door opened and another face, this one dirty and sporting a swollen purple-black eye, peered out. They spoke in hushed Spanish, Charlotte and this boy, who was about 12 if Jane was still guessing ages correctly. Charlotte disappeared into the shed.
Jane felt anxiety rise in him, turned towards her immediately, but the Chicken Man waved away Jane's fears, caught his arm.
"Only the babies in there. She knows the babies. Little One... one of my very first babies," Chicken Man said, and smiled. Jane smiled.
"You sure she is okay?"
"Ah, Red John is not here. No. Not here now. We go in, I make us tea? Yes? I find him for you, with tea's help."
Jane looked over at Lisbon. Nodded towards the shed and Lisbon nodded back and began to walk over to the shed, to join Charlotte. To keep her safe. Jane saw Lisbon knock on the shed, and before he entered the Chicken Man's little shack, he saw the door open just a bit. Lisbon was talking to someone. After thirty seconds or so, she was granted entrance and disappeared inside.
Jane exhaled slowly, followed the Chicken Man into the shack (he was by this point holding open his front door for Jane). As Jane's eyes adjusted to the interior of the shack and the lighting difference, Jane saw the chickens.
10 of them at least, walking around inside the shack. The inside of the shack smelled warm and musty, dusty like chickens, with a bitter herb smell under the other smells. Also, under that, was the acrid bite of incense.
The shack seemed to have one main room and a small hallway, curtained off with a beaded curtain. There were cheesy framed images of Jesus on the walls, children's artwork (crayon on butcher paper), and odd folk art. Creatures made from beads and clay, masks of things that Jane hoped only existed in nightmares. Images that looked like they'd been ripped from library books: Boschian images of Hell, American Indian masks and carvings, images of star maps. Photographs of wood-cuts from the middle ages showing various torture techniques and Biblical beasts. A few glossy colour printer images of what looked to be the Mexican goat sucker, El Chupacabra. Various other images spanning a variety of subjects, pinned up on cork boards.
A map of the world, full of pins with little flags, spanned across a humble, rattan couch. Most of the flags were clustered in California. Was this Chicken Man tracking Red John, too? Jane was suddenly certain that he was.
He scanned the map and saw another cluster of pins in Russia. And another in Eastern Germany and Iraq. So...? There were many possibilities, none of them particularly nice to think about. Sure enough, as Jane approached the map to inspect it more closely, he could see a red smiley face drawn on the map near the California flags. Other symbols were spread over the rest of the map, and the flags were different colours.
Red flags in California.
Green in Russia.
Orange in Iraq.
Blue in Eastern Germany.
Were these different serial killers, then? Like Charlotte had said?
Jane hadn't wanted to believe her. But...
There was the tinkling of a bell and suddenly a small goat's head appeared through the beads, staring dispassionately at the humans. The Chicken Man grinned at it and the goat came running up, tilted its head so the Chicken Man could scratch its little beard.
"You go outside now. We have a guest," the Chicken Man told the goat, and hobbled back to the door. He held it open and the goat made a low, guttural noise of apparent displeasure.
"No, I won't hear about it. You go out. You come back in later. And you better poop outside, now, or no more coming in."
The goat left the shack and walked away, out of Jane's sight. Jane turned back, and walked towards the kitchen area.
A small selection of rat and mice skulls dangled from what appeared to be fishing line over the counter that served as the Chicken Man's food preparation counter. Hardly appetizing, but the man was free to decorate however he wanted.
There was an old fashioned cookie jar (Niblet, Jane thought it was called, the small cartoon companion of the Green Giant frozen vegetables mascot), a small alcohol stove on the counter, a large basin for water. No running water.
Coffee mugs hanging from hooks on the wall. A faded calendar from 2003. Built into the ground was a hand pump for water, the spout positioned over the basin. No fridge. The chicken man pumped some water into a kettle, then poured some alcohol into his little stove. He lit it with a long wooden match, adjusted the flame and put the kettle on to boil. He turned his attention back to the chickens.
"You guys, you must go outside now, too. It's human-time," the Chicken Man said. The chickens stared at him with their bead eyes. The Chicken Man walked back to his screen door, opened it, and made a "get out" gesture. Slowly, amazingly, they began to bob their way forward.
Jane had never seen anything like it before.
"They get tired out in the sun all day? I leave them in here when I go out. Now, it is human-time," the Chicken Man explained, and began to shoo the chickens out the door even faster. Jane counted them as they filed out. 18 in all that he could see. All of them were brown, a few of the roosters were brown with dark black tail feathers, what Jane thought were called leghorn chickens. Like the cartoon.
The Chicken Man shuffled into his living room and lit some kerosene lanterns. He didn't have electricity, but didn't seem to care.
He motioned to a wicker "couch" with tattered, faded cushions for Jane to sit on, and Jane did. The old man took his seat on an aged wooden futon covered with blankets, which obviously doubled as his bed. There was a rattan coffee table in the middle for their tea, but the water wasn't boiling yet. The chicken man sat, put his bag of plants on the rattan table and grinned at Jane.
He seemed to remember something, got back up, and pulled a little wicker basket out from under the couch Jane was sitting on.
Inside the wicker basket, huddled together in rags, was a brood of brown chicks. Tiny, fuzzy, they looked up at Jane with black eyes. Jane smiled down at the basket of little animals, tenderly.
"Cute, huh? So fuzzy," the Chicken Man said, and removed one of the chicks for Jane to hold. Jane took it gently. The Chicken Man pushed the basket of remaining chicks back under the couch, out of sight. Jane held the tiny bird against his chest and petted its head. The water in the kettle began to boil then and the Chicken Man snatched his bag of plants from the table and hobbled back into the "kitchen", winking at Jane as he did so.
Jane watched him pull some leaves from the bag, rip them into little pieces, and drop them into a terracotta tea pot. He added boiling water, and put the tea pot on a small aluminum tray. Jane watched as he climbed up a step ladder and fished a blue and white box down from the shelf above his head. The box was put on the tray. Two coffee mugs from the wall. The little man fished something out of another box, and put it in one of the coffee mugs.
He filled this mug with the remaining boiling water and came back to Jane, carrying the tray carefully. He put it on the rattan table, and gestured.
"Regular tea for you, yes? I have sugar. Powdered milk, even."
"Black is fine," Jane said, nodding at the tea cup. The idea of taking any of this man's powdered milk or sugar seemed almost vulgar to Jane. Jane looked down at the tea, then the teapot, could smell the strong, pungent odor of whatever plant leaves the Chicken Man was steeping for himself. Both teas would take at least a few minutes to steep. The baby chick, meanwhile, was sleeping in Jane's hands, eyes closed, body utterly relaxed by the warmth of the human's gentle touch.
The Chicken Man nodded his head towards the teapot.
"That is my special tea. A good dream tea. Makes dreams much brighter, but also, sometimes, much darker," he said conspiratorially. Jane nodded. He didn't really believe that this tea would help find Red John, but he didn't know what else to suggest. Sooner or later, if Red John was used to relying on this man for his "psychic" services, then Red John would appear. That made Jane feel both excitement and fear, and both sensations warred for dominance.
"You like cookies? American cookies. The Oreos. Also, for the Little One, I have, um... her pop tarts, yes? Strawberry, yes?"
Jane grinned at this. Nodded. He was touched.
"Babies outside, they like anything sweet. You know how babies are," Chicken Man said, and he laughed. Judging by his decayed teeth, "babies" weren't the only people who liked sweets. Jane nodded again. Leaned down and pulled the little basket out, gently returned the little bird to its brothers and sisters. They made a collective cheeping noise as their kin was returned, soothing and endearing. Jane pushed them all back under the couch.
No wonder Charlotte had such fond memories of the Chicken Man. He was warm, friendly, kindly and his house was filled with baby animals. He had random children running around the property, a cozy little home that smelled of mystery and herbs. A deep, infectious laugh. He was also, in many ways, the exact opposite of Red John. He was poor, friendly, child-like, innocent, superstitious, magically-inclined and he spoke in simple phrases and broken English, but his eyes held a warmth that Jane knew Red John's own did not.
He didn't seem like the type who would "help" a monster like Red John of his own free will- not unless he truly believed that not helping the man would lead to even worse horrors. Of that, Jane was certain.
If Red John had been giving him money for his services, well... based on his home, he wasn't giving him much. This suggested, obviously, that something other than money was at stake. What had the Chicken Man said shortly before Jane had entered the shack? "Powerful devil man, he is. Better me help him, or he find someone else, someone to help him even more, who ends up doing worse for money."
Doing worse? Jane didn't even believe that this little man could really help... not in the ways he and Charlotte seemed to believe were possible. But, hypothetically, if he was capable of channeling psychic energies to commit acts of cruelty for Red John? Would it be possible to do worse than what Charlotte had already described?
Again, Jane didn't want to think about it. It wasn't true, anyway. Red John was playing them all, but most essentially, he was playing Charlotte. He used this funny, delirious little person to break down Charlotte's defense mechanisms and instill crazy, magical beliefs in her mind. Of that, Jane had no doubt at all.