WARNING: this chapter contains graphic and implied violence.
Patrick checked into the motel in Palo Alto later that afternoon. The desk clerk had been blandly welcoming, the room acceptably clean, the bed surprisingly comfortable. Now he was alone in the apparently empty library surrounded by a maze of bookshelves. I must be more tired than I thought, he mused, I can't exactly remember the way back to the motel. Suddenly he heard a noise, incongruously loud in the customary silence. It sounded like a struggle was taking place somewhere nearby. He decided to go and report it, turned back towards the stairs when he heard it again, this time closer and accompanied by a woman's voice calling in distress, curiously muffled. It seemed to be coming from his right. His first instinct was to run but his curiosity overruled it and instead he cautiously peered around a bookshelf.
A little way down the aisle between the shelves a red-haired woman was lying stripped to her pink underwear, bound hand and foot with thin black plastic zip ties. A man was sitting astride her, dressed all in black, his gloved left hand both covering her mouth and pinning her down as she whimpered in barely audible terror and supplication. As Patrick watched, unable even to breathe let alone run or call for help, the man stroked the flat side of a linoleum knife against her skin in a nauseating parody of affection. He angled the short, curved blade so the point was pricking against her belly, paused for a moment before making a slow rotating motion with his hand followed by a swift jerk of his arm. The man's obvious enjoyment of her agonised panic chilled Patrick to the core. He tried to close his eyes, turn his head, do anything other than have to watch and listen to this monstrous violation but his body betrayed him. He was as powerless to move as a storefront dummy.
The attacker deftly repeated his ritual, slicing and tearing at his victim again and again. Her stifled cries became fainter, her struggles weaker, blood slicking down her pale sides and pooling around her. Finally, almost as an afterthought, he silenced her with a slashing motion across her throat. As she died he released her mouth and her head lolled in Patrick's direction. No longer red-haired, the woman was now recognisably his beautiful Angela, pain and terror etched into her face, her dead eyes looking accusingly into his. The sight restored his voice, he screamed and couldn't stop. The victim had become Angela but Red John had no face at all…
Patrick woke to the sounds of his own screaming, lying across the motel bed fully clothed, trembling and drenched in sweat, his throat dry, his heart racing. He lay there panting, listening to the sounds of his breathing, a dog barking outside, the TV from a neighboring room. It was dark inside and out but he had no idea of the time, the alarm clock by the bed simply blinked '12:00' at him as he stared dazedly around. He hadn't intended to sleep after checking in that afternoon – but then he hadn't lain on a bed since his discharge from hospital. He couldn't remember waking up screaming since before his breakdown. Some distant, analytical part of his mind dredged up the word meds for his consideration.
After a few moments his pulse had slowed enough that he no longer felt like he was having a heart attack. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought, and though he was still shaking he pushed himself up, shrugged off his jacket. The leaflet in his now-empty box of antidepressants had warned of 'possible increase in symptoms of anxiety' when he stopped taking them but he hadn't been prepared for this. Never again. No more doctors. No more damn pills. His legs held his weight so he stumbled to the bathroom, ran the tap, splashed cool water onto his face. He braced his hands on the counter top, breathing deeply, willing his heart to slow further as the vivid images from his dream receded. The sense of horror lingered, the emotion of the dream still much more real than his surroundings. He raised his head, looked at himself in the mirror. His face was more gaunt than he remembered, very pale, horror and shock still clearly showing in his eyes. I deserve nightmares, he told himself bleakly. It's my fault. Of course I should feel the horror of what I unleashed on Angela and Charlotte.
Whatever it was inside him that had restored his sanity in the hospital, the thing that had grown stronger on his visit to his house in Malibu, now appeared in his eyes as he regarded himself steadily. He hadn't been able to bear looking at himself in a mirror for any length of time until now. I am terrified but I am still alive. Nightmares will not destroy me.The thought crept over him again, as it had two days ago, if I can bear this then I can and will do what I must to end this. End him. His guilt at tricking Dr. Miller, the doubts and fears from earlier that day evaporated under his steady gaze. It hurts but I can bear it. This… darkness… eats up nightmares for breakfast. It was true, his dream had been horrifying but he knew it had strengthened his need for revenge rather than weakening it. Fears could be overcome – who understood that better than he?
He gazed into his own eyes, nodding slightly, acknowledging for the first time the chilly ruthlessness that he saw there now as if greeting a new comrade-in-arms. There you are. I wonder if Dr. Miller ever saw you in there? She had been very astute after all, good at seeing what was hidden. She never asked him about it, though, and she'd asked him about everything else. She had also discharged him from the hospital. Maybe she hadn't seen it. Maybe it wasn't so clear, unless you knew what to look for. In any case I need to keep you very secret, he thought. He tried smiling and was shocked at how fake it looked. No wonder the waitress at the diner had been unimpressed!
On a whim he pictured his car, imagined her as he had first seen her, battered but unbowed, then this morning – yesterday? – when he had been so enraptured by her transformation, her delicate curves sparkling in the sunshine. He posted another smile onto his face and this time was surprised how genuine it looked, even to him. He used to be good at faking sincerity but it had been a while, certainly he hadn't expected it to be so easy to pick up again. His mind wandered back to the cheerful waitress from earlier that day but his smile for her still seemed false as he dispassionately examined it. Picturing my car works well, for now. I'll find other things that make me smile, other ways to hide you, my scary new friend.
He turned away from the mirror, his limbs still trembling with the aftershocks of the nightmare, to slowly strip for a shower. His inner certainty was a stark contrast to his body's still-trembling weakness. Scary, he thought. Yes, this is who I am now. I am scarier than Red John. There's no foe more frightening than a man with nothing left to lose.
The hot water and citrus scent of the soap helped wash away the horror and fear. As it did so he imagined, could almost sense the darkness inside yawn and stretch its limbs as though waking from a restful sleep, bare its teeth, unsheathe its claws, sniff the air. Just wait, he thought. Before this ends that monster will have nightmares about me.