Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter Four) by Lexikal
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: Here is chapter four, guys. Thanks for the reviews, you guys are awesome! My computer has been having some problems lately.. hopefully I can get a new one soon.
"The craftiest trickery are too short and ragged a cloak to cover a bad heart." - Johann Kaspar Lavater
"I believe that if I should die, and you were to walk near my grave, from the very depths of earth I would hear your footsteps." - Benito Perez Galdos
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 6:43 P.M. P.S.T.
She watched him sleep. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest under his suit vest, watched the way his fingers interlaced as he "rested". The suit jacket was still sprawled over his eyes. She'd never had to deliver more profound news to anyone in her entire life and the profundity of the situation was paralyzing. She was all too deeply aware that she couldn't keep this from him and she also knew it would be best if the news came from her, but she knew that this news would be something akin to a death. Except worse. Sadistic murder was bad enough, but this torture Red John had rigged up was almost artistic in its increasing levels of intellectual sadism.
How would Jane tell her something like this, if their situations were reversed? No doubt he would try to make her feel safe, would use his best hypnotic voice to break the news. But really? How did one relay to another human being a reality like this, something created by a mastermind of torture? In his own way, Red John was also torturing her by condemning her to having to be the one to give him this news. Jane would never be the same after this news, and she would be the one to deliver the news to him that would mark the beginning of his "new life". Lisbon knew Red John couldn't have planned how, exactly, Jane would find this out, how he would discover the truth of his daughter's continued existence, and yet, she felt herself unduly certain that in his brilliant, depraved way he had somehow *known* she would be the one set up by fate and time to deliver this information to Jane.
She hated him. She hated Red John, but she also feared him. Did his depravity ever stop? Or was it infinite?
Lisbon continued to watch Jane, then reached out, and took hold of one of his hands. Warm and dry and Jane. She had a sudden, strong urge to kiss his hand, but couldn't. She could feel his pulse in his wrist as he slept. He began to stir then, a slight moan and she released his hand. He batted his suit jacket off his face and squeezed his eyelids together tightly, blinked up at her. He was still disoriented by sleep.
"L-Lisbon?" He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, scratched the side of his cheek, his jaw. Looked around and seemed to remember where he was.
"How are you feeling?" It was a stupid question, really, but Lisbon felt herself saying these words. Jane blinked again and gazed around the motel room.
"How long have I been sleeping?"
"A few hours..."
She could see the gears turning in his head as he ran back through the events of the day.
"The CD? Did they find any prints?" His voice was instantly urgent as the pieces started to fall into place again, as reality shifted back into a coherent, linear fabric stretched across space and time.
Moment of truth. How did one ever face the huge moments in life like this? Simple. One faced them.
"Jane, when Charlotte was little... was she ever fingerprinted as part of a child safety program?"
It took half a second but Jane's face changed. It was different. She could see that he knew the implications of what she was asking. She realized too late that her own phrasing of the question gave everything away. She had said "when Charlotte was little" not "was Charlotte ever", and the phrasing was important. People did not talk of a child who had been murdered in the present tense, not with a sense of passing time. Referring to Charlotte as "little" would tell Jane everything. Someone murdered at 5 years of age was *always* little, their existence ended at "little", there was no need to specify "little". You only specified a time in someone's life when they were "little" if that person had continued to grow up, if there was a "bigness" to compare the "little" to...
She could see him visibly swallow. His eyes looked blazed with too much information, not even horrified, just overloaded. He blinked hard.
"Lisbon? Whose fingerprints were on the CD?"
A direct question required a direct answer.
"Rigsby phoned. They triple checked..." She was trailing. Jane was already up, shrugging into his suit jacket, half pacing, half-marching.
"Whose fingerprints, Lisbon?"
"They got back... apparently the prints match those found in the database... they match the fingerprints that are in the database as Charlotte's."
Jane had known this was coming, but the cognitive dissonance was still enormous. He stopped pacing and just stared at her. In his eyes, Lisbon could imagine the sorrow and grief and bewilderment of humans all throughout evolution. She could picture the eyes of a Viking returning home to find his family slaughtered. The horror and fear in the eyes of the first Gladiator who ever found his death at the jaws of a lion. She could picture the sorrowful eyes of the earliest of humans, just starting to feel grief, pushing and rocking the corpses of their loved ones to see if they will move again... words could not describe the slow dawning awareness in Jane's eyes. The English language did not have words that qualified as descriptors.
After a space of time that was infinitely longer than the five seconds it had played itself out in, Jane swallowed again and found his words.
"Did they listen to the CD? Did they listen to it?"
"Rigsby said that the CD contained an exchange between a little girl and a man... they are having a conversation about various topics..."
Now the horror was starting to dawn in Jane's eyes. The emotions were catching up with the information.
"A little girl," Jane said, but it was not a question. He simply said it. Then his body was moving towards the motel room door and Lisbon was moving after him. They did not have to speak. It was obvious where Jane wanted to go and what he wanted to do, what he *needed* to hear and do. Lisbon followed him out to her rental car and got in the driver's seat, reached over and unlocked his door and started the car. The sense of unreality hanging over this day was enormous, almost psychedelic.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 7:12 P.M. P.S.T.
Rigsby was waiting for them in the Santa Monica PD tech lab he had taken over with Cho. The room was fairly large with multiple computer terminals, a large conference table (covered with boxes filled with files) and extraneous electronic hardware that Lisbon couldn't name. The lights were off, the only light in the room coming from the computer screens. Cho was waiting in the hall for them, stern as ever, and he passed Lisbon a knowing look as he met her eyes. His eyes were shields, unreadable.
"Did you listen to it, Cho?" Jane asked, meeting the shorter man's eyes.
"I did."
"Is it Red John's voice?"
"You need to listen to it."
With that, Cho stepped to the side and opened the door. Jane slipped inside, as did Lisbon. Cho remained outside the door, as a guard presumably. Rigsby and Van Pelt were bent over one of the computers and looked up at the arrival.
"Guys... over here." Rigsby said unnecessarily.
When Lisbon was closer she could see Rigsby dart a nervous glance at Jane. Jane's eyes were focused on the computer screen. There was a program up that analyzed sound waves, consisting of various digital dials and buttons and two large black rectangles filled with a ragged, spiky line which represented all the sounds on the CD. The program was paused. The CD was paused.
Rigsby darted a look at Lisbon, then Jane.
"Play it, Van Pelt," Jane ordered. His voice seemed devoid of any emotion. Van Pelt darted a look at Lisbon. She nodded, just slightly. There was no way to shield Jane from this.
"Maybe you'd like a chair?" Van Pelt asked softly, eyes meeting Jane's.
"Play the CD, please." Jane repeated. She sighed. Nodded. Clicked the mouse and started the software.
At first there was just slight background noise. Then, suddenly, like the birth of the universe, there was talking.
"I want to see my daddy," the little girl's voice was high-pitched, uncertain. Not scared, but not at ease.
"You can't do that. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. Your daddy has given you to me." The man was smooth, mock-concerned.
"No, he didn't. He wouldn't do that. You're lying."
"He did. You've been to school, right, Charlotte?" The man's voice lilted.
The child said something. It was too low for the recording to make any sense of it and the high peaks and valleys on the software plummeted and flatlined for a second, then peaked up again.
"This is like school. But for very special children. For very bright children. For children destined to change the world."
"I want to see my daddy!" The child's voice rose with emotion. "I want to see my mommy!"
"Your mommy died. I told you that already. And your daddy... he doesn't want to see you. He wants you to learn. He wants you to change the world."
"You're a liar!" The voice peaked into hysteria. "You're a liar! You're a liar!" The child's voice cut off into garbled screams, and then tears. Sobbing. Then, silence on the CD.
Then, the man said: "Crying won't change reality, Charlotte."
Five seconds of silence, then.
When the voices started again, the little girl was laughing.
"What's so funny?" The man asked. This recording was from a different point in time. Recorded at a later date, and copied to the CD.
"You are, Uncle John!" The child was older now, maybe eight. Maybe nine.
"And why am I funny?"
"I am too young to kill somebody. You have to do it."
"But you'll watch, won't you, Charlotte? You want to watch? You want to learn?"
"I want to learn," the child said solemnly.
"Turn it off," Jane's voice cracked. Van Pelt paused the recording immediately. Lisbon's eyes had been focused on the screen, mesmerized by the electronic rise and fall of the image of the sound waves that represented the voices. Horrified. Mystified. When Jane spoke, Lisbon turned immediately to him.
Jane was very pale. Even in the blue light from the computer monitor, she could tell that he was pale. In the blue light, his pupils seemed to have blacked out all the colour in his eyes.
Lisbon immediately got a chair and steered Jane into it. He let her guide him to it, eyes still focused on the computer screen.
"Jane, look at me," Lisbon said. He didn't. His eyes remained locked on the spiky green line glowing from the screen, representing voices. Representing Red John's voice. Representing his daughter's voice.
"Jane, please look at me," Lisbon repeated again, crouching down in front of him. Finally, he met her eyes.
"Charlotte's alive, Lisbon. That was... that is her voice. I know her voice. Charlotte is alive!" His voice shook, flooded with adrenaline. The dazed look he'd had earlier was now back, only substantially more pronounced. He was in shock.
"Are you sure, Jane?" She tried to keep her voice calm, tried to ground him. Lisbon suddenly thought that maybe Red John's angle wasn't to torture Jane, exactly, but to drive him completely out of his mind. He blinked hard, as if trying to awaken from a horrible nightmare.
"I know my own daughter's voice! And the fingerprints? Rigsby... you said they matched? Van Pelt?" Jane's head whipped from one colleague to the other, seeking them out. They couldn't lie to him, and he knew that.
"Uh... they matched prints taken at Charlotte's nursery school back in 2002," Rigsby said worriedly, risking a worried glance at Lisbon. Lisbon searched the wall, flicked the lights on and came back to Jane.
He was still staring at the damned computer screen. Lisbon suddenly remembered Jane telling her about his time on a locked psychiatric ward after the murders. He'd lost it. He'd had a breakdown. Lisbon didn't know all the details, only that he'd hit rock bottom. The knowledge that a serial killer had murdered your family because you had mocked and degraded them on national television would be enough to push most people over the edge for the rest of their lives, but the idea that one's child hadn't actually been killed but spirited away and raised by that serial killer? Lisbon felt physically sick trying to imagine what that knowledge would to do Jane.
He was still staring at the computer screen, glassy eyed. Lisbon felt a chill run through her. He looked hypnotized. Or maybe Red John had finally succeeded, and managed to push Jane into the abyss? Managed to finally drive Jane into madness? No. She wouldn't let him do that.
Fuck Red John.
Lisbon glanced over at Rigsby and Van Pelt.
"Can you give us a moment alone?" She sounded unduly cold. The enormity of her hatred for Red John was so huge it had coloured everything. Rigsby pursed his lips and darted a sadly guilty look at Jane, his eyes wounded and scared for the colleague that had come to be a friend. He nodded and quickly hurried himself out of the room, followed by Van Pelt.
The door slid shut, with a careful, gentle click.
"Jane. Please look at me. You're scaring me."
He continued to stare. Fianlly blinked. Turned anciently sorrowful eyes to her.
"He is trying to drive you crazy, Jane. You have to know that."
Jane stared at her. Finally his eyes drifted back to the computer screen, as if drawn by some unseen force.
"I need to listen to this alone, now, Lisbon. Thank you." His voice was so damned mechanical and flat. Eerie.
"Jane. If you lose it, Red John wins. And if that really is Charlotte on that recording? And this is not just an incredibly sadistic mind game? Who is going to help Charlotte, if you go crazy?"
That seemed to reach him. He blinked. Reached forward. Palmed his eyes. Made a high pitched little noise that was something between a scream and a laugh. His shoulders were shuddering.
"Jane...please look at me. Talk to me?"
He removed his hands from his eyes and sought her out again.
"I have spent the last ten years thinking she was dead, and all this time he had her, he was... erasing her and rebuilding something else, he was..."
"If Charlotte is still alive, we will get her back and you will help her. You will save her, Jane. You are better than him."
Jane let out a raspy exhalation.
"I don't know if I can do that Lisbon. Red John... he is too powerful. He has people in power all over. Who is to say anything we uncover will be real? We test some young woman's blood and who is to say the person doing the DNA test isn't working for Red John, or we dig up... we exhume the bodies... we exhume Charlotte's grave, or the child I thought was Charlotte... and who is to say the people who compare the dental records aren't working for Red John, too? I don't think I'll ever know, not for sure, and..."
"You will know your own daughter, Jane. You will see her. And you will know. Red John can't take that away."
"I think, maybe, he can, Lisbon. I thought she was dead," Jane said. She had never heard him sound this deflated, this defeated. She had seen him fake a break down before, fake emotions to manipulate suspects, but this was different. This was eerily final, his mannerism, his tone. If he lost it now, if he went crazy now...
"And if you are wrong? If he drives you to madness now and you give up now, and Charlotte is still alive? And counting on you? Jane... if you feel like you are going crazy, like there is no solid ground... imagine what she must feel like," Lisbon said. Jane turned horrified eyes to her. Eyes that told her, in that moment, that he would continue to fight. He nodded, just a little bit, a faint nod.
"I don't know what to do right now, Lisbon. I... where do I start?" Jane palmed his eyes again. Rubbed them. He sounded like a lost child and she had the sudden, impulsive urge to hug him, to wrap him in her arms and pull him close, shield him. But she couldn't shield him from reality.
"All we are is what we think, Jane. You taught me that. What we think is reality, and whoever is the most skilled in manipulating our thoughts controls reality. The only reason I can see for Red John targeting you like this is that he sees something in you that threatens him, but which he also views as valuable. Otherwise he would just kill you. The fact that you're still alive tells me he views you as a worthy opponent, and if you are a worthy opponent that means that you can beat him. That means he is human, and it means he has weaknesses."
Jane said nothing. Finally nodded. Turned his eyes back to the screen.
"I need to listen to this, Lisbon. I need to listen to all of this."
"Okay," Lisbon said.
"I need to be alone," Jane said softly.
"No. Jane, you can listen to it. But you will not be alone. I am not leaving you."
"Lisbon..."
"No," Lisbon said forcefully. Jane's eyes flickered back and forth, over her face. Finally he nodded. Leaned forward and hit a key on the mouse, restarting the recording. Voices filled the room once again, and what they were saying was the stuff of nightmares.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 7:48 P.M. P.S.T.
The door clicked open. Even the click sounded subdued and tired. Lisbon appeared and Rigsby was there, waiting for her. He met her eyes. Lisbon suddenly realized how protective Rigsby was, how mortal, how sadly, pathetically human and the emotional realization of this made her feel like sobbing. She had never felt as protective towards him as she had that moment, seeing him waiting in that police hallway with worried, scared eyes, ready to jump to work at her command. The idea that so many humans were controlled and manipulated like playthings by sociopaths made Lisbon feel suddenly like crying even harder. God help them all. Jane was still in the tech lab, white with shock, eyes anguished, not yet ready to face the others.
"Boss?" Rigsby asked uncertainly, darting a quick look from Lisbon to the door, to the person he knew was suffering greatly behind that door.
"He needs a minute alone, Wayne."
"What should I do?" Rigsby asked. He needed to do something. He needed to be useful.
"Any word on Jane's car yet?" Lisbon asked. Cho was walking towards them now, carrying coffee in styrofoam cups. He handed both cups to Lisbon.
"I, uh... you two. I want you to go and interview whoever found the bodies. Get the interview on film, so Jane can look at it later. I want somebody to contact the Malibu police. We are going to have to have to exhume... Angela and Charlotte Ruskin-Jane as soon as possible and I want that scene secure for obvious reasons. I want one of you, at the very least, at the exhumation watching the entire time and someone with the corpses the entire time. We need to compare the dental patterns to the dental records and make sure they match. I need Van Pelt here, we need some age progression photos of Charlotte, and we are going to need to put them on the local news with an amber alert and information about the Ruskin-Jane case. Jane... Jane says he wants to go on TV. Address the public. Address... Charlotte. So I need somebody to set that up with the press and alert CBI in Sacramento about developments in this case and alert Santa Monica police about a press release pertaining to these latest Red John murders, make sure they are kept up to speed and we have all our ducks in a row. Jane wants to get Charlotte's image out everywhere so I need one of you to find Van Pelt and send her back here now. Jane and I are going to be here for a while, working with Van Pelt and he hasn't eaten all day, so if somebody can order in some food that would be nice. Both of you, keep your phones on. Whoever is going back to Malibu to oversee the exhumations is going to want to take a taxi to the airport now. Phones are kept on. That's not a request. That's all for now."
Rigsby nodded and glanced back at the closed door again. She knew he wanted her to say something.
"We need to find Charlotte," Lisbon said softly, eyes hard and determined as she met both Cho and Rigsby in turn. Cho looked stern and serious as always, but she could see anger in his eyes, anger about what had been done to Jane and Jane's family. Rigsby still looked terribly protective and sad.
"I'm going back in to Jane now," Lisbon said, turning away from them. Rigsby opened the door for her, waited till she was through it, before gently closing it behind her. Cho was already walking away, ready to carry out orders. Rigsby stared at the door for a moment, frowned, and followed after Cho.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 9:03 P.M. P.S.T.
Jane was standing in front of the Santa Monica police department, Lisbon to his left, Rigsby to his right, facing the wall of reporters. The local police chief was standing next to Lisbon and a baby-faced officer was standing off to the side. The more, the merrier. There were several spotlights on, illuminating the law enforcement officials. Jane was given the cue, the cue to start talking. Cameras were rolling.
"My name is Patrick Jane. I am a criminal behavioral consultant for the CBI, the California Bureau of Investigation. For the last ten years, I have been helping the CBI track the movements of a serial killer at work here in California. This serial killer goes by the name Red John. His crimes have been widely publicized so that moniker no doubt sounds familiar to many of you. He is a man unparalleled in his ruthlessness, his trickery and his ability to manipulate the behavior of the human beings he views as playthings," Jane said. His eyes burned into the cameras. Flashbulbs went off as photos were taken.
"I was a private consultant for the police previous to my work with the CBI. I became an employee of the CBI in the first quarter of 2004, after Red John killed my wife and daughter for what he viewed as slander. I referred to him in a manner he viewed as distasteful, and he retaliated by killing my wife and daughter. I found their bodies in the early morning hours of October 30th, 2003. From that moment forward I have lived my life knowing that I was responsible for their deaths. The capture of Red John has since become something of an obsession for me, both personally and professionally."
Jane stared into the camera, giving the news stations time to flash photographs of Angela, of a baby-faced 5 year-old named Charlotte Ruskin-Jane holding up a set of Lego in her pyjamas.
"I found my wife and daughter in the early morning hours, after they were killed. Red John had... slit their backs open and posthumously pulled their lungs out of these slits. He had...suspended their lungs with fishing line from the ceiling of the master bedroom in my Malibu beach home. The effect of this act was to create a sense of them being angels, of having been turned into angels. We analyzed this symbology as a sign that Red John was viewing these murders as unfortunate, but necessary. He felt like he needed to kill my wife and child for my actions, and yet, he wanted me and the police to know that he viewed their deaths as a precursor to some greater spiritual awareness on my part. The woman was quite obviously my wife. The child was someone I incorrectly believed to be my daughter, Charlotte. The child's face was positioned.. the child's face was pressed into my wife's breast, as if in a classic breastfeeding pose. Both bodies were naked. The faces of both bodies were painted dark with blood, as if in blackface. Only...redface, if you will. This last detail, the bloody faces, has never been publically released before."
More flashbulbs went off. Jane could feel Lisbon near him. He stared into the camera, eyes burning with years of pain, of rage, of sorrow.
"Today, I and the rest of the CBI team following Red John were called to a case here in Santa Monica which closely resembled the murders of my family ten years ago. A local psychic named Thomas Moore is missing, and his wife and three year old son were found brutally slain. Their lungs were also... pulled out to form angel wings. Their faces were also painted red with blood. We need the public's help. Any information you can provide us on the possible whereabouts of Thomas Moore are greatly needed. The number to call is at the bottom of the screen, now..."
Jane glanced a look at one of the reporters. They all knew why this press conference had been called. Jane took a small breath. Prepared himself.
"During our initial investigation of today's crime scene, we noticed some anomalies in the case. A CD was left at the crime scene, hidden within a plush toy in the little boy's room. This plush toy was an identical copy of one my daughter owned ten years ago. We analyzed the recordings on the CD. They feature a series of conversations between a little girl and a man we believe to be Red John. The little girl appears to be my daughter, Charlotte Ruskin-Jane. We also analyzed the CD for fingerprints and fingerprints were found on the CD that match my daughter's. This leads everyone on this case, including myself, to believe that Charlotte Ruskin-Jane, my daughter, is still alive and that another child was killed and... positioned with my wife, in our bed... Red John's intentions were to lead me to believe, successfully, that he had brutally murdered both my wife and my child. My wife's body and the body of the child I have previously believed to be my daughter, Charlotte, are both currently being exhumed and analyzed by not only government crime scene technicians but by independent third party technicians. We suspect that the dentation of the child buried in my daughter's grave will not match the dental records we have on file for Charlotte. We believe Charlotte Ruskin-Jane is still alive, and has been being raised by Red John all these years," Jane said this all sternly, emotions just under the surface.
"The following are some age-progression photos we have developed that show what Charlotte probably looks like today. If you have seen this child, or have any information about this case, please phone the 1-800 number at the bottom of your screen. No piece of information is too small, and you may remain anonymous if you desire. Anything you might know that pertains to this case is important."
Jane stopped. Waited for a prompt from one of the reporters. He got it.
"Mr. Jane, is there anything you want to say to your daughter if she is out there watching this right now?"
Jane nodded. Stared hard into the bank of cameras.
"Charlotte. Do not believe a word he says. He is a skilled manipulator. He is a liar. Everything he says is a lie. You have to know that, just by watching the hold he has over other people. I want you. I thought you were dead. I want you and if you are watching this, get away now. Phone the police or get somewhere safe, but get to us. But do not trust a word he says..." Jane trailed. Blinked hard.
"I love you, Charlotte."
Flashbulbs popped. Jane stared at the cameras for a moment longer. Began to walk away. There was a flurry of questions from reporters, but Rigsby and Van Pelt and the local police were answering them. Jane had to get inside the police station. Had to sit down.
He felt like he might faint. Felt like he'd aged another ten years in the span of four and a half minutes.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 9:08 P.M. P.S.T.
Jane felt detached from his body. There was a tightness spreading across his chest he recognized as growing anxiety. He'd had a few panic attacks as a boy and had learned to control them with deep breathing and visualizations and daily relaxation exercises, but the stress of the last twenty four hours was catching up like a runaway train. Jane wandered down the main hall, found the room he had noticed earlier, a waiting room for family members that doubled as a child's interview room if the idiotic cartoon characters painted on the drywall were any indication. A couch had been dragged in here, presumably to put distraught family members slightly more at ease. Jane walked over to the couch, not bothering to flick the lights on, and lay down in the dark.
The chest pain was like a tensor bandage around his chest, prickly and uncomfortable and tight. He felt a sudden bolt of panic... what if this wasn't anxiety? What if this was something medical, something cardiac? He wasn't exactly the youngest of men anymore and stress could and did cause...
"Careful, Patrick. You're under stress. Slow down," He told himself forcefully, and shut his eyes. Mentally counted to ten and took a slow, long, deep breath. Let it out just as slowly. The tightness seemed to relax a little. He shrugged out of his jacket, let out another slow, long breath and began to unbutton his vest.
The door cracked open. He could see Lisbon in the doorway.
"Jane? Are you okay?"
"Stupid question, Lisbon," Jane said, voice clipped. He shrugged out of his vest and lay back down. He could hear Lisbon approaching him, could sense her shadow over him even with his eyes closed.
"Jane?!"
"Chest pain. It's just anxiety. I think. I just need to deep breathe..."
"Anxiety? You're not prone to panic attacks." Lisbon sounded unduly alarmed and her alarm scared him into another sharp burst of pain. He screwed his eyes tight. Willed the fear away.
"We all...have...our limits, Lisbon. It's...just... anxiety..."
"I'm going to get someone," Lisbon said tightly, and he sighed, despite the pain and the growing fear.
"Lisbon, for crying out loud..." but she was already gone. Her fear was catching. The idea that he might suffer something and (don't say it, don't even think it, that is how panic spreads-DIE-you might die, what if you are dying?!) never get to see Charlotte after all this forced him to a sitting position. The fear was increasing, a sense of doom, of time running out.
He was up, spurred by adrenaline and the door opened. Lisbon was back, carrying a little wax dixie cup of tap water.
"Jane. Here. Take this," she said, as gently as she could given her worry, and palmed Jane a small, white pill.
"Sublingual... ativan...Lisbon? Really? Where...is...where is your faith...in my...in..."
"Jane, just take the ativan. If your symptoms don't improve in about ten minutes I am taking you to the emergency room."
He nodded, gently put the ativan under his tongue. Allowed it to dissolve. Continued to deep breathe. Lisbon sat down beside him, picked up one of his hands. It was clammy and very cold. Shaking with adrenaline. Five minutes passed. He still felt scared, very scared, but the tightness was letting up a little. The ten minute mark passed. He still had his eyes shut, was still mentally counting, could still feel Lisbon eyeing him with concern and fear.
"Come on, Jane. Stand up. I am taking you to the hospital," Lisbon instructed.
"A few more minutes, Lisbon. I think it's starting to work. Even sublingual pills take a little bit... of time. Different chemistries..."
"Your hands are very cold. You're shaking."
Jane cracked his eyes open and looked at her. "See? Almost a guarantee... that this is anxiety. Excess adrenaline. A heart attack isn't... doesn't..."
Lisbon nodded.
"How do I help you calm down?"
"Just a few more minutes, Lisbon... we wait..."
She could feel her hand on his shoulder, squeezing in support.
"Lisbon?" He said, mouth curving up in a mischevious smile despite his fear, his stress. "This is hardly... the place or the time..."
"Shut up, Jane," Lisbon said shortly, and continued to rub his neck, his back. At the 15 minute mark much of the shaking was gone. He felt a little warmer. Less terrified. The pain was a dull throb, no longer sharp and piercing. He opened his eyes.
"Feeling better?" Lisbon said. She watched him drain the water in the dixie cup, crumple it into a wax paper ball and throw it in the general direction of a waste paper basket in the corner of the room. He missed by a mile.
"Yes. See? I told you. Just anxiety," He stood back up and shrugged back into his vest. There were large sweat stains on the armpits of his dress shirt. He pretended to sniff himself, made a mock offended face.
"I really hope Rigsby and Cho got a good quality deodorant..."
Someone knocked on the door. Lisbon glanced over at it.
"We're in here!" She called.
"I think they know that, if they are knocking," Jane said smugly, obviously feeling better. Lisbon shot him a warning glare. The door opened. It was Rigsby.
"The phones are already lighting up. It's going to be a long night. Cho called, his plane just took off. He'll be ready to meet the exhumation team in about an hour, give or take ten minutes. The family friend? The one that found the bodies this morning? She is here now, they managed to finally get a hold of her. You said to tell you when she arrived?"
"Thanks, Rigsby," Jane said, nodding, following Rigsby out of the room. Lisbon watched him for a moment. What the hell had she just witnessed? Her fear for Jane was only more extensive now. Logically, she knew that stress could drive almost anyone to panic attacks and panic disorder, no matter how naturally calm and balanced they were. The fact that Jane was starting to crack was only evidence that he was human, that Red John was putting him under extreme stress. All of this was obvious, and yet, she had known Jane nearly ten years. He wasn't the type to panic, or not easily. As soon as she had thought these thoughts, she was reprimanded by another part of her own mind.
What do you expect, Teresa? The man just finds out that the child he'd been led to believe had been brutally slaughtered is alive and has been raised by a sadistic monster for the last decade, and he goes in front of the cameras not an hour later to divulge this information to the world? Of course he is starting to crack. Who wouldn't?
That was, upon closer inspection, precisely what frightened her. Jane was fast approaching the event horizon of stress. Even taking into account his incredible intelligence and plastic mind, his propensity for behavioral manipulation and hypnosis (not just in others but also himself), he was starting to physically, chemically, lose it. His adrenals were revolting. Endocrinologically, he was changing. It was inevitable.
And they hadn't even found Charlotte yet.
Jane stood behind the one-way mirror with Lisbon and watched Rigsby and a local police officer re-interview the young woman who had found the bodies of Thomas Moore's wife and young son a little over twelve hours earlier. She was 17 years old, doe-eyed and nervous, skin the colour of milky caramel, a senior at a local highschool who had babysat for Moore multiple times over the previous two years since moving with her family from Oakland. Her name was Marcy Hapscomb.
"They told me they wanted me to come back in for more questions?" The girl said timidly, glancing at Rigsby and then the other young police detective in the room.
"Yes. We have a consultant involved in this case who wants to ask you some questions himself. You're not under suspicion or anything, this case is just very important. It is related to a string of other serial murders and the police who interviewed you this morning? They didn't really understand the gravity of the situation. Before we begin, can I get you anything? A coffee? Juice?" Rigsby's was aiming for that precise blend of seriousness and gentility that Jane had come to expect from the younger man when he interviewed women. Particularly young, innocent, scared women. From his position on the other side of the glass, Jane smirked to himself.
"Um... a coke maybe?" The girl's voice was tremulous, nervous. Jane watched her from behind the glass, silently. Lisbon watched him out of the corner of her eye, but he was totally consumed with watching the young woman.
Rigsby nodded and looked over at the young police officer who was standing by the door.
"You guys have Coke?" Rigsby asked and the police officer nodded.
"The machine only has Pepsi, but I think I can steal a can of Coke from the break room. Banks doesn't need any more Coke, he's already big as a whale. Would you like ice?" The young police officer- Toney his name was- remarked congenially.
"Um, no, that is okay. Just the Coke, thank you," The girl said, darting him a shy smile. He nodded and left them alone.
"Your parents didn't accompany you to the station?" Rigsby prodded gently.
"Um, no. My dad is in Mexico right now? On business? And my mom went with him. They'll be back on Monday? Why? Do I need them here?"
"No. You're not being interrogated as a suspect. As a general rule we prefer to have the parents of minors know if their kids are being questioned for any reason, as a formality. Like I said, you're not in trouble, though."
"I'm almost eighteen. Not really a kid," the girl said shyly. Rigsby smiled.
"I know you have already answered some basic questions, Miss Hapscomb, but if you wouldn't mind going through some basics again with me? That would be appreciated."
Marcy Hapscomb was nodding helpfully.
"Is it okay if I tape this interview? Just so others can look at it later? This case is very important."
"Um...okay?" The girl looked nervous. Rigsby got up and pressed a button on the video camera sitting on a tripod in the corner of the room. Came back to his seat and sat back down.
He asked the girl to state her name, age and relation to Moore and his family. She did, eyes alternating between staring at her hands and fluttering over to the video camera and the red light shining from it, recording her every word, her every move. The baleful eye of a demon.
"What are you thinking?" Lisbon asked Jane, as he continued to stare silently.
"She is scared. But she's telling the truth so far."
"So you came over to the Moore place this morning, around eight in the morning, is that right?" Rigsby asked the teenager on the other side of the glass.
"Yes, sir."
"Can you tell me why?"
"Mr. Moore asked me to. I got a text message from him last night. He and his wife, Linda, recently found out that Eddie...that was their little boy...has autism? Had autism, I mean. And I think maybe they were also having some marriage trouble?"
"Okay. What makes you think that?" Rigsby prodded.
"Just a feeling I got. Eddie was stressing Linda out, I knew that, and she was taking pills for depression. Mr. Moore asked me to come over and fix Eddie breakfast and get him dressed for preschool. One day I went by the house without calling ahead first, because I had left a text book there and was in the neighbourhood and I heard Mr. Moore yelling through the door that Eddie couldn't be his because autism didn't run in his family, and Linda, I could hear her crying. Felt so bad for her."
Rigsby nodded. Sighed.
"So, as far as you know, Mrs. Moore- Linda- was taking pills for depression? Because she was upset about Eddie? And perhaps, because of personal problems between her and Mr. Moore?"
"Yeah, that's right. He would have tantrums a lot. Eddie. Sometimes I would sit for them even when Linda was home. She spent a lot of time in her room, just sleeping. And Eddie was used to me. I could calm him down, sometimes..." the girl trailed, smiling at the memory.
"Had Mr. Moore ever asked you to come over in the mornings to fix Eddie breakfast before? Anything like that?"
"Yes. A few times before. I was supposed to be there around seven thirty so I could have Eddie washed and dressed and fed by around 8:30 and still have time to get to class, but I was running late. My alarm didn't go off on time."
"Okay, so you were about thirty minutes late, then?"
"Yes," the girl said, staring at her hands. Her face looked pinched now, upset. The reality of why she was here, in this police room at this time, could no longer be ignored or denied.
There was a knock on the door and Toney reappeared, holding a can of Coke. He passed it to her, sliding it across the smooth, formica surface of the table and she smiled awkwardly and took the soda, pulled the tab. Took a hesitant sip.
"We just got a few drunk trannies in," Toney said, darting a good natured smile at Marcy Hapscomb meant to put her at ease. "You guys still need me?"
"I think we are good?" Rigsby said, looking over at Toney and then back at Marcy. She nodded quickly. Took another sip of Coke. He nodded and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Rigsby was silent for a moment, thinking over what he wanted to ask next. How he wanted to phrase his next few questions.
"So you entered the house at around eight this morning?"
"Yes," Marcy said, taking another sip of soda.
"She's lying," Jane said, eyes intently locked on the young woman on the other side of the glass. "Every time she lies, she takes a sip of Coke."
"Did you knock? Or just go in?" Rigsby asked softly.
"I knocked and rang the bell first, and when there was no answer I checked the door. It was open. So I went in. It was quiet. I called out and when no one answered, I walked down the hall. I knew they were home because I got the text message, and because their car was in the driveway. I checked Eddie's room and he wasn't in there, so I walked down the hall toward Mr. Moore's bedroom. I was starting to get a bad feeling around then. It was too quiet."
"No sound at all? You didn't hear any music? Anything like that?" Rigsby asked gently. The girl shook her head no.
"Her answers are too polished. Too practiced. She's been coached," Jane said, darting a quick glance at Lisbon before turning his attention once more to the interview taking place behind the mirror.
"No...no, I don't think so. It was really quiet. That's when I saw them."
"You opened the door and saw Mrs. Moore and Eddie?"
"Yes. They were dead. They were...naked," the girl said softly, lowering her voice, her cheeks flushing. "I knew right away they were dead. Their lungs... their lungs were out of their bodies, tied up with wire or string or something from the ceiling. I think that is called a Blood Eagle? Something like that? I turned and ran out and ran to my car and called 9-11 on my cell phone."
"She's lying," Jane murmured again, this time more softly. He stood still a moment longer and then strode out of the room, and closed the door behind him. Lisbon continued to watch. Heard the knock on the door.
"Come in," Rigsby called. Jane entered, carrying a manilla envelope up close against his chest. He carefully placed the manilla envelope down on the formica table top and sat down in a chair next to Rigsby. Smiled widely, pleasantly.
"Marcy? Can I call you Marcy?" Jane asked confidentally, fingers resting on the top of the envelope. The girl shot a quick, nervous glance at Jane. Nodded.
"My name is Patrick Jane. I am the consultant on this case. I'm the reason we asked you to come down tonight for more questions."
"Okay," the girl said, smiling shyly at Jane. She took another sip of Coke. Jane smiled back at her.
"When you walked down the hall, and you opened the door to Mr. Moore's bedroom? There was no noise? Nothing?"
"No..." the girl trailed uneasily, eyes moving slowly from Rigsby's face, to Jane, and back again.
"Okay," Jane said, in that same easy, pleasant tone of voice and removed a digital voice recorder from his breast pocket. He clicked a button on it and music began to fill the room. The music was Bach.
"Have you ever heard this piece of music before?" Jane asked, clicking a button on the audio recorder and stopping the music. The girl nodded.
"Yeah, I think so. That's Beethoven, right?"
"Bach," Jane said, smiling at her. "Bach's prelude number 1 in C major, to be precise."
"Why is he asking me about Bach?" The girl asked warily, looking over at Rigsby. Rigsby shrugged and looked dumbfounded, gave her his best don't-look-at-me expression and looked over at Jane himself. Jane smiled at his colleague and turned his attention back to the teenager.
"Why are you lying to the police, Marcy?" Jane said in that same calm, lilting voice.
"I'm not!"
"You never found the bodies of Linda and Edward Moore, did you? Someone else did, and told you to come forward?" Jane pressed.
"I did find them!"
"Funny, then, that you would not remember this piece of music. It was playing in the room the bodies were found in, when the police and crime scene analysts arrived. Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know!" The girl's voice was rising with emotion. She was trapped, and she knew it.
"You know that lying to the police about being a witness to murders is a really big deal, right? Especially on a case like this?"
"A case like this?" The girl asked, looking over at Rigsby questioningly before looking back at Jane. She took another sip of Coke. Lisbon almost- but not quite- felt sorry for her.
"Whoever you are protecting, or covering for, is using you like a pawn. You know that, right?" Jane's voice was still calm and controlled, but there was a fire in his eyes now, an intensity.
"I'm not covering for anybody!" The girl scolded Jane. She looked near tears.
"No?" Jane asked innocently. "Okay. I hope you're right. Because if you're covering for the person I think you're covering for, that would be a very bad deal for you. The people who do things for the person I am thinking of don't usually manage to live for very long after they have fulfilled their use. But if you are telling the truth, then yes, I guess you have nothing to be worried about."
The girl made a shaky, tremulous noise that couldn't quite be called a sigh.
"You know what I do for a living? I study human behavior. I am very good at it. I can tell you things about yourself that would probably surprise you. A long time ago, I worked as a psychic. Before you ask, the question is no. There is no such thing as a real psychic. But I pretended to be a psychic, that's how good I am at figuring things out about people very quickly, based on the way they behave. Want to know what I know about you already?"
The girl looked up shyly, fearfully. Shrugged.
"Your favourite colour is blue. Your favourite food... is pizza? Yup. Pizza. You're very intelligent, but you have some learning disabilities that make you doubt yourself and you've always been bullied at school. It's why you moved from Oakland, right? Your favourite animals are rabbits, guinea pigs... but you like anything small, delicate. Little mice, little birds, anything fragile that needs protection. Small little creatures you can nurture. I wouldn't be surprised to find out you have nurtured abandoned baby birds back to health. Even though you have been bullied, you like to protect the innocent, the vulnerable. Am I right so far?"
There was an almost imperceptible nod from the teenager.
"I have been watching you, and I figured out that you have a tell. Do you know what a tell is, Marcy?"
The girl looked up at Jane. Finally, wordlessly, shook her head.
"It's when someone does something subconsciously, over and over again, when they are lying. Because they feel guilty about lying. Most people have tells. Only psychopaths and sociopaths and people who have no conscience, as a general rule, can lie convincingly without them. Your tell is... whenever we ask you a question and it hits a nerve, and you lie? You take a sip of soda."
The girl stared down at the can of Coke. Sighed shakily. Pushed the can of soda away as if it had suddenly morphed into some hideous creature.
"If you don't want that anymore, can I have a sip?" Jane asked, ducking his head in the direction of the soft drink. The girl nodded, didn't meet his eyes. Jane reached out and gently pulled the can towards himself, holding the can by the rim. Took a sip. Smiled.
"You know, after we are done interviewing you, we can take this can of soda you've been drinking from and run your prints. Notice how I picked it up from the top of the can so I didn't smudge them? And we'll compare them to prints from the Moore residence. If you entered the house, like you said you did, your fingerprints should be on the front doorknob, the doorbell, the doorknob leading to Edward's room and the door leading to the master bedroom... minimally. If they're not on any of those surfaces, then we will know for certain that you are lying, and you will be arrested for obstruction of justice," Jane said this matter of factly. He took another sip of Coke.
Marcy Hapscomb didn't say anything. She was staring at her hands.
"Marcy," Jane prodded, using his most coaxing, gentle I-understand-what-you're-going-through voice. "There is a way out of this, you know. I know you're scared, that is obvious. All you have to do is tell me the truth. We can protect you."
The teen stared at the table. Began to make marks on the table with the oil from her finger tips. Jane let out an exaggerated, disappointed sigh.
"Okay. You know what? You don't have to even talk. I can tell things about a person simply by looking at them, by watching their body language. So, what I am going to do is ask some questions. You don't have to say anything, but I will still get the answers I need. Okay?"
The girl looked over at Jane. Tears were brimming brightly in her eyes. The sheen of tears broke in her left eye and a small trickle fell down her cheek. She was silent.
"Somebody befriended you. Pulled you into a world you don't know how to break out of. You feel loyalties to this friend. Maybe they were an underdog like you? Maybe even now you think they care about you, need you? Or maybe you're just really scared, and don't know how to tell me the truth about this, even though you really want to and know you want to?"
Jane waited a beat. Smiled gently at the adolescent before him. Waited.
"I- I was supposed to go in the house. But I didn't go in the house. I didn't want to..."
"You didn't want to see the bodies," Jane said confidently. The girl shook her head no, confirming his suspicions.
"The person who wanted you to go in the house? They are going to be very angry when they find out what you did. Because your lack of fingerprints inside? That proves you didn't enter, and that makes us look more closely at the crime scene."
The girl nodded. Another rivulet of tears ran down her cheek. She wiped at her face with slender fingers. Jane pulled a paisley, linen hand-kerchief from his pocket, handed it to her. The teenager took it, wiped her face. Stared at Jane with puffy, frightened eyes.
"Someone told you about Moore, right? Introduced you to him? When you first moved here, maybe?" Jane asked gently. The girl was folding the hand-kerchief back up, intent on her work. Finally, she nodded.
"Someone about your age? Maybe a little younger?"
"Her name is Charlie," Marcy Hapscomb said tiredly. Jane stared. Blinked. He hadn't been expecting that.
"Is that short for anything?" Jane prodded intently, darting a quick, meaningful glance in the direction of the one-way mirror, at Lisbon.
"Charlotte," the girl said miserably, staring at the formica table. "Mr. Moore was a family friend of Charlotte's and her uncle. She introduced me. She met me at a youth center. Back when I first moved here. Was nice to me when nobody else was. I told her I wanted to make some extra money and didn't know anybody and that I used to babysit. That's how it started."
"Does Charlotte live with her uncle?" Jane prodded. Marcy nodded, eyes still focused on the formica table, on the lines she was drawing with the oil from her fingertips.
"Yes. I mean.. back then she did, I think. She was about thirteen back then... but now she lives on her own. She is emancipated or something. She is only fifteen, but her place... it is really cool. She is homeschooled. Or maybe she has already graduated. I am not sure. She doesn't like to talk about her personal life..." Marcy trailed. Looked up wearily. Met Jane's eyes.
"Did she ever tell you about her parents? Or talk about them?" Jane's eyes were intent. The adolescent before him sighed. Scratched the side of her cheek.
"She said her parents were dead. Mostly we just hung out. She was teaching me to be more confident. To be a leader..." Marcy trailed.
"A leader of what?" Jane responded immediately. The teenager shrugged.
"Just a leader in general. Certain skills she said would help me in general, in my future. I told her I wanted to help animals. She said she could teach me skills that would help me learn to control people, to get them to listen to me and take me seriously. Not manipulate them, just show them that I was confident so they would be more likely to listen to me in the first place. She was trying to teach me to be strong, she said."
"Who taught Charlotte these skills? Did she ever tell you that?" Jane's eyes were zeroed in on the young woman sitting across from him like lasers.
"Her uncle John. He raised her after her parents died. She said he was... a specialist in abnormal behaviors? Or something like that? And that he had worked for the CIA."
Jane nodded. His mind was buzzing like a beehive with a sudden plethora of unanswered questions.
"Did you ever meet her uncle John?"
"John?" Marcy's voice lilted. She laughed slightly. "No. He was a very busy man. I only saw him twice, from a distance, picking her up in his car. One time he picked her up from the library, another time from the youth center. I never really got a good look at him either time. Like I said, he was a busy man."
Jane was silent for a moment. He told himself to think carefully. Each question was important. This was as close as he'd ever gotten to Red John. And now, Charlotte depended on him.
"You said Charlotte lived on her own? Do you know where that was?"
"Yeah. I mean, not off the top of my head. But I drove out there one night. An apartment complex, some weird name. Something Falls. Cherry Falls? Something like that. All the apartments are cedar, cedar shingles, I mean. Charlotte was upset about something and called me. She was drunk. I think that is the only reason she called me."
"She was drunk?" Jane pressed. Marcy Hapscomb nodded.
"Yeah. I think she drank a lot. She always had beer in her fridge. I mean, I didn't hang out at her place all that often, we usually met at the youth center, but the few times I was allowed over, she offered me beer."
Jane sighed. "What was she upset about?"
"She said she had lost a phone number. It was written on a scrap of paper and she said she had kept it in her shoe and it must have stuck to her foot and come out somewhere in the apartment. She had a cell phone, but wouldn't put this number in her cell phone. She wouldn't even tell me who the number was for. But she wanted me to help her look around for the paper, for the phone number. Which was kind of crazy, considering her house."
"What do you mean?" Jane pressed. The girl raised her eyes from the formica table. Sighed sadly.
"Her whole apartment was stuffed with paper and stuff. Books on every possible topic, I mean... not every possible topic, but history and crime stuff and psychology and stuff to do with torture. Weird stuff. Not usual teenage girl stuff, I mean. There were papers pinned to almost every inch of free wall space, road maps of different parts of California and other states with little pins pushed in them and smiley faces drawn on the maps in certain places. I asked her what the smiley faces were about. She said they were places she had travelled with her Uncle John. I didn't like to be in her place for too long. I mean, it was cool... but sort of creepy. And I don't like bugs."
"Bugs?" Jane prompted. This was getting weirder by the minute.
"In her living room. Along one wall, on these shelves screwed into the wall, there were all these aquariums with different small animals in them. Lizards and stuff. But also tarantulas and stuff. And some of them she said were poisonous. Deadly."
"Okay. Did you ever find that phone number?"
Marcy Hapscomb shook her head.
"No, and the weirdest thing is that she was keeping the number written down, anyway. Because, I mean, she had a great memory, a spookily great memory, really... it would have been super easy for her to memorize almost any number. But she was weird that night, said she couldn't ever memorize it, that it wouldn't be safe to consciously know that number. She made a big deal out of it, how I had to forget why I was over there, it was weird. A few days later she gave me this toy to give to Eddie. A present to him from his Uncle John, she said, this huge, plush monkey. He was too busy to deliver it himself. She asked me to take it the next time I babysat. That was about... I don't know. Two months ago now? She said it didn't matter anymore about the phone number, because of the monkey. That's why it stood out in my head at all. It was an odd thing to say."
"Did you ask her what any of that meant?" Jane asked.
"Um... I just thought she was drunk again. Or high. Charlie... she wasn't exactly always sober, you know?"
Jane nodded sadly. Was glad this was all being taped. He would want to look over this tape later.
"Mister Jane? Can I... can I go to the bathroom?"
Jane was silent for a moment. Running the teen's comments through his head. She was so subservient. So awkward and fearful. Poor kid.
"Mister Jane?" Marcy asked again, looking uneasy and guilty.
"Oh... yeah. Look. We are going to need to keep you here tonight, okay? For your own safety. Agent Rigsby will show you where the bathrooms are. You know where the bathrooms are, right Rigsby?"
Rigsby, concentration broken, looked over at Jane at the mention of his name. Blinked. Finally nodded.
"Yeah," Rigsby said quickly. "I know where they are. I can show you, Marcy."
"Oh, Marcy?" Jane asked the girl as she stood. "One more thing. Is this Charlotte?"
He pulled a sheet of paper out of the manilla envelope he'd carried into the room and slid the paper towards her. It was a colour laser printed image of the computer-generated age-progession of Charlotte he and Van Pelt had created earlier in the evening. Marcy stared at it for a second. Nodded.
"Yeah. That looks a lot like her. Except... except her hair is a little bit darker and her eyes are a little bit bigger. But yeah. That looks like her."
"Thank you," Jane said. He glanced over at Rigsby, smiled. Nodded. Rigsby was holding the door open for the girl, the perfect gentleman.
Jane followed them out. He needed some fresh air. He needed to recharge before he asked this kid anymore questions. His head was swirling with new information. He saw Lisbon out of the corner of his eye, walking towards him at a brisk pace.
"Jane..." Lisbon started, not quite sure what she wanted to say to him.
"She knows Charlotte, Lisbon! She was in her apartment!" Jane's eyes were bright with excitement.
"Doesn't any of this feel off to you? She... that kid just told us so much, so easily. Usually, people who have been in touch with Red John aren't quite so forthcoming."
"That's because she wasn't in touch with Red John. She was in touch with Charlotte. Charlotte is not Red John, Charlotte won't have the same skill set as Red John. These two were friends, Lisbon."
"Friends, Jane? Really? Because it sounds like this kid has been played. You saw her in there! She would do anything anyone with a manipulative personality told her to do-"
"Manipulative personality? What exactly are you saying, Lisbon?" Jane's eyes were suddenly hard as diamonds. Glittering.
"Jane, this feels off. That's all I am saying. I wouldn't take everything this girl says at face value, not before we know more."
"So we do what, we discard everything she has told us?"
"No, Jane, of course that is not what I am saying-" Lisbon started, but Jane was already walking away from her. Back into the interview room. He paused by the table. Froze. Turned around and ran back out of the room at a sprint. Lisbon stared after him incredulously, then looked down at the table.
Smudged onto the table with body oil, was the word: SORRY. Next to these block letters was a classic Red John smiley face. Lisbon exhaled slowly, not liking the sudden sinking feeling in her stomach one bit, and burst into a run after Jane.
She could hear Jane calling for Rigsby, asking Rigbsy what bathroom he had taken the teen to. Rigsby looked confused by the sudden yelling but quickly clued in. Lisbon caught up to them. Jane was launching himself at the bathroom door, trying to burst in and using his shoulder to ram at the door, yelling for help. The door was locked. From inside there was a sudden crashing noise, the sound of the mirror over the sink being broken.
Things moved very quickly then. A police officer was at the door with a key, unlocking it. Jane was inside, yelling for help, for someone to call an ambulance. Lisbon entered, and then shut her eyes. Knew that an ambulance would, almost certainly, not be necessary.
Marcy Hapscomb was lying on the tiled floor in front of the sinks, and mirrored glass lay around her in reflective shards, multiplying the gory scene. A large shard of mirror was sticking out of the side of her neck. Remarkably, she was still alive. Jane rushed to her, pulled her into his lap on the floor. Blood was splashing out of her wound, staining Jane's hands with hot, wet redness, with her rapidly depleting life. Jane stared at the wound for a moment, obviously uncertain about what to do. Apply pressure? Remove the glass? If he applied pressure and the glass was still in there, would he make the wound worse? If he pulled it out, would she bleed to death faster?
The girl was gazing up at him, skin tone pale, eyes full of glassy, end-of-life fear. When she spoke, blood from the wound in her neck bubbled out from between her lips, and popped.
"I'm s-sorry, Mist...Mister Jaaanne..."
Jane shushed her. He didn't know what else to do. An arc of arterial blood had sprayed clear across the room, over what was left of the mirrors, over the bone-white, gleaming sinks. Now the room smelled nauseatingly of blood mixed with strong disinfectant and industrial cleaner. The mixture was stomach turning.
"I-I know you wwanted to s-see your d-daughter...s-she...w-wantsss to see-ee...y-youu tooo..." The girl slurred. Her eyes were even more glassy now, the pupils almost fully dilated.
"Why did you do this, Marcy?" Jane asked, eerily calm.
"H-he'll...gett...gett...mee..."
"He?!" Jane asked the dying girl. He already knew the answer, though. She smiled and made a low chuckle around the mirrored glass in her neck.
"R-Reddd... Redddd Jaww...wnnn..." She trailed. Her lips stopped moving. The life left her eyes. It was sudden.
Jane held her for a long time. Finally he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. Lisbon was staring at him with pained eyes. Jane ignored her and turned back to the dead teen whose upper body he was cradling in his lap, against his chest.
Lisbon let him be.
End of Chapter Four, please review.