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: Thanks for the reviews guys. I recently saw the season finale "Red John's Rules". From what I can tell online, many people are disappointed. They wanted to know Red John's identity and claim that they are losing interest in the show. I can see why you might be frustrated, but it goes to show the audience just what a tricky, incredibly bright monster Red John is. I hope this story does the show justice. It is hard to write Jane in scenarios which seem altogether more gory and darker than the general tone of the show.
If you are wondering why I go into such great detail describing the brand names and flavours Charlotte likes, it is to cast light on her frame of mind. Charlotte, in this story, is stuck at an emotionally young age, and she has also been raised by Red John and terrorized. As a defense mechanism/coping mechanism, she has turned to getting drunk but also having certain rituals (including only eating packaged foods uinless she buys fruit herself and eats it immediately), and she is very picky about the brands and flavours she likes, because it is one small thing she can control. Red John controls everything, is a monster, so seemingly trivial things become a way to maintain sanity. Please review.
"In the democracy of the dead all men at least are equal. There is neither rank nor station nor prerogative in the republic of the grave." - John James Ingalls
"There is no death, what we call death.
Is but surcease from strife;
They do not die who we call dead,
They go from life ... to Life."
-Randall M. Falk, Rabbi Emeritus, The Temple
"All children have to be deceived if they are to grow up without trauma." - Kazuo Ishiguro
"Jane? Let them take her." Lisbon's voice was unusually soft.
Paramedics were wheeling a gurney into the police station's hallway. Jane had been sitting for over ten minutes with the corpse of Marcy Hapscomb in his arms. Jane nodded and gently repositioned the corpse on the floor and stood up. Marcy's glassy, unseeing eyes were staring right through him. She was either discovering the mysteries of the universe, now, or had simply ceased to exist. Jane stared back at her deep, brown eyes and blinked. He took a step away from the body and seemed to weave on his feet before finding his balance. The front of his vest suit was soaked in arterial blood, as were the arms of his white dress shirt. Jane looked down at the front of himself and squinted his eyes as if he wasn't seeing clearly. Finally he blinked again and walked out of the bathroom. He began to walk back towards the interview room, presumably to get the tape of Marcy's testimony and go over it.
Lisbon caught up to him, tugged at his arm.
"Jane. I'll send Rigsby to get you some clothes. You need to get cleaned up. You're covered in blood."
Jane blinked a third time, a hard, traumatized tic. Sighed.
When he finally spoke, it was a revolting idiotic response. "So?" He sounded, at that moment, like a petulant teenager. The quality of his voice combined with all the blood soaking through his clothes was more than a little disorienting.
"Jane," Lisbon pleaded. "Please. Let's get you cleaned up."
"I need to look at that tape, Lisbon. I need to review the information."
"Jane, the tape is not going to go anywhere. I promise. I'll guard it myself. I already sent Rigsby out with the rental car to get you some clothing."
Jane gazed around the fluorescent bullpen of the Santa Monica police department he was standing in. Swayed on his feet.
"Whoa," Lisbon said, putting out an arm to steady him. "You okay?"
Jane nodded his head.
"C'mon, I want the paramedics to look at you while they're here..." Lisbon trailed, leading Jane back through the hall, in the direction of the ambulance parked outside in the station's parking lot.
"Lisbon..." Jane whined, sounding terribly put out. "I'm fine. Just a little shaky."
"Humor me," Lisbon said. It spoke volumes about Jane's state of mind that his only retort to that was a long, drawn out, world-weary sigh. For the second time that day he allowed Lisbon to guide him.
"I feel like a decrepit old ram being led by a pesky border collie to his doom," Jane muttered. It was a typically stupid-Jane thing to say, and ordinarily Lisbon would have given him the evil eye. Right now she was too worried about the man she had come to think of as her partner to shoot him any look other than silent pleading.
"Jane, you weaseled your way out of seeing a doctor earlier. And after that panic episode earlier? And now? You're swaying on your feet! You're going to have a medic look at you!"
"They're glorified boy scouts, Lisbon. They can't actually do much. You didn't think they could, did you? Slap on a bandage here, shock a heart back into a normal sinus rhythm there. Every so often, insert an IV and make worried faces and speed their little-"
"HUSH," Lisbon commanded forcefully, darting an appraising look at Jane. He didn't seem so wobbly anymore. It was then that she noticed his right hand was trickling a steady stream of blood onto the thigh of his suit's right pant leg. As she watched, the blossom of blood on Jane's leg continued to grow, a liquid cancer. Lisbon stopped him and inspected the hand under one of the parking lot's orange high pressure sodium lamps. Swore to herself. Jane had obviously cut himself on a piece of mirror and the palm of his hand was deeply lacerated. As Lisbon watched, a small glut of blood collected in the deepest of the lacerations and began to slowly fall onto the macadam in steady drip-drip-drips. Lisbon felt a little swoon-y herself, looking at the injury.
"You didn't notice this?" Lisbon asked concernedly. Jane had seen the wound and looked away, apparently disinterested.
"It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"Jane, this is going to need stitches." Lisbon said tiredly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see two paramedics leave the front of the station and begin to maneuver the gurney with the black body bag strapped atop it toward the ambulance.
"Excuse me!" Lisbon called to them, and steered Jane toward them. "Before you leave, would you take a look at my colleague? I think he's in shock-"
"Lisss-boonnn, am not."
The paramedics exchanged glances. One of them nodded. "Yeah, sure." Lisbon continued to walk Jane over to the ambulance. The paramedic who had spoken to them jumped up and opened the back of the door. Jane made an exasperated face and climbed up inside the vehicle, followed by Lisbon. Jane steered himself over to another gurney in the back of the ambulance and sat down, holding out his bloody hand for inspection with a bored look on his face.
The paramedic pulled off his latex gloves, disposed of them in a biowaste bin and put on a new pair.
"This is going to need stitches," the young medic said after a moment, gently palpating the still-bleeding wound. "Do you have any cuts anywhere else?"
"I don't think so," Jane said, sounding as bored as he looked.
"Okay. Would you mind if I take your pulse...?"
"Patrick," Jane supplied pleasantly. "I suppose you can. If it will satisfy Lisbon, here."
"Um... yeah. Okay." The young man reached around inside the interior of the ambulance and turned on a small cardiac monitor. He clipped a grey plastic oximeter to the end of Jane's left pointer finger, waited for Jane's numbers to appear on the screen.
"Your pulse is a little higher than we like to see and your blood pressure is a little on the low side. Do you feel dizzy at all, Patrick? Or nauseated?"
"A little of both, I guess," Jane admitted dutifully. Lisbon straightened up beside him, worry etched into her features.
"He disappeared last night and didn't wake up until mid-day today, with no memory of anything in between, a 6 hour drive from his home. And earlier tonight, he was having chest pains-"
"It was just an anxiety attack," Jane sighed, sounding exasperated.
"And he was checked out by a doctor?" The paramedic asked. He had opened up an orange medic's bag and pulled out a large gauze pad and a gauze roll, scissors.
"What's with this *he* stuff, I am sitting right here-" Jane started. Lisbon cut him off.
"He hasn't seen a doctor yet. I am trying to convince him to go," Lisbon answered.
Gently, with an absorbent towel, the medic sopped up the majority of the blood, before gently applying the gauze pad and pressing it into place with the adhesive edges.
"Any time there is memory loss for unknown reasons, it is always a good idea to get checked out by a doctor, Patrick," the medic said slowly, as if speaking to a small child, before glancing up at his patient. His expression was one of sheer incredulity. "And I can tell you right now, that this injury is going to need stitches at the very least. Possibly surgery."
At that comment Jane rolled his eyes. Lisbon had to work at not hitting him.
"I'm not riding in an ambulance with a corpse," Jane said simply. Lisbon sighed.
"No, of course. Your friend here can take you. You are not in any immediate danger. But you really should see a doctor as soon as practically possible," the young man said, darting what was obviously meant to be a meaningful look at Jane, and then Lisbon. At the word "practically" Jane had glanced over at Lisbon with an evil grin.
"We'll be going to the hospital now. Thank you for your help," Lisbon told the young medic. She could still feel Jane smiling at her and combined with her worry for him and the extreme stress of the last twenty four hours, she had to work harder than expected at not blowing up at him.
"When you get there, you should tell them about the chest pains and memory loss he's been experiencing. Make sure they check him out... thoroughly."
"You worry too much. I'm always like this," Jane mumbled. Lisbon shot him a warning look.
Jane shifted himself off the gurney and slowly clambered out of the back of the ambulance. Lisbon followed after him.
"Thank you, again," Lisbon said gratefully. The medic nodded and jumped out of the ambulance after Lisbon to help his partner load the gurney.
"Good luck," the young man said, glancing over at Jane again with a slightly stunned expression.
Lisbon smiled back at the medic. If this guy only *knew*.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 10:18 P.M. P.S.T.
"Jane!" Lisbon called after him. He was heading away from the ambulance and back to the police department at a brisk clip. Not running. But not that far from running, either. A definite trot. Lisbon ran in front of him. Stopped him.
"We are going to the hospital. This is not optional."
Jane held his hands up in a "don't shoot" gesture and nodded.
"Okay. Fine. Hospital. I get it. But I am getting that tape first," and he ducked around her. Lisbon stared after him and then followed him back into the station. She understood Jane's reasoning. Things related to Red John had a habit of going bad, going missing, or both. Jane opened the door to the interview room, crossed over to the video camera and snatched the mini dv tape out of the video camera, flapped it at Lisbon in what was obviously supposed to be a mildly taunting gesture and hid it in his vest like a magician's trick: Now you see it. Now you don't.
"Hospital. Now," Lisbon said meeting his eyes.
"Since when have I ever argued with you about medical care, Lisbon?"
"Are you serious?" Lisbon queried, opening the door for him. The response was a miserably annoying grin. Combined the blood spackle on his face, it didn't quite have its intended effect.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 10:54 P.M. P.S.T.
"Holy shit, you're covered in blood!" The boy was 13, maybe 14, pale and wearing a Metallica t-shirt full of holes and jeans with ripped-out knees. He was sitting next to his buddy, an older boy of about 18 with a bright orange mohawk and a leather jacket covered in studs who had sustained some sort of head injury, judging by the bloody towel he was pressing to his own head. Both boys were glassy-eyed and smelled of marijuana and tobacco smoke and there was a faint whiff of cheap cologne coming from mohawked kid.
Jane looked down at himself, as if appraising his appearance for the first time.
"You're right. But it's okay. Most of this isn't my blood," Jane said, a little too glibly. Lisbon shot him a dark look.
"What, you hurt your hand?" The kid persisted, nodding at Jane's bandaged hand. The small smile on Jane's face that had started to develop at the end of the kid's first statement grew a little larger.
"Got it in one. What happened to your buddy?"
"The idiot tried to drill a hole in his head," the kid said, and then snickered laughter into his tanned hand, nicotine-stained fingers splayed over his blackhead-studded nose. Jane looked over at Lisbon and raised his eyebrows in mock shock. Lisbon deliberately looked away, at the television mounted to the wall, which had been muted and was running constant CNN broadcasts.
"Why'd your friend try to drill a hole in his head?" Jane asked curiously, innocently, darting a look at the older boy. "Can I see?"
The older boy sighed and gently moved the towel just a bit. Blood slopped down his brow like viscous paint, fire-engine red. Jane winced.
"I, uh... wanted to expand my spiritual consciousness. Trepanation, you know?"
"Not really," Jane murmured, trying to hook Lisbon's eyes, but she was very deliberately ignoring the three of them.
"What happened to you?" The younger kid pressed, motioning his head in the direction of Jane's right hand.
"I had a little accident with the weed whacker. Never weed-whack when you've been drinking," Jane allowed tolerantly. Lisbon, still ignoring them, rolled her eyes.
"That is the best injury story I've heard in the last three hours," the little Metallica fan said brightly, chirping back up. "Is it true?"
"Last three hours? How long have you been here?" Jane said, smile wavering a little.
"Maybe five hours? I guess they're very busy?"
Jane glanced around. Aside for an incredibly drunk guy handcuffed to a gurney, himself, Lisbon and these two kids, the ER waiting room was empty.
"You registered, right?" Jane prompted after a moment.
"Registered?" The older kid said, voice foggy. "What do you mean?"
"See that lady behind that glass window over there?" Jane coaxed, pointing at the intake desk. "You have to go over there and let them know you're here. Otherwise... they don't know you're here."
"But.. can't they see Rudy's seriously hurt over here?" The little Metallica fan said, voice scandalized.
Jane pursed his lips together and shrugged his shoulders.
"Aw, damnit... " the kid said, tugging his older pal to his feet. Together, the two tottered away, the smaller kid holding up the older one as if he was a drunkard. Jane watched them go, smile increasing, and turned his head over to Lisbon for her reaction.
"It's not funny," Lisbon said sourly.
"It's not?" Jane shot back, widening his eyes ever so slightly.
"No," Lisbon said, turning her head away from him. Damn it, Jane.
"Mister Jane?" A nurse was holding a clipboard, calling out into the waiting room. Lisbon stood immediately. Jane, not so much.
"Can my mom come in with me?" Jane quipped, deadpan. Lisbon sighed, gritted her teeth together. Sighed again. The nurse, a middle-aged black woman in powder blue scrubs, looked over at Lisbon, then at Jane, expression somewhere between confusion and wariness.
"I'm his colleague," Lisbon said, walking toward her. Jane, slowly, followed.
From twelve feet away, then, the younger boy said: "Whoa, dude? You hear that? That lady was that guy's mom!"
Jane, half-way to Lisbon, smiled widely at the comment.
"Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch now," the female doctor in charge of Jane's care said, making eye contact with her reluctant patient.
"I don't know why you people always say that. A little pinch. It's never a little pinch but still-" Jane started, and midway through his speech the doctor jabbed him with the needle. Jane jerked a bit and Lisbon rested one hand on his shoulder to calm him. The doctor inserted the needle four seperate times, injecting lidocaine into multiple spots around the weeping wound.
:"Okay, we're just going to wait a few minutes for you to get numb before we start," she said dutifully.
"In addition to this wound, he was having chest pains earlier-"
"Anxiety attack Lisbon!"
"-And he is not prone to anxiety attacks. I gave him an ativan and he seemed to feel better. And last night he disappeared while driving and woke up today with no memory of the events, a 6 hour drive from his home-"
"Red John, Lisbon!"
"-Jane! Hush! I am speaking to the doctor!"
"She's obviously busy, Lisbon-"
"He will not seek out medical care on his own, and I am worried," Lisbon finished. The doctor looked a little stunned at the exchange. Nodded, slowly.
"Red John?" She finally said, darting a questioning look at Jane.
"Just this sadistic serial killer my colleague and I and the rest of our team are tracking across California. He likes to do things to people who get in his way. Kidnap them. Kill them. Make them sing karaoke dressed up in drag. You get the idea-"
"Jane!" Lisbon spat, irritation bubbling over. "That's enough!" Hane stared back at her with glassy eyes and Lisbon felt a increasingly familiar sense of unease start to grow in her chest, her belly. Was Jane losing it? For real?
"She asked about Red John, Lisbon!" Jane said, mock wounded. "Was I supposed to just... not answer her?"
The doctor glanced at Jane, then back at Lisbon. Clearly out of her depth.
"You're hunting a serial killer?" She finally said, looking a little wary.
"Yes," Jane said simply, no smile left in his features.
"And... you think he is responsible for your abduction? Um, your amnesia?"
"I know he is. And believe me, however he eradicated my memory of last night's events? He's done it to others. There won't be any drugs on any tox screen, nothing you'd think to test for."
The doctor chanced a glance at Lisbon, as if for confirmation. Lisbon nodded sullenly. "He's probably right. But I still want him checked out."
"Um... we could draw his blood and run the standard tox screen, but... how long ago did he go missing?"
"About 24 hours ago, now," Jane quipped, a little too eagerly. His pupils seemed, all at once, too big.
"Yeah.. that could be a problem. Many substances would already have been metabolized by the body. But... we can still run his blood. Also check his cardiac enzyme level... just in case. Although, if his symptoms improved- especially given the stress you two are obviously under- and after the ativan, I would tend to agree that his symptoms were almost certainly stress related. But I will still draw his blood."
"Thank you," Lisbon said, looking a little embarrassed.
"Your partner is right to be concerned, though," The doctor said, almost sternly, looking back at Jane. "Even if your chest pains today were only anxiety- and I am fairly confident that they were- panic attacks and panic disorder can be debilitating and life changing. Like any other problem, panic attacks are best dealt with sooner rather than later-"
"My daughter- who I had been led to believe was dead for the last decade- may be alive. Red John quite possibly stuck another child's dead body in my wife's arms. My wife, he really did kill, in case you're wondering. Arranged them both like naked angels, lungs pulled out of their backs to mimic wings and everything. And now... now I find out she is alive? So I think chest pains... I think they are an appropriate response to learning your child has been kept alive under false pretenses and raised by the serial killer who destroyed your life. Don't you?" Jane's voice was unusually caustic, his words verging on a tirade. He had started out reasonably calmly, but his words, ever so slightly, had taken on a desperate quality, a shaky, adrenaline-charged tremor that was somehow worse than screams. The doctor looked at Lisbon helplessly. Lisbon's face froze, a mix of fear and grief for her partner.
"Jane? I asked her to look you over. She's just doing her job," Lisbon said slowly.
"This is a waste of time, Lisbon. You know it and I know it. I should be out looking for Charlotte-"
"After they stitch your hand up," Lisbon said sharply, hoping Jane would submit, would calm down. Jane glanced at her. Blinked. Nodded. The look on his face was eerily calm, the look of someone minutes away from losing it and flipping out. She had never seen Jane so close to the edge. Had he looked like this before his breakdown all those years ago? Had there been any warnings? And what did a breakdown look like when Jane was experiencing it? Lisbon let out a slow sigh. Mentally prayed Jane would calm himself.
"I am not waiting around here for blood test results," he warned. She could see the anger and fear and grief coming off him, almost as visible waves. His hand, already injected with numbing agents, was shaking ever so slightly.
"Okay. But at least let them draw your blood. Just in case," Lisbon said as gently as possible. "Please, Jane."
He was silent for a moment. Shut his eyes. Lisbon guessed he was counting to calm himself down. Finally he opened his eyes. Sighed audibly.
"Okay. I will let them draw my blood. For you, Lisbon. And then we leave."
Lisbon nodded. The doctor had been silent, watching this exchange warily, awkwardly.
"How is that hand feeling, now, Patrick?" She said calmly, moving slowly. Jane sighed again. Flexed his hand.
"It's numb. You can start."
The doctor didn't ask him twice. She pulled the suture kit over to the counter Jane's injured hand was resting on, pulled over a stool on wheels and sat down.
"Patrick, I am going to use synthetic absorbable sutures for you, okay? And I will write you up a script for some broad spectrum antibiotics. That will save you a trip back here to have the stitches taken out," This too, was said very calmly. Jane nodded. He felt a little dizzy, a little too hot. God, how he hated hospitals. Just hurry up already and sew the damned thing shut already.
The lights were too bright, too cold. Too fluorescent. The gash in his hand yawned up at him, fatty layers exposed a terrible, ugly yellow that was making him feel a little faint.
The doctor picked up the needle and began to stitch his hand. Jane, very deliberately, focused on trying to read a poster on the far wall that was advertising some waterproof cast cover called XeroSox: clean and dry- XeroSox is the original vacuum sealed bandage and cast cover!
Both the doc and Lisbon let him be.
Charlotte Ruskin-Jane- now known as Charlotte Walker- was sitting on her couch, watching the news, fingers overlaced over a stuffed animal she had won for herself at a carnival several years earlier, a red devil with a hollow plastic pitchfork permanently attached to his left hand and a plastic smirk splayed across his bulbous head. His eyes lit up and blinked bright orange when you pushed a button in the palm of his right hand. Red John, she knew, would hate this thing. Not that he had ever laid eyes on it. But, she knew, he would have found it tacky as all get out. If you pushed a button in his right foot (hoof?) the stuffed animal sang a song. A tinny 30-second rendition of Elvis' "You're the Devil in Disguise".
She loved it. She had named the little devil "Bunsen" (after the Bunsen burner) and slept with it every night, right thumb corked in her mouth. She never washed it for fear of damaging it. Just sprayed it with Febreze fabric refresher. The one that smelled like Gain, original scent.
Her father was on the television screen now, talking, eyes bright. So much emotion in his voice. So much pain in those eyes. She watched him, mesmerized, furious and grief-stricken. She'd seen him on the news on and off over the years, usually in the background at crime scenes. Cocky bastard. But now... he looked genuinely upset. Charlotte had warred with emotions surrounding her father for the last two or three years. Part of her, a big part, believed wholeheartedly that he had given her away to Red John. Maybe he had regretted the choice, but obviously he had given her away. He had never come to look for her, had he?
But part of her had always wondered. She knew the power Red John had over people. Might he have the same power over her? Might Red John have lied to her? She didn't like to think so. Still, looking at her father talking to the press, eyes haunted and bright- eyes that were screaming without making a sound- she felt a wash of despair and grief. And rage. All at once. Fuck, she wanted to get drunk. Couldn't though. Not tonight.
She already had her black chucks on and laced up. Already had her favourite olive green army jacket on and zipped up, jeans a little too baggy, the knees ripped out just as she liked. Under the army jacket, she was wearing an old Korn t-shirt, full of holes. Another "band" Red John hated.
Something would happen. Red John would make his move soon. Either kill her, or kill her father. At her feet sat her backpack, neon green and covered with doodles drawn in sharpie marker. She didn't want to believe it, that Red John would ever hurt her, and yet... she knew he hurt people. Killed them, or got them to kill themselves. She had seen him do it dozens of times. Always with the same intensity in his eyes, the same smile on his lips. Knew she would go crazy if she didn't do something soon. Knew that Red John wanted her to kill soon. And while the idea of killing appealed to her, on another level, it made her feel sick. Maybe that, more than wanting to know the truth about her father (in her head she always thought of him as "Patrick") was why she had left that message for Patrick in that stuffed orangutan? She had had to do something. Waiting to make her first kill... it was too much. It was too hard.
Her programming was extensive. It was so hard to know what reality was. Who was safe, who was not. Who was good, who was bad, who was stupid, who deserved terror and cruelty, who deserved respect. To know who to trust, or what to do. Was she evil? She wasn't sure. Maybe she was. Sometimes... sometimes she thought so. The imagery and thoughts that raced through her head could be vicious, could be... cruel. They taunted her. They called to her. They wouldn't leave her alone. Join us. Make us real. You know you want to.
Thoughts could be demons in their own right.
Sometimes she worried she was just like Red John. Sometimes she worried she was nothing like Red John, a weakling, a sheep... like most people. She wasn't sure which would be worse.
It was all so confusing. If Red John really was as bad as her recent nightmares were leading her to believe... did she even want to get away from him? Wouldn't he just track her down if she tried? So confusing. So hard to know what to do. Charlotte had a box of frosted strawberry pop tarts waiting for her on the coffee table. She reached down, pulled her backpack up into her lap, and unzipped it. Stuffed the stuffed animal devil into it, pushing the button in the hoof and starting the tinny-Elvis song. She leaned over and grabbed at the box of pop tarts. She ripped the top off it, pulled a pair of foil rectangle out and ripped the foil off. Began to scarf the pastry down. She hadn't eaten in nearly 30 hours. The remaining two packs of pop tarts, she dropped into her backpack with the rest of her crap.
Inside that backpack was everything she would be taking with her: her birth certificate. Red John had a copy of it. Hell, Red John controlled the people who made such documents. ID was such a stupid idea. It was in a protective plastic cover. Also, her favourite book, "The Prince" by Niccolò Machiavelli. Two cans of Pepsi. A box of strawberry fruit by the foots. A box of Little Debbie chocolate pies. A Winchester folding knife. A knife whetstone. An mp3 player. 5 pairs of socks, 3 pairs of underwear, deodorant, a toothbrush, aquafresh kids' toothpaste, dental floss, no-rinse camping shampoo, a new facecloth. A bottle of Flintstones chewable multivitamins (her favourite was always dino, and always when he was grape, but if she couldn't find a grape dino she would settle for a grape Great Gazoo. When she ran out of grape Dinos and grape Great Gazoos, she threw the rest of the bottle away). And 600 dollars (10 fifty-dollar bills and 5 twenty-dollar bills) in a blue velcro wallet with Optimus Prime's likeness on the front (she'd found the transformers wallet in a dollar store and purchased it on an impulse). A page printed off the library's computer with the name TERESA LISBON and an email address, the CBI headquarters in Sacramento. Lisbon's number. Jane's number, his email... she hadn't been able to find anywhere. Had been too scared to keep looking, certain that Red John would know, would know and... she didn't know where those thoughts led, only that it was dark there. Dark and wet... terrifying.
Someone asked her father, now: "Mr. Jane, is there anything you want to say to your daughter if she is out there watching this right now?"
Charlotte froze. Looked over at the television. Her mouth felt dry, barren. Her heart was stammering along, burdened with grief and fear and excitement. Tendrils of adrenaline shoot into her blood stream, chemical squirts of fight or flight reaction.
Her father was staring right at the camera, directly at her, almost. Could he see her? Could he see her through the television? Was he magical? Red John was magical. He was Patrick Jane, and he was important. And he was looking right at her, now. As if he could see her through the camera, through the distance of time and space. As if he could see her right this second.
His voice was filled with emotion, impossible to describe, sad and angry and powerful.
He said: "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..."
Charlotte stared. She had been expecting as much. Had known it in her gut. Had slowly come to believe that Red John had stolen her and not made any deal with her father, and yet... accepting such a thing was almost impossible. Another burst of rage caught in her abdomen like tinder catching on fire. She swore, popped the rest of her strawberry pop tart into her mouth, wiped the crumbs off on the thighs of her jeans. She picked up her backpack and shrugged it onto her shoulders. Picked the .Daisy 622X .22 caliber pellet handgun off the coffee table and walked towards the front door. She would have to move fast now.
At the door she stopped, turned around. Begin to fire. Shot the glass out of all the aquariums against the far wall. Poisonous critters of all sorts rained down in a screaming crash of breaking glass. Charlotte watched the aquariums explode. When every last one had been shot down, she tucked the pellet gun in the front side pocket of her coat and opened the front door.
The hallway was empty, dimly lit by crappy, flickering lights. Suddenly, the fear swept up like a wave, and she knew she was running out of time. Charlotte Walker began to run, taking the stairs two at a time. She was suddenly at the back fire escape, bolting through it, into the dark, eerie night. Heart thundering.
She couldn't help the feeling that she was being watched, that any second she would be shot dead, any second *something* would happen. Something terrible. She sprinted ten blocks. Knew where she was going. The closest police station.
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013 11:38 P.M. P.S.T.
The police station reminded her of a trap, all lit up from the inside and glowing ominously, like something used to catch and electrocute pesky moths. Anybody in there could be working for Red John, anybody. Red John surely knew by now what had been on the news earlier. Red John knew. Red John always knew.
Charlotte was crouched across the street from the police station, behind a copse of trees. Her chest felt tight. Her vision was pinholed.
What was the alternative to going in there? Living on the streets and being "found" by Red John in a day or a week or a month? Continuing to live as his protégée and never knowing the truth, never knowing what reality was, or if her father wanted her? If her entire life was a lie?
Charlotte had put a small cyanide pill in a plastic baggy and stuck it in her left converse all-star sneaker. If things got too bad, that was always an option...
This police station was weird looking, all 90 degree angular and boxy, like a German art project. Would this be where she died?
The teenager pulled a joint out of her pocket, cupped her hands around the front as she lit it with a tiny green bic. She took a few deep tokes, then put the joint out. Dug a small hole in the ground with the toe of her shoe and pushed the joint into it.
The police station looked so cold, so uninviting. Charlotte popped a piece of Juicy Fruit into her mouth. Let them fucking arrest her for smoking some pot. Time to get this show on the road...
There was a long hallway, slanting, and a front desk. Charlotte forced herself to walk forward, not to turn around and run the other way. There was a youngish looking police officer at the front desk. The waiting area was empty.
Charlotte approached the young officer. He looked up at her.
"Can I help you?"
"I need to speak to a Mr. Patrick Jane," she said. Her voice sounded much too far away, thanks to the pot.
"Patrick Jane?" the officer repeated brusquely, hammered some buttons on his keyboard and waited while results come back. "We don't have anyone here by that name."
"He wasn't arrested. He is a police consultant. He was... on the news earlier tonight?"
The young police officer whipped his head to the side, questioned another cop passing by.
"That CBI consultant, is he still here? This girl is looking for him."
The passing police officer spared her a quick glance, sighed. Like he had to deal with this all the time.
"I think he went to the hospital or something. Not sure. Some of his people are still here. Want me to get one of them?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Charlotte watched the exchange. This was going as well as she could have hoped, and yet, the air in this place felt too flat, like someone was slowly drawing all the usable oxygen out of it. Was one of these men going to be responsible for her death? Charlotte blinked, realized the cop at the desk was talking to her.
"Sorry? What?"
"And you are?" The police officer repeated again, sounding a little put-out for having to repeat himself. Fuck, Charlotte hated the pigs.
She had considered this, how to play this. Act enigmatic, use a false name, play with Patrick? Or just... come right out and tell him? Playing enigmatic seemed silly. Patrick would take one look at her, and he would know who she was. Wouldn't he?
"My name is Charlotte."
"Charlotte what?" The cop pressed, looking at her suspiciously. Charlotte didn't like this. This felt... wrong. This guy felt hostile.
"Just Charlotte. Charlotte is good enough. He'll know who I am."
"Okay. You can take a seat," The copper said dismissively. Charlotte nodded, retreated to the plastic bucket seats and sat down. This was one of the richest police departments in the country and their waiting room seats still sucked.
She had just sat down when she could hear a hushed exchange somewhere nearby. She heard her name and the word "girl" and then "Mr. Jane". Then someone asked if she was still here. There was movement as the cop returned, this time with a short asian man. The asian man had stern eyes, eagle eyes, and he saw her immediately. Charlotte straightened up in the bucket seat.
"Charlotte?" The asian man said, eyes locked on her. Charlotte nodded slightly. Slowly got to her feet and approached the front desk.
"I am looking for Patrick Jane?"
"Your name is Charlotte?" The asian man persisted, eyes scanning every area of her face. She felt suddenly too exposed. Forced herself to nod again.
"Patrick Jane isn't here right now. He will be back soon, though. Would you like to come with me?"
Charlotte eyed the cop standing next to the asian man. Then looked around. She felt suddenly panicky. Trapped.
"No. I want to wait out here."
The asian man nodded. Looked over at the young cop who was staring at her.
"Do you think we could have a moment alone?" The asian man asked the desk cop. The desk cop looked over, looking surprised. Finally nodded. But he looked a little put out. He wandered off.
"Charlotte, my name is Kimball Cho. I work with Patrick." And he held out his hand. Charlotte scanned his face, glanced at the hand. Finally took it. Her heart was going so, so fast. Kimball Cho had a dry, smooth, warm hand. Strong grip, but not scarily strong.
"Patrick had to step out momentarily. He will be back shortly," Cho said, eyes still focused on her face. Charlotte nodded.
"I can get you set up in an interview room. One with a couch. You look tired," Cho said, and Charlotte had the distinct impression this guy was trying to be soothing. He didn't seem like the type of guy to talk much. Did... did he know who she was? Was he safe? Or did he work for Red John?
"I want to wait out here," Charlotte repeated, and hated the slight tremor in her voice. The idea that they would spirit her away back there, where she might not be able to escape, was terrifying. Cho's facial expression never changed. He nodded.
"Okay. Do you mind if I wait with you, then?"
Charlotte scanned his face, but his features were immutable. His face was one mask of stern professionalism. Finally she nodded. Cho came around the desk and joined her in the waiting room. Charlotte kept her eyes on him the entire time.
They didn't speak. They just sat, side by side. After a few minutes, Cho pulled out his cell phone, entered a text message.
"What are you writing?:" Charlotte asked, darting a look at his hands.
"I am telling my boss about you. And, hopefully, getting an idea of what time they will be back."
"Who is your boss?" Charlotte asked, eyes shiny-bright from the pot.
"Her name is Teresa Lisbon. She is with Patrick Jane."
"Oh," Charlotte said. What else was there to say? After 15 seconds or so there was a beep and Cho glanced down at the screen.
"What does it say?"
"I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight. They will be back in ten minutes."
"Oh."
-End of chapter, please review!-