Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 16)
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: Hi guys, thanks for the inspiring reviews. I have a question for you. I have some health issues which leave me very tired, which is the main reason there are gaps in my writing. My question is this- would you like a slightly less edited, researched story? It will still have some research and I will quickly edit, but it won't be as polished. However, if you chose this option, you will get updates much faster. I can be a bit perfectionist and that can keep stories from being updated as quickly. So if you're okay with slightly less polished chapters, please let me know in a review. Thanks.
"Trust your hunches. They're usually based on facts filed away just below the conscious level." - Joyce Brothers
"Chaga is one of the weirdest mushrooms you may ever see. A fungal parasite found on birch trees, Chaga is a hardened, blackened, crusty formation that looks like a bursting tumor." - Paul Stamets
Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
Looks like we're in for nasty weather.
One eye is taken for an eye. - Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival
"One time she was in my room, but it was just her head and her hands," he said. "She was holding two big, round black orbs, and she told me they wanted to remove my eyes and replace them with those things." Terrified, James objected, saying he didn't want to be blind, but the woman replied, "You'll still be able to see, but you'll see differently." - Into the fringe by Karla Turner, Ph.D.
Saturday, November 3, 2013 10:16 am PST
They'd been on the road, in Mexico and no longer in the US, in the territory of the wolf, the beast, the serpent (whatever you wanted to call him) for a little under two hours. Lisbon had watched "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" with Charlotte, laughing at the parts she remembered laughing at as a child, hoping the girl next to her could find some sort of peace and calm. Charlotte gave perfunctory laughs at the right places but Lisbon could feel (or thought she could feel- was she just projecting?) Charlotte's fear coming off her like radiation. Fear? Excitement? Agitation? Some horrible hybrid of all three? Lisbon wasn't sure. She knew humans tended to see in others only what was in themselves, they tended to project, assume that other people thought and saw as they, themselves, did. Such ways of looking at people could be eerily misleading. They were a function of human bonding and mirror neurons, but people like Red John, according to research, had neural holes in the orbital-frontal cortex. Apparently. Sadistic murderers tended to have less "wiring" behind the eyes on a neurological level, fewer brain connections in that part of the brain. Was that where the saying "the eyes are the windows of the soul" had come from? Had people all along known that physically, neurologically, lack of love caused deficits? Or whatever it was that caused those neurological "holes"... Looking into the eyes of a monster, did man from his earliest days see the physical holes?
These were questions Lisbon hadn't asked herself until Patrick Jane and Red John entered her life. They brought up complicated, uncertain feelings in Lisbon. Reality wasn't binary. She'd known that in a general sort of way since mid-adolescence, but not like she knew it now. It was only the fallible human mind that reduced all of reality (and God) to binary interpretations. Black/White, Good/Bad, Free Will/Fate. She'd asked Jane about it before. Did he believe in free will, if people were so easily manipulated and figured out? To her surprise, he did believe in free will. She hadn't seen that coming and he had grinned his fox grin at her. "Complete free will?" She'd pressed and Jane had grinned wider. "Nothing is ever completely anything, Lisbon. Everything is on a continuum." "What about the state of evil? Is there evil without goodness?" They'd been drinking wine, a rare evening of talk and banter after a case. Jane had gotten pensive then, no doubt spiraling into thoughts of Red John and his evilness, his culpability.
"I believe in evil. I believe it is its own thing. And I believe I can't be objective about it," Jane had said this with darkly haunted eyes. It was the most emotionally honest he'd ever been with her. The most naked, in the truest sense of that word. His pupils so dilated, his expression so rawly human.
After Pee Wee, Charlotte had taken the DVD out and popped in one of her 80s Horror Classics! discs. The movie was something called Basketcase, about a deformed Siamese twin that had been excised from his brother and was lugged around in a wicker basket. Lisbon sat beside the teenager, almost touching... but not quite. Even though it wasn't cold, Charlotte had one of the blankets (but not the dreaded owl blanket, that was long gone) wrapped around her shoulders. She kept chewing on her thumb nail, Lisbon noticed, and for moments at a time she seemed to be absentmindedly sucking on it. Then she'd catch herself sucking her thumb and chew the nail again. It was bitten down to the quick, and Lisbon was sure it was bleeding and raw. Anxious tic, no doubt. Lisbon filed this information back in her mind, unsure of how to talk to this kid, what to say. Still waters ran deep, but even when Charlotte was speaking, she ran deep. Troubled and turbulent? Yes. But also deep. Like a whirlpool in an ocean. Halfway through the Basketcase movie, Charlotte paused the DVD and leaned forward. She got up and walked over to the fridge. Lisbon saw her pull a can of Bud out of the fridge and dig a strawberry poptart out of the cupboards. She came back, popped the tab on the beer, took a sip.
"Do you think that's a good idea?" Lisbon asked softly. She wasn't about to grab the beer from an emancipated 16 year old who had been living with a prolific serial killer for a decade, but at the same time- as the only adult in the trailer- she felt a need to say something. Jane would not want Charlotte drinking, of that she was certain. Charlotte looked over at Lisbon, grinned a goofy grin. It was a grin much more like that you'd see on a 6 year old's face, and it made the urge to keep her from drinking that much stronger.
"No, I'm not sure it's a good idea. But we have 8 hours to kill and we're in a moving trailer, so what the Hell, right?"
Lisbon guessed the kid was scared as hell. She couldn't even imagine what she would be feeling and experiencing in Charlotte's position, she had no frame of reference for a life that far outside the boundaries of normality. As if sensing this- and getting self-conscious- Charlotte opened the poptart wrapper and handed one of the pastries to Lisbon like a peace offering.
"You eat these?" She asked, as Lisbon accepted.
"Not since I was a kid. Thanks."
Charlotte nodded in a don't-mention-it kind of way, eyes focused on the screen, mind focused only-God-knew-where. The movie wasn't the point. It was just something to focus her eyes on, dispel some of the nervous energy, the sense of being studied and processed. Lisbon could feel Charlotte's unease. When had this girl last been in the presence of an adult who wasn't a sadist, or at least enslaved to one? Who analyzed her only to exploit her perceived weaknesses? The pressure had to be incredible...
"They're all genetically modified, everything in these poptarts. Some people claim that Monsanto's bullshit causes tumor formation in rats. Bowel lesions and inflammation in pigs and something... I think it is a BZ toxin, or something, in Pringles chips? Destroys the red blood cells of mice. Causes them to burst. Really deleterious effects, yes? Pringles chips. Can't remember the specifics, mind you... I was drunk when I read that article. Agenda 21 is what the conspiracy theorists call it. Also, um... Codex Alimentarius? They talk about the Georgia guidestones, the UN's desire to eliminate 90% of the global population for the New World Order. Anyway, if you don't know about GMOs, well, I feel the need to inform you. Informed consent and all." Charlotte's words were crisp, intelligent, but speedy. A brain that never stopped processing, thinking, analyzing, looking for danger... such was a speedy brain, an adrenaline-soaked brain. Lisbon had a sudden image of pulling Charlotte's brain from her skull and wringing it out like a wrinkled, pink sponge; of clear water that wasn't water, but adrenaline and liquid fear, splattering out and into darkness. In Lisbon's mind, the water from Charlotte's pink-sponge-brain turned red and then dark red and was blood. Blood being squeezed into a black abyss. The imagery faded. Lisbon blinked away the weirdness. She wasn't one to have such intrusive, sudden daydreams like that. She wasn't ordinarily so visual. The CBI agent looked down at the poptart in her hand.
"Thanks," Lisbon said again, not sure how to respond to that little spiel. "Do you, um..." Lisbon trailed, not sure how to frame what she wanted to say. Charlotte looked over at her, somewhat lazily, despite the shine and excitement and tremor in her body. Live Voltage. Caution. Danger. LIVE VOLTAGE CHILD.
"What?" Charlotte coaxed, eyes bright and curious. "You can say whatever you want to me. You won't offend me, or anything. Speak your mind, Lisbon." Despite the speed of her reply, the pressure behind it, she could hear Jane in the girl's words. Jane's ease with people, Jane's coaxing friendliness and curiosity in the way others thought and what they were thinking.
"Do you believe GMOs are dangerous?" Lisbon asked, not sure what she wanted to say. That was as good as anything.
"Yes, I most certainly do," Charlotte quipped back. And took another bite of the poptart in some strange counter-intuitive show of sincerity. "Slow suicide. Did you know that Obama signed the Monsanto Protection Act, which basically means that when- not if- people start getting sick from GMOs and it can be proven then GMOs made them sick, they have no legal recourse? They can't sue Monsatan? Why would there be a need for that law if there wasn't an inherent danger with their products? Why won't they label them when over 90% of the US population wants them labelled, if what they are selling isn't bad ju ju?" Charlotte's eyes were bright like flame. Lisbon could almost hear the pops and cracks of wood burning in those eyes, sudden pops of heat. Was she angry? Vengeful? Or just overwhelmed? What on Earth was this kid thinking, what was she feeling? She came across as intense and speedy, but beyond that Lisbon was unsure how to categorize her. Charlie took another bite of the poptart. Slow suicide. Lisbon felt a chill of concern, a tendril of maternal worry.
"If you think they are dangerous- GMOs... why eat them?" Lisbon said, hitting the right amalgam of friendly concern and dispassionate interest. She hadn't touched her own pastry yet, but was still holding it. Charlotte's comments sounded like so much craziness to her, but she really hadn't studied the topic. Just because something sounded crazy and was said speedily didn't mean there wasn't any validity to the message. Lisbon had been alive long enough to know that incredibly sick and demented things happened in the world all the time, and would continue to happen. And if there had actually been a law passed to protect the company? That was a little suspicious...
"Because they have nostalgic comfort value to me. They remind me of when I was little, living with Patrick. They make me happy," Charlotte said. Another bite. Lisbon knew the teen was telling the truth, but her comments seemed too revealing, too open for one who had been raised by Red John. Then again, maybe Charlotte had rebelled against Red John and his marked depravity by becoming what she thought was his opposite? Open, compassionate, child-like? Except, child-like was really the wrong word. She wasn't child-like, not in any real way, but there was no other term that captured the vulnerable- or seeming vulnerably... authenticity? So many questions without easy answers. Would there ever be answers? Or only impressions? Ghosts of knowing? Charlotte's eyes were on her, studying Lisbon's face as Lisbon thought of what to say next. Words like chess pieces, being moved into position. No careless chit-chat, Lisbon knew. Even Charlie's chit-chat wasn't really chit-chat.
"But if they are dangerous? If they make you sick? I mean... you don't want to die..." This last was framed as a certainty, not a question.
"This entire planet is poison, Lisbon," Charlotte said, mouth full of genetically modified pastry and high fructose corn syrup. "The oceans are filled with plastic, we're killing the sharks even though they are apex predators and keep our oceans in balance, we fluoridate the water even though a strong correlation between cancer and fluoride has been noted. Not to mention fluoride and lowered IQ in children, and this, this correlation being noted by Harvard scientists, not your friendly neighbourhood snake-oil naturopath. Fukushima is going to kill us all in one way or another, everything is being contaminated. If they really wanted to stop it? The governments of the world? It would be extremely costly and time-consuming, but they could do it. But they don't want to. Believe me on that one, Lisbon, I know this stuff; we're ruled by sociopaths who have a self-destructive streak and are only interested in short-term profit margins and hedonistic, libertine pleasures. That's the thing with sociopaths, especially narcissistic sociopaths... um, they're not exactly long-term thinkers and they don't feel dread or concern like you do, even for their own physical health and well-being. They'd rather die than be dominated or suppressed or imprisoned or lose their power, and this makes them incredibly dangerous because they just won't stop and if you try to stop them, they'll usually lash back with such force that... that... it is like... like a human atom bomb going off. If they are going to leave this world, then they have to leave a legacy right? They don't care if it is a painful legacy, as long as it is spectacular and people remember their name. The world is quite literally controlled by them, too. Sociopaths have set up a system whereby the only people who really make it to the top of the politics game share similar traits, and those who might otherwise change things for the better? They're pushed out like... like how crows will attack... albino... albino babies and... never mind. That's a bit off topic. But... We fill our kids up with food dyes which act as neurotoxins, make them sit in school chairs for 8 hours under fluorescent lights filled with mercury vapor, breathing in recycled air and repeating statist brainwashing mantras under threat of detention or social rejection. We're all in a looney bin, and the masters are poisoning us all. I could go on with examples, but you get my point. Poptarts are the least of my worries." Christ. And she was only 16. What would she be like by 20? 25? What had she been like at 10?
"I get it. That just seems a little fatalistic to me," Lisbon said softly, testing the reaction. Charlotte did not take obvious offense, simply shrugged, apparently indifferent to Lisbon's criticism.
"Maybe it is," at that, she took a slurp of beer. "Maybe it isn't. I am the sum total of my genetics, soul path, external factors, internal factors, environment. I have analyzed the information available to me and that is the conclusion I have drawn." This time she took a gulp. "But, here is something to think about. Have we not dominated the planet by being the fastest and smartest and most adaptable? Yet we treat the other species, as a group we do- we treat them like our own writers and theologians depict demonic entities. With cruel indifference. Most of us whitewash it, but its true. So, with our own kind... we... it comes down to who is going to be most adroit at controlling others. Is a compassionate person who truly loves others going to rise to the top of politics? Or is someone who is proficient at lying and manipulating and perhaps even murder to get what he or she wants going to be the one that rise to the top of that pyramid? And if those types are at the top, then... you better believe... their unique personality...traits... are going to have a trickle down effect. Butterfly effect. So much pain in the world for a reason. We let the sadists... we... they are sheltered. They... did you know the Windsors, in the past... if not now... probably not now but... maybe not now... in the past, engaged in cannibalism? And were generally very supportive of the Nazi party? Same with the Bush family? Did.. did you know... in 1933, Prescott Bush, who was a senator at the time, along with Chase Bank, GM, Goodyear, Standard Oil and... um... oh yeah... the DuPont family tried to recruit a marine corpsman named General Smedley Butler to lead a military coup against FDR? With the end goal being installing a fascist dictatorship in the US? Similar to what was starting to crop up in Germany? We... it is... all over..." Charlotte trailed off. Chewed harder on her thumb nail, winced, sucked it for a second, and began to bite the nail again.
Lisbon tried to process this. The girl was a fount of information. How much of it was accurate, though? Charlotte was watching Lisbon the whole while, waiting for the responding words. She never stopped analyzing, Lisbon was certain of it.
"But what about God? If you believe in God? Can He not help us?" Lisbon's words sounded a little lost, even to herself. So much for buoying the kid up.
Charlotte looked back down at the paused DVD player's screen and some old emotion flashed across her strangely-young face, Lisbon was sure she had seen emotion. Hope? Wist? There was definite pain mixed in with that look. Abandonment? Grief? Lisbon silently kicked herself for speaking so openly. The flash was fast as white lightning, but left an after-image, a sense of rejection and sadness burned in Lisbon's soul. Not a nice feeling at all. Is that what Charlotte had felt for most of her life? The amalgamation of warring feelings stung Lisbon deeply, like being skinned all over and exposed to a salt bath. Put plainly? It fucking hurt.
"God is beyond my understanding, Lisbon. I believe in Him, but I don't presume to know His nature or why He does what He does. I spent the remainder of my childhood, after Patrick, I mean... consumed by theodicean questions, analyzing why a good God would allow evil. Blah blah shit we all go through, I guess, I just explored it earlier and, perhaps... at greater depth? But I think we can't know. So it's moot. Functionally we're on our own. "
"And yet... yet you follow Him, pray to Him?" Lisbon tried. She wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't very well stop speaking now, and she had a pressing need to know whatever she could about Jane's child, about her torment and the way her mind worked. Whatever Charlotte wanted to share with her, she wanted to hear ...and yet...she was aware that words could hurt and that Charlotte's soul was covered in wounds inflicted by an evil sadist. These realizations made it hard to talk to her, but made it equally hard for Charlotte to engage. The teenager was obviously trying to do that, though. Engage. Bond. Trust. The least she- as the adult- could do was listen and accept. Charlotte was obviously not made of spun-glass.
"I pray to Him because I intuitively sense He is good. Or at least... better then Red John. And even if He isn't? He created all things, so it's either the case that He is ultimately compassionate and good but more complicated than humans can understand- which is what I chose to believe- in which case following Him is logical and righteous and just. Or else He is batshit crazy, cruel and arbitrary... but also eternally powerful, in which case following Him is at least sane in the self-preservatory sense. So. Yes. Long story short? I pledge allegiance to God. And yes, I know He is not really a He. That's just a cultural reference. We have to look at things with our limited minds."
"Okay," Lisbon said to that, and watched as Charlotte tilted the can and took 3 long chugs. These were desperate chugs; the behaviour of a budding alcoholic using ethanol to self medicate. The girl turned her eyes back to the DVD screen again, pressed the play button and forced out laughter. Ha-ha-ha. On the little 7-inch screen someone was asking the main character, Duane, what he was lugging around in the basket. His response? My brother. Charlotte laughed again. Ha-ha-ha. And drank more of her beer.
"Saturday, November 3, 2013 1:18 pm PST
They'd watched Basketcase and another movie, some low budget splatter-fest called Chopping Mall. Charlotte was almost finished her fifth beer and was glaze-eyed and rambling when the truck stopped and the airstream came to a halt. Lisbon had no idea how to stop the kid from drinking. And the more she drank, the more she spoke. That could be useful, couldn't it? But damn it... she felt like such an idiot, like she was letting Jane down.
"Okay, lunch time," Jane said with a smile, entering the trailer. Lisbon looked at him with hopeful eyes. Do something. I'm sorry.
"Hey Patrick!" Charlotte said loudly, looking up. "Hello! How are you?!" Over-bright and obviously drunk.
Patrick glanced down at the beer can in her hand. He shot Lisbon a quick glance- not accusatory, just concerned- and she nodded.
"Hi yourself. You're drinking." Not mad. Just a statement of fact.
"That's right!" Charlotte chirped happily. "Bud tastes like weasel piss, but you know..."
"No. I don't. And I think you've had enough..." he came towards her and she quickly chugged back the rest of the beer, handed him the empty can with a sly grin. He smiled back at her, matching her grin. She really was his daughter, right down to the smile.
"You can never have too much beer." Charlotte's sloppy words.
"I think you can," Jane said calmly. He took the empty can over and tossed it in the sink. There were 4 cans over there already, lined up and looking lonely on the formica counter-top. She drank us, then she threw us away... Jane shook his head.
"Makes me feel not-scared," Charlotte said loudly. She got up and started towards the fridge for a sixth beer.
"Nuh uh uh," Jane said. "You're going to sit down with Lisbon, and I am going to get rid of the beer. No temptations."
"I've been drinking for more than half my life, Patrick! Not exactly fair to cut me off now. Not your choice to make, anyway."
"You're my child and you're underage," Jane said calmly, but Lisbon could see how unnerved he was, how dismayed. Jane would no doubt give Charlotte anything she wanted, but he wouldn't let her abuse herself.
"We're. In. Mexico. If you can say 'una cerveza, por favor' and you have the dineros, you're legal."
Charlotte blinked wearily at Jane. Blinked again. Opened her mouth. Shut it. She smelled of beer and of sweat and something fruity (Juicy Fruit gum?). There were smudges of chocolate pudding around her mouth. She had poptart crumbs on her Metallica shirt and her curly hair needed a good combing. Her cheeks were flushed and red, her eyes were glassy and she had apparently had a toke or two in the bathroom (Lisbon had used it after the teen had been in there a good ten minutes and it smelled of pot). Her cat eyes looked old, though, much older than she really was. Ancient eyes, lost eyes, two thousand years of age. There was so much sadness in them. They'd seen Jesus nailed to the cross, maybe seen Lucifer himself fall from grace...
"I know you're scared. I get that. But-"
"No buts, and you have no idea," Charlotte shot back. "Anyway, I am much more verbal with a few beers in me. You can analyze my words and learn about me. Great experience for you. Can't believe you don't want me disinhibited, to pick my brain. You might not get another opportunity."
"You're my daughter. Not an object to be analyzed."
"We're all objects to be analyzed," Charlotte said drowsily. The room was quiet. Jane looked over at Lisbon and smiled at her in probably what was meant to be a reassuring manner, but it wasn't a nice smile at all. He walked over to the fridge, pulled out the remaining three 6 packs of Budweiser and carried them out of the trailer, face blank.
"Patrick!" Charlotte called at him, obviously annoyed. He came back almost at once (had he just set the beers outside in the dust? Wherever they were?) and went back to the fridge. He grabbed the single can that was left, carried it to the door, opened the door and threw the can out into the mid-day blue sky. There was no sound for a moment and then Lisbon heard something metallic hit the ground somewhere.
"Patrick!" Charlotte yelled at him again. Her eyes flashed with defiance. Who was he to tell her what to do? To restrict her freedom to do what she wanted, to compromise her autonomy? When she had raised herself, kept herself alive? When she knew better than anybody else what was best for her, and how to manage her fear, and what fear really was. Patrick? Patrick had no fucking clue what fear was, he had no clue and he had no right...
"There. Now no more temptation." Jane's words were shorter than usual, not as playful. Lisbon had seen him like this only rarely. He was playing cool, controlled. Even happy. But he was not happy. Not at all.
"That is not fair!"
"Maybe it's not, but it's my decision. You are my child. And if you are going to act like a child-"
"I am not a child. A child would never have fucking survived Red John and his moods and you damn well know it! I haven't been a child for a decade! If I ever was one in the first fucking place! You have no right to feign parental concern now, when-"
"What?" Jane said, cutting her off. His voice was sharp, but not angry. He seemed calm, but Lisbon could see he was breathing a bit too shallowly. The stress was getting to him, too, the emotional strain. She couldn't imagine how much this was hurting him, this entire scenario. This interaction in particular.
"You weren't there," Charlotte said drunkenly. "Only Red John was."
Jane's eyes seemed to fall back into his skull. It wasn't a physical thing, but metaphysical, like his soul was recoiling from the words. His face didn't change in any obvious sense, but Lisbon could feel his pain, sharp and strong like a heart beat. Beat- BEAT.
"I would have been there. I thought you were dead."
"I was alone with him," Charlotte said drunkenly. Voice blasé, tragically indifferent. Jane wanted for more. He could feel his heart in his chest, though, the throb of it that told him he was alive. The pulse of blood in his ears, too. Suddenly strong, almost painful.
Beat-BEAT!
"How could you have thought I was dead without a corpse?" Small words. Plaintive. Drunken. So lost.
Beat-BEAT. Jane sucked in breath. It was audible.
"I... I thought... I thought it was you."
Beat-BEAT. BEATBEAT.
"It was never me. You didn't even look to see?" More sad now than accusatory, and the sadness somehow made it all the worse. There was aching betrayal in that sadness.
BEATBEATBEAT.
"I thought it was you. I saw you I, she looked like you..." He trailed.
"But it wasn't me." Charlotte's eyes held anger in them now. It was unmasked now. Jane nodded then. He looked deflated. She had every right to be angry with him. Red John was manipulative. Red John was canny. And he hadn't looked at his child's face... the child's face, the stranger's face. He hadn't looked! He'd been unable to do it, certain it was his daughter. He'd seen her from the side, though, and that was enough. It had been Charlotte. But also... no, it hadn't been. Clearly it hadn't been. She was right here. Standing before him. He hadn't had the nerve to look, he'd been swallowed by grief and panic and shock and rage and been paralyzed, paralyzed.
He'd been cold stone and stone cold, frozen, horrified, mind splitting into some realm of insanity several coffins down from neon, words splitting, images splitting, hiswifeandchildweredeadandlungswerenowwings!, some gibbering lunatic scream had flown out of his mouth, a black bird of a scream, red eyes, eyes frozen and wide and unblinking. Horror. Pain. He was in Hell. It had broken his mind.
He'd been broken, legs shattered as if they'd been smashed with an invisible ball-peen hammer, Achilles tendons severed, blood gone from his face, soul gone from his body, wall undulating... Mind gone. Robot Jane. A gasp like a wheeze and the smell of blood. Copper in the air, the smell of screams (screams had a definite smell, but most people had no freaking clue). A smell of salt. A smell of strawberry soap. A smell of death, too, bitter and sour and acrid and sweet, like a rotting nail polish remover, barely there. But there.
He hadn't looked, he hadn't wanted to see them, hadn't wanted to see her face, her soul-less marble eyes (he imagined they might be covered with death cataracts already), his baby, little baby, little Charlotte and all her life reduced to rotting meat. Maggots in a grave and the sound of Bach. Past and future, present, dreams, free will gone, terror and horror and nothing at all and the sound of a keening beast in his throat.
But he'd gone to their funerals. It had been Charlotte in her coffin? Hadn't it? Jane shut his eyes, rubbed at his temples. He felt dizzy with emotion. Little Charlotte was waiting for him to talk.
Lisbon eyed him worriedly. The blood had dropped out of Jane's face; he was like wax. Charlotte watched him, uncertain, waiting for his response. There was a crease between her eyebrows.
"The beer is outside if you want it. It's on a picnic table." His voice was defeated, shamed, floating. Lisbon had never heard him sound anything like that. She wanted to go to him, but felt stuck to her spot, watching this scene play itself out. She felt paralyzed.
BEATBEATBEAT. The sound of his heart in his chest.
"I don't want it anymore," Charlotte slurred, mopey. Sad. "It tastes like piss." More sad than angry now. Still confused. Maybe more confused. Would she ever be anything but confused?
"Okay," Jane said. Nodded. He sounded so tired, flatter than Lisbon could ever remember hearing him. "Okay. Charlie... I really, really never... you have to know that if I had known you were with him, I never would have..." He stopped. Looked at his hands like he was surprised to see them attached to his arms. What peculiar things, these hands. They could do so much. They had done so little.
"What, Patrick? Forgotten about me?" No anger in the words now, just drunken sadness. The young face shifted and for a moment Lisbon thought maybe there would be tears. Charlotte wiped at her face with the cuff of her shirt and made a little keening noise, herself, the baby daughter of Jane's garbled moan seconds earlier. Patrick moved forward, apparently more than ready to comfort her, but she stopped it. Blinked hard and forced the keening noise back into herself. It took effort, Lisbon could see, considerable effort to push that pain back in.
Her features hardened defiantly. Her guard went back up, an indifferent smile on her lips. "It doesn't matter anyway. What's done is done. No biggie, Patrick. We all make mistakes."
"Charlotte-"
"I said it doesn't matter! Okay? You don't want me to drink? I won't drink. Can I have a some strawberry Nesquik, then?"
Jane blinked tiredly. Nodded. "Yeah."
Charlotte got up and sloshed to the kitchen. Lisbon watched her. Jane watched her. She pulled out the bag of powdered milk and spooned in several tablespoons. Squirted in strawberry syrup (Jane winced at the bright red squirt- an arterial squirt-) and then stirred the mess together. Added water from the tap, slowly, and came back with some chunky drink from Hades, bits of dried milk floating on the top like pond scum.
"Have you eaten?" Jane was looking at Lisbon wearily, forcing a nice little smile, obviously trying to hold everything together and be the protective, stable father. A bit of colour was coming back into his face, but he still looked awfully drained.
"We had some puddings together. But I think I need something a little more substantial-" Lisbon's voice was tighter than usual.
"Turkey sandwich?" Jane offered. His tone was artificially bright. Lisbon tried to match it. "That would be great. Thanks, Jane."
"Do you want a sandwich, Charlie?" Jane said this gently. No grudges. Whatever pain he was experiencing, he was handling it. Charlotte stared at him, analyzing him. Poor kid. So lost... Lisbon had seen just a tiny fraction of her confusion, her pain. So had Jane. What did she think reality was? What was going on behind her vibrant, feral eyes?
"I don't like turkey. I don't like meat," Charlie said. She wiped at the pudding streaks on her face with the cuff of her shirt. "I don't like that people kill animals, just because we can, and then we call their corpses food, like we need their corpses to physically survive. I don't like that. Their meat tastes like screams and-"
"Okay. Can I make you something else to eat?"
"You want to make me a sandwich?" Charlie said this with a tone of confusion. She had said things, drunkenly, that she assumed would make her father angry at her. And he was not angry at her. It made no sense. Why wasn't he angry at her? Why wasn't he sulking? Was it a trap?
"I'd be honoured to make you a sandwich," Jane said kindly. Lisbon grinned at him, full of emotion. Her eyes felt hot. She suddenly felt like bursting into tears, watching this. "What sort of sandwich would you like me to make you?"
Charlotte seemed to consider this.
"Can you make me a peanut butter and banana and hot chocolate sandwich?"
"Peanut butter and banana and hot chocolate? How do you make that?" Jane didn't skip a beat. He was getting himself back to normal. You had to give him credit for that.
"You mix up peanut butter with hot chocolate powder and put it on bread, with banana slices. Can you make that?"
"I think I can manage that," Jane said happily. He was smiling again. But the fine lines around his eyes were a shade deeper.
"I like white bread. Okay? If you don't want to mix up the powder with the peanut butter you can just sprinkle it on the top?"
"Do you want your bread heated up?" Jane asked, nodding.
"Heated up? You'll heat it up for me?"
"Sure," Jane said, looking over at Lisbon. "Lisbon? You want your sandwich heated up? Turkey melt maybe?"
"Sure," Lisbon agreed, nodding.
"Can you cut the crusts off? I don't like crusts."
"I can cut the crusts off," Jane said happily. So thankful for every precious word.
"Can you cut the crusts off and cut my sandwich diagonally?"
Lisbon caught Jane's grin and grinned herself. Charlotte seemed oblivious to why they were smiling, but smiled dazedly at both of them.
"Yes, I can do that."
Jane smiled at them both of them again and went to make the sandwiches.
"Have you ever had a hot chocolate sandwich?" Charlotte asked Lisbon then, finally turning back to her.
"I can't say that I have," Lisbon said, smiling at the teen tenderly. She still felt stunned, still felt so much concern for Jane. What did it say about Charlotte that pain of that magnitude was brushed off so easily, so tightly controlled? Lisbon cleared her throat. "Are they any good?"
Charlotte shrugged at this. "I don't know. Never had one before."
Lisbon nodded. Of course she hadn't.
"Do you think a blueberry, pickle and mayo sandwich would be any good?" Charlotte mumbled, as Jane pulled the white wonder bread out of the fridge and got out three plates.
"I don't think so," Lisbon admitted, looking over at the girl.
"Yeah," Charlotte confirmed, nodding, eyes on Jane. "I didn't think it would be any good either."
They ate their sandwiches outside in the sun at a quarter to two. Jane had found a little rest stop with weathered old picnic tables to stop at and set up shop. Lisbon could see where he'd hastily stacked the beer, but Charlotte ignored it. They sat at the picnic table closest to the airstream, the two adults with turkey melts and coffee, Charlotte with another glass of Nesquik and lumpy powdered milk and her hot chocolate and peanut butter and banana sandwich. Jane had added a handful of Bugles to her plate, but she found them more suitable to flick into the dusty afternoon sunlight.
The sky was bright blue, a shade Jane thought was only possible in Mexico. Bright, fresh, like a child had painted a field of hopeful tempura paint over the horizon. Jane reached across, grabbed one of the corn snacks and ate it. Charlotte shot him an exasperated look, and flicked another Bugle into the sky.
"So I'm thinking we'll be there in about 5 and a half more hours. And we'll stop before Hermosillo and regroup? This crazy chicken man... we'll be able to find him?" Jane asked. Charlotte launched another corn snack into the atmosphere and sort of shrugged her shoulders.
"Charlotte?" Jane persisted.
"I think so. He's not exactly listed in the directory. Doesn't exactly have a facebook account, either," She grinned at her father. Her words were much more sober. She took a sip of her Nesquik surprise.
Jane didn't ask her what they would do if they couldn't find this guy. He didn't think she knew what to do, and anyway... he was the adult. They'd do something. They'd do whatever they had to do.
"You want me to hang out with you for a few hours?" Jane asked his daughter, darting a quick questioning glance at Lisbon. Charlotte shrugged.
"If you want to, Patrick."
Another Bugle became airborne.
"And Lisbon... the map is in the truck cab? Stop before we actually reach Hermosillo?"
Lisbon nodded immediately. She was glad Jane was taking over with Charlotte. There wasn't any more beer in the airstream, but Lisbon still felt uneasy. Charlotte was- emotionally and mentally and intellectually- a handful. Not on purpose. She just was. It couldn't be helped.
"You ever see the movie Terminator 2?" Charlotte asked suddenly, picking up a Bugle, considering it, then deciding to pop it into her mouth. Jane nodded his head. So did Lisbon.
"Doesn't this remind you of that scene where Sarah Connor and John and the T-800 get across the border and meet up with their friends and the T-800 is watching that little toddler boy walking around in the dust at sunset?"
Jane and Lisbon exchanged a look. Neither of them remembered the movie that well, apparently.
"And a few minutes later, John finds that Sarah has gone off by herself to kill Miles Dyson and the words No Fate are carved into the picnic table? Remember?"
Lisbon smiled awkwardly. Jane nodded.
"Vaguely," he said.
"Yeah, fine, whatever. You do not remember, but I appreciate the try. This reminds me of that scene, right before they have the showdown with the T-1000. The calm before the storm."
Jane thought he caught Lisbon wince, just a little. Thanks, Charlie.
Charlotte begun to hum the Terminator 2 theme under her breath and flicked another Bugle into the dust. Jane smiled at her and she grinned back at him.
"In that movie, Terminator 2? The good guys win at the end, don't they?" Jane said, trying to lighten the mood. He could hear Lisbon swallow.
"Yeah. Of course. But they have to kill the T-800 because his brain contains a microchip, and, it, too, must be destroyed."
"Okay," Jane said. This was obviously one of Charlotte's favourite movies...
"I'll be Sarah Connor and you two, together, can be John. Because you sort of- but don't really- know what you're doing," Charlotte added. Lisbon grinned at that. Jane's smile was back to normal.
"Who is the... the T-800?" Jane asked.
"Jesus, Patrick, it's just a movie. It's not like everything is going to fit. But I think the crazy chicken man might be Miles Dyson..."
Lisbon looked over at Jane. Jane was watching Charlotte, gray eyes processing.
"Who is Red John, in the Terminator 2 world?" Jane said, stealing another bugle from Charlotte's plate. This time she didn't bother giving him a disapproving look.
"Did you ever even watch that movie?" She sounded somewhat scandalized. "Or did you just say you saw it..."
"I saw it," Jane said, laughing a little, holding up his hands in a don't-shoot gesture. "I am just curious, who you think Red John would be? In the Terminator 2 universe?"
Charlotte made a noise in the back of her throat, something between a sigh and moan and a gag. "Quite obviously he'd be the T-1000."
"The liquid metal guy? Who can change form?" Jane asked thoughtfully. Charlotte nodded.
"Yup. Him."
"How do they kill him?"
"He chases them into a steel mill and eventually, they push him into molten steel and he dissolves. He dissolves so thoroughly that he can't get himself back together again. But then, the T-800 has to die. Because of the T-800 origins, his programming is too vulnerable. He wants to help, but he has to die." Charlotte sighed sadly at this. Jane took in the sadness and the sigh.
"And you're Sarah Connor?"
Charlotte caught his inference immediately.
"I don't think I have to die, Patrick. I'm not the T-800."
"Of course not," Jane said reasonably, shaking his head as if the thought that she might be was insane. Which it was.
Of course his daughter wasn't a programmed robotic killer from the future... but Jane still felt uneasy. Because Charlotte had seen so much, lived through so much. And because Red John was, according to Charlotte, basically un-killable and able to change form. The symbolism there was potent, but it made the knot in the mentalist's stomach tighten just that much more.
Please review guys, I will try and update faster... reviews are so nice. Make my day, as I don't get many readers!