Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 19)
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 guys for the reviews. They really make my day, much more than you'd think! Also, important, my sister made me a Charlotte's Web music video when I first started writing this and I feel you guys would get a kick out of it. I prefer to listen to it paired with Santana's Put Your Lights On. I think she did an exceptional job putting clips together and I think it really fits with this fic. If you like this fic, check out the music video (and you can listen to the original version or pair it with Santana, like I do). Go here: www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=PGJ6S95IzIE I'm watching clips right now of Jane and Lisbon interacting, trying to get the quality of their interactions down for this fic. Again, reviews are always much appreciated.
"He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it." - Cormac McCarthy, The Road
"To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart." - Daniel Patrick Moynihan
Saturday, November 3, 2013 4:48 pm PST
Charlie had played with her Nintendo 3DS, then turned it off. Gotten up. Started looking through the cupboards. Restless. Agitated. Jane knew the feeling. He did puzzles in his head when the agitation got to be too much. Memory puzzles, logic puzzles. Whatever. Most people, he knew, assumed he was inwardly calm all the time. But he wasn't. He knew how to project calm. He worked hard at it, at fostering a calm attitude. But he had his moments. His restless nights when he had gone through his Red John cases obsessively, looking for any clue or hint or missing piece of the puzzle. He'd drink caffeinated Big Gulps and coffee, sometimes he'd have anxiety episodes and talk himself down, he'd go for walks in Sacramento in the middle of the night, read, sometimes play handball. His sleep was fractured, and he caught up on the couch in the days, lying on that brown, leather beast of a bed, making chipper and confident remarks and projecting an air of lazy indifference while Lisbon frowned at him. But Patrick Jane knew agitation. He knew bad nights.
"Looking for something in particular?" Jane asked, still sitting at the little dining table. He didn't need any more tea. There came a point when it became ridiculous.
"I ieel like I am going to jump out of my skin," Charlotte said tensely, and blinked. Her voice was a hiss. "I feel like I am going to snap."
"Anxiety," Jane said knowingly, as if naming the emotion helped. "Not much you can do but ride it out."
"Usually I run when I get like this. But I am cooped up in this damned airstream," she closed her eyes. "I feel like I am going to burst. Trapped."
"You're not trapped, though. Lisbon will stop the truck before Hermosillo, we'll regroup. We'll find-" Jane trailed. His kid was pulling the bedding out.
"Charlotte, do you have an end goal in mind here?" He sounded bored, even to himself. Charlotte looked up at him, let out an extremely weary sigh. "I feel like I am going to lose my shit."
"You're not going to lose your shit. Have you ever tried any relaxation exercises?" Jane said this mildly, as if his teenage kid wasn't seconds from a panic attack. Charlotte looked at him, obviously annoyed by his apparent comfort with her agitation.
"Me getting upset is not going to help you," Jane said knowingly. "You have a lot of trauma in your head. You have to get it out."
"No shit, Sherlock." Charlotte huffed out a strong gust of breath. They were down to the final lap, before Hermosillo, before the chicken man and whatever came next. The strain was becoming physical. Agitation. Adrenaline. Bad memories turning into chemicals, flooding the bloodstream. Patrick Jane firmly believed that 95% of people on psychotropic medications didn't need to be on them. The remaining 5% benefited from the drugs more than they were put at risk by the side effects. He was pretty sure his daughter was in the 5% of people who needed to be on medication of some sort. At least for a while. It pained him to admit it to himself. But... it made sense. Her programming wasn't something that a few deep breathing exercises and some positive thinking could slow down. Red John had made sure that her brain was coiled so tight that recovery without pharamceuticals would be next to impossible.
"You'll be fine. Don't catastrophize in your head," Jane said, eyes gleaming. Charlotte looked at him sharply and Jane tempered his words with a little smile. He knew this was harder for her than he let on. She threw a bedspread on the floor. Made a grunting noise of agitation, the sound of a creature that is not quite panicking, but well on its way.
"How did you know? About catastrophizing?"
"I'm smart. Your're smart. I know what the imagination is like, especially if allowed to run around, untrained and undisciplined. Nobody has ever taught you how to reign in your fear."
"Red John taught me," Charlotte seethed. More bedding was dumped on the floor. Jane raised his eyebrows at the towels and sheets and pillowcases. The little mound of textiles. He didn't know they had this much stuff.
"Obviously he didn't teach you very well, or you wouldn't be up-ending the trailer right now."
"Do you think I am bipolar or something? Having a manic episode?"
"I think you'e not sleeping, you have a decade of severe trauma setting off all your alarm bells and your usual coping mechanism- running- is temporarily out of the picture. I took away your secondary coping mechanism- drinking. And correct me if I am wrong, but you're out of the marijuana?"
"Yeah. No. You're not wrong."
"That leaves you sort of free-falling, now, doesn't it?" Jane said this mildly. He'd stay calm. He'd smile and he'd offer jokes and witticisms. Charlotte didn't need his sympathy or him to act more unnerved than he was. He knew how she felt- on edge, like a wind up toy that had been wound up a few times too many, ready to burst. He'd felt it a few times in his life, but not this bad. For Charlotte, the effect would be so much more pronounced. She'd been repeatedly tortured. Her brain chemistry was more or less completely off-balance.
"Go, pick up the pillow. Your pillow," Jane offered blandly. Charlotte stared at him like he'd grown another head.
"What?"
"You heard me. Go get your pillow."
"Why?" She sounded more irritated than anything. "Fuck. Why is it so hot in here?"
"Go pick up your pillow, Charlotte, and bring it over to the table."
"You didn't tell me why," Charlotte said again. She was now dumping towels Jane hadn't even seen yet onto the floor. He made a clucking noise in the back of his throat.
"If you want to have a meltdown, you can. But you don't need to."
"I don't know how you can be so calm," Charlotte rasped. But she went to the padded bench that, at night, would fold out into her bed. She grabbed her pillow and obediently brought it back to Jane and laid it on the table. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop and stared at he father, a tortured animal looking for release. He smiled at her, gently. Prayed to a God he didn't really believe in to calm his child down.
"There. Now what?!" Her pupils were heavily dilated. Jane waved his hand in front of her face and she jumped, startled, an exagerrated little scream issuing from the back of her throat.
"Yeah. You're wound waaaay too tight. That's not good."
"Am I losing my mind?!" Her words were clipped, choked. Jane shook his head.
"No. If I thought you were losing your mind, I wouldn't be this relaxed." He kept his voice calm. So calm. He kept his tone light, his expression carefully schooled into relative indifference.
"Then what is this?"
"Charlie, come on. It's an anxiety attack. Right? You know that." Simple, kind, easy words. If he tried to hypnotize her right now, she'd catch on and panic worse. He was sure of it.
"I don't know. Usually when I panic, I feel more like I am dying."
"They come in different flavours, anxiety attacks do. All different flavours of horrible."
"I'm not panicking." Charlotte said, and lightly hit the table top with her hand.
"Nah. Of course not. Panic attacks are worse. I am sure you've had a lot worse than this?" Jane said this easily, like he was sure of the answer. Charlotte nodded her head eagerly.
"Yes. Yes. Much worse. So bad I started screaming, and couldn't stop." She blinked, and there were hot tears on her cheeks. "I don't know why I am crying. I am not sad." She rubbed angrily at her tears, at her cheeks.
"Emotions have to come out some way," Jane said smoothly. He fought the urge to frown or look outwardly sad or rueful. That would make things worse. He got up, left her jittery and almost pulsating with adrenaline, went to the kitchen and came back with a kitchen knife. Handed it to his child. She stared at him like he had lost his mind.
"Patrick? What the fuck?"
"Stab the pillow," Jane said simply.
"What?!"
"Rip it up. It'll do you good." His voice was smooth. Honey.
"Are you crazy?" She was staring at him like he had lost his mind. He chuckled softly.
"Some part of you, on some level- on a level you're not consciously aware of- is feeling incredibly threatened right now. Your body knows this and is dumping huge amounts of adrenaline and cortisol into your system in an attempt to deal with your fear. But the threat is ongoing, because since you've been little, Red John has been ongoing. So you keep spinning out. You get exhausted, falter, crash and the fear builds back up again. You never work through the fear and the threat. Because you have never been able to attack Red John before."
"What do you mean, attack Red John before?! This isn't Red John," Charlotte motioned at the pillow. "This is a fucking pillow. And my thoughts are getting scary."
"Like what?" Jane asked calmly. "Scary like how? Describe them for me."
"Sometimes when I get like this, I worry I might hurt myself or hurt other people. Now that you have put the knife in my hand, I am worried I will stab you. Getting bad images in my head..." Her voice sounded choked.
"Hold it for ten more seconds."
"Why?"
"Just do it. I'll count. Hold the knife for ten more seconds and then I'l take it back."
"Patrick." Her eyes looked wild.
"One..." Jane counted, smiling calmly at his daughter. "Take a deep breath, Charlie, and feel it in your hand. Two..."
She got up. She was making a little moan in the back of her throat. Yup. Anxiety attack.
"Three... good job, Charlie. You've gotten through much worse than this before. Four. You're doing a really good job."
"I could kill you," Charlotte gasped. Her hand was twitching. "How do you know I won't? I'm crazy!"
"Nah, you won't. You know you won't, but your mind- five- needs something to focus on. Six. Something to freak out over, because the fear you feel is ongoing. Seven. Your fear is ongoing, and profound."
"Patrick..." She gulped. "Something very bad, I think... very bad is going to happen." She made a move to stand up and Jane shook his head.
"Nope. Stay seated, Charlie. We're in a moving trailer. You don't want to lose your balance."
"Patrick!" Her eyes bulged. "I don't like this..."
"Eight. Almost there. Not even two more seconds. Nine. You're there, put it down, put it down. Ten."
On the count of ten, Charlotte released the knife. It clattered to the table top and rolled. Jane caught it easily. Got up and took it back into the kitchen and put it away. Charlotte was jerking. Her face was pale. She looked at her father with wide, wounded eyes.
"I could have killed you," her voice was choked.
"No, you couldn't. I knew you wouldn't. Those thoughts are fear-based, no more dangerous than any other aspect of a panic attack."
"I'm crazy. What if I killed you?" Her words were tortured. Jane felt a stab of guilt, but she was sitting down. She had faced her fear. He knew perfectly well how OCD started. Severe anxiety, focused on some intrusive thought. The fear kept the person locked into the pattern. Charlotte blinked heavily. Fat tears dripped over the bottom lids, ran down her cheeks. She wiped them away immediately, angrily.
"I knew you wouldn't harm me."
"But what if you were wrong?" This was a whine. "What if you were wrong?!"
"How many times have you gotten fearful thoughts like this? Of hurting yourself or someone else? Intrusive, scary thoughts that seemed to make no sense? More than ten times?"
Charlotte blinked again. Nodded. Wiped her cheeks again. Jane watched. More tears spilled out. Adrenaline overload. She wasn't even crying, not really, but her body was just so stressed.
"More than 100 times?" Jane coaxed gently.
"I don't know. A lot of times."
"Usually when you're tired or scared? And can't run?" He kept his voice smooth, low. He knew what this was. He knew, and he was in control.
"Yes," Charlotte said tiredly. "There is so much noise in my head. Clanging. Like I am going crazy. Like cymbals crashing, razor blade screams behind my eyes..."
"But you're not going crazy. What you're going through is what happens to normal human beings when they are stressed out beyond normal limits. But you're not crazy. That feeling is just that; a feeling."
"Otherwise normal people go crazy, Patrick. They kill people. They... they shoot them from the tops of bell towers." Her voice warbled. Jane knew the breathing pattern. She was trying to keep from sobbing. He felt a pang of guilt, of fear. Had he pushed her too far, too fast? Scared her more than simply showing her she was in control? For the first time in a long time, he had a sense that maybe he'd pushed too far.
He pushed too far regularly, in a way. Lisbon had been chewing him out for it over the years on a fairly regular basis. But those people he may-or-may-not have pushed too far with hadn't been Charlotte, they had been random case-people, a blur of stand-in humans with relatively petty problems and relatively shallow personalities and relatively limited traumas. Pushing them too far wasn't really a problem. But with Charlie? Looking at her now, he was increasingly certain he'd made a mistake just now; with the lack of sleep, with her ongoing fear, with Red John looming over their heads, he'd wanted to give her back a tiny piece of herself, a sense of her being in control of herself. But he could tell from the breathing pattern- strained and holding, licking the lips, eyes darting back and forth- that she was ready to sob. He'd expected maybe a few tears, the tail end of a stress response. But the look in her eyes was betrayal. That look cut him deep. She was holding herself so tight, so rigid. Jane felt a pang of sadness, of grief. What had he done? Fuck.
"Charlotte, I am sorry. I didn't think you'd be so upset. I wanted to show you that you are in control." He made eye contact, allowed his face to show a bit of the sadness he felt. It seemed to be the wrong move. Charlotte moved away.
"You're a jerk," she said breathlessly. More tears dropped out of her eyes. "You're a jerk, Patrick."
"Yes, in many ways I am a jerk. I am not used to being a Dad. I am out of practice, and I am-"
He didn't get to finish the sentence. Charlotte's face, her breathing, tightened even more and a high pitched whine of pain came out of her. Jane stared at her, a feeling of deep misgiving unravelling in his gut. Fuck. He was making this worse. Fuck. Charlotte slumped out of her seat at the dining table, pillow cradled in her arms like a silent baby and staggered to the tiny airstream's bathroom. Jane trailed uselessly behind her. She was silently crying, tears streaming now, but no noise. She was being quiet, because he was there, and she was still trying to pretend she wasn't crying, because she equated crying with weakness, weakness with failure. Failure with death.
"I need to get a shower, Patrick," She said then, back to him, rigid and tight. Shallow breaths.
"Charlotte, I am sorry. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have pushed so hard."
"Okay Patrick?" Her voice was so wildly controlled, it was hard to listen to. Jane almost wanted to shout at her to just fucking break down and be a girl and cry. Because listening to her trying, raggedly, to hold it in was excruciating to hear. Instead he nodded.
"Okay, Charlotte."
She came back and got one of the towels she'd dumped onto the floor. She got her backpack. She took these things to the bathroom with the little enclosed shower stall, closed the door softly. Jane waited a beat. He heard water, the high pitched scream of the shower starting up, the spray of the water. He sat at his seat at the table, folded his hands in subservience, and prayed. An actual, honest-to-God prayer. That his actions in the last ten minutes hadn't just irredeemably destroyed the first tender shoots of the relationship between himself and his estranged, traumatized teenage daughter. That his cavalier insouciance, his ego, hadn't hurt her too badly. He heard, from the showers, a whine that was louder than the spray of the water, what sounded like a choked, tortured sobs. Series of sobs. He got up and went to the bathoom door and knocked gently.
"You okay Charlotte?" No, you fool, of course she's not okay. She's crying. And you're responsible.
There was a moment of silence as she knew he was outside and listening. She was holding herself tight and rigid and silent again. The only sound was the rushing of the tanks as they emptied themselves for her shower.
"Okay, Patrick," came her thin, reedy voice.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry again, that he have overstepped his bounds, that he had been stupid. He'd been really stupid, but he'd done what he'd done out of love. Not to scare her, or dominate her. To help her. That had been the intention, if not the result.
He stepped back from the door and went back to the little dining table. Sat back down and tented his fingers in front of his face. Blew out a hot, anguished breath. Fucking Red John.
The shower lasted 15 minutes. Which wasn't that long, not really, but which felt, to Jane, like an eternity. There was stillness from the washroom after, as Charlotte no doubt dried herself and got into clean clothes. She stepped out of the bathoom in a gust of hot, wet air that couldn't quite be called a fog, red-cheeked and scrubbed clean. She was wearing the jeans she always wore but a new t-shirt, one of the green t-shirts Lisbon had picked her up from the Walmart in California. She smelled of suave or whatever brand of shampoo Lisbon had grabbed and dial soap. She'd combed (or tried to comb) her hair. The chocolate pudding streaks and crumbs were gone. The bathroom had a sour undercurrent to it, the smell of bile. She carried her dirty clothes over to her bed, folded up, ready to be washed whenever they came to a place with facilities.
"Did you throw up?" Jane asked concernedly. He knew the smell of bile, sour and sharp and pungent, dumped into the stomach from the liver and stored in the gallbladder, to metabolize fats. Bile was a natural antifungal, antibacterial, antiviral, antihelminthic. Dark green, bilious, sour, rank, bile. Charlotte shrugged but shook her head at the same time. No. She had a mouth full of Listerine, cheeks ballooned with it.
"Okay," Jane said. He would not push it. Her eyes were large and buggy and red, the eyes of someone who has cried- and cried hard- in the shower and then dried them equally as hard with the towel. Once again he mentally kicked himself for his carelessness. Jane checked his watch. It was half past five. They would be there in two hours, give or take thirty minutes.
Charlotte went back to her bed and rustled through her backpack. She pulled out the little devil doll, Bunsen, and set it on top of her pillow and blankets. She pulled out a pair of clean socks and pulled them on to her feet. Found her Converse all-stars and slipped them on. Began to lace them up, pulling the laces tighter than Jane honestly thought she needed to. Her cheeks were still frogged-out with the mouthwash. She got up finally, went back to the bathroom and spit the Listerene into the sink, ran the water. Jane heard her gargle with tap water, run the tap a few seconds more, heard her replace her toothbrush in the cup and come back out.
"Feel better?" He asked gently. It was all he could think of to say. Charlotte nodded numbly, fatigue clear in her features. "Yeah."
"Mind if I get a shower?" He asked then. He felt hot and sticky himself. Hot and sticky and dusty. And stupid.
"No," Charlie said, shaking her head.
"You'll be okay?" He asked guardedly. Charlie nodded.
"Yeah. I'll play that Nintendo 3DS you got me."
"Okay," Jane said. He was already collecting clean clothes to change into. His cleaner pair of jeans, underwear, socks, his deodorant, his comb, facecloth, shampoo, towel, a fruit of the loom v-neck t-shirt. He wasn't used to dressing like this. He was used to three piece suits, even in the most stressful situations, not jeans and t-shirts. But jeans and t-shirts did hold up much better in the Mexican heat, were much easier to dump in a laundromat washing machine and get clean or even wash in a sink or bucket, twist out and hang-dry. They had their place on the road.
He took his bath stuff into the bathroom, looked back over at Charlotte. She was sitting, cross-legged, on her "bed", Nintendo 3DS in her hands, eyes on the screen, the image of rapt attention.
"Charlotte?" He broke in, needing to see her eyes. She blessed him with them, looking up, bright green, wary, intelligent eyes. Yes?
"I am really sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to..." He trailed. He felt so stupid.
"I know, Patrick. Don't worry about it." Her words were clipped, not because she was angry with him but because she was still coming down from a crying jag and trying to hide the fact. He was sure of it. That made it worse. She wasn't doing the typical teenage girl guilt-trip thing. She was forgiving him as much as she could under the circumstances and that made it worse, too. Moody anger, hostile sarcasm; those things Jane would have accepted and deserved and been okay with. But sad, tired acceptance was somehow much worse. He took his towel and his clothes and his washing up stuff into the bathroom and closed and locked the door. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked older by at least five years than he had a week ago. His hair was now dyed a flat brown that washed him out a bit, made him look almost pale. His eyes looked haunted in a way he had never seen in himself before. He barely recognized himself. He was becoming something else.
Saturday, November 3, 2013 7:02 pm PST
The airstream began to slow down right after seven and then stopped. Charlotte had quietly played on her Nintendo, then switched back to the portable DVD player and put Southpark on. Jane sat at the dining table, uneasy, feeling guilty. He watched his daughter. He felt such pain in his soul. For her, and for himself, and for his mistakes. Charlotte seemed to feel his eyes on her and looked up, blinked tiredly.
"Thank you again, Patrick. For the DVD player and the-"
Jane waved his hand, cut her off. "You're more than welcome."
"Do... would you like to watch Southpark with me?" Her words were soft, as if he might say no. He got out from behind the table immediately and went to her. She let him sit beside her, tensing at first at his closeness, then slowly acclimating to it. They sat watching the cartoon for a few minutes in silence, Jane feeling blessed. Charlotte was trying so, so hard. She had forgiven him for his stupid, impulsive, arrogant mentalist trick. He'd seen that look of betrayal and fear in her eyes and wondered if she would ever trust him, but she was trying. She was really trying.
He vowed silently to himself to go easier on her. He'd wanted to show her she controlled her thoughts. that just because scary thoughts entered your mind, that didn't mean they'd somehow influence your actions. He wanted her to not be afraid of whatever horrors would no doubt parade through her head like specters in a silent, mental parade, care of Red John. He'd wanted to give her back the refuge of her mind. But he'd gone too fast, and he'd hurt her. Shocked her. He was sure she'd puked, and then she'd pretended she hadn't. But he wasn't an idiot. He knew what bile smelled like, what cry-swollen eyes looked like.
But she was already trying to forgive him. He made a mental note in capital letters to be more gentle.
Charlotte pointed at the screen and laughed. "That's Cartman. He's an intolerable asshole."
"Intolerable or intolerant?" Jane asked, watching the cartoon play out, grinning at the extreme vulgarity.
"Both," Charlotte said. On the screen one of the main characters, Stan, was being tested for Asperger's disorder, which the show was repeatedly calling Ass Burgers. Jane laughed despite himself.
They watched Southpark, Jane sitting beside Charlotte but not-quite-touching, Charlotte cross-legged and fatigued. Until the airstream came to a stop. Charlotte shot her father a look. He smiled reassuringly and glanced at his watch. Two minutes after seven. More or less good time, about what he had ball-parked.
"I asked Lisbon to stop before we actually reached Hermosillo. To regroup."
"Okay," Charlotte said, but she sounded uneasy. Of course she would. She was uneasy. They all were. Jane walked over to the airstream door, and saw Lisbon coming towards him, holding the road map out. He let out a breath. For a second, he'd been paranoid, he'd thought something... impossible... and...
"Lisbon, hey," Jane said. Testing out her name in the evening air. The sun had gone down almost two hours earlier, but the sky was still fairly bright. Early evening, subdued purple. Charlotte appeared on the airstream steps with a battery operated glow stick (green, of course) dangling around her neck on a lanyard. It didn't provide much light, but Jane didn't think that was the point. Charlie had a tiny little black maglite in her hands- presumably two items she'd been carrying around in her backpack. She shone the light at Lisbon, as if Lisbon might not actually be Lisbon. Lisbon put her hand up to her face and squinted.
"It's me, Charlotte," Lisbon said patiently. If Jane had done the same thing, she would have squawked at him to get the damned light out of her face.
"It's her," Charlotte informed her father and then smiled at Lisbon.
"Uh... yeah," Lisbon said with mock annoyance, but the smile on her face told the teen she was okay with the security measures. They were all on edge. "So, anyway. We're about five miles away from Hermosillo. And I stopped. Like you wanted me to stop." Lisbon had pulled the truck and airstream off the main road and onto some smaller back road. They were in the dusty night and the temperature was falling. The air smelled like wet night and terracotta soil.
Charlotte wandered around while Lisbon showed Jane the map and the adults pretended to know what they were doing. The teenager played the light over the ground, over the wheels of the airstream trailer, the wheels of the truck, in the cab. She froze as the light picked out the red glass beads, then ran to the truck. Lisbon shot Jane a meaningful look and they both ran up behind Charlotte to see what the matter was.
"Those are the crazy chicken man's rosary beads!" Charlotte sputtered, shining the beam at them. "He sent them to us! As a message, maybe! I don't know what this means!"
"They're not the crazy chicken man's rosary beads," Jane said calmly. Charlotte turned the flashlight beam on him. He squinted at the brightness of it.
"They are!" She was adamant. Not sure if the beads signified a warning or were meant to be calming, reassuring. So she settled for something Charlotte-neutral: excitement.
"How can they be the crazy chicken man's rosary beads?" Jane said patiently, like he was talking to a very young child. He was tired. He looked over at Lisbon, like they might be her's. But of course they weren't. She shook her head, just a nudge, even though she didn't really need to.
"Well, whose are they, then?!" Charlotte demanded. She crawled up into the truck cab and fished them off the mirror. "Yes! His lucky rabbit's foot, from the talking desert rabbit! The one who he helped out of a trap, but the leg was ruined and couldn't be saved and-"
"Charlotte," Jane said tiredly. Rubbed at his eyes. Fuck, he was tired.
"They weren't there all along?" Lisbon said softly, aiming the question at Jane. Jane shook his head flatly. Lisbon felt a chill. More than a chill. She felt downright cold.
"Charlie, it's okay if you want to believe this stuff, but if you put them in the cab, you have to tell us," Jane said this smoothly, reasonably, and Charlotte swung the light beam onto him again like he might morph into something not-Jane. El Chupacabra, perhaps? The Mexican goat sucker? A Nagual? A Campacti?The underworld dog of Hell, the Xolotl? Red John himself, maybe?
"I didn't put them there!"
"Charlotte, they didn't get there on their own. They weren't there when I was driving. So someone put them there over lunch, when we were parked near those picnic tables. Remember? We were the only ones there. There were no other cars. Nobody else in sight."
Charlotte kept the light on him, then swung it to Lisbon. Then back to Jane.
"I am telling you, the crazy chicken man sent them to us," Charlotte said, and her voice was so plaintive that Jane wanted, desperately, to believe her. But he didn't. He didn't believe in magical hocus pocus bullshit. He never had. Since before he could read, he knew how most 'magic' tricks were performed.
"There were washrooms near those picnic tables," Lisbon recalled, looking at Jane meaningfully. There had been a low terracotta building with unmanned washrooms, the doors propped open on spindly metal legs attached to the heavy, heavy swinging metal doors. A sign nearby, rusted, in both Spanish and English. Please don't litter. Next to a rusted trashcan with an ancient Frito's wrapper and one rusty Dr. Pepper can, sun-bleached, caught inside like some strange fishes of the desert. Lisbon had gone into the shadowy section of the low, clay building marked "La Mujer y los niños". Women and children. To wash her hands. Jane and Charlotte hadn't bothered; he and Charlotte had gone back into the airstream, where they had their own washroom and idea that somebody (something) might have been in those shadowy bathrooms, waiting, waiting for them... Lisbon felt goosebumps rise on her arms. Jane caught her look and nodded.
"Okay, so Red John... he sent someone, maybe a lot of someones, to wait at the campsites and rest stops along our route. Our suspected route. And we stop, and he has someone stick the beads in the truck while we're eating lunch, knowing who Charlotte will think they belong to," Jane said thoughtfully, more for Charlotte's benefit than Lisbon's, but he pretended as if he were speaking solely to Lisbon. "Someone who is very fast and very quiet. It's possible." Jane shook his head at the planning involved, the obsessive mind-fuckery, sure he was right.
"No! Those are the crazy chicken man's! Not ones like his, but his! He sent us his actual rosary beads!" Charlotte was adamant. Jane considered this. They might be the crazy chicken man's actual rosary beads, but that suggested something very unsettling to Jane. Something unsettling and based in reality, not in the paranormal world Charlotte inhabited, where rabbits in the desert could speak Spanish and make deals with their rescuers and insects and fingers could rip through cursed humans; a world where God appeared as lightning in the desert and spoke to tortured children telepathically.
Charlotte was traumatized, and it made sense why she would be traumatized given the sheer amount of trauma she'd been forced to endure, and Jane would help her all he could after he found and disposed of Red John, but at this moment he had reality to figure out. Because Red John was still out there, and he was playing games, and most of his games didn't end well for the losers.
Jane looked at Lisbon in the gloom with intense eyes. He saw his partner swallow, a gulp, like a scared child. A slight nod of the head. Was the crazy chicken man even still alive? The idea that someone had been waiting for them, in the fucking truck cab as they ate lunch... it made Jane's mouth dry. Lisbon looked like she was having similar feelings about the whole situation. Charlotte was grinning, however, bright-eyed and excited. Magic! Here was magic, for all to see! See?! Why can't you seeeeeee?!
Jane heard a light tinkling noise and glanced back over at Charlotte. He sighed softly. His daughter had put the crazy chicken man's- or one's meant to look like the aforementioned shaman's- rosary beads on around her slender neck. As he watched she picked up the white little rabbit's foot attached to the beads and kissed it, let it drop back down to her chest, nuzzled between her small breasts like a creature that has found a warm, safe spot to sleep for a while.
Lisbon kept her voice slow, took a step towards Jane.
"Why put the beads there? To what end?" Her voice was whisper quiet. Charlotte was walking around the truck cab, playing the maglite's beam over the red soil, bored with the disbelieving adults.
"To freak Charlotte out and send us a message? That he can get to us whenever he wants? Or people he has on his payroll can get to us? The hills have eyes?"
Jane heard Charlotte back in the truck cab again, climbing over the seats.
"Charlotte believes they're his. And she believes in magic," Lisbon said. "Not half-way. Completely."
"I know. Red John is fucking with her mind, fucking with me, trying to intimidate you and, possibly, put as at each others throats," Jane said softly. "We can't let him split us up. I need you with me on this, Lisbon."
"I am with you," Lisbon said immediately, eyes hard. "Of course I am."
"I mean in relation to Charlotte. She doesn't even have one foot in reality anymore. She's..." Jane tapped his right temple with the hands from his right finger and brought the fingers away in a bird-flying-away motion. The gesture was clear. Charlotte was, ahem, unbalanced. She was loco. Lisbon nodded tightly, feeling like she was betraying the girl. But Jane was just stating the obvious, really.
"How do I help?"
"She looks up to you, Lisbon. At least I think she does. She's hard to figure out," Jane said softly. Lisbon nodded.
"I think she trusts you and has a teenage girl platonic type crush on you. You're a strong woman, a role model. Someone she wants to impress."
"Okay," Lisbon said softly. Smiled tenderly.
"Red John is going to try fucking with all of us," Jane said, voice still barely nothing. "But Charlotte will be the easiest to get to, because she already believes..." Jane trailed, widened his eyes slightly. The meaning was clear. She already believes in bullshit.
"Yeah," Lisbon said softly. Felt another strong swell of compassion for the girl. Charlie. So tormented. So bright-eyed innocent, despite everything.
"Patrick!" Charlotte yelped suddenly, drawing them both out of their hushed little conversation. Her voice sounded choked with adrenaline, alarm. "Patrick!"
"What is it?" Jane said calmly, and came over to the truck. Charlotte- all 85 pounds of her- was crawling back over the seats. She was holding an envelope out to Jane through the open passenger door.
"Look what I found! It's from Red John!"
Jane took the envelope immediately. There was a red wax seal on the back. Smiley face seal. One name on the front: Patrick. Maroon letters, could have been blood for all Jane knew, written in fine cursive. Jane had seen Charlotte's writing. She had atrocious penmanship, little better than the stumbling block letters of her toddler days, but now linked together with hesitant lines, as if she wasn't sure- even after all this time- if she was making the letters properly. Jane guessed there were probably some learning disabilities going on with Charlie, but even so...
The letter. Charlotte angled the maglite's beam on it, and Jane broke the seal, opened it. Pulled out a single sheet of paper and two faded photographs.
"When two, when two, become as one, then the fun will have begun," Jane read tonelessly. Under this was a math equation: 2 + 2 = 1. Jane looked over at Lisbon, looked at Charlotte, whose green eyes were all excited black in the night. Jane scanned down.
"Patrick, we're getting close now, aren't we? Can you feel the electricity in the air? Something almost Biblical in scope taking shape in the stars? I can feel it, and I thrill for it; I await our reunion with bated breath. Don't think for a second Charlotte had anything to do with this letter. Oh, she'll probably be the one to find it- that wouldn't surprise me in the least- but only because when she sees those beads, she'll start poking her curious little fingers around in all the nooks and crannies, as she's wont to do. She's been a curious one since I first took her under my wing. You can threaten and you can punish and you can scold, but her curiosity knows no bounds (does it?), and really, I don't have the heart to stamp it out of her completely. It's cute, in a way, isn't it? She's cute, isn't she? Despite all the odds, she's adorable. Adorable and doe-eyed and tragic and plucky. Curiosity killed the cat, Charlotte...
I tell her and I tell her, but she still doesn't pay me no mind. I wonder if she gets that personality quirk from you, Patrick? I think she must. The last thing I'd want to do is create division amongst your intrepid little trio, so I will tell you now: I had a friend tuck this letter away when he slipped in the beads. Did our dear little Charlie get a thrill out of those beads? I wish I could have seen her face when she saw them for the first time, but I have my imagination, and the last ten years, to fall back on.
The rabbit says hi, Charlie. I have the rest of him cooking in a stew with some nice flour tortillas, awaiting our little get-together. Hope you've all worked up an appetite..." Jane trailed off. He cast a protective glance over at his daughter, who looked aghast. The idea of the rabbit- or any rabbit- in a stew, most likely. But especially the Spanish-speaking wunder-hare of the desert!
Even now, Red John was mocking her, toying with her. Trying to cause pain, for pain's sake. Sick bastard.
"I suppose with only three little rabbit-y feet he couldn't run quite fast enough. His last words, Charlotte, were to tell you to never give up. He uttered them in the squeaky, leporine dulcet tones you no doubt remember so vividly from your sanguine childhood, as I slid the knife into his bloated little belly. Poor little rabbit. But, you know... All good things must come to an end," Jane stopped, took a breath. Schooled his features into calm analysis.
"Enclosed are a few snapshots from our glory days, Patrick. I know you don't really have any childhood mementos, so I have attempted to remedy that situation. How time flies, eh? Signed, Red John."
Jane looked over the photos. In the first there was an aged yellowy snapshot of him in a three piece suit, wearing a top hat. A sign in the background, slightly out of focus, declared him to be: the amazing Patrick, boy wonder. He'll read your mind! He'll read your future! Lisbon craned her head for a closer look, smiling tenderly despite the gravity of the situation. She'd never seen a childhood photo of Jane before, and he looked... younger than she had imagined he might. Bigger eyes, tanned skin, light blond hair like an angel, naturally wavy. His hair was the longish tangle so popular in the late seventies. Innocent expression.
10-year-old Patrick was standing next to a three foot tall little person with perfectly proportioned limbs who was dressed as a clown and grinning with a full set of tiny little nicotine-stained teeth. The little person was smoking. On Jane's right was a young chimpanzee with wild-bright eyes, also smoking. The chimp was wearing a red fez hat with a yellow tassel and a matching red vest. Lisbon squinted her eyes and could see a cigarette in Jane's child-small hands, lit, a small plume of smoke jetting out from his smiling prepubescent lips, his eyes shining with delight.
A black and white border collie puppy with too-large ears was sitting proudly by Jane's feet, tongue lolling out, expression one of mindless happiness. Jane's eyes were focused on the dog, expression proud, equally as happy. A circus boy with his puppy (his first puppy? Lisbon thought silently), having a smoke with the boys (the boys just happened to be a little person dressed like a clown and a wild-eyed adolescent chimpanzee). The backdrop was the opening to the big top.
"Lucky," Jane said softly, thumb rubbing over the image, over the puppy. Lisbon made a small awwww noise, caught herself. Jane seemed lost in thought. He blinked, turned the photograph over. Patrick, Lucky, Hector the midget and Dewey the ape. July 1978.
Jane flipped to the next photo, and his expression hardened. Lisbon saw him suck in a startled breath. She saw his eyes bulge, first with surprise, then with dawning horror.
In this photo he was slightly older than in the other image. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did, immediately. Taller. Thinner face and smaller eyes. Tanned skin, no hat on this time. He was wearing a striped shirt, blue and white with smaller red lines and brown corduroy pants. His hair bunched shaggy around his ears.
The skin over his knuckles was scabbed and peeling, scarred a dull pink where the dried blood had peeled off. Pink against the warm tan of the rest of him. He was wearing a navy windbreaker jacket with yellow stripes and yellow cuffs. The front of his shirt was covered in smears of dark red blood. Almost black. Jane had a bandage on his forehead, a single bloom of almost-black seeping through the off-white of the gauze.
Jane's little face was smiling crazily, eyes delirious and half-mad. In his hands he was holding up a dog's head; holding it up over his head like some primitive tribesman who had brought back the head of an enemy. Lisbon blinked, in shock. She wanted to recoil from the photo, from what it meant.
Patrick was standing in a yellowing field, a copse of autumnal trees dotting the background, yellow and orange with blips of fall-red, the colours not only of the 70s but of autumn. The end of the seventies, the end of the year, the tail end of childhood. About 30 feet away, clearly in the photo but not in focus, was another boy. Also blood-stained. Smudges of black for the eyes and black hair, a shaggy bowl cut, a cruel grin.
Other-boy was wearing a t-shirt with a yellow "Have a nice day" smiley face on the front and blue jeans, flaring at the ankles. The yellow smiley face, just a blip on the photo, was stained red with doggy blood, too, as were the jeans. Navy blue Nike sneakers on mystery-boy's feet. Back when they were called lace-ups and most boys were still wearing all-stars or loafers.
Other-boy (Red John?) was holding the leg of a black and white animal. Dragged through the field, red streaks on the white fur, what looked like intestines but clearly weren't, spilling out of the neck-hole. Lucky. What was left of Lucky.
"Jane?" Lisbon said slowly. Jane was staring at the dog's head, horrified, breath coming out like a whistle, like he'd suddenly developed asthma and was having an attack.
"No. This is not right. He... he ran away. Lucky. Lucky ran away." Jane sounded like he had been punched in the gut. Charlotte angled the maglite light onto his face, oblivious to the niceties of social tact, then back to Lisbon, then back to the photograph.
"Jane," Lisbon said, and gestured the photograph. "Is this... is that you?"
Jane turned the photo over. PJ, RJ and "Lucky". October 31st, 1978. Lucky was in quotation marks, but only that one name. Lucky, indeed. Ha-ha.
He felt sick.
"Is this you, Jane? This boy, here? Can I... can I see the photos?"
Jane handed the photos over to Lisbon with blank eyes. She lined them up side by side in her hands, eyes darting from circus-scene to evil-children-scene. The "PJ" in the field photo looked very similar to the Patrick in the circus scene. Thinner in the face, and the mouth seemed a bit thinner, lips not quite so plump, but people could look different in photos. The angles, the time of day, the expression. She was sure it was the same boy. Jane. Two sides of Jane. Two flip-sides of the same little kid. Nice Jane. Evil Jane.
"This dog?" Lisbon said carefully, tapping the image of alive-happy-Lucky. "This was your dog?"
"Yeah," Jane said flatly. He let out another breath. "I found him... tin cans tied around his legs. Covered in ticks. I... I washed him. Fed him, and bought him that collar..."
That sounded like the Jane she knew. Kind Jane. Jane who'd help animals. Who'd calm down a distraught suspect, if the suspect seemed innocent to Jane, seemed unfairly discriminated against. That was the Jane she loved.
"What happened to him?" Lisbon said softly. She had a pretty good idea what had happened to Lucky. But she wanted Jane to say it.
"He ran away," Jane said softly. Eyes avoiding the photograph evidence.
"When did he run away?"
"A few days before Halloween," Jane said calmly. He licked his lips. Charlotte was watching him. Lisbon was watching him.
"What were you doing on Halloween? In 1978?" Lisbon said with infinite precision. Careful. Jane shrugged. "You would have been almost ten and a half?"
"I don't remember."
"Jane," Lisbon said, slightly annoyed. Just a little. "You remember everyone you've shaken hands with since I've met you. Maybe everyone you've shaken hands with, ever. You have the best memory of anyone I have ever met. You have a memory palace in your head..." She trailed. The meaning was clear. How couldn't he remember?
"I am saying I don't remember, Lisbon."
"Did something happen around Halloween? Something that might explain why... why you don't remember?"
"I don't remember, Lisbon."
"What do you remember? Of your childhood? You remember Lucky?"
"Yes," Jane said tightly. "Bits and pieces."
"Bits and pieces?" Lisbon repeated. "What does that mean?"
"It means I remember bits and pieces of Lucky. And of my childhood. Bits and pieces means bits and pieces, Lisbon."
"Jane..." Lisbon said calmly, but there was a pleading note to her tone. They were standing out in the black Mexican wilderness, Jane's traumatized teenager daughter holding a flashlight on them, the sky darkening by the minute, a killer awaiting their arrival. And the first photos she was seeing of the man she'd worked with, side by side with, for over half a decade, the first photos from his childhood she was seeing included one where he was holding his own puppy's head up in the air over his smiling face like some sick trophy.
"Do you remember this boy?" Lisbon tried, gesturing with her head to the black-haired, black-eyed smudge of a boy in the field photo. The boy with the smiley-face t-shirt. There was a smudge of wordage on the kid's shirt, almost hidden by the blood, and Lisbon was fairly certain it read: Have a nice day. Have a nice day! Sure thing, psycho. Jane blinked and scanned the photo again with his eyes, pupils so big there was no blue left.
"No," he said in the same flat tone. "I don't remember him."
"Charlotte," Lisbon began, and nodded toward the photo, toward the black-haired boy. "You know what Red John looks like. Could this have been Red John? Back when he was a kid?"
Charlotte leaned forward, eyes deliberately avoiding the gory dismembered dog head. She squinted. Finally shrugged.
"It's blurry. I don't know. I don't think Red John was ever a kid." Charlotte sounded mournful. Poor puppy.
Lisbon sighed at that. Of course he was never a kid. Not to Charlotte. Of course not. And rabbits could speak Spanish. Lisbon counted to five in her head. She was in the blackness with two nutcases, and soon to be in the presence of a third.
"Well, does Red John have black hair?" Lisbon pressed. Charlotte shook her head.
"No. Blond. Like Patrick's."
"It would be easy enough for a kid to dye his hair," Jane murmured. Sighed. "Hair dye existed in the seventies."
Lisbon sighed. Looked back at the photos. Someone had been taking these photos. Who? The circus photo was more than just a snapshot. It was set up, posed, in the same manner as a Diane Arbus photograph. A slice of the circus life, of the outsider life, circa 1978. Midget, dog, chimp and plucky little otherwise-all-American boy. The boys-in-the-field photo had a similar feel to it. Little-kid-Jane with his dog's head held high in the air like a sports medal, his blurry little buddy in the background with the rest of the dog (little scamps!), the light angled just right to capture the sunset, the quality of a dying day. The sunset of Halloween 1978. Somewhere in some field in California. A field streaked with dog blood.
How many minutes before had little Lucky been alive, scampering about, tongue hanging out, eyes bright and trusting? Had Jane's eyes been crazy-looking all that day, way back when? For how long? What made them burn with madness like that? Why was his head bandaged? What had happened to the man she had come to think of as her partner?
So many questions.
The photos were set up and professional. Children with Polaroid cameras or even borrowed parents' cameras on timers and tripods did not take shots like these. Professional photographers took photos like these. Artists with a flair for the dramatic, with an appreciation for nuances and the juxtaposition of extremes, philosophers with money to spare on film and dark room developments... they took photos like these. People like Red John took photos like these.
"We have to find the chicken man," Jane said suddenly, breaking into Lisbon's thoughts. "We have to find him right now."
Lisbon nodded. What else could she do?
Jane began to walk towards the airstream, keys out. He locked the door and came back, got into the driver's seat of the truck, nodding his head at Charlotte (Charlotte, get in the truck, no questions, please) leaned over and swung the passenger door open. Lisbon held the passenger seat forward as Charlotte hopped up and settled in the space behind it. Sort of but not quite a seat back there. Space for her to sit, though, because Charlie was teensy tiny. Years of stress and crap-eating had stunted her growth. Lisbon hopped up onto the passenger seat, photos in her hand. Jane held out his hand for them and she gave them back to him. He gently put them back in the envelope with the letter, reached over and put the entire little bundle of craziness into the glove compartment and turned the keys in the ignition.
He pulled the truck back onto the road, headlights shining on the black asphalt, the yellow road-division lines bright as pigmentation on a poisonous snake.
"Did you know next year, in April, on April 15th... is the start of a blood moon tetrad? On Passover?" Charlotte's voice was odd, mythical. The voice of a bright little kid in a museum, correcting an ignorant guest. Completely out of place, completely inappropriate, in this reality of psychopaths and dead dogs and forgotten childhoods. Did anything faze her? Not for the first time, Lisbon found herself wondering if this kid was on the autistic spectrum. Along with everything else, of course...
"Oh?" Jane said. He was calming down, Lisbon could tell. Getting sort-of back to normal after the shock of those photos.
"Yeah, and the second blood moon is on the Sukkot. On October 8th, 2014. Sukkot is the feast of Tabernacles. And then, in 2015, the blood moons again fall on the same exact Jewish holy days- the passover and the sukkot- except in 2015 they fall on April 4th and September 28th, respectively. Historically, bad shit happens during or after blood moon tetrads. Maybe this time, maybe... the start of world war three? Maybe the antichrist will come back and-"
"Charlie. Can we have some quiet, please?" Jane said tiredly, cutting her off, eyes hard on the road. Her chatter was irritating him. He was getting a headache. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Lisbon stared out her window at the black shapes of cacti and stones in the desert. The sky was dark blue: phthalo blue at the horizon bleeding to black higher up. The stars were brilliant out in nowhere-land. Her life- the life of Teresa Lisbon, CBI agent- seemed to be making less and less sense by the hour. She felt like she was in a dream, almost. Charlotte was a dreamy character and Jane? Jane was Jane. He fit in a dream life.
"Do you think Red John really killed the Spanish-speaking rabbit?" Charlotte said after a tense three minutes. It was a crazy sentence, and it fit perfectly in Lisbon's new life. Anyone else hearing it would assume Charlotte was schizophrenic, talking in world-salad nonsense phrases. Neologisms. Can we have purple black hare bear day? Nonsense. Life was becoming nonsense.
"I don't know," Jane said, voice artificially light. "Maybe."
"Oh," Charlotte said, voice dipping down. Sad voice. Then: "Can we listen to the radio?"
"Yeah," Jane said immediately, and pushed it on. They still got the LA rock station. Santana's Put Your Lights On was playing. How appropriate.
Please review this chapter, guys. Reviews are awesome. My writer's version of crack-cocaine. *sniffs*