Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 22)

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, like always guys, for the reviews. You guys are great.

"There were a billion lights out there on the horizon and I knew that all of them put together weren't enough to light the darkness in the hearts of some men." - Michael Connelly, The Scarecrow

"I feel I could kill. I feel that I might like it. And I know that this should scare me. But it doesn't. It excites me. I am in Plato's cave, watching the shadows and fraught with the desire to hunt what casts them."― Nenia Campbell, Fearscape

"He lives down in a ribcage in the dry leaves of a heart."― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs

"Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it."― John Lennon

"Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody else expects of you. Never excuse yourself. Never pity yourself. Be a hard master to yourself-and be lenient to everybody else."― Henry Ward Beecher

"Great hearts can only be made by great troubles. The spade of trouble digs the reservoir of comfort deeper, and makes more room for consolation."― Charles H. Spurgeon

Saturday, November 3, 2013 8:02 pm PST

Jane unlocked the airstream door and let Charlotte in. She walked off to the bathroom at once, went in, closed the door. Jane shut his eyes, exhaled loudly. He was about as alone right now as he would risk... at least until Red John had been dispatched from the world. Privacy would have to wait until there wasn't a psycho with his face hunting them down. His hand had a tremor in it.

"You're okay, Patrick. You're fine. Just get through the next few hours. You can do that," his words were soft, measured. He nodded to himself. Went into the kitchen and pulled the coffee carafe off of the machine's element, put a coffee filter in the machine. He was spooning coffee grounds into the top of the machine when Charlotte came back out of the bathroom. She had washed her face, Jane knew that, because the collar of her shirt was wet. She blinked tiredly, gave her father an almost shy smile and walked into the kitchen. Pulled the cabinet door open and fished out the fruit roll-ups. She held the box out to Jane. He raised his eyebrows, smiled a bit.

"I'll let you decide. I can't possibly make such an important decision without caffeine," he muttered. Charlotte made a cackling noise, pulled a fruit roll-up out of the box and narrowed her eyes to read the flavour printed on the aluminum wrapper. Made a face and fished out another one. Handed the foil package to her father.

"Screamin' Green," Jane read. "Green, just like your favourite colour. What are the odds? And you're sure this is the best flavour available?"

"Just eat it," Charlotte said softly, then gave Jane a little grin to show she was just playing. "You think Lisbon wants one?" Jane shrugged. Charlotte sighed, a weary exhalation of breath. Jane filled the coffee pot with water at the sink, came back to the machine, poured the water in. Charlotte watched him.

"You don't drink coffee," she told her father pointedly as he turned the machine on. Jane shrugged.

"Sometimes I do. Tonight I think I will have a cup. And Lisbon does. Ergo, I am making coffee."

"Why didn't Lisbon come in the trailer with us?" Charlotte asked, and walked over to the airstream's door. She pulled it open and stuck her head out into the night. Jane had a sudden mental image of a meerkat sticking its head up in the air, looking for danger. He smiled a little to himself at the thought of it.

"I don't like Lisbon being out there on her own," Charlotte muttered. "It makes me uneasy. I feel uneasy now. Should I go and get her?"

"I think Lisbon needs a few minutes to herself," Jane said softly, making eye contact with the teen. "She has a gun. I think she is okay. But she does need a few minutes to herself."

"Because finding out Red John is your brother is upsetting to her, or because she thinks we need to talk without her?" Charlotte asked. "Or both?"

"The former, more than anything, but both to some extent," Jane said, somewhat amused despite the gravity of the situation. Charlotte was definitely his kid, right down to the banter and detailed questions. Charlotte had unwrapped her fruit-roll up (also Screamin' Green, surprise surprise) and had rolled it around her right index finger. She pointed that long green finger at her father.

"You love Lisbon," Charlotte said. It wasn't a question. Jane was silent for a moment, analyzing. He finally nodded.

"Yes," he said, voice low and tired, but resolute.

"Lisbon loves you, too," Charlotte said, and sucked on the fruit roll-up. "Even Red John knows that. That is why he hasn't killed her before now."

"Before now?" Jane said immediately, eyes sharp.

"He told me a long time ago, how he would never let me go, and if he did, it was because there would have to be some trade off. I didn't know what he meant. But I remember, also, him saying when I asked him, when I asked him why he didn't kill Lisbon... he said that if he killed Lisbon, before you knew I was alive, that you'd go crazy and either be institutionalized or end up killing yourself. And then the fun would be over. The game. So that is why... that is why he hasn't harmed her. But now you know I am alive. And because you know I'm alive, I think now things might not be so safe for Lisbon anymore. He didn't say if you knew I was alive he'd kill her, but now I am worried. Because now, maybe, maybe he thinks if he kills her now, you won't let yourself go insane or kill yourself, because you'll have me to worry about. Maybe that is what he is thinking. He didn't say that, ever. But... but couldn't that maybe be something... that he might think?" Charlotte was staring at her Converse All-Stars.

Jane felt suddenly cold all over.

Charlotte had made a very good point. A point he was too tired or upset or fucked up to have figured out himself right now. He nodded his agreement with her analysis. What Charlotte was fearing was something that might occur to Red John, and almost certainly had occurred to Red John. Red John had lost a treasured toy. He'd be looking to even the score.

"He never said he would target Lisbon if you ran away?" Jane's voice was sharp.

"He never said anything about killing Lisbon, period. He only told me why he hadn't done it so far, and now I think... the paradigm has shifted. And he might think differently, now. Also, it would be a good way to punish me for running away, wouldn't it? Because if he killed Lisbon, because I left, then in some ways... you'd blame me. You'd always blame me, because it would be my fault, to some degree... and that would be something Red John would find interesting, that change in how you would inevitably see me. Because it would be my fault and-"

"No," Jane cut in, but Charlotte shook her head.

"It would be, though, in a way. And you would blame me. Maybe not consciously, but on some level, a small part of you would. You would. You will. If he kills Lisbon, it will be my fault, in a way it actually will be and-"

"Charlotte, if he kills Lisbon, it will be his fault. Okay? Not your fault," Jane's voice was stern, controlled. She had to understand, she had to believe that. Charlotte shook her head again. Jane sighed. He would have to get her to understand, sooner or later, what personal responsibility was.

"Can you please go and get Lisbon now? The coffee is done anyway. Okay? Please go and get her, Patrick." Her young voice was urgent.

Jane pulled the airstream door open and leaned his head out. He could see Lisbon, sitting in the passenger seat, the back of her head. He could see the road into Hermosillo, and it was empty. Nobody on either side of the road.

"Charlotte, she is okay for now-"

"Please, Patrick, will you just go and get her?" Charlotte's voice rose. Her thoughts about Lisbon made sense, and because they made sense, the kid was suddenly certain they would come to pass.

"In a few minutes. Okay? In a few minutes, I will go and get her. Lisbon needs a few more minutes, just to be by herself, though."

"Lisbon is a private person, emotionally. Isn't she?"

"Yes," Jane said immediately. "She is. She needs a few minutes to collect herself right now. And so do we."

Charlotte considered this. Said nothing.

"Charlotte, I want to ask you something, just between you and me. Okay?" Jane wasn't quite sure how to say what he wanted to ask her. He still hadn't really sorted his own emotions out yet. But he had to know.

If he didn't know, he couldn't go forward with anything, not without possibly over-thinking in an already stressful situation, not without possibly hesitating or freezing at some potentially critical moment. Hesitation could cost lives. Charlotte was watching him carefully. She walked over to the airstream's dining table and sat down in one of the booths. She placed her hands together, fingers interlaced, in front of her. Like a student in class, alert and willing to learn. Jane smiled at her.

"You can ask me whatever you like, Patrick." She was looking at him, expression earnest, and Jane knew she was telling him the truth. Trying, in her own awkward way, to make his life as easy as possible. Jane nodded, held up his finger to signal that he'd need a moment. He opened the airstream's door ago, more for her benefit than his. Darted his head out, scoped out the road. Still nothing. Charlie's words had him paranoid, too, just a touch...

Jane exhaled softly, momentarily satisfied, pulled the door gently closed and walked over to the airstream's little table, slid into the booth across from his daughter.

"Charlotte, if I had more time, I would find a way to ask you these things more delicately, and I'd watch your facial expressions and be careful not to push you too fast. But right now I need to know some things, because if I don't ask and I don't know the answers, I feel I might hesitate or be ineffectual... dealing... with Red John. And that could be dangerous. It could be dangerous for me, but also for you and Lisbon. You understand that, right?" He kept his voice calm, tried to use his most calming voice, his most confident and soothing tone. He was so tired and fucking Red John was out there and now he was paranoid of leaving Lisbon in the truck alone. But overall, he was happy with the quality of his delivery. Charlotte nodded.

"I understand," Charlotte said softly.

"Okay," Jane said, and smiled at her. "Thank you. I know this is... this whole thing is really hard. I know that. It's hard for me, too. So thank you."

Charlotte was watching her father warily as he thought of how to frame his next few questions. She could see the gears and cogs moving, whirring, clicking along. His eyes were bright and fierce, and they never left her face.

"Charlotte, is it hard for you, when you look at me? Do I remind you of Red John?" He kept his words as calm and neutral as he could, but he caught the slight wince. Most people wouldn't have caught it, not even most professionals trained to catch such things. But Jane had guessed he'd see that subtle little shiver, and he did. And he knew.

"No," Charlotte said softly, and stared at the table, breaking eye contact. Not a good sign.

"If it is... if it is hard for you to look at me sometimes, that makes perfect sense. I look like Red John. So it makes perfect sense that looking at me would remind you of him, and given who he is, and what he has done to you... anything that reminds you of him would be upsetting. That makes sense and I am not angry or upset with you. Okay?"

She nodded, just a little. Sucked on her fruit roll-up and watched her father carefully. Jane smiled at her, as kindly and safely as he knew how.

"If you just want to nod or shake your head for most of these questions, you can do that. I know that sometimes, when people are talking about really upsetting things, it is easier to just nod or shake your head. Am I right?"

Charlotte nodded her head. Stuck the fruit roll-up in her mouth and didn't release it. Jane considered what she had said, in apparent joking fashion, about being orally fixated, about being developmentally delayed. She wasn't developmentally delayed, but she was traumatized, and all traumatized humans eventually found a sort of basic comfort in atavistic behaviours. Especially under stress. Jane smiled at her again.

"You heard me talking to Lisbon in the car, earlier. About holes in my childhood, missing pieces of time. Do you have anything like that? Periods of time you think you should be able to remember, but can't?"

This got an instant nod. Charlotte was staring at Jane, not blinking now, just staring. He wondered for a queasy moment if she had been trained in some fashion to answer questions on command. It would make sense. It would line up with Red John's need for control and need for dominance. But time was of the essence, now.

"Okay, thank you. That helps me. Thank you Charlie," he kept his voice light. Easing into a hypnotic trance induction.

"You implied just a moment ago that when you look at me, you are reminded of Red John, because of the physical similarities. Do any of my behaviours or personality traits remind you of him?"

This got another nod. The fruit roll-up was pulled out of her mouth and she blinked tiredly.

"Yes, but only superficial things, like your intelligence and how you drink tea and like classical music. Nothing big. The core you, the part that is you, that is your soul, is not like him. I know that, okay? Only superficial qualities. You are kind, though, and your eyes don't have any malice in them, not any at all. He is not kind, he only acts kind sometimes, but his eyes... they are mean eyes. But you act like you don't care, sometimes, even when you do care. So that is actually, sort of like the opposite of him. Okay?" This said, the fruit roll-up went back in the mouth. Jane nodded his thanks.

"Okay, Charlie, thank you for that. Thank you. That was kind of you. My hair, now, is dyed brown. Does that help at all?"

This got a slight nod. Jane thought as much. Hair colour was one of the first visual cues humans analyzed in other human beings, after skin colour and before height and eye colour.

"Does Red John have blond hair? Like mine, before I dyed it?" Jane's words, still soft and lilting, a warm susurrus.

A nod.

"Similar hair cut to mine?"

Another nod.

"Does he dress like how I dressed, when you first met me at the police station? In a suit?"

A nod. Charlotte removed the fruit roll-up. "Yes, he wears suits, but not three piece suits like yours. He wears two piece suits, and with a red tie, usually. Two buttons on the front. Dark blue or black. And he wears a hat most of the time, when he is outside."

"What kind of a hat?"

"I think it is called a bowler hat. It's dark blue usually, but it matches the suit, so I guess it depends on what suit he is wearing. He has a few. Sort of rounded on the top."

Jane considered this. Nobody really wore bowler hats anymore. Of course, most people were- as Charlotte had pointed out more than once- horribly unobservant. Still, a bowler hat would stand out... unless the person who was wearing it was so unnaturally charming that he could pull it off.

Jane ran the clothing details through his mind; the red tie, the bowler hat, and thought of a painting, a famous painting, by René Magritte, the Belgian surrealist painter. The painting featured a man in a dark blue, two-piece suit with a red tie and a bowler hat, standing in front of a stone wall, with an expanse of blue sea in the distance. The sky in the painting was grey and stormy, and obscuring his face was a green apple. The painting was called "The Son of Man". It was generally considered to be Magritte's finest piece, and Jane knew it was a self-portrait, even though the face was obscured by the apple. It represented the fact that reality was always obscured by something else, the conflict between the visible that was hidden and the visible that was not hidden.

Patrick Jane was the visible that was not hidden.

Red John was the visible that was hidden.

Jane knew, analyzing the significance, that Red John's style of dress was a message. Everything was a message with Red John, carefully planned and choreographed.

"Okay, Charlotte. Thank you. That is helpful, too. If I ask you something that upsets you, now, let me know. But please try to answer it, if you can. Okay?" He knew that even if she didn't nod, she'd tell him with her body language. Failure to nod without a shake of the head to indicate a negative was essentially a positive. A very painful positive. Charlotte nodded to tell her father she heard him. If she was upset, she'd let him know. How could she not, simply by reacting and him being who he was?

The fruit roll-up was back in Charlotte's mouth, a candy pacifier.

"Has Red John ever made you do anything that you haven't told me about, that he could emotionally use against you? That you are ashamed of?"

A nod. Charlotte blinked, hard. Wiped at her eyes as if she were tired. Jane gave her a small, reassuring smile.

"What he made you do... did it involve hurting another person?"

A nod, fast and tight, a spasm of a nod. Charlotte shut her eyes for a moment. Jane could see that she was hunched over the table now, body language defensive.

"Charlie, I am sorry. I don't want to upset you. I won't ask for specifics. Okay?" Not now, he wouldn't, at any rate. Later...

Another nod.

"Hurting someone else... more than one person?"

Another nod. Jane felt a bit nauseated now. More than a bit, actually.

"These people that he made you harm... did they end up dying?"

Another nod. Charlotte wasn't meeting his eyes anymore. Her posture was worse, breathing slightly more shallow.

"Okay. You know that anything he made you do, you are not ethically or legally or morally responsible for? It doesn't reflect on you at all. Red John used you, like he might use a tool or weapon to harm somebody... only using you as a tool... was so much worse, because you're not an object, and because you would naturally feel responsible, even if what happened was against your will and you couldn't have changed it. But you're not responsible in any way. Even if you feel like you are. You know that, don't you?"

Nothing. No response. She was staring at the table with lost eyes. No tears. Lost expression.

"Charlotte, you're not responsible. I swear this to you. Please hold on to that."

At this, a slight hunch of the shoulders. A deep, deep sigh.

"Do you remember what I used to tell you at night, before you went to sleep? You are safe, you are loved and you are wise. Do you remember?"

Another nod. She was still looking at the table. Jane sighed as quietly as he could, lest she think he was angry or annoyed with her.

"Charlotte, do you have any phobias? Any extreme fears that Red John could use against you?"

A deep sigh. A shrug.

"Anything specific that you can think of? Snakes or rats or spiders? Anything like that?"

The fruit roll-up was removed.

"I don't like fire. And I don't like blood. And I don't like skeletons."

"Are those phobias, though, would you say? For instance, if you see blood, do you panic?"

"If it's coming out of someone so fast that it can't be stopped, or if they are being drained." Her words were tired, strained. The last word in her answer chilled Jane. Drained?

"What about skeletons? They scare you? More than they would scare anybody, I mean?"

"If there are lots of them, and they are in the ground."

"Okay. And fire?" Jane prodded gently.

"If someone is on fire, or I guess if I was in some place and it was burning down. But mostly, if someone is on fire. And the smell of it."

"Those sound like reasonable fears to me, not phobias. Those situations sound like situations that would make almost anyone panic," Jane said calmly. Much more calmly than he felt given what his child was saying.

"Okay," Charlotte said tensely. "I wasn't sure."

"Anything else?"

"I don't like owls. I don't like the dark. Or small spaces. Not if I can't get out of a small space."

"How small?" Jane asked gently.

"Elevator size or smaller," Charlotte breathed. "Especially if it is small and dark at the same time. And maybe no air is getting in?"

"Okay," Jane said calmly. Filed this information away. He remembered the reaction she'd had to the owl sheets. The fruit roll-up went back in her mouth.

"Have you ever thought about dying? About harming yourself?"

A nod. She was looking at the table again.

"Are you thinking about it now?"

Quick shake of the head. No.

"Have you ever tried to harm yourself?"

Charlotte stared at the table. Nothing.

"Charlie?" Jane asked as gently as he could. He saw her swallow. Saw her nod.

"Okay. Can you tell me how you tried... what... what you did?"

Nothing. She just stared at the table, eyes hard.

"Charlotte."

Charlotte was still for a moment longer. A small nod, then. A tired, forceful, resigned exhalation of breath. She pulled the candy from her mouth.

"You won't be mad?" Her voice was pale. Jane shook his head.

"I promise I won't be mad at you. I promise." Serious words, no hint of his usual jokey self in those words. Jane watched carefully as she laid her left arm out on the table. She sighed again. Carefully she tugged up her hoody shirt sleeve. Jane forced himself to remain impassive and calm. Detached.

From Charlotte's wrist up to several inches above the elbow ran one straight, puckered vertical line of scar tissue. Puffed pink flesh. The wound had been deep, severe, the type of wound that would have separated almost to the bone and would have certainly required sutures (if not surgery) to close. She had slashed at the artery, with what looked to be a scalpel. Jane nodded again, tightly. He slowly reached out and touched the scar tissue on his daughter's arm gently. Charlotte shut her eyes at his touch. Let out another short breath. Jane was mesmerized, horrified. He thought he'd been impassive, for those first few seconds. But he was horrified. It just took a few startled seconds to realize.

"The other arm is the same, but not as long a scar, because the blood made the scalpel slippery and I dropped it, and then I guess I passed out..."

Jane was still, horrified eyes tracing over the deep, puckered scar where her daughter's flesh had gaped open like a screaming mouth, no doubt spraying blood and... Jane forced himself not to think about it anymore. Not now. Later, he would. Later.

"Thank you," his words were soft and sounded weak even to his own ears. Charlotte nodded immediately, and tugged her shirt sleeve down at once.

"Is that the only... attempt?"

A nod. Yes. Charlotte removed the fruit roll-up.

"After I failed that time, I knew it was pointless to try again. I would just be punished for another attempt. But it wouldn't work, no matter what I did. He wouldn't let me die. If I was going to die, then he would be the one to do it, not me." Her words were painfully controlled. Jane stared at her. Dipped his head to try and see her eyes.

"After our talk, will you let me search your backpack, Charlotte? And your stuff? Just for my own peace of mind?" Jane tried to smile, but Charlotte was, once again, staring at the table. Her eyes were wet with a sheen of angry tears. She nodded tightly.

"Okay. Okay, thank you."

Fruit roll-up was returned. She blinked and one tear fell from her eyes, hit the table. It was immediately wiped away.

"How long ago did you hurt yourself? How old were you?"

His daughter held up both hands, held them up in fists and then opened her hands one time. Ten fingers. Ten years old. She balled her hands back into fists and put them back on the table.

"Did something in particular prompt you to try? When you were ten?"

A nod. Forcefully.

"Was it the first time Red John ever made you harm somebody else?"

Another nod, immediately. Red John had forced her hand, and she had tried to take her life. Jane saw a pulse of angry red in his vision.

"Okay. Did you ever try and tell anybody about what had happened to you? About Red John? A police officer, someone like that?"

Charlotte nodded tightly. Her right hand snaked to her chest. She sucked in a deep breath.

"You okay right now? Feeling okay, still?"

"My chest hurts," her voice sounded strained.

"That's probably tight muscles, from being tense. I'm almost done with the questions, okay? Just a few more?"

Charlotte nodded.

"When you tried to tell someone about who Red John was, did they believe you?"

A shake of the head. No.

"Have you ever thought about hurting Lisbon, or me?"

An immediate shake of the head. She looked up at her father this time. Shook her head a second time to make sure he caught it. Eyes blazing with horror at the very idea of it.

"Okay. Will you tell me if that changes? If you ever think about, or feel like, hurting Lisbon or me? Or yourself?"

She pulled the candy out of her mouth. "Yes. If I can."

"What does that mean, Charlie? If you can?"

"If I am sane enough to tell you. In my right mind. Things happen. If I am completely insane for some reason, I can't be expected to tell you anything, but if I can tell you, then I will."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

Jane sighed, nodded. Laid his right hand out flat on the table, all fingers out.

"Five more questions. That's it. Then we're done," he said. He tried a smile. It felt fake on his lips. He kept his voice soft, so soft. So careful.

Charlotte nodded in acknowledgement.

"Charlotte... you know Red John has to die, right? That the police arresting him is not an option, but... that he has to die?"

Charlotte was silent for a moment, staring at Jane's hand and the five extended fingers with saucer eyes. She sucked in a shaky breath. Finally nodded. Immediately, Jane folded his thumb towards his palm. Four questions to go. Only four more.

"Does that upset you? I won't be upset or mad if it does. But does the idea of Red John dying, on any level... does it upset you? Make you feel sad?"

Silence. Finally, a quick nod. Jane nodded slightly, folded his index finger back towards his palm. Three questions left.

"Charlie, I will try and make sure you don't have to see him. But... if something happens, something I can't foresee. And I have to kill Red John in front of you, do you promise me you will close your eyes?"

A nod. Jane folded his middle finger back. Two more questions.

"If something happens to me, or to Lisbon... if both of us gets hurt, or you're otherwise alone with Red John. Do you promise to hide? Or run? Get away? Not try to help us, but run away as fast as you can?"

Charlotte's brow creased. She exhaled loudly, an actual huff. Pulled the fruit roll-up out of her mouth angrily.

"No! If you are hurt, I will help you. I won't run! Fuck that, Patrick!"

"Charlotte, if something happens and we're hurt, Lisbon and I... you'll have to run. Do you understand me?"

"No! I won't do it! I'd rather die!" Her eyes flared like fire. She stared at her father, and for the first time, Jane saw true anger in her eyes, and it was directed at him. He folded his ring finger over. He had the answer to his question, even if it wasn't the answer he wanted. She was staring at the little finger now with blazing eyes.

"Last question, okay? Can I give you a hug right now?"

She looked up at him. Nodded. The fire died down in her eyes, just a little. Jane slipped out of his booth and came around to his daughter, and hugged her. It was the first time he had been able to do that in over a decade. Charlotte, at first, was wood in his arms, and then, slowly, began to relax.

"Just paying you back for that hug in the truck, kiddo."

Her reply was short and sweet, and despite everything going on, it made him chuckle: "You're an asshole."