Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 24)
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: Keep reviewing, and enjoy! The school/treatment centre Charlotte talks about in this chapter is named after a real place, the Judge Rotenberg Educational Center in Massachusetts which uses electric shocks to control disturbed and troubled kids. You can google this place. I used the name Rotenberg here for the fictitious treatment centre in this story. You can google "Judge Rotenberg Educational Center" and "electric shocks" for more information. In case it isn't obvious, I am very much opposed to the use of painful electric shock to modify behaviour in disturbed adolescents (many of which have abuse histories and are acting out their grief and anger at what has happened to them- they do not need to be shocked to control behaviour that stems from trauma). In this fic the treatment center is in Sonoma county (same county in California where Bohemian Grove is located) and I call it the Rotenberg-Skinner Treatment Center (Skinner after B.F. Skinner, of course). If the idea of a "school" where kids wear shock collars to control behavioural infractions as minor as daydreaming pisses you off, I implore you to read more and get involved. Speak out. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
"Demons are like obedient dogs; they come when they are called."- Remy de Gourmont
"All the demons of Hell formerly reigned as gods in previous cultures. No it's not fair, but one man's god is another man's devil. As each subsequent civilization became a dominant power, among its first acts was to depose and demonize whoever the previous culture had worshipped. The Jews attacked Belial, the god of the Babylonians. The Christians banished Pan and Loki anda Mars, the respective deities of the ancient Greeks and Celts and Romans. The Anglican British banned belief in the Australian aboriginal spirits known as the Mimi. Satan is depicted with cloven hooves because Pan had them, and he carries a pitchfork based on the trident carried by Neptune. As each deity was deposed, it was relegated to Hell. For gods so long accustomed to receiving tribute and loving attention, of course this status shift put them into a foul mood." - Chuck Palahniuk, Damned
"He's a feral child. No mother, no father, no one to care for him or raise him or teach him how to be human. So he's existed much like an animal, without language. He thinks in images, not words."
"How strange," Lanaya, sounding amazed.
Ryter shakes his head sadly. "Not strange, I'm afraid. His condition is all too common in the latches. And becoming more common every day." - Rodman Philbrick, The Last Book in the Universe
Saturday, November 4, 2013 5:35 am PST
After they'd come in, Charlotte hadn't bothered with the shower. She'd gone to her bed, laid on top of it fully clothed and with her shoes still on, and all but passed out. Jane watched her as she slept, profoundly grateful for her existence, her life.
She was hurting, but she was alive, and she'd be okay in the end. He'd make sure of it. Lisbon hadn't even stirred when they came in, and that told Jane just how exhausted she was. Jane sat back at his table (it had been a little after 3 in the morning then) and watched the two women in his life who he loved more than anything, who he'd gladly die to protect. Charlotte's comments raced through his mind.
She honestly believed, on some level, that Red John could be "saved". Of course, that belief was also a very inventive defense mechanism. She'd been raised by a monster and her subconscious had found a way to make the terrifying trap of her existence slightly more palatable by concocting a reality whereby the same demon that controlled and terrorized her (Red John, the demon), also controlled and terrorized the man with the face of her father.
It was an intelligent, elegant and damned compassionate defense mechanism, but it also presented unique problems now. Dispatching the son of a bitch, no matter how necessary, was going to be even more traumatizing for Charlotte.
No matter how it was done, she would grieve the potential lost little boy in the man-suit, in the walking effigy of a human who had caused so much horror and pain. She would grieve whatever human flicker of life had once been in him, and she would suffer on account of that compassion. But Jane could see no way around that suffering.
Jane shut his eyes. Tried to think of the best way to go about getting rid of Red John. Perhaps Lisbon killing him would be the best- Charlotte might feel less conflicted if Lisbon killed him. If he, himself killed Red John- the psychological fall out from that for Charlotte might never be remedied. Jane knew Lisbon would kill Red John without thinking twice, but the idea that her carrying out what was essentially an execution (however necessary) seemed vile to him. It felt like he was using her to do his dirty work, and that bothered him.
And of course, the memories were still coming at him, blurred and distorted, surreal and unstable. He was remembering things, but they seemed dreamy and odd, the way memories feel when someone who is concussed and has developed amnesia starts to remember.
He knew what he was getting was real, and he knew his subconscious mind had put these memories- this span of a few strange and brutal months- away in a lock box in the back of his mind because those few months had been traumatic and strange and he hadn't been prepared to deal with them but, even still, the neat little excision of Red John from his mental files for so many years struck Jane as chillingly eerie.
How could he trust his own mind, his own subconscious, when it was making executive decisions for him and just erasing whole months of his life? Such a mind was mutinous. At least, it felt mutinous. And he was angry at his own subconscious, now, his own defense mechanisms. His brain had erased Red John, and in doing so, erased vital information which may have led him to his daughter that much sooner.
Jane drank his tea, and did sudoku squares and thought and remembered and considered Charlotte, asleep and drugged on top of her sleeping bag and Lisbon, face strained and aged with worry and fear. Loyal, stubborn, kind-hearted Lisbon and Charlotte.
Compassionate, tormented, haunted, vulnerable and almost feral Charlotte. His child. She had left him at the age of five- almost six- and in many ways, she had become stuck at five.
Her life had unravelled then, all semblance of sane existence, and she had entered a nightmare. Emotionally and spiritually, she had stopped aging. She had become a 5 year old trapped in a decade long nightmare, unable to grow, and Jane was certain this emotional stunting was a big reason she was physically so small, so tiny. Time had carried on, and her body had aged, but not as it would have normally. The body, Jane knew, was linked to the mind.
When people were hypnotized into believing they were younger, they began to walk straighter, they complained of less pain and others saw them as younger- microfacial expressions, gestures, non-verbal body language.
Age was largely a state of mind.
Charlie had shut down at five. Her body had continued to grow, but in the stunted manner of a plant kept in a dark room and fed very little light. She was a five year old in a stunted 16 year old body, intellectually much more advanced than 16 because a sadist had trained her to memorize large chunks of information.
Emotionally she was five (or younger, trauma could and often did cause people to revert to earlier, safer ages), physically somewhere around 11 or 12, chronologically 16, intellectually... God only knew.
To think of her as a teenager, in the typical sense, was inaccurate. She was no more 16 years old than someone who was in a coma from the age of 5 or 6 and awakes a decade or so later in a stunted, older body.
Jane tried to think of how scary and disorienting life must seem for his daughter, couldn't quite manage it. A nightmare. A nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare, like Russian matryoshka dolls. Fuck.
It was almost too difficult for him to think about.
Jane sipped at his tea. He had been sipping tea slowly ever since he'd come back from his "walk" with Charlotte, and had been up to pee 6 times. He was beginning to feel the tense, agitated energy that plagued Charlotte fill his own veins.
A need to move, to do something, an inability, almost, to sit still. It was an awful sensation, maddening. So he drank his tea, and practiced his breathing exercises. He'd kill Red John and they'd deal with the fall out. He'd stay home with Charlotte, help her heal. Get her professional help, if she needed it, and he could find someone good, someone able to tackle such a complicated, involved case.
He'd pay for Lisbon to take whatever time off she needed, too. They'd heal together. He'd deal with his own feelings regarding Red John, and he'd heal, and life would go on. Because that was what life always did, it went on, always.
There was a low moan, then, from Charlotte. She was still asleep, brow furrowed. She gave out a little screech of fear. Jane got up from the table immediately, was at her side within the span of a few seconds, watching her with concern.
"Pad-rick, no, no, don't!" Charlotte's voice was sleep clogged and slurred with fear. The crease in her brow deepened more. "No, no, no Pad-rick."
"Shhh, hey, Charlie," Jane murmured calmly, hoping that his voice would reach her. Charlotte's limbs seemed to spasm then, legs kicking out, arms shaking. Jane watched. It lasted a second, maybe two.
"No, please, get it out of there..." Talking in her sleep. Jane wanted to wake her, but at the same time, if he could ask her questions in this state, he could learn so much more about that which tormented her. That information could be very valuable, in helping her heal. And in figuring out Red John, in helping to trap that beast.
"Get what out of where?" Jane murmured. He cast a glance over at Lisbon. She was still out for the count. Exhausted beyond exhaustion. Okay. Well, it was just as well she was not awake for this.
"I want to hold it, please... can you please save it... take him out!"
"Charlotte, take who out?"
"The little baby. Take him out? Take him out of his sac?"
A little baby in a sac? The placenta? Charlotte was seeing... what? An infant in a placenta? A fetus in a placenta?
She made a low, choked noise. A harsh, soul-grating sob. Jane had seen enough. He reached out gently, shook her just a little. Her eyes slowly fluttered open.
"Pad-rick?" Voice still lost somewhere in dream land.
"Hey. Hi. You are having a nightmare," Jane said kindly. He felt a strong desire to pull his daughter into a hug and kiss her head. She was staring at him with haunted, glazed eyes.
"Yes, a very bad nightmare," she said finally, nodding. Her face was strained, the face of a child trying not to cry.
"Want to talk about it?"
"I don't know," Charlotte mumbled. "I don't know if I want to talk about it."
"You were talking in your sleep. You were talking about a baby in a sac."
Charlotte looked at her father, and rubbed at her eyes. Her breathing changed. Tears were close.
"Hey," Jane said gently. "It's okay. Come on, Charlie. Want to tell me what happened?"
"He wasn't ready to be born," Charlotte said softly, and rubbed at her eyes. "He was too little to be born. The mother was too young. In my dream. And he died."
Jane felt a cold despair rush into his blood. His heart thudded. What was going on here? What exactly had Charlotte witnessed? Disturbing possibilities rushed at him, a flood of possibilities, some almost too vicious to consider consciously. Or was this just a damned dream, a metaphor?
"You were dreaming about a little baby? You wanted to hold him?" Jane prodded carefully, voice sand-papery with repressed emotion.
"He came out still in his sac. Red John let me see him. He said it was very unusual for a fetus to come out still in the sac. He was kicking and swimming around in there. Only this big." Charlotte held out her hands about eight inches apart.
"Red John said he couldn't live, nothing could be done for him. He was too little. He was going to die. He was swimming in his sac. I wanted to hold him before he died, so Red John took out a knife and slit the sac open and pulled him out... he was... he looked sort of translucent and see-through and dark pink. His eyes were open. They sort of reminded me of fish eyes, for some reason. They were blinking at me. I held him until he died. His mouth opened and closed. Also like a fish. He kicked and moved and he was very strong, for such a tiny little human. And then he died."
"I'm so sorry," Jane said then. It was all he could think of to say. Charlotte nodded sadly.
"Charlotte, whose baby was it?" Jane said. His words were so carefully neutral, he sounded almost robotic. Charlotte stared at him for a long, hard moment. "In the dream, whose baby was it?"
"Nobody's baby. He died. He belonged to nobody. He would have been Red John's baby, but he died. They burned him up. I gave him a name, though, in my head."
"You named him?" Jane said slowly, amazed by his own voice, the steadiness in it. "What did you name him?"
"I named him Patrick," Charlotte said. Jane felt dizzy and a bit sick. The baby... no. It couldn't be. No. No. And yet... deeper, on a deeper level. Red John's baby? No. The fear in Jane's gut was burning and he felt a sudden, strong nausea. He was jumping to conclusions, here, and he was wrong.
He was wrong... because Red John would never risk genetic problems in a child he wanted to be an heir. He would never risk... inbreeding. Even in his own mind, he couldn't say the words. This was obviously just a nightmare, and the fetus named Patrick represented hope or innocence or something like that.
His brain would not allow it. Something else was going on. Obviously. Had to be. Even Red John had his limits.
"What happened to Patrick's mother? The baby's mother? In your dream?" Jane said finally.
"She bled a whole hell of a lot, and I think maybe she died," Charlotte said softly. "I think maybe she did die."
"How old was the baby's mother?" Jane asked, sotto voce.
"Only twelve," Charlotte said after a long, dazed, introspective moment. "Only just turned twelve." Just turned twelve. Eleven when she conceived. If the baby was Red John's, then at the very least... he had raped a little child. If this wasn't a dream. Why had his mind immediately assumed her nightmare was real? Simple. So far, they had all been real, these nightmares. Aspects of reality.
Dear God. Please... no...
"That sounds like a horrible nightmare," Jane said cautiously, and his voice seemed to come to him from a long way away. His heart was thudding dully in his chest. What he was thinking was wrong. Red John had showed her a fetus, because it was an educational experience, and also, because it would torment her, but nothing else... nothing else had happened here. Of course not. Even Red John had his limits. Even if they were only intellectual, narcissistic limits. Some things he would not do, he would not resort to. Surely. Surely some things were below him?
Charlotte looked at her father with dazed eyes. She was still half asleep, hair mussed and sticking to her forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed like a baby, eyes buggy and swollen.
"Can I get a shower now, Patrick? Will it wake up Lisbon?"
"I think Lisbon is pretty much out of it," Jane said, smiling a little, glancing back over at his partner as he said the words. "I think it is okay of you want to get a shower."
"Okay. Thank you." Charlotte got up, grabbed her backpack and slouched her way to the bathroom. The accordion door pulled across and Jane heard the water rushing. It matched the thick, sick rush of blood in his ears, the creeping, sour fear.
Patrick Jane put his head in his hands and shut his eyes, and for the first time in his life, for the first time in his memory, he prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.
Charlotte came out of the shower dressed in different clothes, hair mostly wet, a towel over her head. She went to her sleeping bag and sat on top of it. Pulled her portable DVD player open and popped in a DVD. A few seconds later Jane heard Southpark playing over the tinny little speakers. It was almost 6 am.
He went into the kitchen and made coffee, pulled the eggs and bacon out, pulled out the pancake mix and the bag of frozen blueberries. Charlotte glanced over at him as he cooked, curious. The sound of coffee as it hissed and popped in the machine, the smell of it, the crackling of eggs as they cooked. He put eggs and bacon on two plates, blueberry pancakes on all three. Three cups of coffee. He brought the jug of milk from the fridge and put it on the table.
Charlotte paused the DVD player and drifted over to the little table. Jane went over to Lisbon. Still asleep.
"Lisbon? Hey? Wakey wakey," he said tiredly, and smiled at her. Gently nudged her. Her eyes fluttered open, confused at first, quickly sorting out reality from dreams. She rubbed at her eyes, yawned.
"What time is it?"
"A little after six. I made breakfast," Jane said. Lisbon yawned again and nodded and got up. Got her stuff and went to the little bathroom to do her business. She came out ten minutes later, showered (a very quick shower, of course, water was running low), in clean jeans and a clean blouse. After her own shower Charlotte had changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt, which was a bit... backwards. Lisbon smiled at the girl as she sat down. Charlotte was shoveling blueberry pancakes into her mouth, pancakes drenched in syrup. She slurped her coffee noisily, happily, and Jane was happy for this tiny moment of safety and pleasure.
"Mornin' Lisbon," Charlotte said good naturedly. "You were really out of it. Very tired."
Lisbon nodded at the girl. Charlotte was a horribly messy eater. She had syrup, somehow, on her hands, on her chin. Whatever.
"Wow, this looks great, Jane," Lisbon said, digging into her food. Jane smiled. "I can't remember the last time I had blueberry pancakes."
"I can," Charlotte said, mouth full of pancake.
"Oh?" Jane said.
"At IHOP, when I was 4 and a half," Charlotte said. Another happy bite. Jane nodded. If she said so... she seemed so damned happy, just to be eating pancakes. Simple pleasure.
"We're going to find the chicken man, today," Charlotte announced to the room. Jane nodded. Lisbon nodded.
"Yup. That's the plan," Jane agreed.
"Lisbon?" Charlotte asked, words semi-muffled by pancake. Chomp, chomp, chew.
"Hmmm?"
"You can wear the chicken man's rosary beads today if you want?" Charlotte was trying to put Lisbon at ease, give her an amulet of protection. It was touching, poignant.
"Don't you want to wear them?" Lisbon said, darting Jane a small smile. Charlotte hunched her shoulders.
"You're more afraid than me. How it works on the spiritual plane is... negative spirits attack people who are scared, or confused. Uncertain. You are the most afraid. You need the most protection." The smile on Lisbon's face dried up at that.
Another bite of pancake was quickly shoved in her mouth. Bite, bite. Chew. Gulp. A slurp of coffee.
"I have been praying for you and Patrick. In my head," Charlotte informed the two adults as she continued to chew her food. Lisbon smiled again, then, not sure how to respond to that, but touched just the same
"Thank you," she said finally, voice soft and round with emotion. "That is kind of you."
Charlotte waved the compliment away in a "don't mention it gesture".
"Patrick?" Charlotte said, glancing over at her father.
"Yes?"
"If we survive the next few hours or days, whatever... we are going on a vacation?"
"All of us will survive," Jane said, resolutely. "And yes, a vacation after. For sure. Right Lisbon?"
"Yes, I am definitely taking a vacation," Lisbon agreed.
"You wanna go see Legoland with me and Patrick?" Charlotte asked Lisbon. She was mopping up syrup on her plate with the remaining few bites of her blueberry pancakes.
"Um.. okay," Lisbon said. "Sure. Sounds like fun. Sure."
"Patrick?" Charlotte asked again. Jane rubbed a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.
"Uh huh?"
"After this is all over, can we get a puppy? Like your dog Lucky? As a symbol of.. um, of survival and... of... um, commitment to the future? Healing?"
How could Jane say no to that? Jane, who had bought Lisbon a pony for one of her birthdays and smuggled it up into her office via the CBI's back elevators? Of course they would get a puppy, if Charlotte wanted one.
"We should get a puppy nobody else wants. One that is blind or has only one leg."
"Oh?" Jane said mildly, looking over at Lisbon. She was eating her breakfast, watching Jane, watching Charlotte. Chewing bacon. Preparing for the day.
"We should get an animal nobody else is likely to want, because life is unfair, and because it is good to help the damned," Charlotte told Jane. She stuffed the last piece of pancake into her mouth. Drained the last of her coffee and took her syrupy plate and empty coffee mug over to the sink and put them in. Ran the water. Ran the scrubby brush over the plate, washing it. Jane watcher her dry her plate and mug with a tea towel and put her dishes away.
"Lisbon, do you like dogs?" Charlotte asked as she came back to the table, the adults.
"I do," Lisbon said, nodding. "I like dogs a lot."
"You should get a dog, too. So my dog can play with yours. And Patrick, you need to get your own dog, too. Three dogs."
"From one to three in less than five seconds," Jane said, amused. Lisbon was grinning now.
"The chicken man has a bunch of dogs. Unwanted dogs. They look like they have fleas, but he feeds them. Otherwise, I think they would have starved. Maybe we should get three dogs from him. They'd sure appreciate it, those dogs."
"Maybe we will," Jane said.
"If the chicken man helps us, can you help him out, Patrick? Help his dogs? We can take them all, get them fixed, and find homes for them? Help the chicken man, also?"
"Yes," Jane said immediately. "Yes. We will help him." Anything you want, Charlie. Just stay alive.
Charlotte was silent for a moment. Thinking. Wheels turning. What was she thinking? Jane had no idea.
"I was having a bad dream last night," Charlotte said then, softly, changing gears. "A very bad dream."
"I know," Jane admitted. Did she remember talking to him? He wasn't sure. He let her lead the conversation.
"Remember I told you about... um.. when I tried... dying?" No easy way to say that. Charlotte sounded ashamed. Jane nodded tightly. How could he forget?
"Yes, I remember."
Lisbon was sitting stiffly now, at attention. Movements very careful, very controlled. Charlotte's sensitivity to such deeply painful subjects was blunted, apparently. She had learned to deal with shit like this on a daily basis, so her attitude when talking about sad, heavy things was more or less nonchalant.
"There is this place in Northern California. A treatment facility..." Charlotte's expression darkened. "It is no good. Evil place. Can you shut it down after? You and Lisbon? After... after we deal with Red John?"
"Yes," Jane said immediately. No questions asked. Yes, he would shut it down. Lisbon shot him an alarmed, wary look. Was it really wise to be making promises like that? Charlotte's horrors were like layers of an onion, seemingly endless. But wasn't it reckless to promise, on the spot, that he would shut down a private mental health facility, without any more information? Shit, Jane.
"It's not a good place at all. Private facility. They gave me shocks there." She only sounded mildly upset, and Jane was sure that- consciously at least- she probably only felt mildly upset. Because if she felt terribly upset about terribly upsetting things, she wouldn't have been able to function for very long. She had had to face so many soul-numbing intrusions of her person, that the only way anyone could have survived, emotionally, was to become emotionally numb and desensitized.
Still, it was a bit eerie to hear the tone Charlie used, like she was discussing a TV show she liked, that had been cancelled. Something relatively non-important. Shocks. Shocks? Fuck. Jane felt like killing. Not just Red John. Everyone who had harmed his child. Slit their throats... his mind was suddenly filled with very dark, very violent images and he knew that if he wasn't careful, he'd destabilize himself.
He forced himself to focus on his child, on being supportive and neutral and therapeutic for her. Him losing his shit would help nobody, but it would definitely hurt Charlie. It would hurt Lisbon, too.
"Shocks?" Jane said finally, when he trusted himself to say that word in a manner that wouldn't upset either Charlotte or Lisbon, but when he looked at Lisbon, his eyes were burning. She felt her own eyes narrow with anger. Okay. Yes. They'd shut this place down. Lisbon was on-board now, Jane could see.
"Electroshocks. Because they said I had refractory depression. It was the only way to help me, they said, and for my own good, but it didn't help. I just pretended. I said whatever they wanted. They kept me there for 9 months. 5 times a week, they gave me the shocks. They said I was delusional about Red John, but I knew I wasn't insane or delusional. But I told them I was and worked very hard to smile and they let me out. After 10 months."
Jane looked like he was going to hit something. Lisbon saw that he was trying very, very hard to be calm. He was doing an exceptional job of controlling himself. Lisbon herself got up and walked into the kitchen. She needed a moment, because she felt a sudden furious, righteous rage. She couldn't imagine what Jane was feeling.
"It wasn't true, though. I wasn't depressed. I was... I tried to tell them about Red John. They said I was delusional. Psychotic. I just told you that, I know. Depression induced psychosis. Nobody listened. There are other kids there. One kid I met there, his parents had abused him. He told me that, that his father was raping him, but they said to him over and over that he just wanted attention and was acting out."
"His father was a big court judge, a federal judge, and the boy was acting out they said, telling lies for attention they said, so they sent him there. But you know what, Patrick? They ended up killing him. He died. He went into the ECT room, and he never came back out. It was very frightening." No doubt it was horrifying for a traumatized ten-year old-who was suffering the same treatment. How had Charlotte emotionally survived? Not for the first time, her being here with him, more or less sane, was a miracle.
Jane knew if he had had to face what she had faced, he wouldn't have survived. He was certain of it. He would have self-destructed or gone out of his mind. He'd be a gibbering mess.
"They said the boy killed himself. But I know he didn't, because he was talking about how he was going to run away when he got out, and how he'd go to Disneyland and live on the beach and beg and do that until he came of age and they couldn't send him back to his father. That was what he was telling me right before he died. So I don't think he killed himself. That doesn't sound like someone who was going to kill himself, right?"
Jane's expression hardened. Charlotte was full of so much horror, she didn't seem to know how or when to divulge information. She seemed almost bored, sometimes, reliving these things. But then, in the night, she had panic episodes and nightmares. Her subconscious was horrified, even if she had convinced her conscious mind she didn't care.
And she was right. That boy's plans for the future didn't jibe with suicidal ideation.
"You and Lisbon will close it down? I swear. I am not crazy. It's not a good place," Charlotte's voice was begging them to believe her. She made eye contact with Lisbon who was still in the little trailer's kitchen trying to get her emotions in order, and Lisbon felt a wave of protectiveness wash over her. Jane could see the righteous anger in Lisbon's eyes. Lisbon, the mother bear. Charlotte was her cub, based on the look on her face, and Lisbon was pissed. Jane was pissed.
Charlotte didn't seem to realize just how profound what she was saying really was. She obviously wanted- needed- to be believed. No doubt she had tried to tell others about what was going on.
No doubt they hadn't listened. Who would? Red John's treatment of her was almost beyond belief. If Jane hadn't known beyond a doubt what the monster with his face was capable of, if he hadn't seen and experienced what he had, himself... he might have thought Charlie was psychotic or delusional, too. Evil, at a certain level, sounded utterly nuts. Because evil was nuts.
The sufferer wasn't nuts, but the actions of the people consumed by sadism and cruelty, those actions could very easily sound nuts, and a small child telling of such things without a "credible" adult witness to verify? So, so much of the horror in the world was sugar-coated by simply calling it delusion. Easier than playing those psychic flashlight beams over the monsters in the dark, easier than seeing their faces.
"We will check it out, Charlotte. We will... we will investigate," Lisbon said solidly. Eyes hard and glittering, dark diamonds.
"You have to close it down. It is a private facility. Only kids are there. It looks nice from the outside, but inside... it is not nice. Kids that have parents who are rich and powerful, but bad... abusive parents in positions of power. They send their kids there, if their kids act out. That is what it is. They send you there, as a warning, as behaviour modification. ECT is the main way they control you. But also, they have forced work and a hydrotherapy room. Red John sent me because I tried to die, so I wouldn't try again. So I'd be too scared to try again. There are... lots of kids in this world who have powerful parents and... guardians. Powerful, mean and criminal parents, and guardians. You wouldn't even believe how many, Patrick... you wouldn't ever guess, and most people don't like to think about things like this, so they don't, but the shadows see everything, all of it... the shadows see, but other people don't see, and they don't believe..."
"I might," Jane said, eyes on Lisbon. She nodded. Charlotte's body language was dejected, but slightly hypomanic. Agitated. No fucking wonder.
"You guys will shut it down? It is in Sonoma county. It's called Rotenberg-Skinner youth treatment centre. In the brochure, they say they have horses, and they do, but I never saw anybody ride them."
"We'll close it down," Jane promised again, still somewhat recklessly in Lisbon's opinion. But she knew Jane would close it down. She knew he wouldn't stop until it was shut down, until it had been bulldozed into nothingness.
"Red John was there, you know," Charlotte murmured, looking at the table. "He was there, when he was a kid. He said it helped him become what he is. I can see how it might have made him. He was there. "
Jane got up and paced a bit at that. Stopped and was still. Face haunted. Lisbon could see the muscles in his jaw flexing.
"He was?"
"Yeah. He said your mother sent him there. Because she couldn't handle him."
Jane didn't say anything. Neither did Lisbon. Charlotte rubbed at her eyes tiredly. like a small child.
"It's an evil place. You'll feel the evilness right away, I think. Like a cold, heavy blanket that presses in on you, when you get on the property. A heaviness. You can feel it. The staff act nice to adults, but they won't fool you guys. I think it is haunted. If it is possible for psychic pain and anger to somehow linger in the air, and haunt a place, then that place is haunted. You'll feel it, I think. It won't fool you guys. It won't fool you-"
"No," Jane said after a long moment. "They won't fool us."
"You do believe me, right? You don't think I am crazy, or a liar? You for sure believe me? That I am telling you the truth?" She was so scared of being disbelieved, so nervous. Jane could see the anxiety, now. Not at first, but now it was very much evident.
"I know you aren't lying, and I also know, 100%, that you're not crazy," Jane said this with hard determination. He ducked his head to see Charlotte's eyes, to catch her gaze with his own, so she could see how much he believed what he was saying, so she could see how determined and serious he was. For whatever that was worth, that serious expression on his face, in his eyes.
"I feel crazy, sometimes," Charlotte murmured. "I feel crazy. My emotions are not normal. I should be more upset but I am not. But my body gets upset. Sometimes I am upset. Everything is all messed up, and I'm not sure why."
"Charlotte, it makes sense that a lot of things would feel crazy for you. You have been through some really crazy experiences, crazy-making experiences. Designed to destabilize you, to scare you almost to death. Anyone would feel crazy in your shoes. But that is not the same thing as actually being crazy. Okay? You're not crazy. I need you to believe me about this," Jane said, voice a bit more forced than he intended, a bit more pressured. But damn it- the idea of his little kid thinking for one second more that she was somehow damaged or wrong or crazy or a liar or any of that crap, was almost... no. He could not have it. She had to believe him.
He'd tell her ten times a day, if she needed that. A hundred times. A thousand times, even. As many times as it took for that haunted, ashamed, uneasy fear of being thought of as lesser and not sane and not right to start to go. Now that Jane could see it in her eyes, so strongly, he wondered if he would ever be able to not see it?
Charlotte nodded blandly.
"I am serious. You're not crazy, Charlotte. I don't think you're crazy and Lisbon doesn't think you're crazy. Do you Lisbon?"
"No. Not at all. Not one little bit," Lisbon said immediately, and her voice sounded high and strained to Jane, but to Charlotte she probably sounded completely fine. Lisbon tried to smile at the girl, who was looking at her anxiously, but it was forced.
"See? And... Lisbon and I, we have met a lot of crazy people. Haven't we Lisbon?"
"Many, many crazy people," Lisbon confirmed. This was easier to say. "Many of them."
"See? We're experts on crazy people. We'd know in a heartbeat if you were crazy. And we both know you're not. Okay?"
Charlotte rubbed her eyes again. Sighed.
"And you'd know if I was a liar," Charlotte confirmed. "You'd for sure know?"
"I'd for sure know, Charlotte, and I know you're not a liar. I know that for sure. I can spot liars a mile away."
"What am I then? I'm not normal." So much anguish in her voice, then. Jane knew he had to listen harder. She had trained herself to sound unconcerned, as best as she could. Under it, though... a slight tremor. A look in the eyes that spoke volumes about her fears of her own mind and soul.
"You're traumatized," Jane said softly. "Your soul has been wounded. Your sense of reality has been deliberately distorted and confused and reinforced with violence and mental manipulation and sleep deprivation and electric shocks and probably a lot of other things I am not aware of, almost certainly other things, but you, yourself, are remarkably sane and remarkably resilient and kind and honest and good. I am very proud of you. And you can ask me as many times as you need to if you need me to tell you that you are sane and honest, and I will tell you. Over and over, I will tell you. Okay? And Lisbon, she'll tell you too."
"Okay," Charlotte said, and gave a heavy blink, and Jane found himself wondering, suddenly, if part of that strange blinking was brain damage, was electric shock damage? And he felt the snake that was his bowels tighten a bit more, the deep tight ache of anguish and grief.
He felt a sickening rage that he knew he couldn't feel right now, too, and it was taking all of his mental and emotional energy to contain that rage like a rabid predator in a cage back behind his eyes.
"I really enjoyed your blueberry pancakes, Patrick," Charlotte said then, as if it would somehow even out everybody's mood. She's given them some heavy talk, and now, here, was a compliment. See? Everything was okay again.
Jane smiled sadly. Tried to look like he didn't want to strangle somebody. A sad, surprised, weary little laugh came out of him without his permission. Charlotte.
"That's good, Charlie. I am glad you liked them. I'll make them again for you, okay?"
"Yeah. Did you like the pancakes, Lisbon?"
Lisbon nodded. Jane could see the deep sadness and compassion in her eyes for his child, and felt a surge of love for Lisbon. "Yes, I liked them very much. Your Dad's a good cook."
"Haha. Yeah. Better than a 1950s housewife, right? We should buy him a Maytag dishwasher for his birthday. Ha ha ha."
It was an odd and peculiar thing to say and Lisbon, obviously, needed to laugh because she did laugh, high and gleeful, strained laughter, the laughter of someone who desperately needs the release. Jane grinned despite himself.
"Haha, Patrick, we should get you a frilly pink apron! With a poodle on it!" Charlotte's eyes were glazed. She was staring at Patrick's pancakes, which he hadn't touched. Still hungry? Jane inclined his head and Charlotte looked confused. He pushed his plate towards her. He'd eaten the dreaded, horrible bacon and most of the eggs. Charlotte smiled happily and began to eat Jane's pancakes.
"We should buy you some frilly little dish washing gloves with lace on them," Charlotte said with her mouth full, apparently quite amused with this new conversation, with thinking up inappropriate, womanly gifts for Jane. He let her prattle on, grinning at her, then at Lisbon.
Jane decided that the best way to find a place to hook up the trailer with electricity and water was to find a convenience store or general store, and ask flat out what was in the area. At 7:30 in the morning he found a place that was open, leaving Charlie in the trailer with Lisbon. He was in the store 5 minutes, picking up candies and some fruit, some random canned foods (rice and beans, chili, some sort of soup), when Charlotte appeared, heralded by the ringing of the door's little bell.
"Lisbon said it is okay if I came in," Charlotte said immediately and Jane nodded and smiled to show that this was fine.
"You want anything? Get whatever you want," Jane said to his daughter. He turned back to the shop owner and continued to talk, reverting back to Spanish. Was there a place in the town where they could hook up their trailer? Hook it up to electricity and water? The man nodded fervently and wrote Jane a name and address on a piece of yellow foolscap. He ripped the information off and handed it to Jane.
"You go here, you tell them you need to charge your trailer. They have the power. They have water. You pay? They have it." The man said this in broken English. Charlotte had gathered a small assortment of candies and brought them back to the counter. She was staring at some stuffed animals and papier mache folk art sculptures hanging behind the counter. Brightly coloured, cheap things with a definite South American vibe. There were little skeletons (papier mache, Day of the Dead figurines) and brightly coloured donkeys, little papier mache marionettes hanging from their strings and looking lonely.
"Want one?" Jane asked his daughter, nodding his head at the display.
"We should get Lisbon one of the donkeys." Charlotte said.
"Okay. How about you. Do you want one?"
"Okay, but you pick it for me."
Jane smiled. Pointed towards a donkey (for Lisbon) and little girl marionette with a charmingly simple painted face, wearing a little shawl over her head. Charlotte grinned as Jane handed her the folk art and her little paper bag of candies.
"Also, um, we're looking for a man... I would like to interview him. He's um... a shaman? A wise man? Some call him... a chicken man?" Jane said in English. The man behind the counter narrowed his eyes.
"What you want with him?" The shop owner said. Jane smiled easily.
"We heard about him from some people. My wife is sick, and... well, we wanted to talk to him. See if he can do anything. Doctors in my country... haven't been able to help."
The shop owner seemed to consider what Jane said. Finally nodded.
"You go to the big church, with the big white cross... go north. You'll find it. Sometimes, he likes to walk by there. Sometimes. You will find him if he wants to be found."
"What if he doesn't want to be found?" Jane said casually, good-naturedly. The shop owner smiled slyly.
"If he doesn't want to be found, then you will never find him..."
Jane nodded. Turned to leave. Charlotte had already gone back to the trailer with her candy and the little papier mache creatures. The shop owner made a curious coughing noise. Ahem. Jane turned back.
"Your, uh... the young girl? Is she... she is a saint, yes?"
Jane stared at the simple, humble little Mexican shopkeeper. Not understanding. A saint? What the Hell kind of weird ass question was that?!
"A saint? No. I don't think so," Jane said, somewhere between amusement and irritation. No wonder Charlotte believed the weird shit she did, surrounded by nuts ike this for so long.
"She has the sad and kind eyes of a saint," the shop owner said after a long moment, selecting his words carefully. "Eyes that have seen many things, many bad things. She though...is a kind child? God talks to her?"
"Yes, she's a kind child," Jane confirmed, feeling a little uneasy. He didn't believe in psychics. He didn't believe in the supernatural. He most certainly didn't believe in some invisible God that lived in the sky and doled out punishment and salvation willy-nilly.
But this man, staring at him now, had eyes that almost bore holes into him. It was a very eerie feeling, and he wondered, with a sudden emotional start, if most people found him this eerie and spooky? He didn't think so.
This man had something Jane wasn't used to, and couldn't name. He sucked on the inside of his cheek, thought of what else to say. There was nothing else to say.
"Thank you for the information. I appreciate it."
The man waved him off with a smile, with knowing eyes, and bustled into the back of his shop, which was separated, loosely, by a brightly coloured beaded curtain. There was a tinkling sound as smal metal objects hanging from the top of the curtain clinked together... bells and what looked like silver little people. Jane wasn't sure what they were, but they looked like items someone might find in a catholic gift store.
Whatever. They were in a deeply superstitious country. Animistic beliefs mixed with Catholicism, like Charlotte had warned him of.
Jane turned and went back to the trailer to update Charlotte and Lisbon. Then they'd find a place to park and fill up on water, and then they'd head out on foot to try and find the chicken man.
By 8:15 in the morning Jane found a lot to stash the airstream. For 10 American dineros a day, the owners of the property would allow Jane to hook up the airstream to electricity and water. For an additional 5, the wife would do their laundry. Jane agreed, immediately.
By 8:36 am Jane had locked the truck, rolled up the windows, locked the airstream. They left the airstream's windows open for flow-through. Lisbon had her gun back, Charlotte was dressed and had her backpack on her narrow shoulders and they had a general idea of where to buy additional weapons, if they decided they still wanted some.
Charlotte insisted on bringing along her Nintendo DS, even though Jane told her she wouldn't exactly be in a position to play it. Jane carried a bag with water, maps of the area (he'd drawn them with help from the property owner, and been given one old laminated map to borrow, along with a compass... the simplest things, sometimes, were easy to forget). They started out into the mid-morning light, Charlotte bouncing along ahead of them, eager to move, eager to stretch her legs.
They moved out into Hermosillo to find the shaman who would, hopefully, lead them to Red John.