Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 26)
Rating: M for graphic violence and language
Fandom: The Mentalist
Summary: Patrick Jane has lived his life obsessed with the capture of Red John ever since finding his beloved wife and daughter slain by the maniac's hand. Now, 10 years to the day after that horrific night, a young woman appears in Patrick's life, someone who threatens to destroy everything his life has become in the interim... if not his sanity, itself.
Author's note: Thanks for the reviews, guys. On with the show...
"My son from the age of three always tells me about the "creeper man" who lives in my mom and dads bedroom. He brings it up after he visits them. I made the mistake once of asking what he looks like. My son said "Oh, he doesn't have a face." - Online parent "TravelsWithTheDoctor" talking about her son's "imaginary friend"
"Programming is the act of installing internal, pre-established reactions to external stimuli so that a person will automatically react in a predetermined manner to things like an auditory, visual or tactile signal or perform a specific set of actions according to a date and/or time."
― Alison Miller, Healing the Unimaginable: Treating Ritual Abuse and Mind Control
"The demon is a liar. He will lie to confuse us; but he will also mix lies with the truth to attack us. His attack is psychological, Damien. And powerful."― William Peter Blatty, The Exorcist
Saturday, November 4, 2013 10:22 am PST
One thing that became clear to Lisbon almost immediately was the fact that Charlotte knew the boy with black eye. He was about her height, about thirteen years of age. The inside of the shed was filled with air mattresses, camp cots, sleeping bags, old dressers, solar powered lights (Lisbon had seen them advertised before, little yellow boxy units with holes in the back where they could be attached to glass bottles, sold primarily in third world countries).
The boy with the massive tumor formations on his head was lying on an air mattress in the far left corner of the shed, barefoot. He was watching television on an old camping TV, a portable TV Lisbon hadn't seen in ages, the type that took D-cell batteries and had an extendable antenna. He was ignoring the rest of them. The little blind girl was lying beside him, her head in his lap, listening to the tinny TV noises.
There was a low table in the middle of the shed made by a wooden pallet, topped with a piece of corrugated tin. Candles on the table, a few Spanish versions of Playboy, sun-bleached comics. Charlotte was sitting at the low table. She motioned her head to Lisbon. The boy with the black eye reached into his jeans pocket and removed a squashed pack of cigarettes. He lit one with a wooden match and offered the pack to Charlotte. She accepted.
"Lisbon? Smoke?" Charlotte offered. Lisbon shook her head. She felt like she had suddenly been spirited away into a Mexican version of Peter Pan, with Charlotte in the role of Wendy.
Charlotte smoked, spoke to the black-eyed boy (Elian, Lisbon thought his name might be) in rapid Spanish. Lisbon caught the name "Juan de Rojo" and the word "lobos". Also, "loco" (crazy) and a talk of sangre (was that blood?). She knew Spanish, but was quickly realizing she was far from fluent.
Finally, Charlotte turned to Lisbon. "This is Elian," She said, and motioned the boy. "I have been asking him about Red John."
"He knows Red John?" Lisbon said immediately. She felt out of place in this dim, strange little world. A giant in the land of lost children.
"He knows who Red John is," Charlotte corrected. "Doesn't really know him directly. But does anyone truly know Red John directly? I don't even know if I know Red John-"
"What did he say?"
"He said he saw Red John yesterday. Said that he thought that Patrick was Red John, and was wondering why Red John had dyed his hair brown. I told him that Patrick isn't Red John, that they are twins."
Lisbon glanced at the boy as he sucked in smoke, blew it out, looking all Joe Camel cool. By the time he was 15, his lungs were going to be tar black. He had nicotine stained fingers (actually, so did Charlotte, now that Lisbon looked closer) and yellowed teeth, street-smart, canny eyes. This was a kid who'd been thrown to the wolves, early on, and had held onto life for all it was worth. He came across, immediately, as tough and elastic, rough around the edges, like one of those od punching toys with sand in the bottom. Small and scrappy, could take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Very much like Charlotte, in a lot of ways. Charlotte turned back to him and they began speaking again, rapid-fire, machine guns of Spanish. Lisbon didn't even try to follow, she knew when she was out of her depth.
She did catch the boy say the word "puta" and then his lips turned up and he grinned devilishly. Charlotte then smacked him in the shoulder, a bit harder than Lisbon was willing to tolerate without saying something.
"Hey!" Lisbon admonished, feeling even more like an outsider. "No! No hitting!" Her words were maternal, authoritarian, tired. She had used the same tone of voice with Jane multiple times when Jane got up to shenanigans, and was a bit surprised that that same tone came to her so easily in regards to Charlotte. Charlotte was- Lisbon was becoming increasingly certain- not really 16 emotionally.
She'd been taken at 5, almost 6, and her social and emotional development had almost stopped at that age. It had grown only in a proximal sort of way, stunted little tendrils of emotional development that were clustered around the core of what Charlotte had once been, a decade ago, but then distorted by severe trauma and abuse. Physically she was small, but socially she was 5, if not even younger. In terms of survival skills
and street-smarts, though, she was advanced, a ragged, scrappy thing. Like this boy. And Lisbon would now get to play referee between these two lost children.
Charlotte looked at her, looked confused, like she had never before been corrected like that.
She had needed a mother. Hell, she had needed any adult who was sane and could love her, and she hadn't had that, not for a long, long time and Lisbon found herself a bit amazed to see how easily she used that admonishing, careful, correcting tone with Charlotte, how easily she found herself taking on a mothering role to the girl.
"He called me a puta," Charlotte told Lisbon, with an angry smile, eyes still on the boy. It was the smile a young girl gives her annoying brother, right before she lights his favourite comics or baseball cards on fire.
"That's no excuse. No hitting. Come on, Charlotte, you know better," Lisbon appealed incredulously. Lisbon wasn't altogether sure Charlotte actually knew better, at least not emotionally, but the words sounded right.
"He encourages people to hit him. It's not just me. Just look at his ugly face," Charlotte balked, and nodded her head towards his black eye. "He's an asshole."
"Puta," the boy said again, louder, more clearly, so that even Lisbon caught it this time. More rapid Spanish, and he grinned, pleased with the attention he was getting now, and Lisbon heard the phrase "vete a la chingada" from the boy. Charlotte whacked him again.
Lisbon had a mental image of feral kittens playing in a barn.
"Charlotte, come on. We don't hit," Lisbon told the girl, annoyed, slightly sarcastic and disbelieving... and yet the sensation was familiar. She'd felt similar annoyance with Jane, when she was dealing with his behaviour, when she thought he was acting immaturely. She felt like she was speaking to a much younger child. Which, emotionally and socially and spiritually, she no doubt was. What was Jane's excuse 99% of the time?
"Vete a la mierda," Charlotte told the boy, engaged in battle now. Like her father, Charlotte was able to take Lisbon's verbal warnings with a grain of salt. Lisbon was seeing a lot of traits in common between Charlie and Jane, and she could only imagine what the two had been like for poor Angela. "Vete a la mierda, bicho," Charlotte said again, a little more slowly and a little louder.
The boy grinned back at her, snaked out a wiry, coffee-coloured hand and grabbed her arm. Twisted. A savage Indian burn...
"Hey!" Lisbon told him, but Charlotte was grinning at him, apparently indifferent to whatever pain he was causing her. Lisbon knew from reading psychology texts and from real-life experience that abused and neglected children were often eerily dismissive of their own pain, of blood, of injuries. They were desensitized, sometimes dissociative, and equated crying and looking upset with weakness, and potential further attacks. Among street gangs, the toughest kids reigned supreme. It was a pecking order thing, pure animal instinct and often savage.
Charlotte would no more admit that he was hurting her right now then she would willingly stick a pin in her own eye.
Lisbon actually went so far as to reach forward to break it up. How would Jane have dealt with this? Lisbon didn't know. She was tired, stressed and not in the mood for such childish behaviour.
"That'll be enough of that," Lisbon said sternly, eyeing the boy, who was still twisting Charlotte's arm as Charlie made an effort of keeping her face irritatingly blank.
Lisbon thought of Charlotte's arms, and the deep scar tissue that remained where she had tried to open up her arteries, and felt a mother bear protective instinct rise up within her. She had felt the same protective urges towards her younger brothers when her father had gotten drunk and berated them, yelled at them or thrown things.
"Let go of her arm, now," Lisbon said sternly to the kid. Even if he didn't understand much English, he got her meaning and looked dutifully remorseful. But he kept his hand on Charlie's arm, grinning, baiting her. Ballsy kid.
"I'm trying to smoke my cigarette, you faggot," Charlotte told the boy, then laughed, and he let go of her arm, and returned to puffing on his own cancer stick. Just like that, the show-down was over. He grinned at her happily. It was an odd interaction.
"So... Red John?" Lisbon prompted, returning to the issue at hand, trying to seem chill. Jane had given her a lot of practice at bouncing back. "He saw him yesterday?"
"He claims to have seen him yesterday," Charlotte said, turning to acknowledge Lisbon, nodding.
"Where?" Lisbon prompted. Charlotte asked the boy in Spanish. He gave her back a quick answer.
"In the town. In the city. When he was at his job. His shitty, shitty job-"
"Where does he work?" Lisbon asked, cutting her off. Charlotte shrugged and turned back to the kid, relayed her question.
"At the church, apparently. He sweeps up, does chores. He saw Red John poking around yesterday, talking to the padre."
"But not here?" Lisbon asked immediately. The idea that Red John was already here, somewhere, hiding on the property, it made her feel paranoid, achy-sick. Cold, deep inside. Charlotte shook her head even before asking, but asked the boy anyway. He shook his head, hard. No.
"No, not here. Apparently he almost crapped his pants when he saw Red John, because he's a little pussy," Charlotte announced, and Lisbon gave the girl a bored grimace. She was pretty sure the kid, Elian, had said no such thing.
These two had a weird brother-sister relationship thing going and no doubt interacted like this all the time, but Lisbon wasn't in the mood for it. How much time had Charlotte spent here, in Hermosillo, over the years?
"So, you know him well?" Lisbon asked Charlotte, nodding at the boy. He watched her with black, wary eyes, young face limned by blue-gray smoke as he puffed. He smelled of sand, sweat and tobacco. He had a child's face, but an old man's eyes.
"I see him two or three times a year for a few weeks at a time for the last 8 years or so," Charlotte told Lisbon immediately. "So I know him pretty well, yeah. He's an asshole, but he shares his smokes, so I tolerate him and told him I won't sic Red John on him."
"Charlotte!" Lisbon's voice was amazed, incredulous and just a little bit horrified. Charlotte looked confused.
"What?" She didn't see why the idea of threatening this kid with Red John was such a big deal. Of course not. She had been raised by Red John. She was densensitized as Hell, Lisbon reminded herself.
"So... you think of him as a brother, then?"
"I think of him as an asshole with legs, that can somehow talk," Charlotte said and relayed her comment to the talking asshole-with-legs in Spanish. It was such an absurd mental image that Elian actually laughed.
"His parents?" Lisbon asked, looking at the boy. Lisbon gave him an uncertain, careful smile. He didn't smile back, just nodded his acknowledgement. Lisbon had the distinct impression that this boy had learned not to trust adults, and probably for good reason.
"They're either dead, or drunks, or whores. The story changes all the time. Because the little asshole is a bit of a liar, when it comes to his own shit. Aren't you, asshole-with-legs?" Charlotte didn't bother translating her comment into Spanish, but the boy seemed to know what she was saying, because he shot her the finger. Could he speak English? Lisbon wasn't sure.
"Where'd he get the black eye?" Lisbon asked. Her protective maternal side was showing, she knew, and she got the sense that both Charlotte and this kid longed for someone to care about them, even if they acted like they didn't give a shit.
These kids were more or less raising themselves, and while she appreciated the Chicken Man providing them with this shed and these beds and the lights, surely, surely there was a child protective services team in this little city that could help them? Some sort of child sponsorship team?
These were essentially street children, living off the grid in a steel storage shed, and even though they seemed more-or-less content to live their destitute Peter Pan lifestyle, Lisbon felt protective of them. There were at least 10 beds that she could see, but only 3 children present. Where were the others?
The others were no doubt off working, or begging, or stealing. Or maybe whoring themselves. It wasn't pleasant to think about, really.
Did the Chicken Man feed them? Did he just let anybody sleep here? Abused children, neglected children, or those running away from home for unknown reasons? The Chicken Man seemed like an anything-goes type to Lisbon. Lisbon could imagine that anybody- animal or child or concussed space alien- would be free to come and hang out, no questions asked. The kids, then, would have their own internal heirarchy; it would have developed over time, with the older and longer-term residents holding the most social status.
The boy with the tumors on his face probably didn't rank very high. Lisbon put his age around ten, but his physical deformities would lower his ranking. The little blind girl was probably about as low, socially, as it was possible to go. This kid, Elian, with the busted eye and split lip and knowing grin, he probably was the boss. Or one of the bosses.
When Charlotte was present, no doubt she ruled the roost. That was the impression Lisbon was fast developing, anyway.
Charlotte relayed Lisbon's question about the black eye, got back a rapid-fire response. Turned to Lisbon with a grin.
"Apparently he got into a fight with a wolf," Charlotte said, grinning. "See what I mean? He's full of shit."
But the boy was grinning. Lisbon smiled at him, tensely. Tough little guy, but right under the surface, reaching out for motherly love. Long eyelashes, a pretty face that was almost feminine and scars on his head, where his closely-cropped hair showed the scalp. White loops of scar tissue. Lisbon ran his response back through her head. He'd gotten into a fight with a wolf. A wolf.
Hadn't Jane found a little boy back in California, right at the beginning of all this madness, wearing a wolf mask, with a connection to Red John? Was the wolf a symbol of Red John's, here? Los Lobos? So many questions, and Lisbon knew she had to be careful what she asked, because answers to adults were seen as a sort of gift or a sort of belly-showing. Lisbon could remember her own youth, caring for her brothers, living with her father and dealing with concerned teachers and neighbours, and the way the young mind developed a hardened shell around its personhood, a distrust of authority figures and adults in general, a sense that adults as a group were another species and they had let you down. So fuck them, and fuck their questions and fuck what they said. You'd answer, because you were intimidated or because you were conditioned, but inside you felt resentful that they even dared ask you. At least, that is how Lisbon had felt, answering adults' questions. She tried to remind herself what it had been like to be that young, that bitter and uncertain and angry and scared.
And then she tried to imagine her own youth magnified 5 or 6 times, minimum.
"Is Red John a wolf?" Lisbon decided to ask. Charlotte relayed the question. The boy stiffened, just for a second, and Lisbon was pretty sure that if she hadn't spent so much time with Jane over the last decade she would have missed that fleeting moment of tension. But she caught it. She heard in his response the words "diablo" and "hombre". Devil Man.
"He says that the devil man can be a wolf if he wants; a man, a saint or a ghoul. I think he is trying to be poetic. He fancies himself a poet," Charlotte told Lisbon from under her own long lashes, but she was grinning at the boy, a grin that was almost affectionate. The boy ducked his head and his cheeks turned a shade of red under the dark pigment of his skin.
Lisbon nodded slowly, suddenly touched by the poignant idea of this scrappy little kid secretly dreaming of poetry and pretty words. Did he have a composition booklet somewhere around here with tender, awkward poetry scrawled across yellowed pages? The idea made Lisbon feel even more protective of him, of this boy with the dark, wounded eyes and the narrow shoulders. Of Charlotte, too, and of forgotten children in general, forgotten and thrown away like trash, like useless objects, by a heartless, fickle world...
Lisbon thought, then, again, of her brothers. Would she ever see them again? Or would...? She didn't want to finish the thought, because the thought of Red John winning, that was unbearable. She would see them again. She had to.
The boy finished his cigarette, stubbed it out in a dirty pasta sauce lid. He was eyeing Lisbon silently, said something to Charlotte fast. Charlotte snorted.
"What?" Lisbon asked.
"He wants to know if you want to hear his poetry. I should warn you, Lisbon, it sucks, and if you say yes, he is going to expect a monetary donation."
The boy was looking at her with hopeful, hungry eyes. How could Lisbon say no to that? She nodded, and Elian grinned a happy grin, ran off to a cot and fished under a green sleeping bag. He came back with a black and white composition booklet, opened it, flipped through the pages until he had found the poem he wanted to read. He darted Charlotte a nervous look and she nodded, and he began, slowing down his voice. His voice was trembling. Charlotte translated as he spoke, nodding to him as she translated each line as best she could.
"I am a lonely bird in the sky, without a nest. My parents
are humans
with no need for a bird
but I find a place to sleep in the desert
with a man who is not a man
an alien of white come down from heaven
with a smile as bright as the sun
and children who have faces blurred
by time and sadness.
We are real people, we see
reality as it is
we do not know
the pleasures of the flesh
like others
and so we do not fall asleep
into complacency. I see sometimes
the wolf coming into
my little town
in my little country
and he has the look of a man
but I know he is not a man.
I have always known that he is not a man.
He is a pretty man-thing, and a rich man-thing, with nice clothes and hungry eyes that know the secrets
of what people want most
and how their minds work when they lie to themselves
when they lie to themselves like dreamers who refuse to wake to the truth
of the day
but I see him for what he is. Because of this, one day, he will attempt to eat me.
But I am a lonely bird. I can fly away from him.
I can bring other birds to him.
He will not win.
The birds will win.
We will peck out his eyes and he will turn back into the dust."
Charlotte looked over at Lisbon with a grin. "See what I mean? Poet, my ass."
"I thought it was a nice poem," Lisbon said, smiling at Elian. She pulled her wallet from her jeans, fished out a five dollar bill and handed it to the little guy. He took it, grinned at her widely, and put the money in his pants pocket. He offered her a cigarette again, and she declined again.
He seemed overjoyed by his payment. Such a tiny thing, really. He said something to Charlotte then and she rolled her eyes.
"What?" Lisbon asked and Charlotte laughed.
"He wants to know if you want to hear another poem. Say no. He'll end up trying to read you the whole damned book. Greedy fuck."
"Can you tell him maybe later? I want to check on Jane soon?"
"Yeah," Charlotte said, still chuckling. Judging from her body language and tone of voice, she was being kind to Elian, not cruel. Lisbon was pleased. Charlotte was, at her core, a very kind person. Rough around the edges, but kind when it counted. Elian nodded.
He looked disappointed, a little, but Lisbon could tell Charlotte wasn't teasing him.
"Was that poem about Red John?" Lisbon asked Charlotte. She conveyed the question to Elian, but Lisbon was already pretty sure what the answer would be. She was hardly surprised when Charlotte nodded her head.
"Apparently it is. He says he wrote it just yesterday, when he saw Red John near the church. He says his blood felt like ice and he wanted to cry. And you should know, he never cries."
Again, Lisbon considered his bruised lip and his blackened eye. Had Red John done that to him? Red John didn't seem like the type to beat a child up, but then again... Red John had burned his smiley face into Charlotte's abdomen, into her chest before she even had breasts. He was capable of anything.
"Did Red John beat him?" Lisbon said. She tried to make her expression as pleasant and gentle and concerned as possible. Charlotte relayed the question again. The boy shifted, finally said si. Yes. A quick nod. Eyes averted. Not because he was lying, but because he probably was afraid of talking about Juan de Rojo.
"Why?" Lisbon said.
"He doesn't know. Apparently Red John was looking for the Chicken Man, couldn't find him, thought he might know where he was. But Elian didn't know, or if he did, he wouldn't say. So, he's pissed, now. Red John is. Worse than he was before."
"He hit him in public?" Lisbon clarified. The boy must have known what "public" meant. He shook his head before Charlotte could translate. Said something to her slowly.
"No. In the church, in the back. While the padre watched."
"And did nothing," Lisbon finished angrily. Charlotte nodded. Shrugged. A "what are you gonna do?" kind of look.
"People in general ignore evil, Lisbon," Charlotte said in a stony voice, suddenly sounding much older. "They let it do what it wants to do, and then they cry and ask how such atrocities could happen. It happens all the time. Most people have the hearts of cowards, when you get right down to it. Lazy cowards."
Lisbon nodded at this, could feel Charlotte's frustration in the words. From the back of the shed, the sound of heavy breathing from the boy with the tumors, a cough, a giggle from the little girl as something amusing was said over their little camping television. What a sad, bizarre, strange world.
Lisbon knew that children lived on the streets, of course, ate out of trash bins, were raped and beaten and died alone, and yet... seeing it face to face, seeing horror and torture and fear in the face of Jane's own child, seeing these children up close and personal, was a different experience. Surreal and depressing. Tough little kids, hanging on to life by their teeth, but even their toughness made Lisbon profoundly upset. The fact that they needed to be so tough in the first place was upsetting.
It made her want to hug them, want to cry, want to gut Red John, all at once.
The boy named Elian said something to Charlotte then. Lisbon waited for the translation.
"He is asking if Patrick is bad like Red John. Is he? He is Red John's twin, so, he wants to know if he could be like Red John?"
Lisbon nodded to show she understood the question. "He's his brother, but Jane is nothing like Red John," Lisbon told Charlotte, and Charlotte told Elian. "Not at all."
"He says he is still scared of Jane," Charlotte said back, a moment later. And Lisbon saw that he was scared, not just claiming fear. In her time with Jane, Lisbon had come to doubt peoples' claims of fear because, quite honestly, people could and did claim fear for manipulative purposes far more often than Lisbon would have ever thought possible prior to Jane's influence in her life.
But this boy was actually afraid, and with good reason. His eyes were black in the gloom of the shed and full of pain. Lisbon nodded at him gently. His fear made perfect, sane, logical sense. She would be fearful in his place, too. Hell, who was she kidding? She was afraid, too.
"He says two wolves from the same litter will both hunt, given the right situation. Jane might not have tasted blood yet, he says, he might not have gotten a real taste for meat, yet. When he does, he will hunt like his brother. Because a wolf is a wolf, and it does what a wolf does."
"Tell him that Jane is going to kill Red John, then," Lisbon said after a moment, eyes still on the boy. Charlotte conveyed the message and Elian laughed, a jaded snicker. Said something. Laughed again.
"What?" Lisbon said, smiling awkwardly, afraid to smile too big because this was a tense, sad moment, but trying to relay friendliness to this boy.
"He says it is impossible to kill a devil, and anyone who tries will die, but he wishes Patrick the best of luck."
Lisbon nodded at that. She didn't want to argue the point with Elian here at this time, in this dim, gloomy little shed, because something told her that, yes, Red John wasn't simply a human, and yes, he might actually be impossible to kill.
And that was too damned scary and depressing and disorienting to think about for any length of time without feeling a crushing, paralyzing sense of dread. Lisbon was also pretty certain Charlotte was no stranger to that dread. In Charlotte's eyes, Lisbon saw her own fear and dread reflected and magnified. The room was full of fearful energy; it hung around like growing storm clouds or like ghosts.
The air almost crackled with the heaviness of it.
About the same time that Elian was reading his poetry to Lisbon, the Chicken Man was steeping his magical dream tea while Jane, impatient, sat and waited and watched and tried to pretend he wasn't impatient.
Jane sipped his own tea, eventually, with much urging, helped himself to a single Oreo cookie. He ate it slowly, licking the icing off, watching this funny little creature of a man.
The Chicken Man sniffed his dream tea, stirred it with a spoon. Looked into it. Stirred it. Took a sip with his spoon and made a ghastly, displeased face.
"Bitter," he said to Jane, then crooned laughter. "Needs a bit more time."
Jane nodded. "What can you tell me about Red John?" Jane asked. He'd press this little man for information, for anything he could use.
"One of my babies says, yesterday, he saw him in the church. Like a ghoul, came in through the walls. Like a ghost. Right through the wall, he said. Beat the baby, beat his face. My little one name of Elian. Came home crying, crying so hard. Many tears, for a long time he cried. It hurt my soul, made my heart cry, too. Took a lot of cookies to stop his tears," the old man said.
He wasn't laughing anymore. Not even the trace of his ubiquitous smile. He looked deeply, terrifically sad at the idea of one of his "babies" being hurt. The idea of one of his babies being sad and scared, the idea of it, it was painful to him, almost physically painful.
Jane remembered what Charlotte had told him, about the Chicken Man helping her when she was sick, giving her candies to cheer her up. Jane could imagine that scene all too clearly. This funny, old little guy who smelled of herbs and the desert and animal skins, Jane could see him in Charlotte's past, rocking her, kissing her, talking to her in broken English, trying his best to heal her broken mind and calm her tears.
The Chicken Man blinked then, thinking about his beaten baby, and his eyelids reminded Jane of a tortoise's slow blink. Some sort of desert tortoise. Craggy little curve of a mouth. Old, yellowed eyes.
Jane was suddenly certain that, without this strange little fellow, Charlotte would have died long ago. She would have shriveled and died, terrified and drained of hope like a vampire's victim drained of blood. Without hope or without the need for revenge, without one of the two, humans withered, turned gray, and died. Jane knew this was true.
Knew this little guy had given his daughter hope with his smiles and his weird comments and his funny, high pitched laugh like wind screaming across the red, dusty plains.
"I knew you; knew you lived, a long, long time ago," the Chicken Man said, eyeing Jane steadily. "I knew you were out there, somewhere. Didn't know... no idea how to get you. You would come or Little One would grow, find you. Now, here you are." He smiled at Jane, but the smile was subdued.
"Here I am," Jane agreed pleasantly, and took a sip of his tea. Orange Pekoe, it tasted like.
"Want honey?" Chicken Man said, tilting his head. "Want some honey?"
"No, it's good," Jane said. Turned the conversation back to Red John.
"He beat up one of your babies? Just yesterday?" Jane redirected. The Chicken Man made a sad face again, thinking about it, nodded, blinked his ancient tortoise eyes.
"Yes. In church. You were there earlier this day, yourself? You, your pretty lady and Little One?"
"Yes, I was there," Jane admitted. "And he was there yesterday? Red John was there yesterday? At the Church?" It was important. It meant Red John was already in Hermosillo. Which Jane had already guessed was probably the case, but this confirmed it and meant Red John was out there, somewhere, in this ancient, red land so much like a martian landscape, and he was already waiting for them. Always two steps ahead.
Pacing and waiting and biding his time, thinking through his next attack.
He was out there, somewhere, smelling them out and circling like the predatory beast he was and Jane could almost hear his brother, his shadow twin, could hear him in his mind from back when he was known only as Peter; only a small, dark-eyed ten-year-old fresh from juvenile hall with scabby, pink knuckles and a cruel laugh. Smoking behind the carnival tents, deliberately lighting that damned grass fire, and pestering the little black and white border collie puppy "Tricky-boy" had found. The puppy trailing cans behind its matted, dirty legs. Peter's voice had been similar to his, all those long years ago, similar but with a sinister edge; older, darker, too. Jane thought he probably still sounded similar, but would no doubt sound even more sinister with the passage of time.
Ready to play, Patrick? That taunting voice said, now, in Jane's fevered imagination. 'Cause I am more than ready. Let's play, Little brother.
The voice in his head, now, was Red John, but Red John when he'd had a child's body.
He had heard Red John speak to him a few times previously, of course. In real life. As an adult.
When he had been tied up, tied to that chair by the young Red John wannabes. Red John in his mask, whispering in his face. His breath had smelled so much like blood on that day, his breath had hung in the air like salty copper and Jane had been certain, then, that this masked man with a bizarro world copy of his own voice had actually, for real, been drinking blood shortly before this interaction, but he had pushed that thought away as the panic threatened to dissolve the last vestiges of his control.
And the voice he had heard, then, as he struggled not to panic had been a distorted fun-house mirror image copy of his own. Playful, gleeful, dark, sadistic, with blood-smelling breath. Toying with him like he was a mouse in a trap, neck already broken, but somehow not dead. No need to kill something that had terminal injuries.
You could sit and watch it die, the broken-necked mouse, let the clock run out, let the hour glass' grains of sands drop away one by one. Only a matter of time, then, and you killed without raising a finger. Killed through the passage of time. It was worse in a way, that much crueler.
It made the victim an accomplice to their own death by virtue of the fact that they kept drawing breath; it meant they had to watch the years of their own life pass by in vivid, heart-breaking technicolour, a parody of real life. It was crueler. All those sad moments, all those painful recollections of happy times of yesteryear shattered, like the black, cool air of nocturnal hours broken by the screams of a dreamer caught in the grips of a never-ending nightmare.
Ready to play, Patrick? It's been so long.