Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 27)
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: Want to try and get the chapters out faster, now, as we are reaching the climax, but life sometimes gets in the way. Thank you all for the reviews. You guys are great!
"He always smiles, even when contemplating nothing good." ― Henryk Sienkiewicz, In Desert and Wilderness
"To take command, one must first create the illusion that command is already yours."― Denise Domning, Winter's Heat
"That there is a Devil, is a thing doubted by none but such as are under the influences of the Devil."― Cotton Mather, On Witchcraft
"I gave you three proofs of witchcraft. A cat that drinks blood! A horse that talks! And a man who propagates POODLES!"― Richard Curtis, Blackadder: The Whole Damn Dynasty, 1485-1917
Saturday, November 4, 2013 10:31 am PST
Finally the Chicken Man decided that his tea was ready. It was dark brown and the room was filled with a pungent, sour smell. Jane could even taste a bitter, slightly corrosive taste in his own mouth. The Chicken Man stuck a finger in his tea, sucked the finger, squirmed like a little kid trying alcohol for the first time, taking a forbidden sip of his father's vodka.
"So bitter," he told Jane, and laughed at his own reaction. "Now we add the blood."
"Uh... blood?" Jane's voice was not amused.
"The wolf is your brother. We use your blood for me to find him. I put my blood in, for me to find my way back to this old body," the old man said, and thumped himself on the chest. "Let's hope I come back, huh? Ha ha ha."
It wasn't as amusing to Jane. The old man held out his hand for Jane's finger and beckoned with his knobby, wrinkled crow's fingers. "Just a little..." he didn't finish the word but made a wincing expression. Jane sighed.
He didn't actually believe in any of this superstitious nonsense, but what he did believe in was the power of belief. This funny, little man no doubt already knew where Red John was. Just not consciously. His "tea" would have a placebo effect, or possibly a mild hallucinogenic effect, and allow his subconscious knowledge to be more easily accessed by his conscious mind, where it could be of some actual use. And he wanted blood for the ritual.
Jane held his finger out, winced in anticipation. The Chicken Man had a thin needle in his hand (it seemed to come from nowhere).
He jabbed Jane a bit too hard for Jane's taste, then grabbed the finger and squeezed the blood from the tip into a tea pot. A second drop of blood he milked into a small terracotta bowl that was sitting on the coffee table. Jane was finally given his finger back, which was throbbing now, like his heart had decided to relocate to his fingertip. Throb, throb, throb, throb... He put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it.
He'd never liked blood, never been good with pain, or guns, or violence in general. The Chicken Man saw his reaction and cackled.
"You little bit of a baby, huh? Little One, she has no problem with a jab," he said, and laughed at Jane's squeamishness. Jane thought of Charlotte's experiences, the profound traumas she had suffered and nodded. Of course Charlotte was okay with a finger jab.
She'd been tied down and cut into. She'd had those cuts then lit on fire. While a doctor monitored her blood pressure and administered and IV drip to make sure she didn't go into shock. Jane pushed the thoughts away. He would think about Charlotte and her considerable traumatic history, and what to do about it all, after Red John was dead and buried, or cremated. Whichever.
Maybe they could donate his body to science, maybe his brain would yield some useful little clues... Maybe Gunther Von Hagen would like Red John for his Body Worlds exhibit? They could plastinate the monster so people around the world could stare at his plastic-infused organs, eyes, brain. They could put the beast on display, maybe... It gave Jane a vengeful feeling of justice.
The Chicken Man was watching him closely.
"Think dark thoughts now, are you? Not good. Little One, she know better. Dark thoughts dirty up the mind," he told Jane and this time there was no smile on his lips. "Keep mind pure and white, full of bright light, pure. Don't let in evil, Gringo. It starts in thoughts."
Jane forced back a sarcastic response to that, about the white bit.
"I will try to remember that," Jane told him instead. He wanted the little guy to drink his tea, have his trip and come back with his verdict. Red John was in Hermosillo and God only knew where he was at this exact moment. It was hair-raising. It made Jane jumpy and uneasy, like swimming in shark infested waters with an open, bloody wound.
"You better listen, gringo. Clear mind of mean thoughts. Don't let them in. They be like weeds. They burrow evil roots into you," Chicken Man said. His eyes were filled with powerful experience. Jane sighed. Tried to clear his mind.
Tried to feel something besides hatred for Red John. It was hard.
The Chicken Man smiled at his attempt. Clapped his hands like a wrinkled cheerleader.
"Good try!" He told Jane like Jane was a small boy. "Good try, keep thinking nice! It comes little bit at a time. Think nice and do well!"
"Think nice and do well. I think I need that on a shirt," Jane said, grinning. It was hard not to grin at this guy.
"I bleed now. Here I go!" And with that, he jabbed the pin in his own left pointer finger (without even wiping it clean first, Jane thought with a grimace, so much for sanitation). He let a few drops of his own blood fall into the teapot, added a few more drops to the terracotta bowl.
The old man stared at the blood in the bowl. Stirred the blood into the tea. Sniffed the air. Settled back in his chair and smiled at Jane. His old eyes began to wander.
"Now what?" Jane prompted. "Now you drink your tea, right?"
"Not so fast, speedy Gonzales," the old man said, and grinned at Jane again. Jane sighed, scratched his bristly cheek, pushed back his growing impatience. "Now hair, for the pot," Chicken Man declared. He reminded Jane of a little kid who just will not go to bed.
One more drink of water. One more trip to the bathroom. One more story...
He got up and hobbled over to Jane. He had his pocket knife out.
"You want some of my hair? For the tea?" Jane said, as the old man cut off some of his hair with the knife blade.
"No, not in tea, silly American. For the bowl."
"Of course. How could I have thought you might actually drink hair," Jane muttered. The Chicken Man tugged at his own beard with the knife, and dropped some of the tobacco-yellow hairs into the bowl.
He pulled the leather bag with the dream herb in it over, gave Jane a conspiratorial smile, pulled out a leaf, ripped it into pieces and placed it on top of the blood and hair.
"Now, a little skull, to say hello," he said and Jane blinked, not understanding. This guy was weird, sure, but that last sentence wasn't even connecting in Patrick Jane's head. Little skull to say hello? He had no idea what that comment meant. It was downright schizophrenic.
The old man laughed at Jane's expression, wandered over to his kitchen as if he had all the time in the world and came back with a tiny rodent skull.
"He will be my little guide when I go to dream, I think. Yes?"
"If you say so," Jane said, staring at the yellow rodent incisors.
The old man then kissed the sun-beached skull (Jane felt a wince of revulsion pass through him at the kiss) and placed it on top the crumpled leaves, after making a series of creepy squeaking noises (apparently to remind Jane what sound mice or rats or whatever the hell the skull had originally belonged to made).
"Now the fire," he told Jane, eyes glittering with excitement. "Burn everything up, burn it for the spirits. Our offering for their delight?"
"Of course. I was wondering when the fire would start," Jane said, only half-sarcastically.
"Ha ha. Yes, beautiful fire," the Chicken Man confirmed, eyes glittering.
He seemed to rack his brain for something, then realized he had forgotten his matches in the kitchen. He wandered back in that direction and came back with a box of wooden matches, shaking the box at Jane so the mentalist could hear the sound of matches inside (maybe to confirm there actually were matches inside?).
Jane watched him, committing this strange little ritual to memory. Just in case he ever needed to venture into the spirit world to find perps in the future...
"You ready?" The Chicken Man asked Jane as he pulled a match from the box.
"By all means," Jane said, nodding his head in agreement. "Am I ever ready I am definitely ready. Light that puppy up."
"We have a good journey, yes? I think we have a good journey."
"What do you mean, we? I am not going on any journey..." Jane had a sudden fearful thought. Had this screwy little muppet of a man laced that needle with some sort of herbal potion or chemical or something, something that would induce hallucinations? The idea of it was almost panic-inducing.
"We have good journey," the Chicken Man simply repeated ominously, and dropped the match into the bowl with the hair and blood and leaf pieces. The match curled around the leaf edges, began to burn them. Burned the hair almost immediately, and the small droplets of blood.
The smell of burnt human hair and blood was utterly disgusting, and the herb (whatever it was) burning wasn't too charming a smell either. Jane opened his mouth to breathe. His eyes were watering but the shaman didn't seem to notice.
He pointed at the mouse skull, in the flames.
"Look! He's looking at us!" He sounded like a little child, yelling about Santa Claus. Jane smiled, a somewhat confused smile (this was a skull in flames, after all) despite his own impatience and looked at the bowl.
Flames were curling around the tiny skull, curling in and out of the eye sockets, turning the thin filament of bone black with soot.
"Fire eyes see us. You see? He stares at us!"
"If you say so," Jane said, nodding. Just drink the damn tea already.
"He says to us: Have good journey! Be brave! Don't give up! squeak squeak squeak"
"Is that what he says?" Jane questioned pleasantly. No wonder Charlotte had such a weird way of speaking, when this crazy little dude had been her main source of comfort and "sanity" for the last decade. Sheesh. If only Lisbon could see this.
"You not believe now, huh, gringo? But you will believe. You wait. Wait and see." It almost sounded like a threat, but the tiny man was grinning his dentist's nightmare of a smile at Jane.
His eyes seemed to be wandering in different directions again, and not for the first time in the last hour, Jane found himself wondering if the senior had been out in the sun too long, if he was suffering from heat stroke. Or delirium. Or something... did he need medical attention? A doctor?
Jane had watched The Neverending Story with Charlotte when she had been tiny, and one of the characters in the movie had been a tortoise-creature that lived in the side of a hill. The creature had been named Morla, the ancient one.
And the Chicken Man's eyes were now doing something similar, wandering away from each other, as if they couldn't be bothered to track the visual world in tandem any longer. Too much work, maybe.
"Are you going to drink the tea, now?" Jane urged, nodding his head at the pot.
"Shhh! Listening!" The little man's head was bent towards the terracotta bowl (the flame had almost gone out). "He says... Red John has a coffin for Little One. A green coffin, all ready for her."
Jane's blood seemed to chill with the words, he felt it physically drop in temperature at those words.
"What are you talking about?" Jane demanded.
"The mouse says: Juan de Rojo is going to put Little One in the ground!"
"Where is Juan de Rojo?" Jane implored. "What are you talking about right now?"
"He doesn't know! Look at him! He's only a mouse! He not know everything!"
"Well, when you drink the tea, will you know?" Jane almost wanted to pick the little freak up and shake him. His patience was running out; it was taking so much mental control to stay calm and collected.
The old man's words about Red John wanting to put Charlotte in the ground were terrifying, but what were they based on? Not reality, obviously... because obviously a dead mouse's soul wasn't communicating anything to this guy.
So... this was a fear he had, and the fear was profound enough that Jane damn well planned to take it seriously.
"Poor Little One," the Chicken Man said, and wiped at his face. Was he crying?!
"Are you going to drink your tea now?" Jane insisted, reaching forward to pour the old guy a glass. He picked up the teapot, poured some tea into the old man's coffee mug.
"See? Look, I even poured it for you. All ready to go," Jane urged with growing impatience.
"Poor Little One. So much fear for her, to come..."
"Not if I can help it," Jane told the shaman, and he smiled at him, but his eyes were steel. The Chicken Man stared back with wet, slightly delirious eyes. He blinked sadly, sniffled, wiped at his eyes.
"I drink the tea now. Don't be afraid, now," the old man croaked, cheeks wet, and wiped a few more tears from his wrinkled eyes. Jane watched him as he looked down at the mug full of tea Jane had poured and wrinkled his brow.
Shrugged.
He blew on the tea, stared at Jane with his wandering eyes, giggled as if he were out of his mind (he probably was out of his mind, that was a very likely possibility, some form of elderly dementia), and then gulped down the cup of hot fluid in one movement.
He made a groaning noise, licked his lips.
His eyes watered.
He got up and began to wander around, blinking his eyes like a frog trying to get his meal down.
"Yuck. Never nice. Never ever gets nice, the tea," he told Jane with a knowing smile and Jane nodded.
Waited.
The little man began to wander some more, eyes drifting.
He began to flap his hands, in a manner Jane had seen autistic children engage in.
He began to make low moaning noises in the bottom of his throat. They sounded like air or gas being released from his body, then like whines, then like burps.
Jane waited.
"You don't drink tea, okay? When I am gone? Don't drink the tea," he told Jane then, expression serious, hard with importance. He was being stern with Jane, which was a little bit funny, but the younger man sat up straighter to show respect. Jane nodded at the old guy.
"I promise I won't have any of the tea," he said. He could already taste it, just from the smell, and it wasn't anything he wanted to put in his mouth.
"Not good for you, gringo. Kill you dead. Poison not for you."
"Poison?" Jane said, getting up immediately. Fuck.
"For me? It is okay. Spirits bring me back, they know me. Mouse bring me back. Not for you, your spirit is not strong enough to come back; has not wandered out there..."
"What did you drink?" Jane demanded, and opened the little leather bag on the table, pulled some of the leaves out. He had never seen them before, had no idea what they were. They were broad and dark green leaves, from some succulent plant.
Jane broke one of them open and the gel that oozed out was dark red, like blood. It burned his skin where it touched. Jane dropped the leaf, went to the kitchen. Poured water on his hand and wiped the acid off, mouth set in a grimace.
The plant's gel left a red welt on his hand where it had had contact with his skin, after only a few seconds. Fuck.
Jane rushed back to the little shaman. The old man was already swaying on his feet, eyes beginning to roll.
Jane grabbed him up under the arm pits. His eyes were rolling back in his head now, trying to focus.
"Hey! What did you take? What is the plant you made your tea from?" The doctors would want to know.
The old man ignored Jane's questions. Jane quickly half-carried half-walked him over to his couch, laid him down on it. His ancient arms and legs were beginning to shake, spasmodic jerky movements. The muscles were beginning to spasm. The look of them was intuitively frightening, like an animal in its death throes. The old man was trying to talk, trying to see Jane.
"Did you have too much?" Jane asked carefully, trying to seek out the old eyes.
Fuck.
He'd been so impatient, so agitated. He'd poured the tea for the old guy, not even knowing or thinking about overdoses or toxic side effects or how much was too much, he'd just poured, like it was earl grey or lapsang souchong or something, and quite obviously, it wasn't.
God even knew what it was, that plant he'd been steeping, but whatever it was had been potent enough to leave a red blister on his own hand after only a few seconds of exposure... and yet, he'd poured the tea without thinking, like it was hot water for fuck's sake and this old guy was spacey, forgetful, as it was and he had just gulped down God-knew-what and now he was shaking like a dying animal.
Chicken Man had probably forgotten that Jane had even poured the tea, if his rambling, disconnected speech was any indication of the state of his short term memory. What had the old guy said about poison? Jane knew from his own experiences with the devil's cherry- belladonna- that even a little bit too much of something could have unfortunate side effects.
Dosage was all the difference, often, between a medication and a poison. A treatment or death. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
"Chicken Man?" Jane said tensely, and felt on the side of the wrinkled, weathered neck for a pulse. The pulse was there but irregular but weak, and very rapid. Chicken Man was drooling all over himself, eyes fluttering, hands jerking.
"Grin-go, Grin-go, listen to me," he said. Jane nodded, eyes on the old guy.
"Give me a baby. Baby chicken. I want a baby chicken," he slurred. Eyes searching. "Give me one of my baby chickens." Was this a side effect of the tea, some hallucinatory thing? Or was the old guy actually somewhat lucid right now and just being himself? It was impossible to know for certain.
It was an odd request, but everything about this little guy was a bit odd. Jane pulled the wicker basket of chicks out from under the couch, gently pried loose one of the brown, fuzzy animals and placed it on the old man's shivering, shaking chest.
The Chicken Man laid one trembling, wrinkled hand on the tiny bird and stroked it and smiled, even as his eyes struggled to focus on Jane.
"Too much tea, this time, I think. Hard sometimes to know, these old hands shake..."
"Stay here. I'll be back, okay? I'll be right back. Just stay," Jane ordered him like he was a dog and would listen, and got up.
Jane ran out of the shack, out the front door (not bothering to make sure the screen door was clicked shut) and raced across the dusty expanse of space to the shed. He pulled the metal door open without knocking, dimly registered a young boy recoil as he appeared in the day's white light, in the doorway. Further on in the shed was a deformed child who looked up at him with a small amount of alarm before quickly returning his attention to a small portable box-like object (TV, it's an old-fashioned camping television, Jane, you know this).
Charlotte was looking at him, sitting cross-legged in front of a wooden pallet-cum-card table, Lisbon beside her. Lisbon, Charlotte and the boy (split lip, bruises on his face, stained t-shirt, a bit too thin, and judging from how close he was sitting to Charlotte and the expressions each of the kids had on their faces, they knew each other... Jane saw all of these things almost immediately and filed them away for later consideration) all looked at him.
Three sets of eyes on him at once, all wary.
Lisbon relaxed first, but only a little. The look of alarm on her partner's face was too severe to permit her total acceptance of his presence.
"What's the matter?" Lisbon demanded.
"The old man... Charlotte, what is that tea he drinks? He is shaking, eyes rolling back, his pulse is weak and thready, irregular. Has he had too much? Has this ever happened to him before?" His words came out in a stream. He wasn't panicking (or so he told himself) but he needed answers, and he needed them now.
Every single time he got close to Red John (his own mind wouldn't classify Charlotte in the close-to-Red-John-and-therefore-in-danger category, she was in her own category) something like this happened. He didn't want to lose this little guy.
"How much tea did he have? Only a little?" Charlotte sounded worried. "He only needs a little bit. I don't think his liver is what it once was."
"How much is a little bit?" Jane demanded. Charlotte held her thumb and pointer finger about an inch, an inch and a half apart. "He sometimes overdoes it, but not more than, I don't know... 200 milliliters? Something like that?"
Jane had filled the entire coffee mug up right to the brim. Damn it.
"How much did he drink, Patrick?" Charlotte sounded more alarmed as the seconds passed.
"He was taking too long, talking, rambling, you know how he does that?... so I poured him his tea, to try and get him to focus, because he was taking so long."
"How much did you give him?" Charlotte demanded. She stood up. Her eyes were full of fear now. This Chicken Man, this old guy, had been one of Charlotte's only sources of comfort for most of her life. If he was poisoned, if he was overdosing and dying, Jane desperately did not want her to see that.
She couldn't see that.
He had to protect her from the sight, from as much trauma as he could. That was his job, as a father. He'd let her down before, Jane knew that. Put her in danger by openly mocking Red John on television, then again by not double-checking that child's corpse in the bedroom, not running DNA tests on both corpses. Not making sure.
He'd let Charlotte down over and over, and he would not risk letting her see her old friend die.
He could spare her from seeing that. He had to.
"A coffee mug's worth, about. And maybe the tea steeped too long? Charlotte, what is it called, the plant he drinks? I'm going to drive him to the hospital, right now, okay? I need to know the name of the plant he uses, for that tea."
"He calls it bloodleaf, but I don't know the technical name. I should come with you."
"No, no, stay here with Lisbon. Stay here. Lisbon, you have your gun, right? Watch her. Charlotte? Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can, but stay here!" Jane felt guilty, but he also had a sinking feeling. The idea of the old man dying on the way to the hospital, of Charlotte seeing him die, was too much. He had to hurry. The old guy hadn't looked too good when Jane had come out...
Charlotte followed him to the door. She looked bewildered, fearful, eyes huge.
"It's going to be okay, Charlie," he said, stooping to rest his hand on her shoulder. She didn't pull away. She seemed lost, uncertain. Maybe later that fear would turn to anger and blame, but right now it was just fear, unmitigated and pure.
"He's going to be okay. Stay here with Lisbon. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay? There is a hospital in town, right?"
Charlotte nodded. "Yeah, a medical centre. You have a road atlas, right? It's on there, they marked it on the map. I noticed it when I was checking out the maps the other day."
"Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. He's a tough old bird, he'll be fine," Jane turned and ran back towards the little shack. He could feel Charlotte watching him from the door of the shed. "Go back and play cards with Lisbon, Charlotte. Lisbon! Play cards with her! He'll be fine, he'll be perfectly fine, wait and see, he'll be just fine," Jane called as calmly as he could as he burst back into the shack.
Lisbon would keep Charlotte safe. She had her gun. Lisbon was a trained CBI agent, she was a good shot, and she was protective of Charlotte, Jane knew she was, he'd read her body language accurately for years and the way Lisbon looked when she was looking at Charlotte or talking about her was maternal, protective.
They'd play cards, Lisbon would take care of Charlie. He just had to get the old guy to the hospital. They'd pump his stomach, give him some fluids, do their doctor-y stuff. The crazy old man would be fine. Of course he'd be fine.
Old eccentrics that went off wandering in the desert without water canteens and sucked back poison for fun never died from normal human things. This guy would live to be 112 and die choking on an Oreo cookie while laughing at a joke, something like that...
Jane burst back into the living room, bent down by the old guy and took his pulse again. Still rapid, but maybe not quite so fast? It was hard to say.
The old man was shaking less now, but sweating profusely. The little chick was sleeping on top of his chest, like nothing was wrong, tiny bead eyes closed shut.
"Okay, buddy, time for you to go back with the rest of the clutch," Jane said, picking the small animal up quickly and depositing it back in the chirping wicker basket. Somehow, in the last 4 or 5 minutes since he'd been out and talking to Charlotte, that damned goat had come back into the shack.
It was sitting in the Chicken Man's chair, front legs hanging off the footrest and watching Jane with inscrutable eyes. To Jane the animal almost looked angry, resentful.
Accusatory.
"I didn't know that shit was that powerful! What? You think I'd deliberately try to harm him?" Jane snapped at the goat. The goat just stared its annoyed and slightly pissy goat stare. Jane shook his head. He was talking to goats now.
No wonder Charlotte was the way she was. The old dude's craziness was contagious.
Jane lightly smacked the Chicken Man's cheek and he made a low moaning sound. Jane could see that he was trying to focus his vision. Good. That was good. He was still alive and he was able to be roused. All very good signs.
"Chicken Man? It's me, Patrick. I am going to pick you up. I'm going to take you to a doctor. Can you talk to me? Try to stay awake for me, okay?"
The old man muttered something about the goat.
"Right. Yes. Your goat. I see that he came back inside. Yes. Yes. He's sitting in your chair, yes."
"Not allowed on my chair. He knows... knows better! Never listens." The old man was barely conscious, but at least he was talking. He sure loved his animals. When this was all over, Jane would buy that damned goat a really nice little goat-house and a chair of its own but for right now he had to get this guy to the hospital, keep him awake, keep him alive.
"I am sure he does know better, but you know what they say about goats being stubborn, right?" Jane had the old man at the front door now. He opened it with a kick of his sneakered foot and carried the Chicken Man out into the bright, morning sunlight. He was heavier than Jane would have expected based on his height and body type.
Were his bones made out of lead or something? Weren't birds supposed to have hollow bones? Jane smiled at his own random thought and continued to drag the old guy, making meaningless small talk as he did so.
Jane carried him to the truck's passenger side, laid him in the dust. He unlocked the door, quickly scooped him back up and buckled him into the passenger seat as the old man muttered incoherently. Jane slammed the door shut and raced around to the driver's side of the truck. He got in, started the ignition and pulled out quickly, back tires sending up clouds of dust. The shed's door, Jane could see, was closed. Good.
Lisbon was distracting Charlotte. That was also good. Good.
This was all good. Everything would be fine.
It would all be just fine.
Jane pulled out onto the lonely little dust road that he'd taken earlier that morning, but this time he was speeding. As he drove, he fumbled in the glove compartment for the road atlas. Jane pulled it out, scanned it, saw a symbol that represented a health clinic, scanned the map. Oriented himself. He had a basic idea of where it was, and no doubt Hermosillo would have a health clinic (it was referred to here as a hospital but the symbol seemed too small to be a regular sized hospital) somewhere prominent. There would be signs. Probably in both Spanish and English, judging by the degree of tourism the city got.
Jane floored the gas, let the map drop onto the floor. The old man was muttering something. He seemed to be unconscious, but was still making noises.
"Chicken Man? We'll be there soon, okay? Getting you a doctor right now. Why don't you tell me about your goat?" Jane implored. The truck raced through the desert.
"My goat?" That seemed to have gotten through somehow.
"Yeah. Your goat. What's his name?"
"He don't have a name."
"Oh?"
"Never wanted one. He never wanted name. Told me, told me, don't name me! Has always been a most disagreeable sort of goat. In past life... he be a disagreeable child. Now, he be a disagreeable goat."
"Uh huh," Jane soothed, not really paying attention to the words, eyes flickering between the road and the old guy. He had to stay focused on his task, which was to get this guy to a hospital or a medial clinic or some place with medical professionals who knew what to do and could pump stomachs, and that meant staying focused on the road.
They couldn't afford to get into an accident right now, or hit some wild dog, blow out a tire...
"Uh huh. A disagreeable goat? Yeah. I can see that," Jane blabbered. "If he is so disagreeable, why do you let him in the house?" This entire conversation was nonsense, really, but ironically it was also- Jane was certain- a pretty standard conversation as far as the Chicken Man went.
"The sunlight, sometimes. Sometimes it hurts his eyes. Bad headaches," the Chicken Man breathed, and winced. He fingered his own head, then seemed to stop talking. Jane glanced over as he began to heave.
"Okay, yeah.. yeah... right all over the upholstery," Jane mumbled as the Chicken Man vomited all over himself, all over the front of his poncho and onto the passenger seat. Jane deserved that, for his impatience, for pouring that tea without thinking about his own experiences with hallucinatory teas, for his stupidity. The smell, however, was incredibly pungent, incredibly strong. Jane focused on the road, felt his stomach twist, felt his own throat work.
He would not throw up! He took a low breath through his mouth, hit the button for the electric windows. The windows made a mechanical whirring noise as they lowered. So much for the air-conditioning, but getting rid of that smell was more important right now.
"The sunlight gives the goat headaches? Or do you have a headache?"
"My headdddd," the old man moaned. He made another retching noise. He was in obvious, severe discomfort.
"Okay, just a few more minutes. Hold on for me, okay? A few more minutes, and we'll have you at the hospital and they'll have some drugs, some medicine, really good medicine... and you'll feel better. Okay? Hold on for me."
"My head hurts!" The old man whined louder, but his voice sounded weak, faint with pain. His eyes flashed open, full of physical agony. His face was a washed out mask, bloodless under the dark pigment of his skin. Jane felt a stabbing pulse of remorse. He was responsible for this. He had been recklless, impatient, and had tried to speed things along. That impatience had led to this old guy being poisoned. This old, weird man-child with the strangely innocent air about him. Damn it.
"Little One, so much fear for her, awaits. The mouse showed me. Juan de Rojo has a green box for her. He will put her in the green box. The box... is a coffin, yes? How you say coffin? Box for dead? He wants you join him. If you join him, he dig her back up. He will make you kill your pretty lady, to prove yourself to him, that you really join him, gringo. If you join him, and kill your pretty lady, then he will... he will dig up Little One, back up, dig her back up. But if you do not do this terrible thing? He will let Little One die in the dead-box. Green box. He says to her, as she goes in, green, Charlotte. Green. Your favourite colour. Am I not considerate? He says, he says he has the box made just for her. It is special, expensive. Little One is so, so scared, crying, crying hard, so scared! She begs him. He puts gun in her face. Says she can get in, or he can kill her now. Blast fucking brains all over the ground, he says. Juan de Rojo says this, not me, I never speak this way to Little One. Okay? Never hurt Little One, not me. Always want... protect her. She my first baby. First ever baby, Little One. Angry, so angry, with Little One, Juan de Rojo is so angry with her, gringo! For leaving him. For ruining his plans..."
"What plans?" Jane said after the old man was done ranting. "What plans?"
"He meant as to surprise you. Ten years on. Meant to give you back Little One as a gift, to, um... what is the word? Impress upon you? Um... no... encourage you? Yes. Encourage you to join him. He wants you to join him. Little One was to be gift for you from him, yes? But she left. Ran away. Whole plan flies out window, and so, Juan de Rojo? Your Red John? So angry. Little One, she never really listens to him. Always, always, breaking his rules," the Chicken Man's voice slipped. It sounded slurred, like a drunkard. He smiled a little as he spoke of Charlotte resisting Red John, breaking his rules. Jane could see it all too clearly. Charlotte had always been stubborn, had always had a mind of her own. An innate goodness, but also, an innate autonomy.
Much like the Chicken Man's goat, Jane guessed. Stubborn, pissy, intelligent, strong-willed. That will had kept her alive. Jane was certain of it.
"So, your goat?" Jane prompted. He didn't care what the Chicken Man said, as long as he was speaking. Sometimes staying awake, staying conscious, could mean the difference between life and death. If the Chicken Man passed out and his breathing was depressed or interrupted, he could suffocate before they got to the hospital. Keeping him awake could make all the difference.
"Where did you get your goat from?" Jane tried, when the Chicken Man didn't say anything. The old man muttered something Jane couldn't make out. His eyes fluttered against whatever spell the drug was having on him, fighting the darkness that was pulling at him.
"Yup. That's it. Keep your eyes open. Good job. Tell me about your nameless goat. Where did you get him?"
"Little One tried to give name for that goat. Did I tell you? She did," the Chicken Man said from his seat. The smell of vomit was a little less intense now. Still enough to make Jane feel sick, but he no longer thought he might vomit.
"Oh? What happened when she tried to name him?"
"He not like anybody tell him what to do. That goat has mind of own! Not want name! Grumpy Gus, she calls him sometimes. Grumpy Gus. But that not his real name, just what she say when he stare. You being a grumpy Gus? I tell her, she says to me, gringo, Little One tells me: they have to be named. All the animals. All the chickens. Even my damned goat! No discussion no more, not with Little One. Everybody named, she says. It must happen," the Chicken Man slurred all of this.
He was still moaning in pain in between his words, moving his head as if a new position might relieve the pain, but at least he was trying to stay awake.
"All animals, she says, must have the names." He gently made a fist with his right hand and smacked it into his left to show the passion of Charlotte's determination that all the animals be named.
"Okay. So she gave your goat a name then?" Jane glanced over at the old guy, smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. The Chicken Man was in obvious physical pain, still, obviously feeling very rough. But talking now, eyes glazed over, face a bit less pale. Was he less pale? Jane hoped so...
"Back a year or two ago, this happen with my goat. She try to name my little goat. She try to name the goat.. yes? Patrick? That the name she give to him, Patrick, not the other one, not the Grumpy Gus. Yes. But he not want name! Not the name of Grumpy Gus and not the name of Patrick, no name did he want. I tell her this many times, gringo. No listening from Little One! Never, not when she want something. She like my goat, like that. In that way, she and goat are same. Same mind they have. Little One and goat. Same brain. Grumpy Gus?... ha ha ha."
"Right. I can see that. Charlotte's like your little goat. They are both inordinately stubborn. So what then?" Jane soothed. Eyed the speedometer. He was going almost 100 mph. His eyes flickered back to the road. They were approaching the city limits now, he could see the sprawl of buildings in the distance. He eased off the gas a little. The last thing he needed to do, now, was hit a pedestrian.
"She say to my goat, gringo: Patrick, Patrick, come here, Patrick. He not like it at all! Ha ha. She say, we get him collar with bell. So we always know where he is? He hate it more! Ha ha ha. She put on collar, she give him cookies, yes? He eat them, then he go, when she in toilet. He goes, my goat, and he eats shoelaces from her shoes? Ha ha ha. Costly shoes, too. He start chewing on the shoes! But laces, all of the laces, he eats them up? Yes. All gone. Little One come back, she yells at my goat! What are you doing, you stupid goat?! Those shoes cost me... cost her lots! He chewing on the shoe, now, when she is yelling, chewing on inside, trying to eat it, too? Because she name him, and he not want name. I know this is reason why he eat those shoelaces! So he show her! He show her how stubborn he is, hmm, gringo? No name for him! Never again she call him this Grumpy Gus, this Patrick. After, only, she call him asshole. Ha ha ha!"
Jane could imagine this scene playing out. Charlotte versus the goat. He chuckled as the old man spoke, visualizing his daughter's look of incredulous disbelief.
"Yet you kept the bell on him," Jane noted. The Chicken Man chuckled, nodded.
"Yes. He get used to bell. It help me, with my old eyes. I yell for him. I hear his bell? That is good."
They were within the city proper now. Jane drove quickly. The medical centre had been in the middle of the city, more or less. Next to what seemed to be a church, and next to what was marked as a hotel. He'd find it. Maybe vomiting had helped the old guy? Maybe that had helped?
It took ten more minutes, but Jane found the clinic. Pulled the truck into the parking lot, killed the engine. He'd forgotten to roll the windows back up, but whatever.
Nothing of value in the truck, and the Chicken Man still wasn't out of the woods. He raced around to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and hefted the old guy down like a sack of potatoes.
Some part of him was surprised when the Chicken Man didn't laugh at being picked up, but that thought was gone almost as fast as it had arrived. Jane slammed the door shut, and helped to steer the old man towards the emergency entrance of the medical centre.
Everything would be fine now. Jane was sure of it.