Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 39)

Rating: M for graphic violence and language

Fandom: The Mentalist

Summary: Patrick Jane has lived his life obsessed with the capture of Red John ever since finding his beloved wife and daughter slain by the maniac's hand. Now, 10 years to the day after that horrific night, a young woman appears in Patrick's life, someone who threatens to destroy everything his life has become in the interim... if not his sanity, itself.

Author's Note: Thanks guys for your reviews and comments. They're always a pretty awful (awful as in twisted) horror movie where a young boy is kidnapped by a serial killer and forced to witness various murders, with the end goal being to "train" him to become a killer himself. I thought the kid did a really good job of acting the part. The movie is called "Bereavement" and it came out in 2011 (or was it 2010?) Anyway, the entire thing can be watched for free on youtube, if you don't mind the Spanish subtitles.

Even though I just saw the movie, I recognize elements of Charlotte in the child character, Martin, although Charlotte was forced to interact in the general world in a way Martin wasn't and talks more and is prone to long, rambling monologues. Some of the scenes in the movie showing Martin staring in shock are similar to what I imagined for Charlotte, especially the scenes of Martin right after he is taken (aged 6 in the movie). Even though Charlie talks more and is more animated, I imagine her character as having very similar facial expressions, responses to violence, body language, and I imagine her eyes would hold a similar look. The url if you want to watch it (you'l obviously have to fix the "dots") is: www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=g8VuqosAwS4

I am very interested in the way early experiences with evil affect the developing brain and personality, especially the way evil affects people who are ultimately good and resist the "teachings" of those who are trying to corrupt them. You may gain a deeper insight into the character of Charlotte if you watch that movie, although I must warn you guys, it's a pretty twisted movie and not for those who have trouble watching gore. Also, in the last chapter, I messed up and made the time when they are on the road "2:06 p.m" That should read "2:06 a.m." Sorry, guys.

"Looking at my own reflection/ When suddenly it changes/ Violently it changes/ Oh no, there is no turning back now/ You've woken up the demon in me." - Down with the Sickness by Disturbed

" I envy your serenity. The path to redemption is through forgiveness - absolution. You're my witness."- Graham Sutter to Martin in "Bereavement" (2010)

"These eyes will deceive you, they will destroy you. They will take from you, your innocence, your pride, and eventually your soul. These eyes do not see what you and I see. Behind these eyes one finds only blackness, the absence of light, these are of a psychopath." - Dr. Samuel Loomis, "Halloween" (2007)

They drove through the night, neither of them speaking, both lost in memories and daydreams. Jane kept his eyes more or less on the road, but every so often Lisbon caught him looking in the rear view mirror, checking out Charlotte, scanning her for any signs of lucidity. For her part the teen remained rigid and locked in her own world. Lisbon allowed herself to rest but mentally tried to keep from falling back asleep. If she was developing nightmares that were so vivid they prompted screams, then the least she could do would be wait to sleep until she was away from Jane and Charlotte.

Neither one of them needed anymore stress.

Monday, November 6th, 2013 4:38 am PST

After three hours on the road Jane pulled into a parking lot off the highway, parked in front of a 7-11.

"You need the bathroom?" He asked Lisbon tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. She shook her head.

"Okay. I'm going to go use the facilities and I'll be back in a few. Want anything?"

"Coffee?" Lisbon asked tiredly. Her eyes were getting heavy again. Jane nodded immediately.

"How do you want it?"

"2 sugars and 2 creams," Lisbon murmured. "I think my body can use the sugar right now."

"Got it," Jane said tiredly. He turned back in his seat, looked at his daughter.

"I'm going into the 7-11 Charlie. You want anything?"

Charlotte just stared through him, eyes unfocused and glazed. Jane plastered a delighted smile on his face.

"A donut? A soda? How about a candy bar?" Jane coaxed, eyes scanning the girl's face for any sign of life or awareness. There was nothing. Jane nodded, as if she had spoken, and slipped the keys into his pocket.

"Okay. Well, if you change your mind about that, let me know when I come back to the car," Jane said with artificial brightness. Lisbon looked over at him, tried to give him a reassuring smile, knew it fell short. Jane grinned back at her anyway. How on earth did he do that? Beam at people when his world was in tatters?

"Lisbon, you want a donut?" Jane said, still with that huge, forced grin on his face. "Charlie used to love donuts, but I am thinking I can only get her one if she asks for one. You want one?"

Lisbon wasn't sure, but thought Jane wanted her to say yes so she nodded.

"What kind?"

"Uh... a long john?" Lisbon realize her gaffe only after she'd spoken. Long John. Red John? Parapraxis could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, and it leaked out more often than not when the person in question was tired. If Jane found her choice of donut revealing, he didn't comment on it.

"That's an excellent choice, Lisbon. I think I'll get myself a jelly donut with strawberry jam. Charlie? Last chance for a donut for a while?" Jane looked back at his kid, raised his eyebrows. Of course, there was no response.

"Okay, Lisbon, I'll be right back. You'll hold down the fort?"

Lisbon nodded, knew that Jane's chatter was more for Charlotte's benefit than for her. Still, she found his questions and his voice soothing and grounding. He shut his door gently, walked into the 7-11. She watched him head to the back. She closed her eyes. Exhaled tiredly.

Jane was back in the 7-11 now, at the soda fountain. Then he was pouring coffee. He came back with a plastic bag looped around one wrist, a Super Big Gulp in one hand, a coffee in the other. He put the drinks on top of the car, opened his door, then handed Lisbon her donut and her coffee.

"I got Charlie a glazed donut, just in case she wants it later," Jane said loudly, glancing back at his daughter for a moment before finding Lisbon's eyes again.

He slammed his door, picked his soda back up and slurped noisily, grinning at Lisbon goofily around his straw. He looked in that moment almost identical to how he'd looked years earlier when she'd just started working with him, when he'd stopped sleeping and she'd come into the CBI to find him drinking a half gallon of soda pop and writing in a diary with his hair mussed and his face unshaven, reeking of desperation and with the same exhausted, almost manic energy about him.

He looked like when he finally dropped, he'd be down for a long while.

He sat in his seat in the 7-11 parking lot, eyes scanning over the brightly lit store, irises tracing over the the packages and the details, the words, over everything. Looking for what, exactly? Dangers? Clues? Just looping because he was exhausted and his eyes were going haywire? Was he half asleep already and experiencing some sort of waking dream state? Should he even be driving?

Lisbon picked up her coffee and took a big gulp. It was hot and burned going down, but the pain was almost cleansing, was almost soothing. Jane turned to watch her with his overly bright fox eyes.

"You never were a big coffee fan, were you Jane?" Lisbon said, searching for words, blowing on her coffee, her tired eyes reading the warning on the side of the paper cup. This was what grown ups did. They made chit chat about everyday things, they had discussions that weren't intellectual games of chess or flirtation or mind games with local law authorities. They talked and there was no hidden meaning to it, sometimes, just talk for talk's sake, for the sake of bonding.

In normal lives, not everything was a battle and a power play.

Lisbon's eyes focused on the white, printed letters on her coffee cup again. She found the words suddenly hilarious, much funnier than they should have been, and barked out exhausted laughter. Jane watched her carefully, grinning at her weary laughter, but under the grin was... what? Concern? Lisbon toned it down a bit, got the laughter down to snickers.

WARNING: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT. USE DISCRETION. Jane looked over at her, shook his head, too exhausted not to find her laughter contagious.

"When I need caffeine I'd rather drink Coke than coffee," he said blandly. "Never got into coffee," he added, responding to her earlier comments. "Tea? Sure. But coffee was always too bitter for me. Smelled great, but the taste didn't live up to all the hype."

"What sort of public needs a warning that coffee may be hot, though?" Lisbon muttered with manufactured irritation. "I mean, my God. These are adults they're printing these warnings for, right?"

Jane watched her, an approving grin on his face. "I think, maybe, that what we call adults are, largely... not really adults."

"But to warn people that coffee might be hot? Really? Who needs that warning?"

"You've worked for the CBI for how long, now, Lisbon? And you still have to ask? The same sort of public that needs to be warned not to risk their lives overturning vending machines trying to score free cans of soda," Jane answered with a sly grin.

"And we consider ourselves the zenith of macro evolution?" Lisbon muttered, more amused than irritated. Jane smiled at her with at least equal amusement, enjoying the banter, the throwback to normalcy. It was nice just to be carefree for a moment, just to be silly. It felt almost like a luxury, just to sit and chatter and not plumb the depths of one's soul or deal with the depraved, the deformed and disgusting. Just to talk and smile and be.

"The older I get, Jane, the more I think dolphins are our masters and have it all figured out. And warnings about hot coffee just reinforce that idea in my mind."

Jane nodded, expression more serious than Lisbon would have thought was reasonable considering the subject matter, and she had to work hard not to dissolve into exhausted giggles at the expression on his face. Jane turned his over-bright fox eyes back on her, grinned his sly grin once again, and she suddenly knew he was going to reveal something about himself. And she was right.

"Growing up in the carnie circuit, you get to see a wide range of human behaviour and abilities," Jane started, sucking on his soda, continuing.

"You see these professionals rolling in money and ego; lawyers, judges, physicians... they'd come to the carnival and bring their kiddies to gawk at you and laugh at you and you learn to pick them out from a distance, because they share a singular certainty that their position in society makes them invulnerable to manipulation by others, especially us stupid and poorly bred carnie folk." Jane stopped talking, clearly lost in memories. He looked over at Lisbon and grinned to show her just how okay he was with his position in society. Lisbon nodded at him, waited for more.

"They were always the most fun to rip off," he gloated, eyes twinkling with mischief. Lisbon snorted.

"I'll bet."

"You learn to justify what you're doing when you're young and disenfranchised and bright and falling through the cracks socially. You begin to view whatever you do to others as fair game, because the playing field is already so uneven and so skewed... and because others already expect you to fail. That's a big part of it, right there. Before you're born, Lisbon, there are people out there that are certain that you're going to fail and wind up a loser, simply because of who you're born to, and those people manipulate and set up society the way they see fit because they're the ones making the laws and the rules in the first place. So... life becomes a social game of chess, and the people interacting with you are underestimating you and patronizing you, certain you're a fuck up and stupid and destined to die in poverty."

Jane stopped, sighed wearily.

"That's really hard to take, because it's just so damned unfair but... when that is your reality, then it is hard to feel guilty about ripping them off, those people who are so certain you're a stupid, inbred fuck up. In fact, not only is it hard to feel bad about whatever you manage to pull off, but you begin to delight in messing with the people who think you're inferior. It becomes almost cathartic, a way of getting one over on people you view as your oppressors. Does that make any sense to you?"

Lisbon stilled herself to listen. Jane very rarely spoke about his own psychology, his own motivations for behaving as he did. Was it his fatigue? Was he trying to connect with Charlotte who was mute and disconnected in the back seat? Or was he finally opening up, finally tired of keeping the people around him at arm's length?

"I can imagine that, in your place... I may have developed a different perspective about manipulating other people," Lisbon allowed, testing each word slowly.

Jane smiled back at her, clearly delighted.

"You would have, Lisbon. Because you don't view it as manipulation at the outset. You view it as survival," Jane added, sucking on his drink again, gulping down soda.

His eyes had the excited, feverish look they sometimes got when he was over-tired but unable to slow his mind.

"The thing is, when you're being rewarded for ripping people off from the time you're yay high," Jane held his thumb and pointer finger an inch apart "well, you desensitize yourself to your own excuses, too. Before you know it, you're fucking with everyone around you just to show them that you're not as inferior as they may think you are. Even when they don't think you're inferior, you still are driven to do it, to be proactive in displaying your own competence, and after awhile it's not about displaying your confidence, but in showcasing your superiority. And over time those patterns become deeply rooted in your personality, and you grow up and realize you have essentially turned the people around you into chess pieces, only this time you're playing both sides of the board. And you're so damned good at it, at messing around in peoples' heads, that you don't know how to stop. You don't know even if you want to stop, because by the time you realize these things about yourself, you've been behaving like that for as long as you can remember. And you don't know any other way to be anymore."

Lisbon nodded silently, afraid to say anything and break whatever spell Jane was in.

"I mess with people's heads, Lisbon," Jane said, smile not so wide now. "It's what I do. I am very, very good at it, and I know that, and I get a fair amount of satisfaction out of fucking with people... and I've made a fair amount of money at it, too. I justified my own actions for so long and from such a young age, that sometimes I catch myself and honestly don't know if I should feel guilty over something I've just done. I don't even know."

Lisbon nodded.

"Wainwright thought I was a clinical sociopath," Jane added, voice a little softer. To Lisbon, he looked genuinely haunted at the idea. He was being open with her, right now, emotionally naked. Lisbon imagined showing his true vulnerability was something that didn't come easy to him.

"You're not a sociopath, Jane," Lisbon said, seeking out his eyes. He smiled at her.

"Red John was."

"You're not Red John," Lisbon said, voice steely. Jane sighed deeply, obviously not satisfied.

"No, I know I'm not Red John. But we share certain traits," Jane added. "Arrogance, ability to manipulate others, ability to plan, showmanship..."

"Sure, and you share those traits with Houdini and Rasputin and David Copperfield and a lot of other people who also are nothing like Red John. Red John wasn't a monster because he could manipulate others well, and you know it. He used his ability to manipulate people as a weapon and it made his monstrous acts even worse, because he betrayed peoples' trust. But the ability to manipulate others in the first place is not what defined him as a monster. How he used his skills? That's what made him a monster."

Jane took another sip of his soda. Thought over Lisbon's words. Sighed again. Jane didn't usually sigh. Jane didn't usually appear so pensive. Was his chipper confidence largely an act? Or had his recent experiences stirred up his doubts more than Lisbon knew?

"If I stop getting inside people's heads... then what am I, Lisbon?"

Lisbon was silent, waiting for more. She wasn't entirely sure what Jane was getting at.

"My entire use as a human being is doing what I do. This... what I am... it's all I've ever done. That's my function. If I give those parts of myself up, then what is left of me that differentiates me from anyone else? What is my value if those aspects are stripped away?"

Lisbon stared at Jane, not quite sure if he was messing with her or not. The longer she stared at him, the more certain she was that he was being genuine.

"You're not serious, Jane," Lisbon started, voice flatter than she would have wished. Jane shrugged.

"Try me. Who are you, Lisbon?"

"What?"

"I mean, when you think of yourself as a human being, when you think about what makes you Lisbon, about your core Lisbon-ness, if you will... what do you think comprises that? What qualities form you?"

"Are you serious?" Lisbon started, expression uncertain, mouth turned up in an ironic smile. "You're serious."

"The fact that you aren't sure what my intentions are, even now, should tell you all you need to know, Lisbon." Jane sipped at his soda. Watched his partner carefully, eyes scanning her face. He put the keys back in the ignition and turned the car back on.

"Jane, I trust you. You're not a monster. You're understandably haunted and confused. I can't imagine what it would be like to have your experiences and your memories and your thoughts. But you don't hurt people. You push the limits sometimes, and you make people uneasy, and you push people's buttons, and sometimes, yes, what you show them about themselves scares and angers them... but that's not the same thing as being a monster, not even close on a bad day. And I believe if you think it through when you've had some sleep, you'll see that."

"Good old Lisbon," Jane said softly, smiling at the CBI agent to his right, finally putting his drink down in the cup holder. "You're almost supernaturally loyal, you know that, Lisbon? It's a little spooky, actually."

"Uh, thanks," Lisbon muttered. "I think."

"Don't mention it," Jane murmured, and pulled the car out of the parking lot and back into the blackness.

Monday, November 6th, 2013 6:42 am PST

Jane made excellent time and they pulled into the parking lot in Malibu before 7 in the morning. Jane shut the car off and sat looking out at the dark-windowed 2 storey (plus attic) home. Everything had really started right here. This was ground zero.

"I'll need to grab some stuff from the attic before we bring Charlotte inside. Her box spring and mattress. I'll be fast. You okay to hang out with Charlotte for a bit longer, Lisbon?"

Lisbon nodded tiredly. She was fine.

"Okay," Jane said, nodding. "We have flashlights until the lights get turned on and bottled water in the trunk. And cell phones capable of calling for take out."

Lisbon nodded again.

"I'll be fast as I can," Jane said, and got out of the car. Lisbon watched him walk up to the front door. He was still for a moment, and even though she couldn't see his face, she imagined that his eyes were closed. They were on the threshold of something, Lisbon could feel it, and no doubt Jane could feel it. The air felt heavy, full of electricity, full of promise. Lisbon almost expected a crack of thunder, a flash of lightning, some sign in the heavens to denote this new chapter of their lives...

Lisbon turned in her seat to address Charlotte. "You're home, Charlotte."

No response.

Charlotte's eyes were closed, thumb still corked in her mouth. The effect, combined with her bruised face and broken, splinted fingers made Lisbon feel incredibly protective of the girl. Lisbon sighed and turned back to face Jane, but he had already entered the house and closed the door behind himself. Lisbon closed her eyes, tried to still her mind.

Monday, November 6th, 2013 7:08 am PST

Jane was true to his word and worked fast. He came back less than a half hour later, face flushed and hair sweaty. He opened the driver's side of the door and roused Lisbon.

"I brought everything in," he said. Lisbon opened her eyes, felt groggy and half sedated. Sleep was battling for dominance.

"Oh? Okay."

"I hauled Charlotte's old box spring and mattress downstairs and made up the bed. And I brought the sofa downstairs."

"Okay," Lisbon said again, and got out of the passenger seat. Jane went around to the back door, opened it, and picked Charlotte up. Lisbon got the door for him and they entered.

Jane had carried the sofa downstairs, and that in itself was impressive, because it looked fairly large and awkward for one person to manage.

He'd also hauled down a little dining table and chairs. Lisbon saw her bags on the dining table. There was the bottled water in the kitchen. One of the battery powered lanterns he'd grabbed at the pharmacy the night before was on and waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Lisbon looked up the staircase and felt a chill. This was the very place where Red John had trashed Jane's life and destroyed Charlotte's childhood, and possibly her sanity. This was the very same hall.

Jane carried Charlotte up the stairs silently, walked her down the hall and went into a room with the door that had been left open.

Jane had made up the bed. There was no bed frame, but it was resting on its box spring, and there were sheets on it, a comforter, pillows. The IV stand was positioned near the bed, and a small dresser with a lamp on the top of it. Jane carried Charlotte over to the bed and laid her down on top of it. Charlotte's eyes were open, but it was doubtful how much of this she was actually seeing.

"See, Charlie?" Jane said as he stepped away from her and hung a bag of saline from the IV pole. He connected the saline drip to her hand, mindful of her bruises, her splinted, sausage fingers. "You remember this place? This is your old bedroom."

If Charlotte remembered it, there was no outward appearance.

"I'll get the electricity reconnected today, but until then, we've got flashlights," Jane said brightly. He disappeared out into the hallway and returned with one of the battery powered lanterns. He put the lantern down on the floor near Charlotte's bed so that her face was partially illuminated.

"How's that?"

Again, there was no response. Jane didn't seem fazed.

"I'll put the curtains back up later, but you're on the second floor so it's not that big a deal. Only the birds can see in, and birds are our friends, aren't they? Like Jonathan Livingston Seagull?"

Again, no response. Jane sighed then, just a little, turned to look at Lisbon who was watching carefully.

"Lisbon, can you grab that bag of stuff by the door?"

Lisbon nodded, brought the bag over. Jane pulled a package from it. He was holding a package of pull-ups, underwear designed for kids who wet the bed. He looked at Lisbon apologetically.

"I don't expect we'll need these for too long, but can I ask if you'll... I mean..." Jane looked out of his depth again. Lisbon nodded at him.

"Yeah, it's no problem," Lisbon said softly.

"Good, that's good. I put a rubber sheet under the sheets, too," Jane mumbled. "Just in case. I'll..." he pointed towards the door. "I'll be outside. Just thought it was better, since you're a girl and..."

"Jane, it's fine."

"Okay, thanks Lisbon," Jane said quietly, and closed the door shut behind him.

When Charlotte was settled and Lisbon had used the facilities and washed her face with bottled water and brushed her teeth she wandered back downstairs.

Jane had made up the couch like a bed and was sitting in a chair near the dining table, drinking tea.

"I'll put the curtains up later. But I can put them up now if you'd prefer," Jane said. Lisbon shook her head no. Both of them were on their last legs and deeply in need of rest.

"It's fine, Jane. Thank you."

Jane smiled at her response and took another sip of his tea. He looked like he might fall asleep sitting up in his chair any second.

"Where'd you get the hot water?" Lisbon asked, somehow not surprised that Jane had found a way to get hot water for tea. Jane grinned.

"A little camping stove," Jane explained, pointing in the general direction of the front door. Lisbon nodded.

"I made you a cup," Jane added. "It's orange pekoe. Nothing fancy, but a good standby tea."

Lisbon smiled at him, came over to the dining table and sat down. Jane slid her the cup.

"Charlotte say anything?" Jane asked between sips.

"No," Lisbon said quietly. She knew Jane was pushing away the thought that Charlotte's condition might last more than just a few days. Lisbon was almost tempted to add that Charlotte probably needed more help than they could give her and kept that thought to herself.

Who could do a better job at caring for Charlotte than Jane? Who could possibly begin to understand Charlotte's psychology as well as Jane? Lisbon didn't think anyone could help the teen if Jane couldn't, and others could conceivably do more harm. Still, the idea that Charlotte was getting worse nagged at Lisbon. Jane saw her expression.

"What do you want to say, Lisbon?"

Lisbon looked up at him. Sighed. He was smiling at her understandingly, encouragingly, trying to coax her thoughts out of her through her mouth.

"About Charlotte," Lisbon started, not sure exactly what to say what she wanted to say, not even entirely sure what she wanted to say. "Do you know what's going on with her right now? What this is... this state she's in?"

Jane nodded solemnly. He knew. Of course he knew.

"She's regressed to somewhere safe inside of herself. The external world became too much to bear so... think of it like a fuse blowing, Lisbon."

"How do we replace the fuse?" Lisbon asked, blowing on her tea.

"I'm not sure we replace it as much as Charlotte's mind calms down and begins to feel safe. I think maybe that process replaces it."

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Lisbon asked. Jane was silent.

"Not exactly. But it makes sense, doesn't it? All those years with Red John, unable to disconnect because disconnecting would have meant putting her physical life in jeopardy. She's told Red John is dead and goes inward? Makes a sad sort of sense. In a way, it's like taking a psychic vacation."

"Wouldn't hearing Red John is dead make her feel more secure, not less?" Lisbon asked.

"It probably did. But then all the stuff that she's been running from for years comes flooding back, because her subconscious finally feels safe. Yet the sum total of all that trauma is too much for anyone to process at one time so we get this," Jane said, gesturing with his hands. "Reminds me a little of soldiers who come home and fall apart completely when they're out of the war zone. In a war zone it is not safe to fall apart, so the body goes on autopilot essentially, is on fight or flight for weeks or months. In Charlotte's case, for years. Eventually, when the person is no longer in imminent physical danger, the stuff that has been buried and repressed has a chance to come back up and that is usually when you see the more extreme PTSD symptoms start to come out and manifest themselves."

Lisbon nodded at Jane's explanation.

"In a weird way, it's probably a step in the right direction," Jane murmured, and took another sip of his orange pekoe.

"And that stuff about Felix? And Elian?" She didn't have to say more than that. Felix had attacked another and killed himself. Elian had possibly killed others and was in a mute, withdrawn state. The working theory was that Red John had programmed them to behave as they had, programmed them like robots to go off. It was an eerie thought.

"If something like that is going on with Charlotte, there will be no way to know until something happens. The only possible precaution we could take would be to physically restrain her, and that would do too much psychological harm, especially in light of what we know about what Red John did to her. So we watch her closely."

"Could you hypnotize her?" Lisbon asked. Jane's pupils were huge in the relative gloom of the house, his face illuminated by the light of the lantern. His expression was unreadable.

"Maybe. It might do more harm than good, though."

"How?"

Jane drained the last of his tea and stared into the empty cup.

"The subconscious mind doesn't reason things out like the conscious mind does. It uses dream imagery, symbols, metaphors. Depending on what is in there and what is significant to Charlotte, I could do more harm than good if I go mucking about without key information. Especially if Red John has implanted certain post hypnotic suggestions to trigger if I attempt any sort of hypnosis."

Lisbon didn't like that answer. "But there has to be some way to help her."

Jane nodded. "I think there probably is, but Charlotte will let us know what it is over time. Hypnotizing her would be like running through a field of land mines."

"And until then we just watch her closely?"

Jane nodded. What else was there to do?

"I brought the air mattress and pump down to her room. I'm going to crash in Charlotte's room. Until we know more, one of us should be with her most of the time. When we've had some sleep things will make more sense," Jane said. He picked up his tea cup and Lisbon's tea cup and carried them into the kitchen.

Lisbon heard the sound they made as he placed them in the sink. He came back to the table and sat back down. Rubbed at his eyes.

"Get some sleep, Lisbon. The brain can't work without sleep."

Lisbon nodded. Jane got up and lurched towards the stairs. Lisbon watched him for a moment, then got up and went over to the sofa he'd made up for her and sank down onto it.

She was asleep almost as soon as she'd put her head on the pillow.

Monday, November 6th, 2013 9:10 am PST

Charlotte was floating somewhere between the real world and the world of nightmares. The man that she knew was her father had brought her back to the house where all the bad things had started. She couldn't move. She was locked in her body, terrified, and it was hard to think.

She had thought Red John was dead, but in the hospital there had been a woman with Red John's eyes, whispering things, telling her she would never be free of him, and that woman had been a nurse. A nurse! She had opened Charlotte's shirt and looked at the surgical incisions with cold eyes, cold fingers pressing and prying along the incisions, and Charlotte had felt the room spin. She'd been unable to talk normally or to call out. She had wanted to scream for Patrick, but the scream had died in her throat.

"Maybe Red John's soul is going to go into your Daddy," the nurse had said, pressing and squeezing the incisions, palpating deep into the wounds to cause as much pain as possible. That hurt, but not as much as the idea of her father becoming possessed by Red John. Charlotte hissed at the woman through her teeth, eyes prickling with tears from pain. She couldn't speak, though.

"If not Patrick, well, anyone else could be Red John on the inside. Red John left his eyes everywhere, you know. They look like normal people. They look just like your Daddy. Just like Lisbon. You'll never know who you're dealing with until they turn on you. Doctors, nurses, bus drivers... how will you ever know, Charlotte? How will you ever know if you're safe?"

Charlotte could feel her soul pulling away from the edges of her body. It was going inward, in to what she thought of as a secret portal.

The sense of fear, the sense of pain and the sense of self began to erode and a dimly aware mind was left to bear witness. It happened on its own and when it started it couldn't be stopped. When Red John had first put her in the grave, years ago, and when he had bagged her after and forced air into her frozen lungs, she had felt the same sense of disconnecting from reality and her own sense of self.

Red John had inquired about such episodes, telling her that such states where necessary to gain enlightenment, to break down the ego, to see the truth through the lies. Charlotte wasn't sure about that. All it really felt like was like she was losing her sense of reality and unity and sanity. It certainly didn't feel like enlightenment.

When Patrick had come back in her room she'd tried to make sense to him, but hadn't been able to even move. Her body wanted to pull in on itself and tighten into a little ball. She wanted to run away from everything, even her own consciousness. Patrick looked like Red John, and yet the look in his eyes was so completely different that he ended up looking nothing at all like Red John in the ways that truly mattered, and that helped. It was hard to know who to trust sometimes. It was hard to know what sanity was, who to talk to, what to say, what was safe to say. The nurse's voice echoed in her mind, bouncing around, ricocheting, and Charlotte was afraid.

And then she was floating above everything, watching from the top of the ceiling.

Patrick got her out of the hospital shortly after that, talking to her softly, trying his best to comfort her. Charlotte knew he was trying to reassure her, but she couldn't bring herself up from the depths. Or was it that she couldn't bring herself back down to her body? When she tried to speak, her words didn't connect with her body, and her mouth didn't work. Her eyes didn't focus. Everything was blurred. Pain was painful and somehow not, both at the same time. She could feel the nurse's fingers pressing in her incision, digging into the sutured flesh. Could smell, hours later, the woman's flowery perfume.

And then, after some time on the road in the car, they were back in this place.

This place where everything had started so long ago. Charlotte wasn't sure how she felt about being back in THIS PLACE. This was where everything had gone all wrong.

Before Red John, before everything happened, she had lived in this place with Patrick and her Mommy and things had been good. She'd never thought about death or torture or sadism or giant stone owls in the forest or eyes all over the place watching you, always. Life had seemed to be more simple, and safer, and she'd clung to those memories of safety for years.

And now she was back here, and Patrick was telling her Red John was dead, but that seemed almost impossible to believe because... how could Red John be dead? RED JOHN? How could he have allowed himself to be killed? It made no sense. Red John was a master showman. He fucked with people. He was like Patrick in a lot of ways, but Patrick had his limits. There were things Charlotte knew Patrick would not do out of an inner sense of goodness. Red John didn't have those boundaries. So how could he be dead? It made no sense.

Was Red John even dead, even now? She didn't know. She didn't know. And she couldn't move.

She was dimly aware of having wet herself in the car on the long, black highway. Patrick had been very gentle with her, had changed her like she was a frozen little baby, which, in a way, was what she was. Lisbon had put bulky underwear on hours later, back when they were in the Malibu house, eyes averted and acting like it was no big deal. They were trying.

But she couldn't move and that was dully terrifying. Her IV bag hung from its hook above her head. When Patrick took off his suit jacket, Charlotte had seen bandages on the inside crooks of both of his arms. Her brain tried to put the pieces together, but she couldn't, not really. Her own mind was numb and fumbling to make sense of things. What was wrong with his arms? Was he okay?

The pieces wouldn't fit together to make a puzzle picture. She knew the pieces should fit together, but they weren't. There were far too many pieces and the edges were ragged and bloody, and she could only see the gray backside of them, not the colourful front side.

This was her old room, she knew. It smelled the same, even after all this time. The bedding had been washed, but it felt the same, too. A lot of the furniture and toys were gone, but it was the same in its soul. Patrick had kept everything important.

He had kept everything.

If he hadn't cared about her, he would have thrown everything away, like it was garbage. So, perhaps... Red John had been lying about that too? If you didn't care about someone, you didn't care enough to keep their things around. And you didn't talk so softly to them, and you didn't try to calm them when they were scared. People only did those things when they really cared about somebody. Charlotte was pretty sure, anyway.

Perhaps Patrick really had been upset all those years ago when Red John had faked her death? It was an interesting and compelling thought, one she almost didn't dare let herself believe for very long, because if it turned out not to be true, that would be almost too painful to bear. But maybe... maybe Patrick really had thought she was dead? And maybe he really had loved her, and maybe he still did love her even today, and maybe he was a safe person?

Interesting and compelling thoughts, and she desperately wanted to believe them.

Lisbon trusted Patrick. Charlotte could see that clearly. And Lisbon seemed to be competent and sane and intelligent. So that was a good sign.

And Patrick had some traits in common with Red John, but when Patrick smiled his smile reached his eyes, and when he was happy Charlotte felt it wasn't an act. When he talked to her to calm her, he seemed to actually care how she felt, even if he managed to stay calm. These were traits that Red John didn't possess.

She had to get back into her body, she knew that. She wasn't sure how to do that.

She was sort of floating around nearby, in a fuzzy, not quite awake state. Her thumb was in her mouth and her mouth was sucking on it without her permission. Her vision was foggy and blurred. Charlotte closed her eyes and allowed her mind to gray over and her body to fall into sleep. She needed sleep.

Maybe when she woke up she'd be more in her body and things wouldn't be so topsy-turvy and frightening and disorienting. Maybe things would make more sense in a little while. Maybe... maybe...

Jane watched Lisbon sleep for a long while, then went upstairs to the attic and found a bucket and an old bottle of Mr. Clean, a few sponges still sealed in plastic wrap. He came back down with his cleaning gear and put some water on to boil outside in the front yard, in the kettle on the little camping stove. When the kettle began to scream he poured boiling water into the bucket and mixed it with tepid water from one of the gallon buckets of bottled water he'd bought at the pharmacy, poured in some Mr. Clean.

He carried his bucket of hot water upstairs and entered the master bedroom.

A bloody smiley face, ten years old, peered down at him from the wall.

The blood had aged to almost-black. If someone had asked him a decade ago if he could ever get used to seeing that mocking, taunting face he would have told them no. No, and in no uncertain terms. And yet, here he was, standing in the doorway with his bucket of hot water smelling of lemon cleaner, steam rising from the bucket and warming his face with wet heat, and all he felt was a weary sense of having seen too much and aged too much and lost too much. That damned smiley face really wasn't all that impressive anymore. Not really. Pathetic, really.

It was the mark of a beast who had nothing better to do with his life than destroy families and inflict pain on those who were weaker because he- Red John- had been too damned cowardly and pathetic to work on his own shit and resist his own demons. Pathetic. Nothing but pathetic. In the depths of guilt and grief and self-recrimination, it was easy for that smiley face to take on an almost supernatural quality, to assign it life and a sense of awareness and sentience it didn't have.

When the grief and guilt began to bubble down, it lost its power and was just a symbol of one mad man's desire to feel superior by inflicting pain and terror on others. The existence of such a vile creature, such a sadist, was scary but the symbol itself was almost childish.

Jane carried the bucket over to where his makeshift bed was set up on pallets. Jane removed his shoes, reached into the bucket, picked up the sopping sponge and squeezed out the excess water. He stood and stared at the damned smiley face for a moment, eyes burning.

But in the end, the smiley face had no real intelligence to it, no real malice. It couldn't really mock him because it was only smeared blood on a wall. Any aspect of it that had ever been mocking seemed to have died with its creator.

In the end, the smiley face was as dead as Angela, or Red John. Maybe even more dead, if that were possible. So much of the fear associated with that damned symbol had to do with Red John's anonymity. When you turned on the lights and really saw the monster under the bed or in the cellar, the monster's power was lessened. The monster might be ugly or sickening or perverse, but it lost its theatrical, God-like power when you were shining the light on it, because most of the power monsters had came from their mysteriousness, came from the shadows and the gloom and the secrecy around them.

Knowing Red John, and seeing him up close and personal, had drained the power out of his acts, left him diseased and horrific in much the same way as a rabid animal was. That was bad, but it was able to be processed and dealt with. It was tragic. It was sick. And it was pathetic. But it wasn't supernatural and it wasn't beyond understanding. It wasn't larger than life like Red John had liked to pretend he was.

Jane stepped up onto his mattress in his stocking feet and rubbed the sponge on the wall.

The dried blood came off in small black flakes. Some of it went slimy and clung to the sponge. Jane kept rubbing at the wall.

When his sponge was black and the wall was covered in dark brown streaks he rinsed the sponge out and started again. Angela's blood was being removed. Her body was in the ground but here, right here, was the last of her DNA on this wall. Dead cells, dead Angela, dead memories... Jane kept washing the wall, expression neutral, hand scrubbing hard, pulling off at least as much white paint as blood.

The water in his bucket turned burgundy and then dark brown and then black. He kept rubbing. His hands became bright pink, scarlet, from the heat, and still he kept rubbing and washing and wringing out black, bloody water from his sponge. Rinse and repeat. The past was being washed away. It was healing and it was right, but it still hurt to change something that had kept him company for so long.

He took his bucket of diluted dark blood and Mr. Clean and hot water to the bathroom, opened the lid of the toilet and poured it in without ceremony. He watched it drain and gurgle down the toilet, almost like her blood was saying goodbye to him as it disappeared from sight.

Then he went back downstairs to put more water on the kettle to repeat the process. He spent over an hour washing the wall that had haunted so many of his nightmares for so many of his earthly years, scrubbing at the smiley face and the memories, the blood that had once been inside his wife, the blood that had once upon a time given her life...

The wall would have to be repainted.

The blood had been on the wall so long it had chemically changed the surface, had stained the paint. It left a shadow of itself behind, like a ghost, a dull pink-gray that was almost- but not quite- invisible.

Jane stared at the ghost of the smiley face, at the sad looking marks where his wife's blood had once glistened in a garish taunt.

"I love you, Angela," Jane told the worn down wall. He sighed again, took the final bucket of water back to the bathroom, poured it down the toilet. Came back and looked at his work.

The smiley face was almost gone. Almost like it had never been, and something about that- about how easy it was to physically erase the horror from this room- made Jane's heart cringe with grief.

Jane could see it because he knew where to look. If you weren't looking for it, it would be easy to miss.

Jane had phoned the water guys. They said the water would be back on within 6 hours. He phoned the electricity guys and they said something similar about the heat and the power. He even phoned the cable guys and that was easy, as easy as flipping a switch somewhere. Jane wanted to sleep, and yet, he wanted the past to be the past. He was desperate for the past to be the past. When he was done with his phone calls he put on another kettle of water on the camping stove, came back inside, watched Lisbon sleep while his water heated up.

She was amazing, his Lisbon. He truly, dearly loved her. He thought she must know that, thought she felt the same about him, and yet the fear and guilt and shame were always there, under the surface, battling for control. He'd loved Angela and his brother had gutted her and pulled her lungs out and painted a smiley face on the wall above their bed in her blood. He'd painted her toenails with her own blood. He'd behaved in a way that was more consistent with serial killers who were out of control and enraged, and yet he'd painted her toenails. His m.o. contradicted itself.

And his own televised taunts had goaded the monster with his face into action. How could anyone with even a sliver of conscience ever forgive themselves for something like that?

But Red John was dead now.

Jane knew he was dead. He'd checked the body himself, seen the life drain from the intelligent and merciless eyes.

He'd killed Red John. He'd fired the fatal shot. He'd killed his brother, the monster he'd shared the womb with.

Red John was dead, and if that wasn't a chance for closure, what possibly could be?

People could fake a lot of things, but Jane was pretty sure they couldn't fake death, not like that. Red John had been willing to die if Jane rejected him and chose Lisbon, and he'd probably thought there was no way they'd ever find Charlotte, at least not in time to save her life. He'd died thinking his younger brother would be forever haunted by his death. On the off chance that Charlotte did survive, Red John had planned for that too... he'd set things up so his body would be burned beyond all recognition.

Even dead, he had denied Charlotte her closure, her ability to ever look at the face of his corpse and find any peace.

Jane knew Charlotte might never accept Red John's death. She hadn't been there, hadn't seen him get shot, hadn't seen the whole place go up in a blazing inferno. She'd been buried alive at that time, freaking out and losing what was left of her sanity.

Jane sighed and got up from his chair, wandered back outside. The water was hot enough. He turned the stove off, brought the kettle back inside, dropped a tea bag into a tea cup and filled the cup with steaming water. Waited while the tea steeped.

And finally it was ready.

He drank his tea and watched Lisbon sleep, traced the curve of her jaw with his eyes, the shape of her shadowed eyelids in sleep, the way one hand hung off the sofa and the fingers curled slightly. Lisbon had the hands of a painted figure out of a renaissance piece. So feminine and so beautiful. Jane smiled at her, wandered over to her, picked up her arm and gently placed it by her side, pulled the comforter up over her. He considered her for a moment.

Kissed her forehead.

She didn't wake up, and that was just as well.

Jane double checked the front door, scanned the road and the area around his home. No one in sight.

He rechecked the locks on the windows and walked back up the stairs. The door to Charlotte's room was open and he entered. Charlotte was asleep, thumb no longer in her mouth, the bruises on her face much more vivid than they'd been a few days ago. The area around her eyes was black and scarlet, her poor, mangled fingers were black and purple and swollen.

Jane crawled onto the inflatable air mattress he'd set up in her room, pulled a thin throw over himself, put his head to the pillow and was out like a light.