Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter 50)

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: Your reviews are always very much appreciated. I know how this story ends now, and I know how to get from here to there, and I hope all the long-time readers will really enjoy what I have in the works. We are nearing the end, and this is a short chapter, but I know I haven't uploaded in a while and wanted to get it up for you guys. -Lex

"What are you doing, girl?"

She knew the voice, and yet she didn't. It was the voice of a friend from another life, a voice from a dream she had dreamt years ago... barely remembered. She blinked and tried to bring the world into focus.

There was a preternaturally large bluebird standing in front of her, staring at her with its jet black eyes. Buggy little eyes, really. It was a good four feet tall, head the size of a baby dolphin. It had an English accent.

"What are you doing, do you think?" It said again, and it blinked at her, hopped towards her. Charlotte sat up and blinked back at it, and tried to focus.

She was in a darkened room. There were windows high up in stone walls. White light pouring through from outside, and a thapping noise as a tree branch blew about in the wind outside and hit the glass like an emaciated, skeletal hand.

She was in a stone room. Dark and musty-smelling. Stone floors. A small mat under her, almost like a prayer rug. Cushions along one wall. A small bookcase stuffed with books and toys from her youth. Comforting things, tokens of innocence and joy.

And this gigantic, impossible bird.

"Where am I?" Charlotte said slowly, and rubbed at her eyes much the way a very small child would. No way this could be real. Where was she? She tried to remember the last few moments of her life, but she couldn't. The last day was gone, at least for now.

"You need to close your mouth, right now," the bluebird said. "The FBI are not your friends. They won't understand your life. What you say right now will follow you to the grave. Close the mouth."

"Buzz?" She said slowly, testing the word out. The bird was so real. More real than real. Its face was a few inches from her now, staring at her intently, wise in a way that was preternaturally eerie. The bird could as well have been an avatar for God. Its (his) eyes bore into her, alert and stern.

But there was also a gentleness to the creature she hadn't processed earlier. It smelled a bit like pine, and earth after a rain, and under that, a faint whiff of something like honey. She could almost hear its rapid thrum of a heart beat now, like strong bass coming out of speakers. She reached out slowly, and gently stroked its feathered chest,the gentle waxing and waning of the creature's bosom as it breathed and stared.

Warm, and soft and with just a trace of something dusty on the feathers, much like ordinary birds. Light shone off the tiny little pin of a beak in a wink of photons. The buggy, black eyes were soft with understanding and concern. It spoke again.

"You need to stop."

"Stop what?" Charlotte said.

"Stop talking."

And then, a small circle of light appeared on the wall opposite, distorted slightly by the surface of stone. A projection of the mind. In the circle of light was the interview room, and her body sitting rigidly like a mannequin, and the couch, and Patrick, and Bennett, and Lisbon with her worried face on, sitting so still and tense with her concern.

"You can't tell them about killing the girl..."

And it all came rushing back at her, the last day, where she was, what she was doing.

"But I did. I already did."

"They won't understand. In terms of forensics, it doesn't matter. The body is long gone. There is no proof your story is correct anyway, but it will follow you for life."

"I already told them."

"No, you haven't," Buzz chirped back.

"Patrick needs to know what his daughter turned out to be," Charlotte said sadly, face downcast. The bird hopped even closer.

"He already knows. Or guessed. He has a hunch, one could say. He doesn't blame you, you know. He knows your actions were inevitable, given the circumstances."

"He needs to hear it. He needs to, for his own peace."

"Tell him another time, then. Don't tell the FBI. You're not a monster."

"Yes, I am."

"Charlotte, just what did you think Red John was going to do with that little bumble-bee of a girl?" Buzz's voice was soft and sweet, wind in the trees. Charlotte didn't answer. Just looked down at the stone floor beneath her, the prayer rug with its intricate, muted, ancient colours.

"Did you think he was just going to let her go, just like that? Back to her Mummy and Daddy?"

"No, of course not."

"So, what did you think was going to happen? Would he have let her live with you? A little sister, so to speak?"

Charlotte was silent again. She didn't know what Red John would have done, not for certain, but contemplating the possibilities was toxic. Her heart was full of pain, so full of pain it felt like the beginnings of a heart attack. Pain throbbed in her chest, and in her arms and legs and fingers and toes. Guilt and grief and a sadness deeper and older than grief, more primal, more unfocused and despairing and suffocating bled through her entire being. She felt the sudden urge to sob, and choked it back. She would not cry, not now, not here...

"You dispatched her quickly, in a fit of your own terror. She left this world with her innocence intact."

"I killed her in a horrible way," Charlotte argued, and the big bluebird didn't attempt to deny this fact.

"Yes. But it was the kindest possible exit you had to offer her, wasn't it? Given the tools available to you?"

"I killed her and she was innocent. She died in a panic. She died, and she was so scared, so scared-"

"So were you," the bird said and turned its head to the side as it analyzed its creator.

"So were you."

"Not then, I wasn't."

"You were traumatized, but you were still innocent. You didn't want to hurt her. You weren't evil. You're not cruel. You could see no other out for her."

Charlotte nodded. On the pool of light on the stone wall, her body had stopped moving completely, had stopped even blinking. The knees were folded up against the chest, arms around the knees. Huddled in its seat. Silent. The glassy eyes of a doll where her own eyes should have been.

"I've been here before, haven't I?" Charlotte asked the bird, and got up from where she had been sitting cross-legged, wandered over to the little bookcase. Small trinkets from her life before, before Red John. Little Golden Books and a ceramic dish with baby teeth in it. A ceramic cat mug with traces of hot chocolate left on the bottom. A fired clay circle, smooshed down by four year old hands, with one of her own tiny hand prints impressed in the middle and painted in lively colours.

"What is this place?"

"Its a refuge of sorts," the bird said. "For when things get to be too much, out there. Thick stone walls, see, to keep the monsters out. A place to rest, and a place to read and forget. This is a place of forgetting and retreat."

"I made this place with my mind?" Charlotte said and came back over to the little mat, sat back down. The design on it was ancient, the flower of life, a fine golden thread on a burgandy background. Sacred geometry. The design brought her a sense of something much larger than herself, something eternal, that tied all the nasty threads of bad lives together in a plan that made some sort of ultimate sense. It brought her peace.

"You did and you didn't. These places exist and people come to inhabit them... with the right circumstances, of course... inhabit them. In times of great need."

"But the toys, the books..."

"You brought with you what you sought to protect. That which you couldn't leave behind. For you, it was your early childhood. Memories of Mommy and Daddy. Before the monster with your Daddy's face came around."

In front of her was an open doorway. Darkness beyond. Darkness so black and intimidating, it was almost a physical thing, like thick tar.

"What's down there?"

"Other rooms. For other purposes."

"Are there other people here?"

"There are other sentiences here. People might be a bit much. We tend to reserve that word for beings with so-called physical bodies."

"But you," Charlotte said, reaching forward against, fingers gently stroking the bird's soft breast. "You've got a physical body."

"That's what you think," Buzz said, and he sounded to Charlotte both amused and pleased.

"What am I doing, in there?" Charlotte said, pointing at the projected circle of light. In the light, Patrick was at her side, now. Shaking her gently and talking to somebody else in the room, his expression a mixture of concern and protective paternal determination. Lisbon was almost out of view, speaking to Bennett in low hushed tones. She heard a few words from the sussurus. "Stress". "Trauma". "Dissociation".

"You've disconnected for a bit. Now the interview stops."

"Will I have to do this again? This interview?"

Buzz shook his head gently. "No. They have what they need. You told them about other murders they weren't sure about, before you went off-line, so to speak. You gave them new information, enough to make some people very famous in forensics. Lots of fodder for peer-review journal articles. That's good enough."

Now, in the circle of light, Patrick had Charlotte in his arms. He lifted her like she weighed nothing. Was walking out of the room, no longer bothering to talk to whomever he had been talking to just seconds ago.

"Now what?"

"Now you go live the rest of your life. You overcome, and you build a life you can tolerate, maybe even enjoy. You still have that option, you know."

"How do I get back to my body?" Charlotte asked, still stroking the bird's chest, it's burnt orange chest with the soft white feathers.

"Walk out the doorway, here, and walk down the hall. Don't go into any of the other rooms. Most of them are memories you're not ready for yet. We stored them here for you, instead of in your subconscious mind, where they would have done much more damage and degraded the physical body you possess. Just walk down the hall. You'll see a bright light at the end. Just walk until you reach it."

"Okay," Charlotte stood up. Considered the large bird and his gentle face. Reached forward and hugged the bird. She could feel the nimble bones under all those feathers, the speedy thrum of his passerine heart, the comforting warmth of his body. So real. So incredibly real.

He was incredible. And he was real, even if he wasn't physical.

Amazing.

"Will I see you again?"

"If you need to see me, you will see me," Buzz said somewhat enigmatically. "Come on, I will go with you." And the bird hopped towards the door. Turned around and watched the girl with those gentle, peaceful eyes.

"Come on, little Charlie," Buzz said, and hopped into the black beyond. "Not all darkness is bad. Some darkness is just for resting in, sometimes."

Charlotte followed.

She was in the backseat of Lisbon's car, laid out to rest. Lisbon was driving and Patrick- her dad- was in the passenger seat. She groaned and rubbed her eyes and sat up.

"Ugh. Have a headache."

"Welcome back," Patrick said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Why are we in the car?"

"Interview was a bit too much, so you disconnected for a bit," Patrick said simply. Charlotte felt her cheeks flush with embarassment.

They both knew was traumatized and had adapted to that trauma with dissociation and "checking out", but it still made her feel exposed and crazy when they saw such episodes. Patrick seemed to read her mind.

"It's a very intelligent way of dealing with the intolerable," he said in that same gentle voice.

"What is? Checking out?" Charlotte said bitterly.

"Yes. A form of self-hypnosis, essentially. You autohypnotized before Red John's programming could install itself too deeply, I think."

"Oh." She looked out the window glumly, at the passing scenery of California autumn as it fell into full night.

"You know, it's 100% normal to feel embarassed when we think others perceive us as vulnerable or exposed," Patrick continued, making direct eye contact with her. She nodded. Felt like telling him she wasn't embarassed, but what would be the point? She was, and both Patrick and Lisbon knew it.

"Want to listen to the radio?" Patrick said after a moment. Charlotte nodded. Anything to diffuse the tense, awkward silence.

"Any station in mind?"

"Anything but hip hop or country," Charlotte said softly, and Patrick nodded and smiled and surfed the radio until he found light pop, modern pop, the sort of station they played in grocery stores.

She wanted to tell Patrick about Buzz, the bluebird, and his intelligence and wisdom, and the way he smelled, and his gentle feathers.

She wanted to share the secret, stone room in what appeared to be a medieval fortress with him, and the prayer mat with the sacred geometrical patterns.

He'd call it a dream, though, or a fantasy. No way he would believe such a place could in any way be real. A different realm or dimension, a soul realm. If he called Buzz a dream, she might be so inclined to believe him, and she didn't want to believe that the massive bird had been make-believe.

To think that, even for a moment, felt disrespectful.

She sank back into the plush fabric of the car seats and allowed her mind to drift off. She was almost asleep when a thought occurred to her, nagged her.

"I don't have to speak to them again, do I? The FBI?"

"No," Patrick said decidely. "They got enough. The rest of it... that's your story. You'll tell it to who you want to tell it to, and on your own time."

Charlotte smiled. That was a comforting thought, and allowed her to breathe again. She closed her eyes again and this time, she did drift off.