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: I deeply appreciate the kind and thoughtful reviews. Thank you so much to everyone who reviews and is still with me and reading! Thank you! I am sorry for so long between updates. Life has been busy!
" Bill, do you have any idea how much trouble you got yourself into last night just by going over there? Who do you think those people were? Those were not just some ordinary people. If I told you their names... no, I'm not going to tell you their names... but if I did, I don't think you'd sleep so well at night." - Victor Ziegler, Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
"Goodness is something to be chosen. When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man." - Prison Chaplain in "A Clockwork Orange" (1971)
"If you must wait
Wait for them here in my arms as I shake
If you must weep
Do it right here in my bed as I sleep
If you must mourn, my love
Mourn with the moon and the stars up above
If you must mourn
Don't do it alone" - You by Keaton Henson
Jane sat in the reading chair across from the couch Charlotte was sleeping on, and watched her. Dixon had fallen asleep on top of her, but that didn't seem to bother Charlotte in the slightest. She trusted the dog, about as much as Jane suspected she was capable of trusting anybody or anything. For that, he was incredibly thankful.
Charlotte was like an abused cat that had run off and become feral but was hungry and cold and curious about humans. He was trying to get her to come to him, to trust. He wasn't sure if she ever would trust him. She wanted to trust. He knew that. But her damage ran deep, and some damage couldn't be undone. He wasn't naive enough to believe that love and ice cream and time and patience could fix everything.
She'd fallen asleep half an hour after starting her cartoons and he'd gotten up, moving slowly so as not to wake her, and turned the volume down until it was a pleasant background murmur. Cartoon white noise. He left the lights on but dimmed them. Around midnight he got up and made coffee. He would not be sleeping tonight. Tomorrow was Friday and he had been off his game and not much help as far as the CBI and interviews went. If he felt poorly, he could always phone in sick, or at least take a taxi to work, get Charlotte a ride in a taxi too school. He'd see in the morning.
He made coffee- even though he preferred tea- because he needed the caffeine. Charlotte had managed to drink almost the entire two-liter bottle of Pepsi by herself over the course of dinner and Pee Wee, and Jane had finished off the remaining cup or so. Now, it was coffee. He wasn't going to leave her to go out and get more pop, and he couldn't risk falling asleep tonight, not when he was betting good money his kid was going to be processing a lot of nightmare fodder and would need him.
Now, 20 minutes after midnight, he sat in the chair and sipped the coffee (black) and watched her sleep. Watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair fanned around her face on her pillow as slept. He thought of her damage, and how hard she was fighting against a monster that was almost beyond belief in scope and viciousness.
The meds seemed to be helping a little. At the very least, they were dulling the worst of the anxiety and panic and served as something of a safety net for the worst days and nights. But Jane knew she couldn't go through life drugged up and zombie-like. That wouldn't be fair to her, after all she had lived through and fought to survive. Yet... how could he fix her?
He didn't know. He could barely consider her past and what she had told him for any length of time before beginning to feel numb and slightly disconnected and dissociative himself. Some realities were just too stressful and horrifying for human beings to endure. To even contemplate, really, on an emotional level.
And he couldn't afford to become too emotional about her damage... because if he allowed himself that luxury, he wouldn't be able to remain objective. And yet, at the same time, not to feel the emotions he was feeling wouldn't be good, either. Because he was her father, and because he was bearing witness to her pain. He couldn't undo the damage, but he could bear witness to her trials and her struggles. He could offer her that tiny scrap of dignity, of not shouldering all of this alone.
Ideally, there would be a therapist Charlotte could see, someone she could trust enough for something positive to take place, who would be intelligent and kind and insightful enough to lead her through therapy and healing. Jane didn't know of anyone smart enough or insightful enough to deal with this degree of trauma and mind-fuckery and offer any real help. Maybe at the end of the day, there was no real help for damage this deep and painful. How could another person's words ever help heal this sort of thing?
But he'd damned sure stay up and keep watch and be there for her if she needed him.
He sipped his coffee (he wanted to stay awake but he'd been nervous and on-edge himself, lately, and didn't want to risk triggering an anxiety attack in himself) and watched her sleep. He watcher her eyes move rapidly underneath her eyelids, saw her hands and fingers clench in sleep. He moved his coffee cup back to the coffee table, very gently, and waited.
She turned in her sleep, mouth opening, jaw tightening. Jane watched carefully. Very softly, almost inaudibly, she began to whimper in her sleep.
Jane got up and out of the reading chair and went to her. He crouched in front of the couch and looked at her tense, scared face.
"Shhh, Charlie. It's okay. You're safe. Just sleep," he said to her sleeping form. Maybe she heard him because the whimpering began to die down. He considered touching her head, her shoulder. Finally, he did pat her shoulder, stroked her cheek gently, brushed hair from her forehead. She didn't wake up and her face seemed to relax into a more neutral expression.
"I'm so sorry you have to go through all of this, kiddo. It's not fair. But you're okay. You're not alone. I'm here with you. You're not alone. And you're going to be okay," Jane said softly, still gently petting her head.
Maybe some deeply buried, wounded part of her would hear his words, and take them to heart. The sleeping person was in a highly suggestible state- similar, in a way, to being hypnotized.
"I know you're scared. I know you're exhausted. I promise you, it's going to get easier now. Whatever scary stuff you have to go through to get well... you won't ever go through it alone."
Charlotte's eyebrows furrowed at that and she whimpered again.
"You're warm and safe and you're back. You escaped. You escaped him. You did it. You did it all by yourself," Jane intoned softly. "I am so proud of you. You showed so much courage. So much strength. I am so proud of you."
AS Jane continued to speak, Charlotte's brow furrowed again. Tears began to leak out of her eyes, roll down her cheeks. She was crying in her sleep.
Jane just kept gently brushing her hair with his fingers.
He made a shushing noise, hoping to comfort her. The tears continued to fall. She was crying, but nearly silently. As if, even asleep, she had conditioned herself to be silent when crying.
Jane continued to pet her head.
Then, her lips began to move in her sleep.
"I'm... I'm sorry..." Charlotte murmured, deeply asleep.
"Why... why are you sorry?" Jane asked softly, still petting her hair.
"I... didn't... come back. I took... so long..." Charlotte said softly, and two new tracks of tears began to fall. The fabric of her pillow was growing dark with her tears.
"Shhh. You did a great job. More than I could have ever hoped. I am sorry I didn't find your... didn't know you were out there and come get you. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Should have come back...sooner... found a way..."
"You did your best," Jane said resolutely, still keeping his voice soft and light and gentle so as not to wake her.
"Should have... killed him... killed him..."
Jane continued to pet her head.
"You couldn't kill him. He was too big. Too strong."
"Should have... tried..."
"You did everything right, Charlotte. You were so brave," Jane said to her sleeping form.
"He's... going to...come back.. .come back... Daddy... he's...coming...back..."
"He can't. He's dead. Red John is dead," Jane said, hoping his words would reach her, would comfort her and convince her. Instead, her face twisted with renewed anxiety.
"No... he's not... he's... playing... he's... coming... he's... in... in...the grass..."
"Who is?" Jane asked in a whisper.
"Wolf... with... red...eyes...blood...in...his...eyes...and...and he lives...in the...the bamboo..."
"Shhh.. just sleep, okay? There is no wolf. Just sleep. You're safe and warm," Jane said searching her face. The tears had stopped and her face seemed to relax.
"He's...getting...closer...Daddy must...know..."
"Nobody is coming. You are safe."
"Coming...back..."
"Shhhh," Jane said again, still petting her head, her hair.
"To... to... kill...kill me... he'll kill me..."
"Nobody is ever going to hurt you again. I'm here. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you," Jane said softly. He felt something cold and hard in his throat, swallowed painfully.
Charlotte's lower lip was trembling with fear, even though she was deeply asleep. Jane kissed his fingers, touched his fingers to her lip. Stroked her cheek. Finally, she stopped talking and her face seemed to relax again.
He stayed near her, watching her, smoothing her hair, for another ten minutes. Then got up off the floor and went back to his chair to continue his watch...
Around 3 am he began to drift, even with a pot of coffee in his veins. He remembered Charlotte as a little girl of 4, running on the grass near their house. She stopped short and stared down at the grass, a mixture of confusion and horror slowly seeping into her little features. Before Jane could reach her or see what the problem was, she was holding a baby bird in her hands, cupped ever so gently. She brought it over to her Daddy.
The bird was dead. Jane scanned the yard with his eyes, saw the ruined, broken nest, several other baby birds. All dead.
A cat had gotten them.
"He needs food?" Charlotte asked her father hopefully, passing him the naked little bird.
"Honey, he's dead," Jane said softly. Charlotte immediately shook her head, and her golden curls flew back and forth.
"No, he's still warm. So he's still alive. He's still warm. He needs some milk," she insisted.
"Honey, I'm sorry. He's dead," Jane repeated sadly.
Her eyes were already beginning to fill with tears. Her lip was trembling. Tears splashed through the net of her long eyelashes and splashed down her cheeks.
"But he's still warm!" It was almost a shout.
"I know," Jane said softly. "He... he just died..." He stopped talking. He could easily say too much here.
"But... why?" She scanned the yard and the tree and the sky as if maybe the clouds offered an answer.
"Um..." Jane blew out a breath. "A cat... I think..." He said. He was still holding the little bird. He walked over to the crushed, battered nest and put the bird with its siblings.
He'd bury them later.
"But... why?" Charlotte insisted, face screwing up in pain.
Jane pulled her into his arms, kissed her head.
"Honey.. sometimes cats... just kill. They're predators. They... have instincts."
"Instincts?"
"Instincts. Something that comes naturally to them; that they can't choose to do, or not do. They just do whatever is instinctive to them. It's who they are."
"But why the baby birds?"
"Cats are hunters, Charlotte."
"But..." she was still trying to make sense of this small tragedy, eyes still full of tears. "Where is the mommy bird?"
Jane scanned the ground. That's right. No mother bird. No feathered bird. Just these pink, featherless babies.
"She... maybe she wasn't here when the cat came?" Jane said. He hoped that might make her feel better, but instead, she burst out sobbing. Nearly hysterical now.
Damn it.
"Charlie, what? The mommy bird is probably okay," Jane said, trying to soothe her.
"She comes back... with their food? And all her babies are dead?"
Jane got it suddenly, wondered how he could be so stupid. He picked her up and held her to his chest, rocked her gently.
"It's okay. They're in heaven. The baby birds are in heaven. And the mommy bird will have more babies next year," Jane said, but the howling only got louder.
So he stopped talking and just rocked her in his arms.
It was the first time, to his knowledge, she had ever seen a dead animal.
The crying continued for quite a while. Jane had always known his daughter was sensitive, but this was next level...
Jane buried the nest and the birds after dinner that evening, and Charlotte put flowers on the spot where Jane had buried them, said a few words to God, thanking him for the birds, asking Him to take care of them.
Jane was touched, but the next morning Charlotte presented him with a drawing she made of a birdhouse that could be mounted on their roof or high up in the tree, with a hole only big enough for the mother bird and baby birds to get in and out of. Secure (or more secure) than a nest.
Jane looked the drawing over, pointed to the blue circle in the grass at the bottom of the tree.
"What's this?" He asked his four-year-old.
"A moat," Charlotte said resolutely.
"A moat?" Jane said, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice.
"A moat. Cats don't like water."
"I think we can make this birdhouse, but I don't think Mommy would like us digging a moat around the tree," Jane said and walked into the kitchen. Put the drawing up on the fridge door with ceramic animal magnets.
"Maybe.. we should put a moat around the whole house?"
"The whole house? Why?" Jane asked, eyebrows raising.
"To... to keep the predators away," Charlotte said. Jane looked at her seriously. Knelt down.
"Cats don't attack people, Charlie. We're too big. That's why we keep them as pets."
"Maybe, but... does anything attack people?"
Jane considered the numerous ways in which he could answer this question. Most of them would scare her.
"We don't need a moat. We have police, and we lock our doors," Jane finally said.
"Are you sure, Daddy?"
"I'm sure, bedbug. We're safe. And this is a good idea, this birdhouse. We'll make it together, okay?"
"Yes," Charlotte said and nodded. "For the mommy bird. Maybe she will come back."
"Maybe she will," Jane said, smiling a little.
"On TV I saw a birdhouse that lets you see the baby birds," Charlie began. "It sticks up on the window with sucky cups?"
"Suction cups?" Jane asked. Charlotte nodded.
"And you can see the baby birds. There is a sliding... paper. And you can see the birds, but they can't see you looking at them."
"Oh yeah?"
"It goes on the window. If we put it on my bedroom window, then the cat couldn't get them at all," Charlie persisted. Jane smiled. She was pretty subtle for a four-year-old.
"So... we're not going to make a birdhouse, together, then?"
"Why not both?" Charlotte offered her father, and Jane grinned back.
"How much does this special birdhouse that lets you see the baby birds cost?" Jane said. He'd been teaching her math and about money for several months now.
"19.99 plus shipping and handling, through this limited time special TV offer. You can't buy it in stores," Charlotte said, not one ounce of sarcasm in her voice.
Jane had laughed at that.
Charlotte's heart was racing. She glanced down at her digital watch. A "Transformers" watch. The top flipped up. She looked at the time. 5:30 pm. Red John had been gone for a few hours now. He would be home soon. Probably. You could never really tell. He was pissed off. He might be gone for days. He might be back soon, though, and it was important to be alert, now.
She had dumped some underwear and socks into her backpack. Her toothbrush. A comb. She'd managed to steal some money from Red John's wallet, here and there, over the last few weeks. Half the money she spent on candy, leaving candy wrappers "hidden" in places she knew Red John would find them so that he'd think all the money had gone to buy sweets. Half of it she saved. Paranoia and fear swam through her veins. Red John was like God. He knew everything. Or so it seemed. But maybe he didn't know everything. She thought he must have noticed the money missing by now, because he noticed everything, or seemed to. But he hadn't mentioned the money.
She needed some money. She needed to get away. She needed money to get away.
The bag was under her bed. She was locked in the house. The alarm code was on. No way in or out. The TV was on. The TV was her only friend. The phone required a passcode to dial out. Some number that had to be keyed in before the phone could be used. She didn't know the number. She'd tried before to use the phone, and Red John had come home. Bad things had happened. Better not to try again.
She sat and waited and stared at the cartoons as they flickered across the screen. It didn't matter what was playing. She couldn't follow the storylines anymore. The TV was miles away. The TV was planets away. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Life was going to end, maybe. She'd get away, or she'd end it.
This couldn't continue.
Red John was pissed. She had pissed him off. She wasn't sure what she had done, not exactly. He'd taken her on a job, and she'd thrown up and screamed and cried. He'd smiled at first, and then his eyes had turned dark, a darkness that was more than physical. He'd driven her back to the house, locked her up inside, set the alarm, and gone right back out.
She knew the look on his face. Rage. Controlled rage. He had gone off by himself to think and plan her punishment. And the fear of what might be coming was driving her insane. Her hands shook.
She'd put her sneakers on and kicked the bathroom mirror out. It felt like hours ago she'd done that. Oh boy, he would be so angry. She'd smashed out the mirror with her foot, and he'd been in a rage. Everything he owned was expensive. Antiques. Expensive old stuff. He'd be so angry. No turning back now. She'd finally wrapped a tea towel around her hand and pocketed a piece of the mirror.
After.. after the mistake. Oh well. It didn't really matter anymore. She was scared, but some part of her was almost giddy. Maybe she had lost the plot, cracked up completely. She kept giggling to herself, into her hoody. There was dried blood on her cheek.
She pulled her backpack from under the couch. It had been under the bed, first, and then as the time passed she'd moved it under the couch, so it could be near her. Her heart wouldn't slow down. Her hands felt numb and rubbery. The world was both too dim and too bright. She thought she might pass out.
Instead, she giggled again.
She was wearing her black hoody. She wore it on jobs with Red John, hood pulled up. A little grim reaper walking side by side the devil. The devil was always grinning, and she was always in tears. And the madness went on and on.
This couldn't go on anymore. This had to end.
She'd spent hours looking at the broken shard of mirror. Had considered... maybe... what it might feel like to jab that little piece of the mirror into her neck. Sure, it would hurt. Her desire to live was so strong. The blood would be hot and smell like copper and salt. it would spray out of her neck, maybe spray on the ceiling of the bathroom, and the corners of the world would begin to turn grey and dim. The grey would spread over her vision, followed with blobs of white and then black and then the black would spread and the numb feeling in her hands would spread up her arms and over her chest and down into her stomach and groin and legs.
Then, maybe, hopefully, there would be peace.
But as she considered this, what she needed to do, she began crying again. Then laughing. Then crying again.
No way out.
Just do it already.
No other way out.
She'd still experience some sensation after her heart stopped, but not for long. She sat and watched the television. Teletubbies. Such a stupid baby show.
She considered that this might be the last show she'd ever watch. The last voices she might ever hear.
She began to cry again, tears splashing hard down her cheeks.
With the crying, the laughter began again. Almost hysterical laughter, because she had outsmarted that motherfucker!
"MOTHERFUCKER!" She screamed at the empty room. Nobody was there to hear, or get angry or do anything.
"MOTHERFUCKER BASTARD!" She screamed again. At 9 years of age, these were the very worst words she knew.
Voices from the television, from the fucking Teletubbies.
Stupid show. The Teletubbies almost seemed to mock her in her despair. Their baby voices and television screens in their stomachs. Fucking BASTARDS!
"Help me," she said weakly to the TV. When she'd picked up a shard of the mirror, she'd been so full of adrenaline and fear that she hadn't thought to get a rag to pick it up. The mirror had left a slice deep in her hand. That hand throbbed and stung. It was covered in blood, down the front of the hoody, pooling on the carpet in front of the TV. A congealing little lake of maroon blood. Haha.
Let it bleed. Let it all bleed out. She deserved it. Fucking Red John would be so surprised when he came home and found her white and blue and dead in a pool of black-red blood. Haha, the fucker! haha!
She'd been crying, but silently. The tears had splashed down her cheeks and into the growing puddle of blood. The blood smell was strong and pungent and her hand burned like a horrible case of sunburn.
Fucking Red John! Fucking Red John!
All she had to do was lift the mirror shard. One stab to the neck. Just one stab.
There was no escape. There was no escape. This was all that was left.
She'd seen her father, alive, on the TV. He'd been on the news. Working for the CBI.
"See? I told you. He doesn't want you. He works for the government. The government knows everything. They tap the phones and they have cameras everywhere. He knows you're with me. He gave you to me. He doesn't want you," Red John had said. He was so confident, so certain.
She'd stared at the TV, and seen her father from so long ago talking to the public, asking for tips on a case. He looked like Red John. Tanned skin, bright blue eyes, golden curls, handsome, wearing a three-piece suit. He'd looked right in the camera, as if seeing her, and smiled as he finished his little speech. And she had known. She had known that he could see her, right through the TV, he could see her and he knew where she was, just like Red John said. And he didn't care.
She felt something in her head break apart, something that felt like her heart. A piece of old crystal dropped on the floor. Sanity maybe. Goodbye, everything. Goodbye, everybody.
And even Red John... he hadn't been able to see in her soul, what she was going to do when he left. Or maybe he already knew. Maybe that is why he had left her alone. So she could do it and be done with it.
"I told you he's still alive. He just doesn't want you. He gave you to me. I am the only one who wants you," Red John had said.
"You're a liar," Charlotte had said back, but she didn't believe her own words anymore. She'd been calm at the time, almost blase, detached. Emotions stuffed deep down inside because to feel them anymore would be agony.
"You can think that if you want, but I am telling you the truth," Red John said pleasantly like they were discussing something normal and mundane. The weather, maybe.
"I can phone him right now, if you want," Red John had said, and the corners of his lips turned up a little more. "Do you want me to, Charlotte? He'll tell you himself he doesn't want you. I wanted to spare you that pain if I could, but it seems you need to learn the hard way. Shall we phone him together, right now? Will that put an end to this intransigence?"
He'd picked up the phone, then. Began to punch in a number with infinite calm.
Charlotte had stared at the phone in his hands. Her eyes had been burning. The call connected. She heard a man's voice on the other end. Maybe it was her Daddy's. She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.
She thought she heard "hello" come through the receiver.
"Shall I ask him? Will that convince you?" Red John said pleasantly, holding the phone away from his mouth. He wore an expression of concern, now. His poor niece was so crazy, so disturbed. She couldn't even face reality. She couldn't even kill with him like he needed her to do; like she was supposed to do. Crazy child. What a dear shame.
Red John moved the phone into position. Opened his mouth to speak.
"NO!" Charlotte had screamed. Because... if her father said the words, the words Red John told her he'd say, then it would be done.
It would be done.
Red John smiled pleasantly.
"You sure?" He said, cocking his head to the side.
Charlotte ran at him, butted him in the stomach with her head like a goat... like she'd seen Grumpy Gus do. At the same time, she fumbled for the phone, smashed it into the cradle with a slam.
"DON'T DO THAT!" Her voice was choked with terror.
Red John considered her. He had a faint smile on his lips again, like her pain was something mildly tasty. He was pleased now.
"We need to do a job tonight," he said, moving one hand over his clean-shaven face, considering all his options. "It will be a bonding experience. Bring us closer."
"NO!" Charlotte had screamed again. She felt frenzied. Out of control. She'd thought many times before that she was losing her mind, but this time, she was certain of it. Her sanity was dying right now.
Buh bye, sanity.
"Yes," Red John had said, and she'd known there would be no more discussion.
And they'd gone. And she'd screamed and cried and vomited, as Red John knew she would.
He'd tried to hide his smiles and smirks, but he couldn't contain them. She saw his lip corners twitching upwards.
He was so happy.
Even though she hadn't been able to stop crying, or puking. The little, crazy baby.
"Shut up," he'd said to her, after four orders to stop, but she was outside her body, hovering two or three feet above her body, watching it like a ghost. She couldn't make the body's mouth stop screaming. She couldn't make the body's eyes stop crying.
Somebody was dead, on the ground, near her. They didn't smell dead, not just yet. But they would soon.
She had caused this death.
She was the little grim reaper. In her black hood, with the red wolf.
Her fault.
Wide open eyes and an endless, open scream from the mouth. No more thoughts or feelings in that body, no more heartbeats. This was a silent scream, frozen in time, forever. The scream would continue on in the rot and the mud and the dirt. The scream would be eaten by the worms, a silent scream, but never end.
He'd back-handed her again and she felt her ghost-consciousness slip a little back into her skin. Her vision was distorted. Her hands were tingly and far away.
She wondered if other people knew this secret? That your soul could pop out of your body, back and forth, and wear it like a costume?
That the body didn't even belong to you and didn't even really matter? And once you mastered the popping in and out, nobody could ever catch you again?
He'd driven her home, then, put her in the house, locked it out and gone back out. He'd gone back out to think, she knew, and after he spent a lot of time thinking by himself... it was never good.
She moved the backpack out from under the couch and shifted it onto her shoulders, mindful of her throbbing hand. Every time she moved it bled more. It was bleeding anyway, not stopping, and she didn't have the heart to try and stem the flow of blood. If it wanted to bleed, then let it bleed.
Her hand was crying.
She sat and watched the Teletubbies, numb, the world too bright except the edges, which were beginning to grey out.
The lake of blood on the carpet was bigger now.
And then she heard it. The key in the front door. The door handle turning. Steps.
"Charlotte?" Red John's voice was neutral. She sat in front of the TV with her backpack on and her shoes on and her bloody clothes and her face so white like a big pale moon with the blood spatter on her cheek dried and sticky.
She couldn't move. More steps, and then silence.
He was looking down at her. When he spoke, he almost sounded surprised.
"What the hell have you done?" He said, and she couldn't tell if he was scared or angry or what. It wasn't a neutral tone of voice he had any more, there was something like adrenaline in his words.
She moved her hand, bloody and throbbing and cold, the fingers looking too pale for health, out of her jeans pocket. Her hand was wrapped with the tea towel, but that had soaked through crimson long ago. She had her hand wrapped tightly around the shard of reflective glass.
She'd once thought mirrors were doorways into the next world. The Afterlife. Red John had laughed, but maybe they were.
Maybe they were.
She turned the mirror sliver so he could see it gripped in her small, pale hand like a knife.
"Don't come any closer," she said in a dead voice. Her voice was stronger than her usual voice, no more shaking. No fear. Just... pure... dead resolution. She could feel Buzz inside her head, strong and alert, waiting for his chance to come fully into her skin, and see through her eyes and hear through her ears.
Maybe she would let him this time. This would all go better if Buzz was driving her body.
Yes.
Buzz... you do this.
And there he was, suddenly. She could feel the feathers of his body inside her skin, pressing up against the inside of her human child suit, skin like rubber.
"Charlotte, put the mirror down," Red John said carefully, and he sounded careful and calm. Like he already knew how this entire day would end. But no... he didn't.
Because he didn't know Buzz was in control now. Not Charlotte. Charlotte was too weak for this.
Buzz was strong, though. Buzz was much older than Red John.
"I'm not Charlotte, you crazy bastard," she heard her mouth say.
Red John stared, and she saw something move behind his eyes. He was genuinely surprised. He regained control almost immediately.
"Who are you?" he said, and his eyes were bright with something akin to excitement.
"No," Buzz said solemnly. "You don't get to control this interaction. You've driven this poor child insane."
"Charlotte, give me the glass."
"She'd rather die than continue like this," Buzz said from behind her face, and his beak was just itching to break through the thin rubber filament of her skin.
"Give me the glass," Red John said, and his voice was that lulling soft hypnotic tone.
No.
Buzz was already in control.
"That won't work. Move over to the couch."
The door was still open.
"This child is leaving through that open door, or I will plunge this mirror into her neck."
Red John said nothing.
"Do you think I'm joking? Charlotte is afraid of dying. But I'm not. And I am in control now."
"Give me the glass," Red John said again.
Charlotte felt her body's mouth twisting up into a smile of its own now.
"What did you think would happen? Did you think she wouldn't crack eventually? You had to have known what was coming," Buzz said calmly. he held the mirror out in front of the body's chest like maybe he'd plunge it into the heart instead.
Red John as on her then, hard, a tackle and she felt the mirror cut her hand again. Her body fought and kicked and she heard a hiss, but this time it was from Red John. Buzz had cut Red John's face!
He only hissed, but the noise was preternaturally loud in her ears. The body, under Buzz's control, was much faster than usual. It moved like a flickering shadow. Miraculously, she was out of his grasp, teeth biting flesh, and a muffled scream of surprised pain.
She could taste Red John's blood in her mouth. Let Buzz stay in control.
This was getting interesting, now.
She stood in front of the open doorway. The night air was coming, cool and full of possibilities.
"We're going now. You come near us and you'll get this mirror in your neck," Buzz told Red John, and then they were outside, backing away from Red John, bloody and pale. At the end of the driveway, Red John framed in the doorway, Buzz turned the body around. It began to sprint. Run, run, run, run, run.
She hadn't thought there was enough blood left inside this body to remain conscious, let alone run like this, and yet here she was, running, sprinting, down the street.
Silent. The police would only hand her back to Red John. Silent.
She couldn't help the droplets of blood the body left behind on the concrete like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs in the forest, but she could run. Into an alley. Through a bush, nettles hitting her in the face, scratching up the soft flesh of her cheeks and lips.
What did that matter, now?
The body kept running.
Maybe Buzz could make it fly.
Coldness. Stickiness on her face and down her hoody. A light in her eyes, and red lights and blue lights. An ambulance and she was loaded on a stretcher.
"My daddy... get my daddy..." she said, and her voice sounded human again.
Someone was talking to her, telling her she'd be okay. She felt a needle poke in her hand. Muffled voices, the sound of feet with heavy soles on a pavement, a gurney with squeaking wheels.
Where was she?
It didn't matter, did it?
(It does matter, wake up, wake up now, you fainted, wake the fuck up Charlotte! WAKE UP!)
And she struggled to open her eyes, but already there was a burning sensation in her hand, something like liquid fire, and with the fire came a chemical calm and peace and everything was fading away like sedative death, no, real death... no... drugs...drugs, drug death...
Maybe they were, essentially, the same thing.
She woke up in the lightning room.
Red John was looking down on her. He looked... it was hard to describe. She hadn't seen that look on his face before. It was too calm, but there was a fire in his eyes, somewhere deep inside, blazing out like the cut-hole eyes of a jack-o-lantern with something real and bright and angry dancing on the other side; gleaming red wolf eyes in in this sterile, antiseptic room of horror where bits of people were stolen with electricity and pain.
Her blood seemed to get wetter and hotter, then colder, in her veins. She felt the first spikes of panic start in her belly and chest and behind her bulging eyes.
She had never wanted to come back here. Not ever.
Yet here she was. Again.
She had failed. She had failed.
"That wasn't smart, little girl," Red John's mouth said sternly, and the entire man-suit he wore moved off to one side of the room, just out of her line of sight. Then, a doctor-man in a white coat was there, god-like in his power of freedom, of movement, or potential betrayal. Charlotte bucked on the gurney. It didn't matter. It wouldn't help, this flimsy attempt to free herself, but she had no other options. Remaining still right now wasn't an option, not when she knew what was coming... and then, the cold horror of rubber in her mouth, too big and pressing, too tight, like it was going to choke her before the lightning came.
The doctor-man didn't look at her face, didn't pay her any attention at all. She might as well have been a cadaver about to be dissected or filled with yellow poison liquid for the grave. A ghost in a dead body and the doctor-man couldn't see her or hear her. He would go about his business on her, no matter how hard she struggled. It wouldn't change a damned thing.
She should have put the mirror into her neck. She should have put the mirror shard in her neck and been done with this misery. This unending nightmare.
She bucked on the table again but it was too late to change what was going to happen. She knew it was too late, even as she scented something like rubbing alcohol. Cotton on her temples, rubber in her mouth, traces of salt.
Any second now.
Wrists and ankles pinned down by restraints. No way to get loose, but that didn't stop her from thrashing with as much power as she had left.
Tear tracks on her cheeks.
"You'll think twice next time, I hope," Red John's cold steel trap of a voice said somewhere from out of her frame of vision. He was the wrathful God of the Old Testament, full of vengeance, but not yet ready to slaughter His child.
Sometimes she thought, maybe, being slaughtered would be the kinder way to go.
But Old Testament Red John wasn't kind at all. She knew that intimately.
She mouthed out a series of grunts. What she was saying was actually "fuck you, you bastard" but the rubber distorted the words, made them unintelligible. Still, she was fairly certain Red John instinctively knew what she had said. Had heard, and didn't care one bit. Wasn't angry, or moved to pity. Nothing.
And then the world lit up like lightning and there was pain and heat and fire and she was frying and convulsing. This was Hell. This was Hell on earth. Red John was GOD and HE had passed his JUDGEMENT. And the light was everywhere. The pain and fire and nerves lit up like lightning themselves, her body shaking and convulsing, only dimly aware but aware enough to know she was being electrocuted into submission.
And then she was nowhere again.
And maybe that was better.
Jane heard noises. Muffled noises. Gagging. Then a rising shriek, a rising wail. He jerked to full wakefulness. It was twenty after four in the a.m., and even with close to two pots of coffee in his veins, he'd managed to drift off.
Charlotte was jerking on the sofa in her sleeping bag, her head thrown back, a thin line of drool dribbling from her lips. His first thought was that she was having some sort of grand mal seizure, but she hadn't mentioned epilepsy, hadn't ever had a fit just like this before.
He was up, immediately, awake and adrenaline-giddy. He sucked in a lungful of oxygen, told himself to remain calm. He was at her side, then, holding her by the shoulders, trying to get a read on the situation, holding her down.
She was flailing and jerking,. arms and legs trembling, lips trembling, eyes swimming and open but not seeing him, darting every which way with horror. No, this wasn't a grand mal seizure. This was an atypical panic attack. His kid was full of so much adrenaline and cortisol she was shaking, hair sopping wet with sweat, mouth opening and closing like she was trying to suck in a breath, eyes rolling like marbles, like nowhere was safe.
"Charlotte," Jane said sternly, loudly, shaking her just a little, hoping to wake her, to get her out of this nightmare. He gently shook her shoulders but she continued to writhe and shake under him, lost in whatever horror she'd repressed, whatever horror had decided to express itself now.
The trigger had been telling her about the government experiments. The mind control stuff. The legalized torture. It had ripped a scab off any earlier wound, and the pus and foul-smelling rot of a years-old wound were leaking out, now.
Jane knew it would happen eventually. No severe trauma could stay buried and repressed forever. They all came out to be witnessed eventually; they came out in nightmares, or in panic attacks or flashbacks or body memories. This episode appeared to be a combination of both body memories and a flashback, with a fair dose of panic marbled throughout. Because, of course, she had felt severe panic during the original event.
"Charlotte," Jane said and shook her a little harder. Her eyes were open but she wasn't in any way "awake". She was lost in some earlier, hellacious trauma, one that had waited until now to show itself, one summoned into current time and space by the trigger words which had been Jane's disclosure about the mind-control experiments.
He'd suspected this might happen. And still, fatigued and weary, he'd drifted off.
Not that, looking down on her now, he really believed he would have been able to prevent the worst of this, even if he'd been awake all night.
"Charlie, shhhh. You're okay. Wake up. You're okay. Listen to my voice," he said calmly and forced himself to use the soothing hypnotherapist voice he used on severely traumatized witnesses in CBI cases.
But Charlotte wasn't awake enough to benefit from his ministrations. He shook her a bit harder. Propped her up so at least she wasn't in a position similar to what she might have been in during the worst of this assault. He propped her up with pillows. Dixon was fully awake now, circling the living room, hyper and excited and trying to be of help but more anxious than anything. Dixon scrambled back up onto the sofa as Jane propped up his child and began to manically lick her face like only his canine kisses might save her life.
"Dixon, get down," Jane ordered calmly, but the dog ignored him. Dixon was jumping all over Charlotte now, fully aware something was very wrong with his master but unable to comprehend the complexities or scope of the problem.
Jane drew in a breath and shut his eyes. Held the breath. Calmly exhaled. He took Dixon by the collar and pulled him off the couch, walked the dog to his bedroom and shut him in the room with the door firmly latched. He went into the bathroom, pulled the bucket Charlotte used when mopping the floors out from the cabinet under the bathroom sink, and brought it back into the living room. He placed the bucket in front of his child, knelt down beside her, gently slapped her face.
Her eyes seemed to clear a little. She was very pale, trembling, but the horrible spasmodic jerking of her arms and legs had lessened. She was moaning, still lost in dreamland and not fully aware of where she was. Scared and miserable and- at least in her own awareness- alone.
"Charlotte, it's Dad. It's Patrick. Can you hear me?" Jane said softly.
The green eyes seemed to clear a little more. Jane could tell she was struggling to wake up, to become grounded. The gagging and gasping noised turned to wounded little mewling noises, and those noises began to grow in intensity, a deeply painful, wounded-animal noise. Not quite sobbing, not quite screaming, something between the two and artificially quiet in its fear.
Jane pulled Charlotte into his arms, and she buried her face in his chest. Still not awake but okay, apparently, with having him touch her.
"You're having a flashback. Can you hear me? You're having a flashback. This isn't real. This isn't happening right now," Jane said softly, but with incredible confidence. His voice was the voice of an authority on such matters, someone who knows beyond all doubts that everything is going to be okay, that panic is unnecessary.
Charlotte moved in his arms, and her limbs felt like cords of wood. Her eyes bulged and she raised her head, looking around the living room as if not fully seeing it.
"Hellllp... somebody... somebody help me!" Her voice was choked with fear and pain. Quickly, the volume began to rise, as the panic spiked again.
She wriggled out of Jane's arms and stood, swaying in her pajamas, hair sticking up in all directions with sweat, eyes burning with fear and the intensity of the flashback.\
"SOMEBODY HELLLLP ME!" She screamed into the living room.
Jane exhaled softly.
"Charlotte," he said as softly as he could manage and still be heard. "You're okay. You're not there. Please try to focus on my voice."
That wasn't working. Her eyes darted left and she began to pace the room, mouth moving, fingers grasping and pulling at the thin fabric that was the collar of her sweatshirt. Like the cloth was choking her. Like she couldn't breathe.
She moved to the wall, fingers feeling for invisible cracks in the drywall. Some escape. Still not awake.
"HELP ME!"
"I am. I am. It's okay. Just listen to my voice."
Her eyes swam over the living room, seemed to see her father kneeling in front of her. She tried very hard to focus, expression screwing up in concentration.
"What's going on... what's... helllp... help me!"
Jane took her into his arms again, this time standing to meet her.
"Shhhh... shhhhh, kiddo. It's okay. You're having a nightmare. It's okay. You're going to wake up now. When I count to five, you're going to wake up. You're going to realize you're safe and warm. It's okay. It's okay."
Jane took a deep breath and began to count. Charlotte was solid and still in his arms, rigid with fear. Finally, her face moved against his chest. She pulled away and stared at the living room with heavily dilated eyes.
"Patrick?" she rasped out like she had a sore throat.
"Yes. I'm here. How do you feel?"
"I'm scared," she admitted, standing in front of him, swaying a bit. "I had a very bad nightmare."
"Yes," Jane confirmed, crouching a little to see her eyes. "Yes. You did. But you're awake now. You're awake now."
"I... I don't feel so good," she said suddenly, and, like a light switch had been thrown, whatever remaining color had been in her face seemed to drain out. She was the color of pale cheese. Her eyes bulged and she dropped to her knees, mouth opening, drool beginning to seep out from her lips.
Jane grabbed the mop bucket and put it in front of her. Charlotte's eyes got even wider and then, like he'd suspected, she began to retch. The force of it made her entire body shake. Projectile vomiting. Stringy saliva and bile dripped from her lips, her eyes filled with tears. She couldn't stop this sickness.
Jane went to her, sat on the carpet next to her shaking, vomiting form, and gently rubbed her back. Maybe that would help. She continued to puke, entire body shivering, small hands dangling by her side. Her eyes were closed now.
Jane stood up, walked to the kitchen, got a large plastic salad bucket, went into the bathroom and filled it halfway with warm water. He grabbed a face cloth from the hook on the wall, threw it into the bowl, and came back.
"it's okay. It's okay," he told Charlotte as she continued to heave. He soaked the face cloth, wrung it out, gently began to wipe her pale, sweaty face, her neck. Wiped her mouth. She was still for a moment, and he thought she might be done. But a moment later she was hanging over the bucket again, wretching the painful noises of someone vomiting from emotional distress. Finally, there was nothing left in her stomach, not even acid and bile, so she began to dry heave. Fresh tears ran from her eyes.
Jane re-wet the face cloth and washed her face again. Wiped the long locks of sick-wet hair from her face with the cloth, shushing her all the while.
Finally, she was done. Spent. Shivering and cold. Shock.
"Do you still need the bucket?"
Charlotte stared at him, unblinking. She lay down on the carpet, shivering. Too pale. Jane felt her skin. It was shocky-cold. He'd have said it was clammy, but he'd been wiping her face with a damp cloth for the last ten minutes. But she was definitely cold.
Jane moved his fingers over to her neck, felt for the pulse there. Her pulse was fast and thready. Not good.
Okay, Jane. Stay focused.
Jane gently maneuvered his daughter to the air mattress. Covered her with his sleeping bag, unzipping it as he did to use it like a blanket. She turned on her side, knees pulled up almost fetal, pale, shivering.
Shit.
This looked like shock.
Jane picked up the bucket of sick and carried it to the bathroom. He dumped it and flushed it, rinsed the bucket out with hot water, dumped that, rinsed it again, dumped it again. Brought it back into the living room with a roll of toilet paper in case Charlie was sick again in the night.
He went into the kitchen. Put the kettle on the stove to boil. Pulled two cups out of the cabinet, but lemon ginger tea bags in both of them. Ginger was good for settling stomachs and Charlotte could use the warmth right now.
He went back to his child, checked her pulse again. Still too fast, skin still too cold and shock-y. Shit.
Jane got up, hurried moved to the bathroom. Found his daughter's PRN ativans, grabbed the vial of meds, grabbed the magic bag from the cabinet. He came back into the living room, bent back down, unscrewed the lid on the meds, and dumped two tiny white sublingual into his palm.
"Charlotte? Open your mouth, okay? I have some medicine. it's going to help you feel better. Calmer. Open your mouth."
Her eyes were closed and she was scary pale, but she seemed to hear him. Her lips looked cracked and dehydrated, and she opened her mouth. Jane put the pills under he tongue.
"I need you to let those dissolve under your tongue, okay? Don't spit them out?"
She wasn't really listening, just lay there, shivering, cold. Jane went into the kitchen, made note of the time. 4:45 am.
Charlotte had taken Ativan before in his presence. It took about 30 minutes before it really kicked in for her, even the sublinguals. So... by 5:15 or 5:20 am, then, he could hope to see some improvement.
He went back to her. Rewet the face cloth and washed her face again.
"I'm c-cold," she said to the room, eyes closed. Shivering hard.
"I know. Hold on a second. I have something which might make you feel better."
Jane picked up the magic bag from the ground where he had dumped it, went into the kitchen and put the bag in the microwave, set the microwave for 2 minutes and pressed the button to start it. It began to hum and rotate on its little glass turn-table.
The water was hot enough now. Not boiling, but he didn't want to risk her burning her tongue right now. Jane picked up the kettle, poured steaming water into each cup, put the kettle back on the stove (on one of the cold burners this time) and carried both cups of tea into the living room. He put the tea on the coffee table. Felt his daughter's cheek with his hand.
Still far too cold. Shock.
"Okay, Charlie. I have some hot tea for you. It's going to help settle your stomach. I think you're a little dehydrated."
Her teeth were chattering. Jane picked up one of the cups, gently held it to her lips, dribbled a little of the tea into her mouth. He saw her throat move up and down as she swallowed.
"Is that okay? I added a little honey."
She took a few more sips. Shivered a little harder.
"You should start feeling better, soon."
"O-okay..." Charlotte said dazedly.
Jane heard beeping from the microwave. He got up from where he was crouched next to his daughter, went into the kitchen and took the magic bag (now nice and toasty) out of the microwave, brought it back to her.
"This is nice and warm," Jane said, offering her the magic bag. He held it against her cheek and she snuggled into it, making a pleased little noise. He pushed the magic bag down under the covers of the sleeping bag.
He considered phoning Lisbon. Lisbon seemed to calm his kid down. She was a safe figure, someone who didn't remind Charlotte of Red John, a strong but caring female presence. But already, she seemed to be responding.
Jane felt Charlotte's pulse again. A bit slower now. And her skin wasn't so scary-cold.
The medication seemed to be working.
"Just rest, now, okay?" Jane told his daughter as she cuddled the magic bag under the sleeping bag.
"Where's... Dixon?"
"He was getting a little bit too hyper. I put him in my room. Do you want me to go get him?"
"Y-yes," Charlotte mumbled into her pillow. Jane nodded, got up off the carpet and walked to his bedroom, unclicked the door. Dixon was waiting right by the door, whining.
"Come on, Dixon. Be gentle," Jane said calmly and guided the puppy back into the living room. Dixon went to his master immediately, considered her. Licked one cold cheek. Jane saw Charlotte's brow relax a little as she felt her dog near.
Dixon circled her sleeping form, then lay down on the carpet next to her air mattress, pushing his back up against her, like he instinctively knew she was sick and he was trying to share his body heat with her.
Jane went back to the kitchen, then, got his own cup of tea, came back into the living room. He sat in the reading chair, took a sip of tea. Watched his daughter.
This had been a bad one.
He sipped his tea in silence, considering his next moves. Considering the best ways to help Charlotte.
Finally, he heard her voice, soft and weakened from the ordeal.
"Daddy?" She said softly.
"Yes?"
"I don't feel so good. Do I have to go to school today?"
"No," Jane sane immediately. "No. I'll keep you home today."
"Are you... going.. going to work?"
"No," Jane said again. Calm but firm.
"Okay," Charlotte murmured from under the sleeping bag. "Thank you."
Jane smiled at that. She was so grateful for even just basic human kindness.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"What... what happened? Why did I get sick? Do I have... have the flu?"
Jane considered his options. Decided to go with the truth.
"I don't think it's the flu. Just rest, now, though. Your body has been through a severe stress. Just rest."
"Did you see me get sick?"
So, still not really that awake.
"Charlie, just sleep, okay? We can talk when you wake up later. Right now, just get warm. You're safe. Nothing is going to hurt you."
"I had... I had a scary dream."
Jane nodded. Finally spoke. "I suspected as much."
"What if I have another nightmare?" Her voice was already drifting off again, though. She was exhausted.
"I don't think you will. The medicine should help with that."
There was silence for a moment. Jane thought she'd fallen asleep. Then: "Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"I'm scared," Charlotte said, and her voice came from very far away. Without the benzos in her system, without being seconds from sleep, Jane was pretty confident she wouldn't have shared this with him.
"I know," he said calmly. "I know. But you're okay. You're with me. I am going to protect you."
"I'm scared, Daddy," Charlotte mumbled again. Jane opened his mouth to speak, but he could see that she was asleep now.
He sat for a long time in the reading chair, the table lamps dimmed, just watching her sleep. Sipping his tea. Refilling his tea when the first and second cups were gone. Just watching. Thinking. Considering all his options.
His kid wasn't a case. It mattered if his actions got the desired results or not. It mattered more than anything.
ironically, he'd always gotten his best results when he didn't have anything to lose, any personal stake involved. But with Charlotte? She was so close to the edge. So exhausted, and weary, and terrified. Barely holding on.
Even now, in six months or a year, she might fall into a refractory depression. It wouldn't be surprising. Or... a severe breakdown.
A human mind could only take so much.
Jane watched her sleep, brow furrowing. There were no easy answers, here. He was flying blind.
He could act calm for her. He would continue to be as calm as possible, to play that part for her. Calm, controlled, soothing. Confident in her health, in the fact that she was going to be okay.
But... he didn't know if she would really be okay. And that was terrifying.
Jane winced considering how easily this could all go South. Felt a desperate need to call Lisbon, to hear her voice, seek her comfort. But she would be going in to work today. And she needed her sleep, too.
So, instead, he just sat and sipped his tea and watched his child sleep, and prayed silently, distractedly, to any God which might be listening. It couldn't hurt.
He didn't really think it would help.
But what could it hurt?