Paint It Red, Black & Blue

Chapter 6

If Patrick Jane were a believing man, he would say that God was smiling on him today. Clouds had settled in during the long afternoon, blocking the sun and giving the entire seascape a look of encroaching fog. Although it was still blistering hot, he was somehow cold. There was no breeze to speak of, and the heat, the exhaustion and rocking of the waves were conspiring to make him very, very sick. In fact, if there had been anything in his stomach, it would have been long gone by now, but the last thing he remembered ingesting was a Scotch…how long ago?

Oh yes, and the ice cube.

He shivered. Consciousness was slipping regularly, like a Tijuana drug-store sleeping pill not quite doing its job. Skirting the edges of sleep and waking, he found he wasn't even thinking much of anything anymore, and it occurred to him in whispers that he was dying. He couldn't even feel his arm, was certain that they had cut it off at some point, except for the fact that it was still taped behind his back. Or maybe he was, in fact, dead, and just didn't realize it yet.

If this was death, he mused, then he was in hell and the devil was wearing Prada and sipping Evian in a deck chair.

Arlov was indeed in his deck chair, a bottle of water at his side. He was working on his laptop, and every once in a while he would glance up at Jane, raise an eyebrow or two, then go back to his work. The buffoons bustled and chatted, laughed and smoked, doing all the odd jobs buffoons are usually paid to do. He hadn't seen the girl for a while, wondered abstractly if she was still on the boat, or whether Arlov had gotten tired of her and tossed her overboard during the night.

"Tell me about Red John." Arlov's voice was distant, echoing, slurred. Jane tried to look at him but both man and chair kept moving, sliding first one way then the other, up then down and around in circles. Or maybe that was him. It was very hard to focus anymore, to know what was real and what was mirage. He cursed that most of all.

"He killed your wife, yes? And little girl?" The man was apparently looking things up online, digging into one man's personal tragedy the same way some might look up the Roman Empire, how to make banana bread or the Olson Twins. "Sad for you."

There was no wind, no wind at all, and his body had even stopped sweating. Cold would come next, then confusion, then delusions, unconsciousness, kidney failure and death. He had read it somewhere and it was forever in his brain. Sometimes a photographic memory just wasn't helpful. He shivered again, a long violent tremor that started somewhere behind his ears and traveled down the rest of his body. Oh yes, he remembered, the cold had already started hours ago. Obviously then, so had the confusion. Delusions up next, ready for a swing at a blonde and very sunburned piñata.

"You insist on provoking dangerous men. Why?"

He closed his eyes. It was a stupid, rhetorical question. Only fools and madmen...

"You have brought this on yourself."

…fools and madmen…

"I would not have brought you here otherwise. You are nothing to me."

…you can fight and live or give up and die…

"I do not wish to kill you…"

…fools and madmen…

"…but how can I let you go with what you have done? It is bad for business. Surely you understand."

daddy

"You have put me in a most peculiar spot. Most peculiar."

daddy

He opened one eye.

daddy daddy dee dee deeya deeya

Birds, sea birds overhead. It was beginning again, he could feel it coming on, The colour that would soon consume him. He wished Sophie were here. She had helped him once. She was good at what she did. But she wasn't here, and the boat was rocking and the girl was dead and his arm was gone and the colours were so very strong.

fight and live

"What am to do with you now?"

give up and die

"Tell me, Mr. Jane. What are we to do?"

the colours were calling

He closed his eyes and welcomed them.

Golden curls and rosebud lips, thick dark lashes closed over pale pink cheeks, like sleep but not, but never again, her green Tinkerbell nightgown pulled up to her throat and the red -

He gasped, tried to clear his head but it was spinning. He could feel Arlov's eyes on him but didn't care. He would go where he was untouchable, deep into the world of colour.

Dark hair combed and shiny, dark eyes wide and still, lips parted, unmoving and blue. Intestines pink. Liver brown. Stomach purple, kidneys olive, heart crimson. Cartilage yellow, bone creamy white, skin purple and blue and white, pale blue comforter soaked in red toenails painted red hardwood and carpet stained red walls dripping red red red

The world was slipping out from under him and he tried to tell himself it was sunstroke, just sunstroke but the sun was gone so that left the stroke, the strokes, all there was now were strokes of red, circles and slashes and ghastly painted smiles

He heard voices and realized that somehow, at some moment, he had struggled to his feet. No one had stopped him, no one dared. He looked out over the water and saw them, holding hands and walking away, their beautiful long hair swaying across their backs. Golden curls bounced as his daughter turned to smile at him, a little wave and she was gone. And he realized that he could go too. It was easy. Just go.

And Patrick Jane began to walk, walk towards the edge of the boat.

Arlov was out of his chair in a heartbeat, shouting in Russian to the buffoons who were staring in disbelief. They had to run to catch him as he raised one foot onto the side of the yacht and they tackled him like a football, three of them crashing to the deck in front of the mob boss, sending his Evian tumbling across the floor. And still Jane pushed, forcing himself to his feet and straining to follow the trail into the water and the buffoons were only able to stop him by locking his bound arms in theirs, two men against one, pinning him until his struggles finally ceased and he grew still. He gazed out over the water.

They were gone. And he couldn't follow. He was alone.

Arlov moved in close. "You are insane…"

It took him awhile but finally Jane looked at him and smiled sadly. "Mr. Arlov," he said, in a voice flat and without emotion. "You don't really want to kill me, do you? You just want to win. But you can't win, can you? Not with me."

This time, it was Arlov who was silent.

"You want to know what makes me tick? Is that what this is all about? Is it really?"

The Russian narrowed his eyes.

"Because I don't think so. I'm tired of being quiet so I'm going to tell you exactly what I think…"

One corner of Arlov's mouth twisted up.

Jane sighed. "You're bored. I understand that. Possessions, power, luxury. Bah. It's all so yesterday. And I come along, bluff – no, lie my way into your house – Oh my, how audacious, how reckless, how bold. Don't I know who you are? Don't I know that I could get killed? But I don't care, do I, and that intrigues you. You have no equals in your pathetic and sheltered little world, and I come along and raise that bar for you. Not only that, I steal your most recent acquisition, and you honestly don't know whether to hate me or worship me, but you can't do either because you're a shark and all you know how to do is own things. That's why I'm still alive right now, isn't it? Because for the first time in a long time, something or someone has made you feel, and you just don't remember what to do with that anymore."

The buffoons shifted nervously, keeping their eyes anywhere but on their boss, waiting for the command that would send this man over the side, but no command was coming. For Arlov's part, he had not removed his gaze from Jane's face.

"But that still leaves you with a quandary, doesn't it? People know, people will talk. You need to be seen to be strong, powerful, dangerous. So I tell you what, I can give you a trade, Chiarli. Art for art, beauty for beauty, because like you, it's a painting that makes me tick."

Arlov was suspicious, but intrigued, especially at the prospect of art. He lived for art, for beauty. It was the only thing that gave him purpose. "What is this painting?"

"Oh, I can't tell you. It has nothing at all to do with words. I have to show you. It's all in the art, in the painting of it, the colour, it's a peculiar type of paint, you have to get it just right…"

It took several long seconds, but finally, Arlov nodded, and the men released their prisoner. Jane staggered a little, braced his legs against the rocking of the boat, and stared out over the water. Gone. Alone.

"Kindly cut me loose. And use a knife. Perhaps the one strapped to the ugly one's ankle. Or the small one tucked into the fat one's belt. I don't really care. Just make sure it is sharp, if you please."

At the nod of a head and the blade of a knife, the duct tape snapped free.

He almost passed out right there, as the pressure shifted from his chest and shoulders, muscles and tendons groaning in displeasure. Carefully now, he began to peel the tape from his wrists, one twice the size of the other, both red beyond belief. He took his time, peeling and lifting and letting the sliver tape fly off the side of the boat with immaculate care. He stopped and stared around at the aft deck, turned in a circle, palms outstretched as though divining. He saw the girl watching from the upper deck, one eye darkened, her cheek swollen. She smiled at him.

He smiled back.

"Give me the knife."

Arlov laughed. "I don't think so, Mr. Jane."

"Give me the knife or you'll never know. And I will in fact jump off this boat, in effect robbing you yet again of one of your life's few remaining pleasures."

After a long moment, Chiarli Arlov grinned. "Give him the knife."

The buffoon handed it over, hilt first. Jane examined it. It wasn't well detailed or finely crafted, but it had a good weight, felt good in his hand. He held up his swollen wrist, turned the palm toward his face and slowly pressed the point of the blade into his thumb. A pinprick of red popped up. Jane smiled. Beautiful. He drew the blade down, down his thumb, across his palm and stopped at his wrist, marveling at the immediate welling of red along the line. He tossed the knife over his shoulder and into the Pacific, secretly enjoying the grumbling of the buffoon as it disappeared under the surface.

There was no one else on the boat now, there wasn't even a boat. Just Jane and a canvas and the red. What made him tick, someone had asked? What made him tick?

He dropped to his knees, dipped three fingers in his own blood and began to paint…

End of Chapter 6