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With thanks to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their friendship, help and support. Check out their latest stories: Sue's "Mentalist 2.0 drabble collection" and Bill's intriguing tale "In the wee small hours".
Happy Easter for Sunday.
April 24th, 2014
Dear Diary,
It's come around again. April 24th. The day of all the days in the year that I really can't stand.
Today was Charlotte's birthday. She was 7 years old when she was murdered.
My beautiful little Lottie. She had Angela's cheekbones, deep brown eyes and freckles. And my colouring, my hair. It fell in golden ringlets down her back, tamed with latest Disney bow or clips. She always looked adorable. I remember when she lost her milk teeth and her smile was all gappy at the front. It could still make my heart melt into a puddle of sticky goo.
Charlotte loved singing and music, and chasing the seagulls down the beach. I'd play catch with her out on the sand for hours. She had me wrapped around her finger. I couldn't say no to her.
At least that's how it was when I was around. When I wasn't, because I'd put fame and fortune first, I told myself that it was all for her. That I was making money so that she'd never want for anything. She'd have the best education and a chance to hob-nob with the stars. She'd never know what it was to wear dirty rags or to starve when there was no more money for food. She'd never be an outsider or an outcast.
I had good intentions. But the wrong ones. I never figured that she needed my time and my love more than she needed diamond studded earrings or the latest toy. And I conveniently denied to myself how much I craved the limelight for my inflated ego. That really, it was all for me.
For Charlotte's last Birthday, I got her a new bike, a necklace with a golden horse hanging from it, a state of the art entertainment centre, and a pink princess dress done in taffeta, lace and silk. She loved the necklace and the dress, and the riding lessons that Angela had got for her. That was our Lottie. Part the dress up kid, into tea parties and picnics, and part the animal loving tomboy. We were going to get her a dog for her birthday but I hadn't been at home long enough for us to go for one.
You don't know how much I regret that.
Usually, when this time of year rolls round again, I take the day off. I book out the Venice Gardens café in Malibu for the whole afternoon. That's where Angie, Lottie and I last went out together. And I sit there at the same table in the corner, set for 3 people. And I drink. And I drink. And I drink. When I hit the floor, the staff know to bundle me in a cab and ask the driver to take me back to the family home. I usually crash on the carpet behind the front door and sleep it off.
Before today, there's just been one exception in the 11 years that I spent at the CBI. That year, I only got half wrecked and took the evening flight back to Sacramento. That's when I burned the Red John files on the CBI roof, and setup my exit plan, ready for my last big con to trap the serial killer. The con that, in the end, cost Wainright his life.
I'll never know how Luther ended up in that car out in the Las Vegas desert. The Blake Association must have got to him somehow. And I wonder when he knew that everything had gone to hell? Did he get to Vegas OK, thinking that he was coming to see me arrested, or did he know by then that he'd been kidnapped? Being bound and gagged by strangers, and stuffed into the back of that car, must have been terrifying for him. And even more so when he heard the voice of Red John. But at least he died knowing once and for all that I wasn't in league with the sociopath. I wonder if that was any comfort?
I feel bad about Luther's death. I always did. He was the exemplary desk agent. An energetic young man and a rising star with all the right moves but no street savvy. And it cost him. It cost him dearly.
But, as Lisbon would tell me, he was a cop. He signed up to put his life on the line and to protect the people of California. But there's going down in a hail of bullets, saving innocent bystanders, and there's being betrayed and mown down for nothing. Like Wainright was. Like Bosco and his team were.
It was a wonder that Lisbon stayed upright after that one. Losing her friend and mentor. It's as well she never knew that Bosco agreed with me about killing Red John when I found him.
Lisbon. How I miss her. I wouldn't have got through the last decade without her.
But what am I gonna do today? I could go to the cantina and drink myself blind, or to the hotel bar, but it'll only upset people. Someone would intervene, would try to look after me, because that's what they do here. The village is a family of sorts, and even the distant cousins like me are welcome. Lisbon would laugh if she heard that. Well, no, not laugh. She'd be relieved.
I can't help but worry about what happened to her, and to Cho, Rigsby and van Pelt, after they went up against Abbott for me. I hope they're all doing OK. And I hope that they got that last voicemail that I left for Teresa. That they know I'm fine.
You know dear diary, today I'm going to break tradition.
I can't change the fact that Charlotte is dead. Nothing I do will rewind the past. And as the teenaged version of her nagged me about during the belladonna incident, there is no way that I can make things up to her or her mum. I can only choose whether to live and to let people in, or whether to stagnate and withdraw. Maybe I've done enough of that.
Thinking back, Lisbon saved my life so many times. If not for her and Sophie Miller, I would have died a long time ago. And that's not exaggerating. Sophie put me back together enough to be able to function in robotic mode. Lisbon challenged me and made me take an interest. Made me stay involved, contribute to the team and build myself a niche.
One thing that I am so thankful for is that Lisbon survived the Red John years. And the other team members too, but especially Lisbon. The night she vanished and we found her with that smiley on her face, drawn in Partridge's blood, is one of the two worst nights of my life. I was so glad when she started to toss and turn in that hospital bed. When she opened her eyes. I was convinced up to that point that she'd have been turned into an empty shell, like Krystina Frye. That my arrogance would have cost me not only Angela and Charlotte but also the one other woman who meant the world to me.
That would have finished me off for good.
I'm going to stare out of the window for a minute while I review my options. My eyes are leaking and the page is swimming. Allergies, you know.
I'm sorry for making you wait, dear diary, but honesty has a price.
OK. I've decided.
Today I'm going to walk up to the headland and spend some quiet time listening to the birdsong and soaking up the sun. Then I will come back and open that half bottle of whisky under the sink. Enough to make me decently drunk but not completely wasted. And I will lie back on my bed and I will remember the happy times. From the first day Angela arrived on the carney circuit that I worked with my father, through to our wedding and onto Charlotte's birth. And then I'll remember my little girl as the treasure she was. From soiled diapers to toothy grins and scraped knees. The lullabies, fairy wings and sandcastle building. And her and me paddling in the warm Malibu waters in summer or kite flying on the beach.
It's going to break my heart and I'll probably howl like a baby myself. But this is how I do justice to their memories. To my darling wife and child. I will face the pain and remember them as I should. As they were. As I loved them and as they loved me. I'll always love them. But I must face up to that now, rather than lock it all down behind the hurricane doors in my mind. I must let the memories back in. Cherish them as they deserve.
That should keep me occupied for most of the day. Maybe more.
And then I'll fast forward all the way to the self-confident and beautiful young lady, full of backchat and too smart for her own good, whom I met in my hallucinations.
And after that, I will sleep, I hope.
Tomorrow I'll wake up again and face another day. For Lisbon. For the faith she showed in me. For the prayers that I'm sure she still says for me.
Knowing that she's out there somewhere, reaching out for me, it keeps me grounded and gives me the courage to go on. I owe her too much to do otherwise.
My rock. My compass. My saviour.
And my best friend.