Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Thursday 14th August, 2014- The outskirts of Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania
Malcolm watches his feet as he walks down a hill carved on the side of a forested mountain, heading towards the cluster of police who are setting up a cordon on an isolated driveway. Someone in the group notices his approach and six heads snap up to look at him, their gazes cold and unwelcoming. Chalk this up as another trip where he won’t be on the Christmas card list.
“Morning officers. Have we got eyes on our suspect?”
A curt nod is all he receives by way of a greeting, the Jim Thorpe deputy keeping strictly to business. “We’ve got confirmation that he’s in the cabin. We’re just figuring out how to get the guy out."
“We need to make sure he’s not going to be able to run. This psychopath isn’t the type to surrender, and he won’t seek out a confrontation. He’ll most likely want to flee.” Malcolm explains.
The cop huffs before answering, his voice dripping with disdain. “We’ve done this before, Agent Bright. I think we can figure this out without you, seeing as we live here and all.”
Malcolm needs to smooth over the feathers he inadvertently ruffled. It’s too early in the op to lose the help of the locals. Again.
“What I mean is-“
A buzzing in his pocket distracts him, and a glance at the name of the caller elicits a groan. It’s his fourth call from the same number this morning. Usually they get the message that he’s busy and wait for him to call back. Whatever the topic is can’t wait.
“Excuse me, I have to take this.” Malcolm starts to walk back up the hill to his car, his not-so-best buddies having no need to hear this particular conversation.
“Hello, mother.”
“Darling! Where have you been? I’ve been calling all morning.”
“I’m aware, mother. I’m currently on a case.”
“Oh, you’re always on a case. You need to make time for your mother dear. I’m checking to see if you’re still coming home next week and be around to accompany me to the Mount Sinai charity art auction?”
This was the reason for the incessant phone calls. A social event.
“Mother… I am currently in the forest… about to arrest somebody…Can’t this wait?” Malcolm huffs as he fights the steep incline.
“Why are you panting dear? People like us don’t pant while they’re on the phone.”
“There’s a hill. I’m walking up it. It’s not that difficult.”
“Well stop walking so I can finish talking to you. So, you are still coming home, yes?”
Malcolm sighs. “Yes, the FBI has mandated I take some leave since my last break was six months ago. I will be there.” He had a whole week to come up with something else to be doing that evening, he just needed her off the phone. Glancing down the hill to the huddle of cops, he noticed that their faces were looking more unimpressed with every passing second.
His mother continues on, she’s got nothing but time, “Wonderful! Now, the auction next week. I’ve spent five years trying to score an invitation and we’re back in, sweetheart! We’ll need to meet next week to discuss-“
Malcolm can’t wait anymore, “What’s that? I’m a forest and you’re breaking up.”
His mother raises her voices as if it will help him hear better. “Malcolm? Malcolm, can you hear me? I was talking about the auc-“
“Moth- call- late-“
Malcolm hangs up before he can hear the reply screeching through the tiny speaker. He slips his way back down the gravelly road to the assembly of cops who had started to gear up.
He claps his hands and attempts a friendly greeting. “So, do we have a plan yet?”
The senior captain speaks for the group “Yeah, we got a plan. We’re gonna come up the driveway and order him to come out.”
Malcolm looks dubious. “What about the other side of the cabin? There’s one tiny door we can see on this side, I’m presuming the rear side with the huge balcony might have an exit somewhere?”
The cop waves his concerns away. “Well sure, but he’s gonna want to go for the car in the garage, so we’ll cut him off there.”
Deep breaths, Malcolm . “Our killer will have an extreme flight reaction if you confront him with this many people, coming from one direction at the same time. He’ll see it as an attack, and he will make a dash for the bush, that much I can promise. Can I have at least one of you join me, make it a bit more even?”
Sunglasses swivel from side to side as the cops all look to one another to volunteer. There are no takers.
“Fine. Well, you go and scare our suspect, I’m going to walk around the back and wait for him there.” Malcolm tugs at his FBI issued vest and makes his way towards the cabin. “Your reports will all be great reading when you have to explain why you left an entire side of the property unprotected, but that’s your call.”
The ground is firm beneath his feet as he gives the cabin a wide berth. The man inside, twenty-eight year old Brett Timmins had killed four women so far, and the information from the locals was that he was reserved and always one to avoid confrontation. He wouldn’t be looking for a bloody showdown with the police, the rear of the cabin would be his only option. As he expected, two huge bifold doors are centred on the back wall. Escape route one.
Malcolm surveyed the uneven ground and could see a trail carved out between the trees, leading further down the hill towards the river below. Malcolm would bet his left shoe that’s where Brett would run towards.
Malcolm finds a tree to lean on that’s out of any possible line of sight from the cabin and waits for the chatter on his comm to tell him when to be ready.
In the end he doesn’t even get a heads up of the advance, just the faint shouting of the police that ends up being carried on the breeze.
“Come on, guys,” Malcom thinks to himself. He pushes a button to open the channel. “Can somebody tell me what’s going on?”
The silence is conspicuous. Malcolm strains his ears to figure out what is happening; the shouted warnings are getting closer together before shots suddenly crack through the air. Malcolm lifts the strap securing his gun in his belt so he’s ready and darts towards the trail, hoping to get as close to the trail as possible before Brett makes a run for it.
There’s a grinding from the balcony above as the door slides open, and sure enough the scrawny figure of Brett Timmins bolts across the deck and flies down the stairs. The checkered shirt he’s wearing flaps in the wind as he jumps the last few steps onto the green ground. There’s no point drawing his gun, this guy isn’t stopping for anything.
“FBI, STOP!” Malcolm shouts, all the while keeping pace with their panicked suspect. It was a long shot he would listen, but he felt the need to try. Timmins was twenty feet in front of him but moving quickly, his sure feet familiar with the terrain and setting a ferocious pace for Malcolm to follow. He called on all his ballet training to balance on the mossy ground, watching where Timmins placed his feet to minimise any sudden slips.
They had been running on the trail for a few minutes. Malcom’s chest burns from the exertion. The thick vest he’s wearing feels like a python, slowly squeezing tighter and tighter as his lungs fight for as much oxygen as they can get. His fingers find the release clips and he ditches his vest, guessing if he hasn’t been shot at by now it’s because Timmins hasn’t got a weapon to fire at him. Lung capacity is more important right now.
The path twists towards a river lined with rocky outcrops and Malcolm can see a log bridge suspended above the trickling water. That was the escape route Timmins was counting on. Malcolm needs to stop him before he reaches the other side.
He gets his chance when Timmins misjudges the sturdiness of the rocky embankment and he loses his footing for a moment, his long legs bicycling like crazy trying to regain their rhythm. Malcolm uses the opportunity to close the distance between them. Just as Timmins reaches the river’s edge, he lunges at his target, pinning the man’s arms as they fall into the shallow water.
Timmins thrashes wildly underneath Malcolm while he tries to grab his suspect’s arms to subdue him.
“Brett...please...stop...I don’t ugh-“
Timmins manages to connect a fist to Malcolm’s diaphragm, and he’s momentarily winded. He falls forward onto his suspect, clutching his heaving chest as his lungs try to sync back up with the rest of his body. Timmins throws a punch to push his advantage and Malcolm sees stars for a second as a fist connects with his cheek. Malcolm leans over to his right side and Timmins starts to scrabble away from the dazed agent. Sensing he’s about to lose his suspect for good, Malcolm attempts a hail mary and reaches for the bottom of Timmins’ left leg. The man is preparing to leap away like a hundred-metre sprinter, and miraculously, his hand finds purchase on a soggy pair of jeans. Malcolm pulls with all the strength he has.
It's enough.
Timmins slips again and knocks his head on the rock as he falls down. Malcolm uses the opportunity to crawl onto the man’s back, pull his hands behind his back and cuffs him before he can recover. Once Timmins is safely secured, Malcolm falls back onto his ass and braces his arms on his knees, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
“Well, that was different.”
He takes a moment to collect himself and admires the isolated beauty of the Appalachian wilderness and the soft naturistic sounds of the forest, admiring the slow current of the river as the water ebbs and flows past him. It’s not often he gets a view like this on this job.
A quick check of his person reveals no major injuries, though his shirt will be heading for the bin. The water-logged, translucent cotton sticks to his side, leaving his toned muscles exposed to the elements. The rocks presumably ripped the delicate fabric to shreds during the scuffle. He’ll need to find his vest on the way back to the house.
A scraping sound to his left brings him out of his reverie, Timmins is twisting his head and tensing his body, ready to run again.
“Not so fast, Brett. We need to have a chat first.” Malcolm cranes his neck around to check for sounds of upcoming backup, but he only hears the trickle of the water behind him. Sighing, he stands, pulls his arrested suspect to his feet, and guides him back towards the path.
“Let’s go back to your place, shall we? We’ll read you your rights there.”
The return pace is far slower than their first flight down the path as the two exhausted men make the climb back up the hill. Timmins isn’t one for conversation, as Malcolm expected. The pair don’t have any company until they’re two hundred feet from the cabin, where they come across two local PD officers, their guns drawn and pointed at the suspect.
“Put the guns down, officers. You’re not under any threat.”
The officers don’t look convinced. “Are you sure?” says one, “You’re missing half your shirt. You can’t tell me that this guy isn’t dangerous.”
Malcolm takes a deep breath and places his body slightly ahead of Timmins, shielding the suspect from any potential stray bullets.
“I told you that Brett would run, and he ran very well. It required a little bit of effort to get him to stop. I am fine, and you have your suspect. Can we take this somewhere a bit more civilized?”
The cops hold their positions for a few seconds before slowly lowering their weapons.
Malcolm exhales in relief, “Excellent. Let’s head up the hill, and maybe see if Mister Timmins has a shirt I can borrow.”
Monday 17 th August 2014- Malcolm’s Loft, NYC
Stepping into the baking heat from his Uber, Malcolm took a moment to curse the weather. Summer in New York was always an assault on the senses, the claustrophobic nature of the streets always amplified the smells and sounds that swirl around the city.
The loft on Lafayette Street was a gift from his mother after his last trip home ended in a bit of a flap with his hotel of choice, and no amount of money had been able to prevent him from being blacklisted as a guest. His mother knew that Malcolm staying under her roof only resulted in both of them getting zero sleep, so her solution was a little slice of New York to call his own.
He quite liked how the graffitied doors on the street belied the order hidden inside. It was the opposite of his own psyche; a chaotic mess of memories and triggers dressed up in yards of simple, elegant fabric. Today’s Ralph Lauren was now looking a little less refined with the sweat stains from the day’s commute, a dip in the pool would be the first thing on the cards just as soon as he could find the keys. There was definitely enough time between now and his family dinner with Ains and Mother for a swim.
**********************************
It’s 7pm when the car pulls up to the Milton family home. Technically it was the Whitly home, but his mother’s ancestors were the ones that built it, and that nugget of truth made it a bit easier for him to cross the threshold every time he visited. Louisa opens the front door as per usual, and with a smile he walks past her into the foyer. His eyes fall to the white and black mosaic tiles, and he catches his breath as his mind casts back to fifteen years earlier. The night his father was arrested. The vivid red of his father’s sweater stands out brightly against the stark floor, the earnest whisper of the words “ We’re the same ” tug at the back of his mind.
He's ten years old again and the bitter taste of fear materialises in his mouth. It happens every time.
“Darling, is that you?” The melodic voice of his mother calls out from the dining room. “We are five minutes away from eating, must you always leave it ‘til the last minute to show up?”
Malcolm shucks off his jacket and makes his way to the dining room, where his mother awaits at the head of the table, Ainsley to her left. The twelve-seater table is only set for three, it’s been years since the other end of the table had seen any guests. Serial killer husbands will limit the number of welcome guests to a number that rhymes with Nero. Malcolm wondered if his mother switched the chairs around so they would be squashed with wear at equivalent rates. His mother’s stern face is offset somewhat by his sister’s bemused one.
“Good evening, Mother, Ainsley. I had a quick dip after the train and lost track of time.” Malcolm strolls past his chair to the liquor trolley, fixing himself a finger of bourbon before taking his seat at the table.
“While your tardiness is excusable today, I will simply not allow it on Thursday.” Jessica replies. “You will meet me here at 5pm, and we will travel to the auction together.”
Malcolm grimaces, it’s not an idea he’s on board with. “But the venue is closer to my house. Surely it would be easier for me to just meet you there?”
Jessica raises her eyebrows. “And give you time to come up with some fantastical excuse at the last minute and leave me to fend for myself? Absolutely not. You’re forgetting I’m your mother, and I know what you’re like.”
“She’s got you there, brother.” Ainsley grins.
Malcolm squints in Ainsley’s direction. “Why aren’t you joining mom, charity auctions are more your thing than mine.”
“Because I have an important job for my internship at NY1, I’ll be in the newsroom that night.”
“They’re letting you in front of a camera?” Malcolm scoffs.
“Obviously not, but I’m assisting a person who is.” Ainsley pouts.
Jessica cuts in, “And we are very proud of Ainsley for finding something else to do other than chase murderers. Who knows, maybe you might find something else interesting at the auction and consider a career change!”
“Keep wishing, mother, it’s not happening.
“A mother can dream, dear. Now, shall we have some dinner?”
Jessica nods to Louisa and three plates are dropped onto the table. His mother has catered to everyone, there’s a vegetable broth for Malcolm and a Lamb rump with rustic vegetables for Ainsley and herself. The conversation lulls as cutlery clinks against crockery. Malcolm is grateful for the breather before the next onslaught from his mother about his choice of career. Halfway through her sweet potato mash, she picks the thread up again.
“And what will you be filling your time with while you’re on your little mandated vacation this week? Might I suggest some job interviews at the local Starbucks? Or maybe you can research some of the benefactors coming to the charity auctions, see if they want someone with your skill set to benefit their company? Anything but what you’re doing right now. I mean, you were practically in the wilderness when I called you the other day!”
Malcolm sighs. “That’s the job, mother. And I happen to like what I do. Pennsylvania was beautiful, you should visit some time. Anyway, I’ve planned to meet up with Gil tomorrow.”
Jessica seems surprised. “Lieutenant Arroyo? I haven’t heard that name in the longest time. You two keep in touch?”
“Sure, he calls every now and then and we catch up. He keeps telling me I’m not FBI material, but I don’t think he’s serious.”
Jessica seems satisfied at his answer. “It sounds like we at least agree on that. What is he doing now?”
“He’s heading up narcotics. I don’t know what kind of cases he’s got, and I’m not asking. It’s just a social visit.”
“Well, make sure you don’t. I don’t need you getting caught up in anything dangerous before our event on Thursday.”
Malcolm rolls his eyes. “Heaven forbid something gets in the way of your precious auction.”
The rest of the meal passes with little incident, and the trio adjourn to the lounge room for a nightcap. When they’re settled in (Ainsley with a shiraz, Jessica and Malcolm with another bourbon) Malcolm notices his mother fidgeting with the hem of her top; there’s something on her mind.
“Out with it mother, what do you want to say?” Malcolm sighs.
Jessica blurts out, “Are you planning on seeing your father while you’re here?”.
The question takes Malcolm aback. He hasn’t mentioned his father in years.
“Where is this coming from, mother? What makes you think I would go to see him?”
“Well, you haven’t been in town for a year. I just want to make sure that you won’t hurt yourself by letting him back into your life.” Jessica says.
“I have absolutely no desire to see my father. I’m the one that broke it off with him, remember?” Malcolm assures her.
“Of course, dear. But I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, and it did take you ten years to stop seeing him in the first place. You remember the incident in the hotel on your last visit, I’m just wondering if I will need to call in the decorators for repairs.”
Malcolm can’t believe he’s hearing this.
“By all means, mother, book them in for next week. I had that night terror without seeing my father last time, it’ll probably happen again.” Malcolm snaps.
“I didn’t mean it like that Malcolm, it’s just that your state of mind is so...” Jessica drifts off and fails to find the words to say.
“So what, mother? It is not my fault that I found one of my father’s victims in a trunk in the basement of our house.” Malcolm stands to make his point, his temper starting to rise.
“Oh no, not this again. She wasn’t real, dear.” Jessica sighs.
“Mal, do we really need to talk about this now?” Ainsley asks in a low voice.
“She was real, I know it. And I can’t help it if my brain won’t let it go. I’m not staying if you’re going to pretend it didn’t happen. Goodnight, Ains, see you on Thursday, mother.” Malcolm says by way of goodbye, walking briskly to the coat room to grab his things.
“Bro, way to leave me high and dry.” Ainsley yells after him. Malcolm ignores her and exits the house quickly, deciding to walk down the street for a while to cool off. His mother has never believed that the Girl in the Box ever existed, but the nightmare is so vivid that Malcolm is certain that she had to be real. It shouldn’t be hard for a mother to believe her son, and every time she denies him the benefit of the doubt the gap between them widens ever so slightly.
The gentle breeze cools his seething anger after a few blocks. The tension Malcolm carries in his shoulders slowly seeps away, as the sounds of the city distract him from vignettes that have played in his head countless times over the years.