The road, if one could actually call this stretch of dirt one, was extremely narrow. Maple, birch, and beech trees lined both sides. The glow from the Mustang's headlights cast eerie shadows. For a second, Malcolm imagined the smaller trees as skeletons dancing in the heavy mist creeping along the ground.
They're performing the Danse Macabre, he decided as lightning splintered the midnight sky and thunder rattled his bones. The mist slithered across the road like a snake, curled around the dancing trees, and beckoned to him with its long, vaporous tongue.
Nerves stretched taut threatened to snap when something resembling a pair of round owl-like goggles peered at Malcolm from behind a tree. His shaky hand spasmed on the steering wheel and his heart beat a hard staccato against his ribcage as he imagined those gleaming orbs belonging to a figure distinguishable by their ebony body armor and the gleaming blades that could cut through the Mustang's top as if it were butter.
Anxiety bubbled and boiled in his already queasy belly the closer he got to where those glowing eyes waited. Malcolm found himself wishing he had taken Raya up on her offer to prepare him a thermos of tea for one of those "just in case" moments.
A Talon leaping out of the shadows at him definitely constituted such a scenario in his mind. Malcolm held no illusions about his chances in a fight against one of the elite assassins. He'd lose a fight with Tickle Me Elmo.
Malcolm was honest about the fact that he rarely used any of the physical training he received from Batman. He trusted himself when in sparring sessions. Trusting himself in the field was an entirely different matter. If he lost control in a sparring session, it was only his partner who stood to get hurt.
Innocent people were who could get hurt if he let himself lose control. As they got hurt because my father had no control over his impulses.
Malcolm's greatest fear was becoming Martin Whitly. Part of him was like his father. It wasn't something he could deny any longer. Much as I wish I could. Another burst of light illuminated the sky. A half-nervous, half-sheepish laugh escaped Malcolm when he saw how those glowing owl-like goggles were actually two yellow lights fixed to a road sign warning about the area being prone to flooding.
Luckily, this wasn't the rainy season so he wouldn't need to worry about fighting a raging river while searching for his father's victims. I'll just be fighting over a decade of memories, neuroses, and traumas, instead.
Malcolm hit a dip in the road, hard enough to bounce his head against the roof of the car. For someone who drove a car as infrequently as him, this road was the least desired one he could find himself driving on.
Not that he had much choice in the matter.
It wasn't like he could call for an Uber or Lyft to drive him out to the cabin where his father liked to bring his victims to torture them before killing them.
He also couldn't ask Adolpho to bring him out here. Not that he wouldn't have if I asked him, Malcolm mused as another crack of lightning stretched across the sky. Adolpho had proven his loyalty to his family over the many years he worked for them. Malcolm was reasonably sure the man would do anything they asked of him.
Well, he amended as he hit another bump in the road, almost anything. Something told him that Adolpho might draw the line at killing someone in anything but a clear case of self-defense. Still, driving him out to a murder cabin seemed like a bit much to ask.
He also couldn't expect Gil, JT, Dani, Raya or Sorcha to do the driving. They had other tasks and responsibilities requiring their attention. Like finding Watkins before he has a chance to resume his mission.
John Watkins being released from Arkham Asylum hadn't come as a major surprise to Malcolm. Not after everything else that had happened the last few weeks. It'd have shocked him more if Watkins hadn't been freed. Malcolm was not a complete idiot. He knew exactly why Endicott had Watkins released: to keep them from figuring out any more of his dirty secrets and exposing him, as well as the Court of Owls.
Malcolm had no choice but to depend on the one person he didn't normally to not only get him where he needed to go but see his task through to completion: himself. Having confidence in himself and his abilities was a frequent topic of discussion between him and… well, everyone.
He openly admitted he lacked faith in himself and his non-profiling skills. He also didn't think about himself or his health and well-being while working a case. His sole focus was on finding the killer before they could kill again. If he got hurt in the process didn't matter.
To him, anyway.
His family, friends, co-workers, Gil, Raya, and Sorcha all tended to disagree with that particular viewpoint. Especially Sorcha. She let him know in clear terms she didn't agree with his being broken, deserving of pain and misery or being like his father.
It had been easier to trust in himself when he worked for the bureau. He had depended on his profiling skills as well as a number of the unique skills taught to him by Batman in order to bring in a number of dangerous killers. He hadn't questioned himself or found himself worrying as often about if he was straying to close to that proverbial line that separated him from Martin Whitly.
Part of it was because there wasn't always someone he could depend on while out in the field. Teams often split up while chasing a suspect to maximize their chances of catching the perpetrator. Teams also got separated when factors — such as traps getting tripped or finding themselves ambushed by partners they hadn't factored into the equation — occurred. Malcolm only had himself in those situations, had to believe he could think his way out of his predicament, and talk the suspect into giving themselves up without resorting to violence.
The other reason, though, was because his father hadn't been lurking over his shoulder, whispering to him about how they were the same, and that he was the only one Malcolm could truly depend on. He didn't deny there wasn't merit in Sorcha and Raya's stance that ending his association with his father would be beneficial to him in the long run. The ten years he spent away from Martin Whitly and his manipulations proved how helpful ending their relationship could be.
Sorcha and I could have a real relationship if I ceased calling and going to see my father, he realized as he came to a fork in the road. We could do things normal couples do like go on date nights. Vacations. Have game nights with friends.
Things he convinced himself he didn't deserve because he hadn't called the police sooner and told them about the people his father hurt. The lives Martin Whitly took for reasons Malcolm still couldn't explain despite his training and research.
That was why he couldn't sit on his mother's couch while everyone worked to find the bodies connected to his father, Nicholas Endicott, and the Court of Owls.
He needed to help.
Not only to bring justice and peace to those people his father hurt with his actions but to finally absolve himself of the guilt weighing him down all these years. I can't begin healing until I find the rest of his victims.
Unbidden came the vision of his ten-year-old self running through a dark forest similar to the one he was driving through, the pocketknife he found in the station wagon his father drove clutched in one hand, and the front of his jacket and pants covered in mud, leaves, and blood.
Malcolm used to believe the blood belonged to Watkins. It made sense it belonged to him. He had stabbed the man. Watkins told him as much and Malcolm could now recall the incident.
Lately, however, he found himself wondering if it was Watkins blood on him and the knife. His memories were, admittedly, fragmented. Events were often out of sequence. Many blended into other moments to blur what really happened. Much of his childhood was based on implicit rather than explicit memory. He couldn't recall the details autobiographically but he had an emotional recollection of particular events.
What if I stabbed someone else?
That question haunted him. Especially since he could recall his father crouched behind him, whispering instructions and encouragement in his ear as he helped guide hands holding the pocketknife he later ran through the forest clutching for dear life.
Why was his father guiding his hands?
What specifically had he been instructing him to cut? A fish? Rabbit? Quail? Deer?
If it wasn't an animal he was cutting… who was it?
That's what I need to figure out, Malcolm decided right before a sound, like nails on a chalkboard yanked him out of his dark musings. A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed the culprit was a branch from a tree. Malcolm swallowed a grimace as more branches scratched at the top and skimmed along the hood, sides, and trunk lid.
Yeeting out a window because of a bomb about to blow him into Bright-bits saved him from Gil's wrath after he crashed onto the LeMans.
A tree scratching the Mustang would see either Sorcha or Sean put a bullet in him.
Should have taken Raya's Tahoe instead of the Mustang…
Not that she'd have been any happier about hers being scratched up.
Déjà vu clawed its way up the back of his neck as Malcolm found himself deep in the heart of the forest. I've definitely been here before, he realized as lightning illuminated the world for a few brief seconds. He slowed the car to a crawl, hands shaking like a chihuahua outside in a blizzard, eyes frantically searching for the break in the trees that led to the old wood cabin his father liked bringing him on their "special" weekend getaways.
Malcolm's gaze landed on the cabin he had remembered in disjointed fragments for over two decades of his life a few seconds later. The one story log structure sat between a grove of trees, gray mist crawling across its roof, and sliding down the sides to slither across the ground. He parked the Mustang by a large oak and cut the engine. A mixture of anticipation and dread rolled through him as he sat staring at the remarkably well-maintained cabin. Flashes of other times he and his father came here played through his mind as thunder rolled overhead.
The majority of his nightmares started here.
He could only hope here was where they might finally end.
Malcolm exited the car and started up the short walk to the front door.
The wood door with a strange carving above it.
Like that of an… owl.
Malcolm's brows shot up to his hairline as the connection dawned. The Court owns this cabin and the land on which it sits. Like they did other properties and places around the world. That's why it hadn't been searched after my father was arrested. The Court had utilized their political connections to squash any search of the area.
Because there are bodies here they don't want found.
Excitement mingled with the apprehension playing ping-pong with his anxiety and fear. Suddenly, things that hadn't made sense before became startling clear to him: Sterling becoming his father's attorney. Endicott helping him secure a private room at Claremont. The privileges he was allowed. The clients he consulted for.
It was all because of the Court of Owls.
It also explained why Endicott pulled away that protection once Malcolm figured out who the Girl in the Box was. His father had become a liability after revealing Sophie's connection to Endicott and his serial killer ring. More, he'd become a danger to the Court and their underground dealings.
And they get rid of those who threaten them with exposure.
So engrossed was Malcolm in his musings that he missed the tree root sticking up out of the dirt. He hit the ground before he had a chance to catch himself, cracking his head against the bottom step on his way down.
Pain exploded behind his eyes, screamed its way across his forehead, silencing the shadow creatures as it traveled along every nerve fiber.
Malcolm's world went bright.
Then dark.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!
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