The inside of the hunting cabin didn't look anything like he expected it would. Though if he was being honest, really honest, he'd admit he had absolutely no clue what he thought the inside of this cabin to look like. The few memories he did have of this place came from the night he stabbed Watkins. None of them correlated with the room he found himself standing in, though.
This is the right cabin… Malcolm's brow furrowed as he turned in a slow circle. Isn't it?
Of course it was. He had the paperwork that showed the Watkins family were the owners. JT and Dani investigated this cabin with Colette Swanson after Watkins killed Owens and kidnapped him.
As he stood there, however, Malcolm couldn't help but feel as if he and Jason were somehow at the wrong cabin. Something seemed… off.
No, he corrected as he paused by the entrance into the kitchen.
Everything was different.
Flashes from the night he stabbed Watkins rolled across his visual field as he looked around the living room. The layout reflected the one inside his head but nothing in it matched his memories.
The rack with the fishing poles had been replaced with a desk that contained a laptop and two external flatscreen monitors. Shelves above the desk contained a variety of owl figurines. The cabinet where the hunting rifles had been stored was now occupied by a flatscreen television and an entertainment center containing a Playstation, an Apple TV box, and a modem.
The couch and chairs were brand new.
As were the coffee table, bookcases, and end tables.
A glance into the kitchen revealed the microwave, stove, and refrigerator were also the latest models out on the market. As was the coffeemaker and toaster oven. The cabinets and countertop looked as if they, too had been recently redone.
Those weren't the only oddities Malcolm noticed. Slip-cloths didn't cover the furniture to protect it from accumulating dust or dirt. The windows and appliances were grime and fingerprint free. No dust-bunnies crept across the wood floors, clung to the rug or played hide-and-seek in the corners. Cobwebs didn't hang from the drapes, ceiling or lampshades.
The place looked as if it had been cleaned from top to bottom.
And recently, too.
"Someone's living here," Jason said as he shined a small flashlight around the room. "Place shouldn't be as clean as this. Not if its been abandoned for as long as you've said it has been."
"It's the right cabin." At least, Malcolm thought it was. "The address is the same as the one on the paperwork Dani found."
"It's the right cabin… it's just not the one you remember."
Malcolm's brow puckered.
"You think I'm remembering a different cabin?"
Something not outside the realm of possibility, Malcolm admitted silently. Most of his memories were in huge, disjointed chunks of images and sounds. Many connected to other moments to create memories that while true, were also false.
"I think it's something we need to consider." Jason walked over to investigate a painting of an owl hung on the wall by the bedroom door. "Yes." He turned towards Malcolm. "Your team took pictures of the outside of the cabin after you were kidnapped but not of the inside, right?"
"They didn't take any photographs of the cabin."
There had been no point for them to take photographs since he wasn't found at the cabin. And they were working against the clock.
One brow arched.
"How did they know this was the place then?"
"They found old photographs of the cabin in a photo album and confirmed it belonged to the Watkins family."
"So, you have no way of knowing what the inside of the cabin looked like when your team investigated it as a potential location you were taken."
"No." Malcolm's brow furrowed further. "Why?"
"Because I think you remember how this place looked before the Court had it remodeled." Jason swept the flashlight around the room again. "Likely after your father was arrested."
That makes sense, Malcolm realized as Jason walked over and clicked on the lamp set atop one of the end tables. Soft light flooded the room and revealed even more changes. Supporting Jason's theory about the Court having the cabin remodeled after his father was arrested. Making sure nothing could be tied back to them.
"Think a Talon is living here?"
"The Court keeps them on ice between uses."
"So, it's likely someone else then."
The question was: who?
And where are they?
"Whoever has been using this cabin has likely been using it for the same purpose your pops did." Jason crossed towards the kitchen in three long strides. "To get rid of whoever the Court wanted gone."
He didn't need to add: and make sure they stayed gone. Malcolm's belly tightened at the untold horrors those who lost their lives in this cabin endured before succumbing to death. Twenty-three was the official number attributed to his father. Watkins had almost as many when he was captured. The identities of many of those victims remained a mystery despite his mother's attempt to identify them. How many there actually were was a mystery. Sorcha's father and Ian Turner believed the numbers would double or even triple once all the bodies were located and the remains identified.
Something neither Endicott nor the Court wants.
Those people being found and identified presented a threat to their operations. To the power and control each wielded. To the lofty social positions they enjoyed. Malcolm was also willing to bet that whoever lived in this cabin had been ordered to search for any evidence his father and Watkins might have left behind and destroy it.
It wasn't just those bodies being unearthed Endicott and the Court wanted to prevent. It was also stopping from whoever searched for them from asking too many questions, as well. Like Eve. Malcolm's gaze strayed to the figure floating by the window. Murdered because you wanted to find out what happened to your sister.
Who may or may not still be alive. Malcolm had no way of knowing what exactly Eve found out before she was murdered by Eddie Smith. If she found her sister or not.
"Watkins grandparents worked for the Court." Malcolm didn't have to guess at what sort of service the Watkins performed."It's why they had use of this cabin."
"Not a surprise they worked for the Court." Jason opened cupboards and drawers. Revealing basic staples and items one would expect to find. "Explains why this place wasn't investigated after your pops was arrested, too."
"And why Watkins continued to use it."
"He became their disposer until you figured out his connection to your father."
"He took over for his grandfather."
"Who the Court repaid for his years of service by having his own grandson murder him."
"The Court instructed the Watkins to groom their grandson to become a killer." Malcolm moved to the first bookcase. Nothing on the shelf gave him any hint as to who could be occupying the cabin. "As they likely instructed my father to groom me."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" Malcolm looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "You don't think they told him to groom me?"
"I think he would have groomed you had they instructed him to or not." Jason's eyes met his. "Your pops sees you as an extension of himself, Mal. You're his way of living forever."
"We're the same." The words would forever haunt Malcolm. "Never forget that, my boy. We're the same."
Only, they weren't.
Not completely, anyway.
Martin Whitly liked hurting people. He derived pleasure from causing pain. Physical and emotional, Malcolm amended as Jason moved to the refrigerator. His father enjoyed having power over his victims.
In deciding their fates.
Judge, jury, and executioner.
"There's no way he wouldn't have groomed you to follow in his footsteps," Jason continued. "His ego wouldn't allow him not to turn you into a killer."
"No," Malcolm agreed as he moved to the other bookshelf. "It wouldn't."
"You're not him, Mal."
"I've spent years thinking that." A soft knocking sounded by his left ear. He shook off the pinpricks of alarm and turned towards Jason. "The truth is a part of me is like him."
"You're also equal parts the old man and Lieutenant Arroyo." Jason touched a hand to the teapot situated on the back of the stove. "Still warm," he said. "Whoever hasn't been gone long."
"If they're gone," Malcolm pointed out as another knock sounded. "They could still be here."
Watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. A confrontation was the last thing they needed. They had no idea who the individual the Court sent here was or how dangerous they were. Jason could handle himself if a fight occurred. He had been trained by Batman and a slew of other teachers. He was also not opposed to using lethal measures to achieve his desired end result. The holsters forming an outline beneath the fold of his leather jacket didn't contain water pistols, after all.
The problem was him. He ultimately could get Jason killed. He already died once because of someone looking to hurt the family…
"This was a bad idea..." Malcolm began as another knock sounded. "We should go before whoever lives here returns."
"You need closure, Mal." Jason exited the kitchen and started examining the painting on the walls. Not that the forest scene provided any clue as to the identity of the absent cabin dweller. "The only way for you to finally get it is by searching this place for those who haven't been found."
"If my father would just tell me where they're buried..."
"He won't." Jason frowned as two more soft knocks sounded. "You hear that?"
"Yes." Unease slithered through Malcolm. "I've been hearing the knocks for the last few minutes. Figured it was a tree hitting the side of the house."
"Maybe." A grin tugged at Jason lips. "Or maybe it's the ghosts trying to lend us a hand."
"Not a fan of anything related to parapsychology."
More knocks.
From the bedroom this time.
"Your girlfriend would love this."
"She would," Malcolm agreed with a small nod. "Sorcha's gone on a ghost hunt before, in fact."
She had wanted him to go with her but he refused. Cited how the majority of paranormal claims were either bogus or hallucinations. However, Malcolm couldn't deny the tingle that shot down his spine when the knocks came again.
"I'll go check the basement," Jason offered. "You stay here."
Not that Malcolm had any intention of doing that. They'd cover more ground if they divided the rest of the cabin between them. Plus, there was something, a voice in the back of his head telling him to go into the bedroom.
Promised the answers he sought awaited him there.
Three more knocks sounded by his head.
A mocking of the holy trinity he remembered the guys on Sorcha's favorite show saying.
Given this cabin had been hell for so many…
"I'll check the bedroom and bathroom."
"Just wait for me." Jason's tone was velvet steel. "We'll check it together."
Malcolm had already crossed over to the bedroom door, however. He paused in front of it. Images swam across the smooth wood. With his mind spinning, belly curdling, spine tingling, and legs trembling, his shaky hand reached for the knob.
Turned it.
The door swung open with only a whisper of sound.
Inside was nothing but darkness and a host of memories.
Malcolm drew in a breath, released it slowly. It's now or never…
He went to take a step into the room but the figure that loomed out of the shadows stopped him.
For a brief moment, Malcolm thought himself back in hell.
With John Watkins as his personal tour guide.
A small smile appeared through the thick bristles covering the lower half of Watkins face.
"Hello, little Malcolm."
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!
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