tinstar | Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

Art was suspicious right off the bat when Raylan took a week off with the express note that his phone would be Out Of Order til the next Monday, but the Chief Marshal wasn't going to look gift horses in the mouth. Not when it suggested he'd have a few days of peace, until Raylan caved to turning his phone back on again. Still, he watched the younger Marshal walk out of the office and promised himself to check into the state of Harlan within 3 days to make sure that the place wasn't on fire. The smoke would reach him before he called, he was sure.

But Art didn't have much to worry about - Raylan had no plans on staying in the state for his vacation, beyond one day spent closing up Arlo's and securing it the best way he could before getting on a plane to New York City. He wanted to surprise Malcolm - it'd been near two months since they'd last seen each other and frankly, Raylan was tired of missing him. They'd called and texted, stayed in a fairly consistent, if odd houred, touch but it wasn't the same.

Once he landed, Raylan rented a car and navigated his way towards Malcolm's apartment, stopping to grab a bouquet of flowers. It was.. Extra, but Raylan didn't want to show up empty handed, just in case. Thirty minutes later, Malcolm's door buzzer was being hit, like Raylan was here to deliver something. Well, he was, but that was half the fun.

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Jeremy, held up a knife, resting it against his own cheek.

"What if it gets uncourteous?" he asked. "What if I have a little cop shield?"

"You won't get that close to me."

"You have that much confidence in their shooters, huh?"

"I know where they are. And you don't," Malcolm pointed out. "Maybe they're in the trees. Or on top of the barn. Maybe they're right behind you," he noted in an almost musical tone that suggested he wasn't completely serious but wanted Jeremy to understand the possibilities.

Jeremy gave him a withering look. "So you just want me to walk out there with my hands up and give myself up."

"After dropping your weapons," Malcolm clarified. "It'd be the smart move. But it's your choice."

Jeremy seemed to be considering him.

"How much money did you find in the house?" Malcolm asked. Jeremy looked almost startled by the change of subject and didn't answer. "Did you find the gun yet?" Malcolm asked.

Jeremy's eyes narrowed.

"You haven't," Malcolm deduced. "You didn't even look for one. The woman you killed, she never had time to go for it. How did you get in? Force the front door? Break a window?"

"The windows weren't even locked," he spat, looking over his shoulder like he was considering something.

"If you leave here to go look for the gun, the Marshals will force entry. You have no leverage in there. As soon as you stop talking to me, it's over."

The windows weren't locked and Raylan gave Tim a half surprised lift of his eyebrows when it started moving. Tim shrugged and gestured for him to go on inside.

For a man Raylan's size, it was always a little funny to see him fold himself up and slink him and his long legs into a house, and a half second later, he was opening the back door for Tim to come in. Thankfully, the doors were as well kept as the windows and it opened with no real noise to speak of.

They crept through the house, splitting it between them and coming across someone else in the living room. A grandkid or young nephew, 14 or 15 if Raylan had to guess, but it came with a creek of the floorboards and a whimper from the boy. Raylan lifted a finger to his lips and turned his hip to show his badge. They were there to help.

"And you think they can get in here before I find the gun," Jeremy was saying.

"I think there's a good chance. You haven't spent your time here learning the house." He cocked his head slightly, assessing. "How have you spent your time?" Malcolm asked.

"None of your fucking business!" Jeremy said, suddenly irritated. "Who the fuck are you?"

"My name is Malcolm Bright. I help the police with... difficult situations."

Jeremy squinted at him. "Wait. Are you Malcolm Bright the FBI profiler that caught the Kingdom Lake Killer?" he exclaimed.

"Um, I composed a profile for that case; I wasn't an arresting..."

"Shut up! Are they calling me a serial killer?" he asked with some degree of excitement.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "You're actually considered a spree killer. Your murders are too close together and your methodology too..."

"You are the FBI serial killer catcher."

"I was."

"Come in here. I want to show you something," he said, backing up from the door.

"You know, I don't think...."

"I have another hostage," he said dangerously. "Some kid that was sleeping upstairs."

Malcolm watched his face for a moment. It looked like truth.

"What do you want to show me?"

"I tried something new. I want to show you. I bet I'm a serial killer now."

"You're suggesting that you're evolving," Malcolm said reasonably, taking a step up onto the next step of the porch.

"Those guys, people talk about them all the time. Did you see the interview with Martin Whitly a couple of months ago? They let us watch it in the common room. His crimes were twenty years ago and people are still talking about him. You know who he is, right?"

"The Surgeon," Malcolm said carefully, stepping up onto the porch. "I'm familiar with his work."

"Of course you are. You're the leading expert. Everyone says so."

"Everyone who, exactly?"

"On the true crime boards. Real crime buffs. Come in here. Come look at what I did to this bitch."

"You know, there's a little problem here, though."

"What's that?"

"She doesn't fit your victim profile. You were carrying out justice against perceived sinners. She was a victim of opportunity."

"EVERY WOMAN IS A SINNER!" he screamed. "GET YOUR ASS IN HERE BEFORE I KILL THIS KID!"

Good, Malcolm was keeping him talking. It was enough time for Raylan to squat down and untie the kid, helping him to his feet with a wary eye towards the conversion happening. "Stay here," he mouthed, not wanting the kid to see the body in the kitchen without support.

Rising again, he moved forward, stilling as Jeremy started inviting Malcolm in. He held, catching Tim coming out of the other room across from him who shook his head. Nothing of interest.

Raylan stayed where he was. He knew what kind of negotiator Malcolm was, and honestly, he didn't like shooting people if he could avoid it. But the swearing and screaming indicated a tilt towards seriousness that none of them needed. He stepped out into the 'hallway' that connected all the rooms and the stairs upstairs, gun only half raised.

"'Fraid that's going to be a little hard for ya," Raylan spoke up, drawing the attention away from Malcolm, if even for a moment. "Considerin'." Considering them.

"You oughta do what Mr Bright suggests. Expert, and all." If they weren't in the situation they were in, Raylan might have sounded casual with the way he laid it out.

Malcolm, lingering just outside the door, lifted his eyes from Jeremy to Raylan when he heard his voice. He couldn't be blamed for the faint smile he couldn't completely suppress at the sound. He looked at Jeremy, who was looking over his shoulder at Raylan, then looked at Malcolm.

Then suddenly lunged forward to make a grab for him, pushing the screen door messily aside.

Malcolm shifted to the side, grabbing his offhand to pull him off balance and encourage his face into the door frame.

"SHIT!" he shouted as Malcolm took steps backwards away from the door. Jeremy was still holding the knife. He looked murder over his shoulder at Raylan, not noticing Tim as he then pushed himself up to advance on the Marshal.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Malcolm called after him, but he wasn't sure how much good it would do. "Choose life, Jeremy!" he called. "Surrender now. I'll ride with you back to the station. We can talk about your methodology. Compare it to some of the greats."

Jeremy hesitated, looking at Raylan, but not raising the knife, his head tilting slightly towards the door where Malcolm's voice was coming from.

The lunge had Raylan stepping forward, gun raised.. But Malcolm clearly didn't need that much help. He could only furrow his brow as his head pulled back a fraction, all in slightly aroused surprise, eyes narrowing a little.

Well then.

In the field behind them all, the violence triggered a flood in of the team; Art, Rachel, and three other guys, all guns drawn.

As Jeremy started towards him, Raylan's gun was suddenly trained up, eyes sharp and hard, even without his hat to add extra intimidation. Jeremy didn't see Tim judging the set of Raylan's shoulder, waiting for him to step back and indicate he needed the backup.

"You drop it, we can make that happen," Raylan promised. "This doesn't have to end here. Hell, I'll even play the radio, if you want."

There was no way Malcolm was riding in a car with this asshole without Raylan there.

Malcolm advanced on the doorway again, still cautious, as Jeremy looked at Raylan, then over his shoulder at Malcolm.

"You written a profile of me?" he asked.

Malcolm nodded. "And I've been adding to it this whole time," he said, tapping his temple.

"I want you to post it online."

"I don't think you do want that, but put the weapon down and we can discuss it in the car," he said, stepping into the doorway.

Jeremy's eyes lingered on him, then he let the knife drop, putting his hands on his head. He knew the drill.

The group behind Malcolm advanced as he did, staying off the porch but at the ready.

As soon as the knife hit the floor, Raylan stepped forward as he holstered his gun and Tim stepped out behind him as the older man pulled out his hand cuffs. Raylan moved one hand after the other down, cuffing them in before nodding forward.

"Alright, let's go."

Once Raylan got him into the car, he headed back towards the house, hand propped on his gun as he pulled up next to Malcolm, standing over the woman that the locals were already sending a coroner for.

"They've got the kid out front waiting with Rachel, on an EMT," he informed as he looked at the gruesome scene at his feet.

"This is.. kinda outta the ordinary for him, ain't it?" This lady wasn't a whore or even particularly pretty, both of which their guy seemed to like more. "Pressures of being chased, I guess."

He was disgusted.

Malcolm shook his head.

"He's been building up to this. Escalating. He first killed to feel power and it still gives him that, but he went to prison for it and found out he was a small fish in a big pond. He wanted more. For some... inconceivable reason, the prison let them watch an interview with Dr Martin Whitly and he found a notoriety to aspire to. He wanted people to feel the sort of sick awe they feel when they talk about the Surgeon when they talk about him." He looked at Raylan. "Which I would love it if he never finds out he's been so... inspirational," Malcolm noted dryly. "This was his master work to date. He wanted me to see it when he realized I specialized in serial murderers. He thought I'd... appreciate it," he explained with an edge in his voice.

"I don't get these people," Raylan admitted.

"Fame should be declared a public health crisis," Art quipped from nearby as he took a deep breath. "I take it this 'Surgeon' guy is big news up there, huh?"

Raylan smirked. "You could say that. He killed 23 or more people in different, intricate ways. Somethin' of a celebrity up there. Though clearly, Malcolm is too."

Art focused on Malcolm. "Why'd the FBI let you go again?"

At Raylan's comment about his own fame, Malcolm half waved and half shrugged it off.

"Serial killer superfans have usually heard of me for...one thing or another. I've put a lot of serial killers away."

At Art's question, he looked over, looked at Raylan, opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at Art again. "Creative differences?"

Raylan snorted, and his face screamed 'Yeah right' at Malcolm's 'creative differences'.

"Don't we all have 'em," Art commiserated. "Anyway, if you plan on keepin' your promise, y'all should go ahead and get on. We'll tie things up here. You wanna take Tim with you?"

Raylan looked over. "And put him-" His head bobbed at Malcolm, "In the back? Hell no."

"We'll be all right," Malcolm assured Art with a grin, waiting on Raylan's cue to head to the car.

Art couldn't find any ground to argue with Raylan on that point, so he shrugged with his face and looked back at the body. Raylan jerked his head towards the door in a faint gesture and led them that way.

"You weren't really gonna come in when he asked you too, right?" He had to ask in the passing private moment they'd have on the way to the car. "Like you know that woulda been a bad idea, right?"

"Well, it wasn't Plan A or anything, but... he had a hostage," Malcolm said in an answer that definitely was not 'of course not'. "I knew you were around somewhere. I could at least keep him busy if I couldn't get him to surrender."

Raylan didn't think there would ever be a solid 'Of Course not', not from Malcolm Bright.

"You did good, keepin' him talkin' as long as you did. Gave me all the time I needed." Pulling out his keys, Raylan pulled off his vest and walked around to the trunk to trade it for his hat and jacket.

"Just don't expect me to get all talkative on the way. He didn't give up for me." Not that his stance would have changed if that had been the case.

Malcolm peeled his vest off as he followed Raylan, depositing it in the trunk before pausing.

"I, um... left my jacket in the back seat," he realized. He looked at Raylan. "I'm fine without it," he assured him. "I don't think he gave up for me, either, except as a mechanism to stroke his serial killer ambitions."

"So long as you don't have anything in it," Raylan said with a roll of his shoulder and a half bob of his head that said it was fine. "Whatever gets the job done," he said of their conversation with a pull of his smirk as he walked around to the front of the car and slid in.

He met Jeremy's eyes in the rearview. "Keep it nice and polite and I might crack a window." Better the carrot than the stick, Raylan felt, though he was not above using said stick. But he was following Malcolm's lead on that.

Jeremy leaned forward eagerly as Malcolm slid into the car.

"Did you see her?" he asked, ignoring Raylan's offer of a cracked window.

Malcolm put on his seatbelt and then half turned in his seat to look at Jeremy. "I saw her," he said grimly.

"What did you think?" he pressed.

"I think you made an innocent person suffer to stroke your ego," Malcolm said matter-of-factly, "and if it's Martin Whitly's company you want to be in, you at least have that in common with him."

Jeremy looked like he was trying to decide whether that was a compliment or an insult.

"Jeremy, I don't know what it is you think I do, but I'm not, like, an art critic for serial killers. I put them in prison."

"You know more about them than anyone," Jeremy told him. "Everyone talks about it; you understand them."

"Yeah, I do. That doesn't mean I agree with them. I studied hard to figure out what makes sick people do sick things and do you know why?"

"You're interested."

"I'm interested in stopping them so fewer innocent people die to stroke their egos."

Jeremy started to look agitated. "You said we could compare my work to the greats," he growled.

"Happy to," Malcolm said mildly. "Who were you thinking of when you killed your last victim? Martin Whitly? He's been on your mind since the interview, right?"

"He's probably the most famous serial killer of the last twenty years. I want that."

"Well, you're not going to be Martin Whitly with a couple of spree killings and a nascent methodology; let's be real."

"I want you to put your profile of me on the internet!"

"No, you really don't."

Jeremy kicked Malcolm's seat hard. "YES I DO!"

Raylan didn't linger, pulling them onto the road that would get them back onto a blacktop in a few minutes. Plenty of time for the conversation to progress. He listened silently without much of any reaction but that was something that changed with a sharp look into his rearview at Jeremy's temper tantrum.

With a tightness in his jaw, Raylan pulled them off onto the dusty sidebar and eyed the man in his back seat through the mirror.

"I'mma tell you this once," he started, oh so calmly. "Kick my seats or scream again, you will ride to Lexington in the trunk, and no one is gonna have any conversation."

Malcolm shifted in his seat where he could watch Raylan take command with a warm fondness on his face where the prisoner couldn't see it. Jeremy looked at him sullenly, but didn't protest.

Once the car moved back onto the road, Malcolm met Raylan's gaze very briefly - he was okay - and then turned around again.

"Profiles don't make killers look good, Jeremy, and if you understood why you've done what you've done, you'll understand that. If I post all the reasons you kill on the internet, you're only going to look like the sad little man that you are."

Jeremy's face started to contort to rage again, but Malcolm spoke before he could.

"Have you ever read a profile of Martin Whitly? He's a lot less fascinating when you understand he's nothing but a malignant narcissist who killed people for kicks because their lives mattered less than his curiosity and his need to exert control. He ruined lives. Not just his victims, but their families. And his own family. And if the press does show up to camp outside your mother's door, do you think she's going to thank you for the attention? She won't. You're a selfish little boy who thinks people owe him something because he had a hard time making friends. That doesn't make you any version of great."

Jeremy screamed and lunged forward, the seatbelt restraining him. "WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY'LL SAY ABOUT ME IF I KILL THE FAMOUS SERIAL KILLER HUNTER, HUH? WHAT WILL THEY SAY THEN??"

Jeremy only got to the word kill, into his scream before Raylan, who'd unbuckled himself during their back and forth, swiftly turned, one arm over the back of his seat as he stretched to punch Jeremy dead in his face with no regard for kindness.

With a deadly kinda look, Raylan slung the door open and slid out, swinging Jeremy's door open just as hard. "Get outta the car," he said, not waiting to reach in and drag Jeremy out by the front of his shirt, eyes dancing back and forth around the horizon in a half second before he popped the trunk and started frog marching Jeremy back there.

"Get in," he said roughly, no longer inviting the man to anything.

There was no sugar on this lemon, not anymore.

Edited 2020-08-18 01:28 (UTC)

Malcolm got out of the car when Raylan did, but he stayed on the opposite side of the vehicle from Raylan and Jeremy.

Jeremy was stunned by the punch and the pull, but started struggling as Raylan told him to get in the trunk.

"THE FUCK I WILL."

Raylan shifted his hands, one grabbing a fistful of his shirt while the other grabbed the back of his jacket and using the force of balance, he pushed him into the trunk. When Jeremy inevitably tried to push back up with the momentum that got him in there, Raylan punched him again and slammed the trunk shut.

He eyed Malcolm as he came back around the car and paused at the look on his face.

"What? He was givin' me a headache." It was his entire excuse and he looked almost innocent as he slid back into the driver's seat.

Edited 2020-08-18 02:00 (UTC)

Malcolm slid back into his own seat and looked over at Raylan with a barely suppressed smile.

"You know, if you punch everyone that threatens me, you're going to have a sore hand."

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