abrightboy | The Lengths That I Would Go To

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The Lengths That I Would Go To

The killer was moving around the country. Malcolm Bright could see the pattern, but he wasn't working for the FBI these days and they weren't exactly taking his calls. Short sighted of them, but they did fire him on suspicion of being crazy. The NYPD's jurisdiction was New York. With the killer beyond its borders, they handed it upwards and left it at that.

Let it go, Bright, had been Gil's sage advice. You can't catch every killer in America single-handedly.

Challenge accepted, some part of him retorted, though he'd only nodded mutely and forced a smile. Gil knew he hadn't simply let it go, but he wasn't going to have him followed to stop him doing anything stupid, either. He didn't have the will or the resources to keep tabs on Malcolm Bright 24/7 and Malcolm Bright knew it.

His mother, on the other hand, had extensive resources, so he simply didn't tell her he was leaving town. He did arrange for Ainsley to feed his bird, so the truth would come out eventually, but he'd be several states away by then.

He rode the bus. There was something oddly comforting about the anonymity of being in a crowd of strangers who had no interest in him whatsoever. He stared out the window and watched the country go by. When he stepped off the Greyhound in Lexington, Kentucky, he walked to a nearby hotel and checked in, then headed straight to the US Marshals office. There was no point in trying to talk to the FBI. If he was going to stop a killer from killing again, he needed someone in law enforcement to listen to him. The pattern suggested the next murder would happen in one of the rural communities around Lexington and it would be precipitated by a young woman's disappearance. He needed law enforcement with local knowledge, specifically.

He wandered into the Marshals' offices in a tidy three piece suit, charcoal grey with a burgundy tie perfectly knotted at his collar. He got a few suspicious sidelong glances but nobody asked if they could help him. He cleared his throat.

"Um, hello? I'm wondering if there's anyone here I can talk to about murder." He held up his hands. "Stopping murder, specifically, not... like... smalltalk."

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"She wasn't. She had suspicions about my father, but she thought he was having an affair. It turned out to be much worse than that."

He glanced around. "Now and then. Sometimes she drags my sister. Sometimes both of us."

The waiter brought their drinks and a moment later Jessica Whitly swept up to the table with Ainsley right behind her.

"Darling! You made it," she exclaimed, giving Malcolm a broad grin. She offered her hand to Raylan. "Nice to see you again," she told him. "Ainsley," she said, beckoning her daughter over. "This is Malcolm's guest, Raylan."

Malcolm took closed his eyes to take a deep breath and release a long suffering sigh.

"Ainsley Whitly," she told Raylan, smirking at Malcolm while offering her hand.

Something in Raylan's face settled at the reassurance. He liked Jessica from what he'd seen of her and she was clearly smart as a whip; he didn't like having those doubts around those kind of people.

"Clearly tonight it's both of you," he sounded softly in warning with a facial bob of thanks towards the waiter as he took his drink, stealing a sip before abandoning it to stand and shake Jessica's and Ainsley's hands with a polite bob of his head. There was another impulse to help them into their chairs but that one got wrestled into the back and gagged.

"Ma'am." There was almost a tip of a hat, but no hat to be found and miraculously, Raylan kept his hand where it should be for each shake. Ainsley got a "Nice to meet you," before he sat back down. "The suit fits perfectly by the way," he started towards Jessica, glass finding his hand again. "You'll have to send me the bill so that I've got at least one thing in my closet that isn't cotton or denim."

Oh, he saw the smirks and the looks, but what they meant was a little beyond his understanding just yet but they meant something, he knew that much.

"The bill," Jessica exclaimed with a dismissive wave. "Please. Consider it a gift for agreeing to come," she told him, already flagging down a waiter to order a glass of wine.

"I understand you're a United States Marshall," Ainsley, seated on the opposite side of Jessica from Raylan, said. "What jurisdiction were you in before you came here?"

Raylan couldn't do anything other than take that with an accepting lift of his eyebrows. "Well in that case, thank you. Much appreciated." He wouldn't be here without it, that was for sure. His attention turned to Ainsley at her question and he glanced down with his soft chuckle.

"I am not 'here' in such a sense. As a Marshal, we've kinda got jurisdiction anywhere, within reason." His head tilted a little, chin lifting slightly. "Malcolm watches your reports on TV. You sound like a solid journalist."

He knew that Ainsley would likely search his name the first chance she got, but this wasn't the kinda place where one admitted that there were be a bloody file to be found on him.

"So it won't take you long to find out that I'm currently assigned to Lexington, Kentucky. We're due to be leaving tomorrow, which is the other reason that I can afford to be here without a work conflict."

Ainsley smiled when Raylan said she sounded like a solid journalist, but turned a quizzical look towards Malcolm when Raylan mentioned he was leaving the next day, which he shut down with a warning look.

"Lexington. I've never been to Kentucky," she directed at Raylan like nothing had happened. "Do they keep you busy there?"

There was no helping the glance back at Malcolm just in time to catch his warning look, and somewhere, in the back of the Marshal's head, a light bulb flickered to life.

"Trust me, there's not much of anything to see, unless you've got a pension for dead trees and a lotta open land." It was subtle, but Raylan was making sure to mind his accent to stop it from lapsing too far. He knew full well how a good accent could build up some very incorrect assumptions. "But they do, yes. We're currently looking to stop some domestic terrorism that's rooted in a nearby county. An outlying connection and problem of it's own is why we're up here and the NYPD was kind enough to loan Malcolm to us."

He wasn't going to ask about or use last names here; that felt like a whole can of worms.

"Domestic terrorism?" Ainsley said, her interest immediately piquing.

Jessica put her hand up. "We are not talking about horrific crimes here tonight," she said, giving each of her children a stern look, but lingering on Malcolm - who had yet to really say anything - a little longer, to be sure he understood.

He took a sip of his drink and promised nothing.

Jessica looked at Raylan and set her hand on his arm, leaning towards him slightly. "How have you enjoyed New York?"

While Raylan wasn't visibly relieved, he completely was. The last thing he wanted to talk about was work but he'd also talked to a journalist or two and Ainsley was clearly hungry in the best way for one to be in that kind of business. He chose the easier, wiser path and sat back with a little nod of concession and a friendly enough curl of his lips before his attention was pulled by Jessica again.

"It's quite a city," he praised, giving her his most charming Good ol' boy smile. "Shiny and rough in all the promised places. I'm a little disappointed that I don't have time to go to Ellis Island, but maybe the US Marshal's service will find another case that I might be in these parts for, get the time to go sight seeing properly. I understand you and your family have been here for a long time, if you've got some suggestions on what I ought to see, as a native yourself.."

He understood the kind of woman Jessica was. There was a certain amount of attention to be paid for her to feel as shiny as she was and while it bordered on small-talk, Raylan was genuinely interested what the first thing to come to one who was used to living the way the Whitly's were would come to mind. He also understood that he was something of a buffer for her sharp eyed attentions on Malcolm and considering he knew roughly how much a suit like the one he was wearing was worth, he could occupy Jessica with a little charm while working that glass of scotch.

"Oh, well you absolutely must see the Met," she informed him. "I'd be happy to take you if it's not gruesome enough for Malcolm's taste," she said, giving him a look.

He shrugged broadly.

A photographer approached the table and snapped a picture of the four of them as he passed.

A waiter started setting soup in front of each of them.

"I'd also recommend a Broadway show. It's the sort of thing people expect from a visit to New York," she noted, letting go of his arm to pick up her soup spoon.

Raylan glanced at Malcolm, taking the chance to be listening to take a healthy drink of his scotch, suddenly even more grateful for the open bar. It was going to get use. Murmuring a thank you at the waiter, he nodded at Jessica's recommendations with a crooked smile.

"Well we'll have to see if the wind brings me back. Maybe then I'll be able to add the ghost of 'Cultured' to my general resume," he joked, happy to have a spoon and food to occupy his mouth. Desperately, he wished he knew the rhythm or decorum of these things. He was sure he'd be doing better if he did.

Malcolm tried a tentative bite of the soup. He'd have to give it a minute to know. He set his spoon down.

"Mother, have you had any interesting calls to your tip line this week?"

She looked up, looking for his spoon and visibly noted it laying down beside his bowl.

"Nothing promising," she said with a sigh. "Are you eating?"

"I'm working up to it."

She directed a new sigh at him and signaled the waiter for another glass of wine. "I hope you're not intending to nurse one bowl of soup through four courses."

"No," he deadpanned. "People might look at us oddly."

Raylan took another bite, glancing at Ainsley for her general opinion on Jessica's clear worry about how much her son was eating, one that he knew would have been clubbed over Malcolm's head had he been born in the south.

"If it helps," he offered with a soft clearing of his throat, "He's eaten a couple of times over the past couple of days. I've been trying to get as much down him when he's nice enough to buy me dinner. Which I am sure the Marshal's will be happy to reimburse," he said, turning to Malcolm to draw him into it, even while bumping his knee with Raylan's own. He didn't mean it, he knew Malcolm didn't want to be repaid and he understood the spirit that the dinners were given in, but they were playing something of a game here, a social one.

"Though I imagine you'll say the same as your mother," he foretold with a smirk.

He huffed a laugh.

"Getting to help catch a violent offender was all the repayment I needed," Malcolm replied.

"Of course it was," Jessica noted dryly, taking a sip of wine.

"She knows Malcolm eats," Ainsley said, shooting her mother a look. "He couldn't have stayed alive for 33 years without eating."

"Once I work it out, though," Malcolm promised, picking up his spoon to poke it in the air. "Then it's over." He took another small bite of soup.

"Of course," Raylan said towards Ainsley with a pull of his smile. "But soup isn't much when it's eaten rarely, and I know she doesn't keep that close a tally." The cross conversation was something he was used to - the south was incapable of having a straight conversation when too many people were at a table.

"I'm working him up towards this chicken I hear he'll eat. The south has a mean fried chicken and if he's going to hang around with me, I aim to put a little health on him."

He made a face. "Fried. Maybe not. How about baked chicken and I'll peel the breading off," he offered.

"That's the best offer you're going to get," Ainsley assured him.

Raylan chuckled. "You won't know the difference, I promise you. You can still pick off the breading and I won't be offended." Dark hazel eyes turned back onto Ainsley.

"I imagine your job is as exciting as mine; How'd you get into it?"

"I got interested in journalism at school," she told him. "We did a little in our English class and I got hooked."

"Before that, she was going to be an Olympic show jumper," Malcolm remarked.

"Yes, well, I had to do something to compete with your ballet career."

He gave her a withering look and she looked smug about it.

"All right, you two," Jessica said firmly. She looked at Raylan. "How did you get into law enforcement?" she asked pleasantly.

Show Jumper? Ballet? Raylan glanced between them, making mental notes to ask about the ballet when he could before his attention was pulled back towards Jessica.

"My father, actually. He... inspired me to it. No history, I'm the first of my family to be something worth something." Arlo would be proud to be spoken of as such, even if it was in such and underhanded way.

"I think he could have learned much from someone like you. Forgive me my ignorance, but what the hell is a show jumper?"

"It's an equestrian sport," Jessica told him before either of her children could jump in. "You've probably seen it on television. They ride horses around a course, jumping over obstacles?" she explained. "I take it you were close to your father?"

"As a matter of fact, I have not, unfortunately. Not a lot of time." His tone suggested that she understood, smart a woman as she was. Raylan couldn't help but huff a laugh and square Jessica up in the slant of his gaze. "Not at all, ma'am and if we're to keep to your edict of not talking ugliness at the table, I suggest we stop there. My father wasn't a good man, I'm afraid."

But somehow Raylan was forgiving with his tone, not blaming Jessica for her assumption.

"Thus, his inspiration."

Edited 2020-04-17 03:40 (UTC)

"Ah," Jessica noted, and it was more a shape with her lips than a sound. "Now I understand why you and Malcolm get along so well."

Malcolm had no opportunity to address that before a woman with an elaborate up-do and a sparkly white dress approached the table with false polite cheer.

"Jessica Whitly. How lovely to see you here. I always marvel at how brave you are, getting out like this." She took note of their table, conspicuously hosting only four occupants for its ten chairs. "I see the rest of your party had obligations they couldn't get out of, but at least your children made it." She looked at Raylan. "And who's your date?"

Jessica held her smile, though something dangerous had crept up behind it.

"Well, thank you Nancy," she said brightly. "Though I wouldn't suggest I'm half as brave as you are, wearing white when it washes out your skin tone like that," she explained cheerfully.

Raylan coughed over his soup, apologizing softly as he wiped his mouth before finishing his drink in one go and gesturing at an attentive waiter for another.

"Not lucky enough, I'm afraid," he offered, not confident enough to say who he was here with. He didn't want to cause trouble and really, he and Malcolm were just colleagues. Did these piranhas even really care? But his quip was almost visibly swept under the rug with the tension between the women. God, was this what Malcolm had to deal with all the time? No wonder he was on meds, it was the only other path besides a heavy addiction of some kind.

Malcolm's scrutinizing gaze had fixed on Nancy's face and he ignored Ainsley kicking him under the table.

"You keep looking over there," he pointed out mildly, gesturing towards another table. "Did they put you up to coming over here?" he asked, but he didn't wait for her to answer because he'd already read it in her expression. "No, but you want them to see you. You have something to prove to them." He watched her carefully. "To them but also to everybody. Nobody in this room is worth more than the attention they get, right?"

"Malcolm..." Jessica hissed in warning.

Also ignored.

"You want the attention Jessica Whitly gets when she enters the room. You can't get it the way she does. You couldn't handle notoriety anyway; you don't have the spine to wear that hat. So you think you can just...skim a little off of her."

Nancy was starting to look rattled. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times but nothing came out.

"I'd suggest skimming elsewhere," he told her. "It's okay to want to be seen. It's normal. But maybe learn to sing or something," he suggested, picking up his spoon and digging into his soup again.

She gave him and then the table a dirty look and walked off. Jessica put a hand to her forehead.

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" Malcolm asked innocently, putting a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

"You know perfectly well," she said with no real condemnation.

In not knowing what to expect from the evening, the break from Malcolm's otherwise impeccable politeness was its own surprise but what surprised Raylan more was the almost vicious way Malcolm wielded his best skill. It was good and right for a son to defend his mother, and more than a little gratifying to watch an insecure ass get cut down.

"'Not the spine to wear the hat', huh?" An interesting turn of phrase but now that he'd seen both the elder Whitlys in action, he can see where Malcolm learned that particular edge skill from.

"All your dinners this exciting?" he asked Ainsley.

"It's a heavy hat," Malcolm said matter-of-factly, taking another extra-innocent bite of soup.

Ainsley rolled her eyes. "Not all of them." She gave Malcolm a look. "Only when someone gets him going."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mm-hm."

A waiter came to collect their soup dishes before the next course. For a second, Malcolm looked like he was going to hold on to his, but he glanced towards his mother and then let the waiter take it, tapping the fingertips of his left hand on the table once it was gone.

"She looked familiar," he said pensively. "Who was she?"

"She was on the board of that charity that built housing for homeless people with me when you were little. She came to the house a few times when the board met there."

He nodded acceptance of that as the waiter set down the pasta course in front of each of them. It was several large ravioli, stuffed with wild mushrooms in a cream sauce. He was not going to eat it and didn't even pick up his fork.

Ainsley did pick up hers and she looked at Raylan. "They must have good barbeque where you're from. I found this excellent barbeque restaurant in Midtown a few weeks ago. I think I'm addicted to it now," she said with a laugh.

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