Ok, here's the next bit.  Hope you like.  Any feedback as ever is very welcome.

Craig 

REVISED:  02/09/2008

The door opened to Patricia's room. All that could be heard was the ticking of an old-fashioned alarm clock on the bedside table.

"Patricia? Get up. Dad's called a family meeting." came a familiar voice.

Patricia was exhausted. Edward and herself had arrived home late the previous night. She peeked her head out from under the covers, hair covering her face until she brushed it away with her hand. She then observed Cameron walk into the room, approaching the end of the bed. Patricia struggled to gather her senses and looked to the clock, noticing it had just turned nine.

"I think it's about Malcolm. I hope he's alright." Cameron continued.

"Yeah, I bet you do..." Patricia retorted, and rolled the covers away, sitting up wearing a pink night shirt, her long legs dangling to the floor.

"What do you mean by that?"

Patricia glanced to her sister, and noticed that she wore dungarees, appearing younger than usual, almost the kid-sister again, and not the arrogant, trouble maker for once.

"Nothing. Give me a minute to dress, yeah?" she added, not wanting to argue.

Patricia noticed Cameron stare at her, and for a moment there was a look of love and respect in her eyes rather than the usual resentment. Patricia suddenly felt happy her sister was around.

"He'll be Ok, Sis. Malcolm's a survivor." Cameron said, and walked away to the door.

Patricia nodded to herself as Cameron left, "Yeah...I hope so." she whispered.

Shortly after, Patricia walked into a dining room, barefoot and carrying a box of cornflakes.

"Sorry...not started, have we?" she said, taking a seat at one end beside her mother, as Cameron sat eating a bowl of cereal at the far end of the table, where Edward sat pride of place.

"No, it's alright...we were just waiting for you." Barbara said, then looked down the table to her husband, "This had better not take long, Edward. I have to be in court by eleven."

Edward had a sheet of paper before him, and was making notes on it with a pencil, before putting it down. He cleared his throat.

"No...it'll be done in a few minutes. Now I think you know why I called this meeting."

"Malcolm." Patricia said with a mouthful of flakes, that she crunched noisily.

"Precisely. Patricia has told me of what he has become involved in. I'm not exactly sure how we can help him when we have no idea where he might be. Has anyone got any ideas of where he could run to?"

"I would suggest calling Martin." Cameron piped up, "They were always as thick as thieves."

Patricia stared at her sister sternly like she hadn't wanted martin to be mentioned, "Martin's not part of the equation any more. He's got a career now. Their friendship ended when he turned his back on both of us."

"Oh, and you had no part to play?" Cameron retorted, "You didn't seem to give a damn that he came over for your welcome home party."

"He did bring that girl with him."

"Yeah, but he was there for you."

"I think we're loosing the point here." Edward interrupted, "If you can call Martin, then do it. Even if Malcolm's not there, he might know a place where he'd go."

Barbara glanced to Patricia then to Cameron, "Ok, so have we got anything else? What about this Donnelly character?" she asked.

"He's vanished too." Patricia said.

"Then that must mean he's involved." Edward said, "I could get a few friends of mine at the bureau to follow up some leads they've had on that guy for some time now."

"No, Dad...the Police or anyone like that can't be involved." Patricia replied suddenly, "Do you want Malcolm to end up in prison?"

"Alright. So what do you suggest? You seem to be closer to him than any of us."

"Justine, Donnelly's wife is still around I hear. She must know something."

"Alright, that can be your job. Contact this woman and try and find out something. Cameron, you call Martin. I'll contact an old friend I know who used to be in the bureau...but it's alright, he's retired, and I can trust him to keep things to himself."

"I don't know, dad...sounds risky." Cameron added.

"I wouldn't even consider it, if I didn't know I could trust the man with my life. Now let's get things started. Time is a factor in all of this, don't forget that."

Patricia nodded, and then Barbara got up and left. Edward followed soon after, leaving Patricia & Cameron alone.

"Do you think we have any chance of finding him?" Cameron then asked.

"Depends on whether or not he wants to be found." Patricia replied solemnly, taking a bite out of another cornflake.

Cameron nodded, getting up and cleared her bowl away, "I'll go and find Martin's number. I think it's in the phone book."

She stared at Patricia whilst walking around the table towards the door. Patricia didn't respond, like she was in her own world. Cameron understood how the situation was affecting her more than anyone, and left without saying another word.

Meanwhile at the motel, Malcolm sat in the passenger seat of the pick up, as Nina walked from the chalet. It had turned out sunny (like most days in LA), but some puddles remained as evidence of the brief storm the night before.

"Come on, you finished already?" he called, wearing a pair of shades and that same long black over coat.

"I've just got to drop the keys off. Wont be a minute." she called back, wearing tight black leggings and a canvas jacket.

Soon she entered the motel's small cabin, where the elderly Chinese man sat behind the counter reading the morning paper. A headline on the front read:

It had a clear picture of Malcolm on the front. Nina gulped, and then the man lowered the paper.

"So, you leaving us miss?" he asked, sitting up and folding the paper in half.

"Yeah...here are the keys." Nina replied, and the chalet keys landed on the counter next to the newspaper. Thankfully it was face down, just showing a headline on the back regarding a recent NBA final.

She turned to leave, then the man coughed, and for a moment her heart went in her mouth. Slowly she turned, and he held up a sheet of paper with a short list containing the same telephone number - made in the middle of the night.

"Oh, yeah...was calling home..." she stammered, and opened her jacket, retrieving her purse, and then revealed her credit card.

"This should make us straight." she remarked.

Nina returned to the pick up, concealing her purse in her jacket as she walked, then jumped in. ‘I heard it through the grapevine' was on the radio. Various shopping bags sat in the rear seat.

"So, I suppose you got that outfit whilst you were out, right?" Malcolm asked, referring to Nina's change of clothes from the Nurse's uniform he had only ever seen her in before.

"Yeah. They'll probably be looking for a Nurse, right?" she replied defensively.

"I trust you have you been paying in cash?"

"Don't worry...I don't carry a credit card. Hate ‘em."

Then Nina started the engine, and pulled away from the chalet. Malcolm jerked in response.

Back at the cabin, the man watched the pick up leave, and then grabbed a telephone receiver off the wall. He dialled a number, then waited.

"It's me. They just left. She's paying with plastic as instructed. Has she been in contact? I have a list of numbers made by her throughout the night...figured it were you guys."

The man picked up the bill, studying it closely, his eye site not what it used to be.

"I guess she detailed the meeting point then, correct? Ok then. I'll expect my payment at the usual place this afternoon."

He then replaced the receiver on the wall, and lowered the bill, picking up the news paper and turning it over. He ran a dirty finger over the picture of Malcolm, and grinned.

"Who's been a naughty boy, huh?" he mused.

At that same time, Francis the big-Italian walked down the corridor, passing a door before disappearing around the corner. Inside the room, a badly beaten Justine lay naked on the mattress, a single table lamp in one corner casting its glow over her bruised and broken body. She was awake, and had been left alone for the best part of an hour. Her hands were held together behind her back by the leather handcuffs, and along with the pain she was in, she had found herself drifting in and out of consciousness.

After a moment, she rolled over and brought her knees up close to her chest. Dry blood had stained her skin in various places, and she gritted her teeth in agony every time she breathed. Then with a simple movement she unhooked her hands from behind her back by pulling them over her bottom and feet, until she was able to bite at the cuffs. Justine was double jointed in places and extremely flexible. If she hadn't become a porn star, she could have easily been a gymnast.
Eventually freed, she limped towards the door, and then applied the pin on the leather cuffs to the lock, wriggling it around inside until she heard a reassuring ‘click'.

Out in the corridor, a still quite weak Justine hurried towards the far end, trying doors as she went - but they were all locked. Panicky and feeling vulnerable without any clothing on, she paused with her back to the wall leading into the next corridor.

She saw Francis come out of a room and proceed away from her. She didn't waste another second and limped into the corridor, reaching the room, and peered inside to see a telephone sitting on a desk.

Francis entered an office to see Vincent sitting reading a copy of the same newspaper the Chinese man had been reading. He had taken much interest in the front page story.

"So, we going to leave her there all day, or we gonna beat on her some more?" Francis asked.

"I haven't decided yet. She's tougher than Donatello was expecting."

"I'll say. I've seen her take similar punishment in her films. That fuckin' bitch is awesome." Francis remarked.

Vincent looked at his friend from over the top of the paper, "You becoming a fan, Francis? Because if you are, forget it. After this she'll be lucky to have a career at all. When was the last time you got your rocks off to a facially disfigured freak?"

"We're not going to hurt her that badly, are we?"

"I don't know. Donatello hasn't got what he wants. What do you think?"
Francis suddenly looked worried.

Back in the room, Justine was listening on the phone, waiting for it to pick up. Then she smiled as she heard a voice she had thought she might never hear again.

"Marcus." she whispered.

At the other side of the room stood a door. It was a little way open. Inside was a bathroom, and the butch woman stood combing her hair until she heard Justine. She put the brush down and walked to the door, leaning close to listen.

"It's bad, babe. You can't come back, or they'll kill you for sure. I think they must be after Malcolm, and see you as their ticket. But don't worry, I haven't told them anything." Justine continued.

In the background, the door opened slowly, an the woman entered. Justine continued obliviously as she closed in.

"Me? I'm alright. Just a few cuts and bruises. But they don't know me like you do, babe. They don't understand what I understand when it comes to pain. I'll be Ok. I'll find a way out, then we'll meet up and all this will be over."

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind, and the receiver snatched out of her hand, just as Francis went to pass. He saw the woman holding Justine, a leather-gloved hand clasped over her mouth. Justine struggled, but most of her strength had gone from her body.

"Is this Marcus Donnelly?" the woman said into the receiver, and waited.

"Who is this?" returned a voice, "You hurt her any more than you already have, and I promise you, I will kill you!"

The woman smirked, "Cheap threats Mr Donnelly. We're going to make this very simple for you. And you will do exactly as we say, or the next time you see your wife, she will be mailed to you in ten or more plastic Tupperware boxes. Understand?"

"I understand. Just don't hurt her."

"Ok then. Just hold the line for one moment." she replied, and pressed a button on the telephone, temporarily cutting Marcus off.

Then placing the receiver aside, she turned Justine around, grabbing her by the jaw, and thrust her against the wall.

"You have just made me very happy." she said, then punched her hard in the face, and Justine dropped to the floor, unconscious.