by Geneva Lee
Smith's mind drifted to the swimming pool in the basement of his family's London home. He would never put a child through what he had been through, nor would he put his wife through what his mother had never been able to forget.
According to Georgia and her team of profilers, Jacobson was man of habit. When his wife and children were out of town, he'd retire for a pint at the local pub around 10:00pm. He'd stay for an hour before returning to his empty house. This was where Smith's plan deviated each time he considered it.
The rash side of him wanted to take Jacobson out at his first opportunity. He was ready to be done with this business, but he knew it might not be the best course of action. A far better plan would be to watch and wait for Jacobson to return home. If he did it on the street, there was the possibility it would be written off as a random act of violence. He could snatch Jacobson's wallet and make it look like a robbery. The only trouble was London itself. No city on earth had more surveillance cameras.
That left one final possibility. He could take care of Jacobson in his home and do his best to keep his face obscured. The murder of a member of Parliament would be a national scandal. No matter who Smith's friends were, if he was fingered for the crime, he wouldn't be able to get out of it. He couldn’t allow the fantasy of getting away with it to be part of his plan. If he was caught, he would take the blame. No one else.
Alexander would suspect there was more to it, but Smith doubted he would follow up on any inquiries into whether Georgia had shared classified intelligence. Once the King knew that Jacobson was responsible for the attacks on his family, any further interest in the case would disappear. Only one man would have to pay for the crime, and Smith had always been marked for something like this.
Like clockwork, the door to the townhouse opened and Jacobson ambled out in a corduroy field jacket and cap. For a man who claimed to hate the aristocracy, Jacobson didn't mind dressing like them, Smith noted with bemused detachment. Once Jacobson was well down the street, Smith got out of the Mercedes and locked it, then followed on foot. This hadn't been part of any of his plans, but instinct told him it was the right thing to do. He hung back as Jacobson entered the Horse and Hound, then he ducked in after him a few moments later. There were enough regulars in the place that no one seemed to notice a stranger in their midst. Smith took a table in the back corner, taking a page out of Georgia's book, and making sure his back was to the wall. Jacobson on the other hand, sat at the bar, and began a lively conversation with a half dozen or so men.
It was strange to see a predator in his natural habitat. Nothing about Jacobson's behavior belied how dangerous he truly was. It left Smith to wonder what was going on inside his head.
A barkeep wandered over, wiping his palms on the back of a bar towel tucked into his pocket. “Can I get you anything?”
“Scotch.” Smith ordered, continuing his steep descent into old habits. The bartender tilted his head in acknowledgement and disappeared, reappearing a few moments later with his drink. Smith handed him a 100 pound bill. Tonight wasn't a night to use credit cards.
Jacobson chatted animatedly as he snacked on a basket of chips. “Enjoy that,” Smith thought. It wasn't a proper last meal, but as his executioner, Smith didn't feel he owed him the courtesy.
A few minutes before 11:00, Jacobson raised his hand in the air to call for his bill, and Smith downed the rest of the drink he had been nursing. There would be no way to turn back after this.
He left the tavern before Jacobson had finished paying and returned to the Mercedes. Sliding into the driver's seat, he took the gun out of the glove box. Habit dictated he check the chamber. He knew there was only one round inside, but one was all he would need. There would be no hesitation, and there would be no mistake.
But as the chamber spun open, he found something he didn't expect.
The bullet was there, but where the rest of the rounds should have gone, tiny scraps of paper were lodged. He pulled the first out, recognizing Belle's handwriting immediately.
“If you're reading this,” it said, “You think you no longer have choices.”
She was right about that. He didn't have any other options not if he wanted to protect her. He withdrew the next slip and read it.
“If I'm not there to stop you, know that I will always trust your judgement.”
He took out the next.
“If I'm waiting for you at home, come back to me, and let me help you find the light.”
His hands began to tremble as he took out the last slip.
“You always have a choice.”
The paper fell into his lap and he dropped the gun into the seat next to him. How could she have known? Or had she always suspected it would come to this?
Listening to her now meant abandoning the assurance Jacobson would never threaten her life again. But if he ignored her, he would refuse the most important request she'd ever made of him. “Come back to me.” He could hear her voice saying it.
She could show him the light. Since the day he had met her, Smith had craved everything about her. He would give her anything. But could he step into the unknown with her?
He liked control. He clung to it. But he could never control everything.
Belle was waiting for him in Scotland. Belle, who believed in him, and in his ability to be a good man, even when he did not. Belle, who never questioned that, even when he revealed the darkness of his past. She had stood by his side. That was where he belonged now.
This was his choice, a future he couldn't predict. One that had far more beautiful possibilities than the ugly reality of his past. It was time for him to leave it behind. It was time for him to choose the man he would become, the man he already was.
He started the engine and pulled away from the curb just as Jacobson came into view. The man would never know how close he had come to dying that night, but Smith knew how close he had come to choosing the wrong path. He needed to find Belle and the light within her.
But first, he needed to speak to Alexander.
18
Smith Price wasn't the sort of man to call at midnight for a chat. I had decided to return to my marital bed, only to be roused from it after a few minutes. My plan had been simple. Get some sleep and head to Scotland in the morning. I had promised Clara I would lay the issue of my brother to rest and then go to her. Now it seemed I was being called on to deal with an entirely different issue. It was a moment I had been dreading and anticipating for well over a year.
Shrugging on a simple black t-shirt, I didn't even bother to find trousers. If Smith had issues with seeing me in my boxers, that was a discussion for another day. My mobile rang on the bedside table, and I scrambled for it.
“I heard you have a visitor.” Brexton didn't bother to greet me. Of course he would've been informed that an unknown party had shown up at the palace after hours.
“I do,” I said tersely.
“Why is Smith Price coming to visit you?” Brexton asked. Apparently he wasn't going to beat around the bush. Normally, I appreciated his candor. Tonight I had more important things to consider.
“I'll let you know when I know,” I promised him. Then I hung up before he could protest. I figured it was about four-to-one odds he would show up within the hour. I'd take those.
Padding into my study, I found Smith already waiting. He was still fully dressed, his hair damp from melting snowflakes. If I thought I hadn't been sleeping, he looked even worse. Bluish marks under his eyes betrayed him. Whatever he had come to tell me, he had known for a while. It had preoccupied him. But despite the weariness of his features, his eyes blazed. They sparked with a ferocity matched only by the fire that had been lit in the hearth. I waited for him to speak. As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, his mouth opened.
“Do we have him?” I asked.
Smith nodded, and it was all I needed to know. It hardly mattered who he was or why.
“Has he been arrested?” I asked. It was a stupid question. Why would Smith Price
know that before I did?
But something had brought him here in the darkness to seek me out.
“No,” Smith admitted. Then he withdrew a gun from his pocket. If any other man had done so in my presence, I would have rushed him, and tackled him to the ground before he could get off a shot. But although Smith Price and I didn't always see eye to eye, we understood each other.
He turned and set it on the mantle, then drew off his leather gloves. “Would you mind keeping that for me?”
“That depends,” I said in a measured voice.
“It hasn't been used,” Smith assured me, an answer to an unspoken question. “Not by me. Not for a long time.”
“Do you always carry illegal firearms with you?” Of course a man like Price would. He'd seen the depraved side of London that most only imagined. He knew the nightmares and perversions were real, and he had something to protect.
“Why didn't you do it?” I asked him.
I knew why he was carrying the gun, and why he had brought it to me. It was part of why we understood each other. There was only one reason he would ever carry a pistol.
It was the same reason that part of me wanted to pick it up now. Smith had yet to name the man responsible for the murder of my father and the attacks on my wife, but I already wanted my hands around the man's throat. I wanted to watch him suffer. I wanted to watch him beg for his life, and then I wanted to take it from him. Perhaps I had been the wrong person to come to this evening, or maybe Smith had gone to the only person who could understand the contradictory nature of responsibility. My first impulse was to protect my wife, followed closely by the instinct for revenge.
Neither were luxuries I could afford.
“I saw the light,” he said simply, as if this was explanation enough for him turning away from the task at hand.
I nodded. Whatever had lured Smith away meant something to him. I wouldn't ask him to share the intimate details of that, but I would ask him for the name. If I couldn't deliver my own personal brand of justice, I could bring the crown to his door.
“Oliver Jacobson,” Smith told me. I searched my memory, looking for a connection I couldn't place.
“It's pathetic, really,” Smith continued. “He's such a little man that we never even considered him.
“Parliament?” I asked. Brexton had indicated their sources had led them straight to the seat of power within London.
“Yes. I believe I was told he was a vocal minority,” Smith said, as though he was recalling someone else's words.
“I hesitate to ask,” I added, “But where did you get your information?”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked. “Is this an official inquiry?”
“Consider it off the books,” I promised him.
“Our mutual acquaintance.”
Smith didn't need to say more. We'd never discussed our own private involvement with Georgia Kincaid. Whether we were linked in more intimate ways hardly mattered now.
“You were right to tell me to look out for her,” Smith said. “But not for the reason you think.”
I cocked my head and waited. I'd ask Smith to keep an eye on Georgia. Now I needed to know if she could be trusted.
“She came to me. She put the choice in my hands.”
“I'm surprised she didn't do it herself,” I said in a flat tone. Georgia was capable of it. It was one of the reasons I had hired her in the first place. She had been playing both sides then, and I'd never quite been sure who held her true allegiance. Now I knew it was the man in front of me, the last man I would've guessed.
“She thinks he did her a favor. He killed Hammond, after all. Hammond was always the monster in her closet.” Smith's throat slid as if he was swallowing down a disgusting memory.
I knew the kind of perversion Georgia Kinkade craved. If Hammond had been the man to twist her, then I could never blame her for wanting him dead.
Somehow, Smith had walked away tonight. He was a smart enough man to get away with murder. If he had come to me in confession, I would have done my level best to help him conceal his involvement. But he had chosen another path, and I couldn't help but ask myself if I would have done the same.
My memories flashed to Clara, and the scent of burnt rubber mixed with rain and oil flooded my nostrils. We'd never been able to prove that the car accident was more than an accident, but after comparing it with several other cases, including the one that claimed Smith's first wife, I had no doubt that foul play was involved.
I could never forget collapsing in prayer over a twisted hunk of metal on a rainy road. Some memories couldn’t be erased, but they could be avenged. I glanced up and realized Smith was watching me with wary eyes.
“Georgia gave me the choice,” he said in a strangled voice, “And it was difficult for me to walk away. I'm giving you that choice now.”
It wasn't a coincidence that he brought a gun. He hadn't done it out of a dramatic need to show and tell about his evening. He was passing the job on to me. It was a show of respect and one I appreciated. I crossed to him and picked up the pistol. Spinning open the chamber, I noted there was only one copper bullet inside.
“It only—” Smith began.
“—takes one,” I finished for him.
One shot, and Oliver Jacobson would be held accountable for the reign of terror he had begun. He thought he could play puppet master, but he never realized I was the one holding all the strings.
I held the gun in my hand, allowing the metal to warm to my touch. “I assume you have ample evidence.”
“Georgia will show you profiles and notes from meetings. All sorts of documentation,” Smith said. “But I met the man before tonight, and I can tell you, he's the one. I should have seen it then, but I was blind. I thought Belle and I were safe.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He filled me in on the particulars of his mother-in-law's new neighbor, and my blood ran cold. The amount of time and effort Jacobson had put into planning this made me question if it would really end with him. He had found Hammond and his network of thugs and spies, and he had utilized them for his own gain. Even a bad guy sometimes grew a conscious. Smith Price was proof of that. I considered the weight of the pistol in my hand, staring at it for a long moment before placing it back on the mantle.
Smith had made a choice, and he did so out of personal duty to himself. I had even less flexibility in that regard. If Jacobson's intent had been to destroy the monarchy, choosing to take his life now might achieve his ends.
Instead, I went to my desk and picked up my mobile. Brexton answered on the first ring. “I want you to bring in Oliver Jacobson now,” I ordered him. “No questions. Not until I see him.”
I hung up the phone without waiting for his response. Then I went to the decanter of bourbon my father kept on the shelf and poured myself a glass. Raising it, I offered some to Smith.
He shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “I don't drink anymore.”
The cell Brexton had thrown Jacobson into was the sort of thing you expected to see in a movie. Governments like to tell you these places don't exist, but they do. They're for the use of men like me, and we reserve them for the worst kind of traitor.
Oliver Jacobson deserved even less. Not only had he betrayed the will of his country, and those he had been elected to serve, but he had betrayed the safety of my family. He thought I was a man bound by my own duty to British law. He'd soon learn that didn't extend to this place.
Smith had accompanied me against Brexton's wishes, but while my best friend had my interests at heart, he couldn't understand the ties that bound Smith and I together, not in this regard.
Jacobson had come without a fight. Perhaps due to good behavior, someone had bothered to give him a cup of tea. He sat in the dank cell, sipping it slowly as we entered. When he glanced up, he smiled as though we were all old friends meeting at the club. My hands curled into fists, but I did my best to remain in control.
“It's nice to see you
again, Price,” he said, acknowledging my companion. Jacobson looked utterly serene. He could have been having his conversation on a street corner. “It takes a little bit more than this to rile me up, I’m afraid.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Smith said flatly.
“Was that you this evening?” Jacobson asked. “At the pub, following me?”
I raised an eyebrow at Price, who shrugged.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” I did, but I kept this thought to myself. Giving Jacobson any information might prove dangerous if things began to go poorly.
“I am supposed to be spending Christmas with your mother-in-law,” Jacobson continued conversationally. Next to me, Smith tensed. “It was disappointing to find out you wouldn't be there with your lovely wife. How is the beautiful Belle?”
“Don't say her name,” Smith growled.
Before I could stop him, he'd lashed out, smashing his fist against the table and knocking over the hot tea.
“Is your temper going to come out to play, too?” Jacobson mocked me.
I grabbed Smith by the shoulder and helped him straighten up. Then I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Why don't you wait outside?” Smith had already faced his demons tonight. Asking him to do it twice might be too much.
He adjusted his jacket as he left, never turning around to look at the man who had been responsible for so much of the tragedy in his life.
“I suppose you want to ask me why,” Jacobson continued as soon as Smith was out of the room.
There had been a time where I wanted that, but now I found it satisfying to know he’d never be free again. It hardly mattered why he did any of it. If I stayed on my best behavior, the audio and video recordings in the room could be used against him later. If I didn't stay on my best behavior, I'd have no problem using every power within my reach to keep him locked away. Either way, Oliver Jacobson would never be a free man again.
“Some of us weren't born with a silver spoon in our mouths,” he said.
Apparently, he was going to tell me his sad story, regardless of whether or not I asked him to share it.