Page 121 of Duty and Desire

“And you think this’ll be a problem?” Smithie demanded to know.

“I think right now you’re pissed as fuck and freaked as hell and all that is on top of you being worried, with that increasing with every day this guy went uncaptured and every letter you got. So I’m not sure you’re thinking straight,” Hawk retorted.

“Tell me, Hawk, you perform some magic with Mitch or Slim and they find cause to search this house legally and find what we found, what happens to this guy?” Smithie asked, calling up Hawk’s buds, Mitch Lawson and Brock “Slim” Lucas, two DPD cops, two good men and the first ones Hawk went to if he needed law.

“I don’t have the power of clairvoyance, Smithie,” Hawk told him.

“Me either. But I’ll tell you this, a sick fucking fuck like this guy has to do something sick fuckingfucked upto be fucking locked away forever, where he needs to be,” Smithie shot back. “And seein’ as that’s not gonna fuckin’ happen, not this time, he gets caught, he maybe does some time, and that’s a big maybe, since, so far, he hasn’t really committed a crime.”

“Those letters are threats, he used the postal service to send them, and that’s definitely a crime,” Hawk pointed out.

“That’s thin and we all know it,” Smithie spat.

They did, so Hawk nor Mo said anything.

Smithie kept going.

“But say he does some time. He gets out, fixates back on Mac or some other girl, and manages to get his shit together before someone finds out. And then some girl, if she’s found before she’s made dead, has a lifetime of having to deal with something that she didn’t get a say in, like I got a say in having a lifetime of living with what we decide for this guy tonight.” Smithie shook his head. “I’ll take my demons. I won’t have some woman facing hers.”

“Smithie—” Hawk tried.

Smithie cut him off. “Or he gets off on the insanity plea, because there’s no arguing the guy is fucked right the fuck up, and he’s sent to a looney bin. Gets medicated. Gets therapy. Gets ‘cured.’ And that same end scenario happens, just after he goes off his government-funded meds and remembers he’s a whackjob.”

“So your vote is he disappears,” Hawk deduced.

“My vote is the only vote that counts, motherfucker, seein’ as I’m payin’ for this shit,” Smithie retorted.

“And Mo and me will know and we’ll have to keep our mouths shut and live with those demons for your choice too, Smithie,” Hawk returned fire.

At this juncture, Smithie glanced at Mo before he looked back at Hawk. “Can you share why your man is in on this discussion?”

“He has a say,” Hawk replied.

“I get that, seein’ as he’s here,” Smithie said. “I’m askin’ why.”

“Because I called him in,” Hawk answered.

Smithie looked back at Mo.

Mo just stared at him.

“Shit, you fell for her,” Smithie muttered.

Mo said nothing.

Smithie looked him up and down and his brows drew together. “And she fell for you?”

Mo remained quiet.

“Of course she did,” Smithie muttered. “You’re you. Before I even saw you, coulda drawn a picture a’ you, someone asked me to conjure up Mac’s dream man.”

Well…

Hell.

Something occurred to Smithie, his eyes went to the ceiling before coming back to Mo and his hands went to his hips.

“Do not get any thoughts in your head, motherfucker. She’s got talent. She’s a headliner. She was born for the stage.” He took a hand from his hip, pointed it at Mo, and declared, “Youare not tellin’ her she can’t dance.”