CHAPTER 22: GUILTY AS CHARGED
"Here we go, finally. Ten years later, the great detective Sherlock Holmes solves one of his first cases. It would make an impressing headline. Too bad no one will ever know this story," Kevin shrugs with false regret.
"Parliament? How did you figure it out?" Giulia blurts out addressing Sherlock.
"By putting the pieces together. While I was coming here, Mycroft phoned me asking for advice, odd as it may seem. He sounded stressed and worried which indicates business, possibly a State matter. He said that all his men and agents were busy; it must be something serious, then. Lots of guardians mean lots of targets gathered altogether somewhere. The only question left was where, but my cabbie and his rants about the traffic caused by political events helped me figure it out," Sherlock sums up impossibly fast.
Giulia frowns confused and nods at her kidnapper, "But if he is here to finish an old job, it means that the Parliament has always been his original target."
"Precisely. Ten years ago he murdered his spy-girlfriend exactly the day before the State Opening of Parliament," Sherlock clarifies and she gapes at him, "How could you remember something like that?"
"Since it was one of my first cases, I bought the newspaper the next day just to read about my success as a consulting detective. Yes, I know, I indulged in a bit of complacency; I was younger then," he arches his brows. "The point is I remember I was disappointed to see that the first three pages were all taken up by the information about the State Opening of Parliament. The news about his arrest came only much later. At the time, I could never imagine that the two facts were somehow related, but today I cannot ignore all the hints. The US Secretary of State landed yesterday in the UK, and I bet that he will deliver a speech today, in Parliament. Am I wrong, Mr Rummer?"
"Right, as always, Mr Holmes. Ten years ago I chose the Parliament as my big show because I wanted to take my personal revenge against the British Secret Service. Not only they had collaborated with the CIA on the mission that almost cost my life, deciding to let my squad go on the field without a proper backup plan, but when a huge explosion blew to pieces the building I was in, they also prevented the Agency from sending someone to check if I was alive or dead. They argued that it would be too risky an operation. I got the message: I was disposable. What I never understood, though, was the reason why they felt the urge of putting an undercover agent on my tail to spy on me, the moment they caught wind of my possible presence in London. What threat could ever pose a dead man?" he smirks smugly.
"That's it? Does it all come down to revenge in the end?" Sherlock asks him in a bored, slightly disappointed tone.
"Revenge is quite often the motive of a crime. In my case, it is the motive of my whole existence. The British Service let me die (or so they thought) in an explosion at the top of my career, so I wanted to let their reputation fall apart in the explosion of the British Parliament during one of the most relevant political events. I always repay in kind."
"However, ten years ago you didn't manage to get the job done because of me. Now that you are back from prison, you decided to stick to your old plan while seizing the chance to retaliate against your own country, too, against the very ones who betrayed you by never even trying to find out what had happened to you," Sherlock asserts thinking about the US Secretary of State.
"After all, my government has always suspected me of high treason and conspiracy, so why would I disappoint it right now?" Kevin rhetorically asks.
"Fine. You did this to quench your thirst for vengeance, I get it. But I still don't see how Giulia and I are supposed to be involved in all this," the detective glowers at him. He is done playing.
He shrugs, "I took her to get to you, simple as that."
"Then why her and not John, for instance? If you just wanted to get my attention, you could have kidnapped my other flatmate," Sherlock inquires avoiding Giulia's gaze.
Kevin pretends to ponder that option while rubbing his chin, "Yeah, I'm sure you'd be quite concerned if he was in danger. Long-standing personal ties are great leverage, no doubt. But with her, there's something more. I wanted to exploit a sensitive subject between the two of you: trust."
Sherlock wrinkles his nose: that man knows way too much. He tries to fake indifference and nonchalantly comments, "I don't trust her. Is that all you care about?"
"And yet you are here to save her. You're so predictable. But I wasn't talking about you. The really intriguing thing is that she doesn't trust you. She never told you about her story, for a start," the killer teases him.
He definitely has too much information. But then again, what else could you expect from a spy?
"Not on my account. Whatever she may have experienced in her life, she now has great issues dealing with others and trusting them. She didn't tell John, either."
"But she told your brother."
That sentence hits the mark, and Sherlock blinks repeatedly, bewildered, "What?"
"Oh, look at his face: so disoriented. She does trust a member of the Holmes family and she turns to him whenever needed; I thought you'd noticed. You might want to know that they also secretly meet every week and exchange information: sometimes it's inside her university, sometimes at the library, etcetera etcetera. I discovered that they rely on each other for very delicate matters, about which you have clearly been kept in the dark. Am I lying, sweetheart?" Kevin looks menacingly at Giulia who stares back at him pressing her lips together in a flat line. Then she looks down and bites her bottom lip before lifting her eyes on the detective and whispering, "I am so sorry, Sherlock."
He stands still, arms down by his sides, eyes fixed on her guilty face and her watery eyes. How could they do that to him, how could his own brother go behind his back? To be quite honest, it's not even a big deal. They don't exactly have the best relationship. Sometimes, it feels like they don't have a relationship at all.
But her... how could Giulia do that to him, not telling him about those meetings, not telling anything whatsoever about her past? The worst part is he can't even be mad at her. He isn't entitled to blame her since he was the first to push her away.
He stands up tall, but he feels that something has just cracked inside him. Trust is a hazardous weakness.
"And that's why my dear brother has always been so concerned about you. You are an essential asset, aren't you?" he winces and looks her right in the eyes just for one second. Then he averts his gaze and nods, clearing his throat and becoming clear-headed again. "Fine, it doesn't matter anymore. He is not here; I am. And you still haven't told me what's my part in this story," he challenges the kidnapper.
"Actually, I did tell you: I always repay in kind. This rule applies to you as well. Ten years ago, I underestimated you and ended up behind bars just because I had committed a murder and tried to make it look like an accident. But I learnt from my mistakes and this time I promise you that I am going to be impeccable."
Sherlock immediately catches the meaning of that allusion. "I got in the spirit of your insane game: I put you in jail for murder, so I suppose you will try to frame me with homicide, too. Who will be my victim, then? You?" he jests.
Kevin's lips bend in an evil grin. "No. Her."
Sherlock keeps silent for a couple of seconds trying to convince himself that the shiver that runs down his spine is just a figment of his imagination. Then he states firmly, "I am not going to kill her. I am not going to commit murder."
"In the end, what you really do is absolutely irrelevant. It only matters what people think happened, what they think of you. And I am quite positive there's a couple of people in Scotland Yard who would be willing to believe that you are actually a murderer," Kevin licks his lips anticipating the shameful downfall of the great detective.
"I don't care what Sergeant Donovan and Anderson think I might be capable of doing, but I have never put a gun to anyone's head."
"So far, Mr Holmes. So far. There's a first time for everything. But let me explain how it goes." Kevin carefully wears a pair of gloves and announces, "You have two options. Option number 1: I shoot her with this," and with one fluid movement, he pulls Sherlock's Browning L9A1 out of his pocket.
The detective does a double-take when he sees his firearm.
"Do you recognise it? I had an accomplice of mine borrow it from your flat while you and Doctor Watson were busy discovering that your little friend had disappeared. That nursery rhyme was a clever little riddle, wasn't it? It didn't take you long to decipher its meaning, but it bought enough time for my associate to break into your living room and collect something for me. As I was saying, if you choose option number one, I will kill your friend right in front of your eyes and you won't do anything to stop me. I want to remind you that you are constantly held at gunpoint," he nods to the guard aiming at Sherlock's head. "So you will stand there and enjoy the show, but then you will take the rap for her murder."
"And how do you plan to frame me? Ensuring that I will be found here alone with her dead body and my Browning is not enough. There has to be hard evidence," Sherlock retorts. He has been on enough crime scenes to know what is necessary to convict someone.
"Oh, but there is plenty of it. Ballistics will confirm that the bullet belongs to your gun — the very one that even Dr Watson could recognise. Moreover, thanks to the game you've played out of boredom this morning with the smiley face on your wall, you have gunpowder traces on your hands. The only fingerprints that will be found on the weapon are yours, of course; I took my precautions, as you can see," he waves in the air his hands with gloves on. "Not to mention that you have a motive, too; virtually the whole neighbourhood heard your angry outbursts against her. Don't you think it might look suspicious? I am pretty sure that after your recent shouting and temper tantrum, a lot of people will be inclined to blame you for her murder," he reveals with an evil smile.
Sherlock scowls at him and hisses, "You want to turn the whole world against me? Go for it, knock yourself out. But don't think I'm defenceless: I have an ace up my sleeve," his eyes sparkle without the slightest hesitation.
"Who? Mycroft Holmes? Yeah, I am quite sure that he would be willing to side with his younger brother and defend him. And he would even have the influence to spare you from a life sentence. Such a shame that he won't be there to help you out," he pretends to pout sadly.
The detective frowns; his brother would never miss the opportunity to throw such a thing back in his face for the rest of his days.
"What are you talking about?" he asks cluelessly.
"Mr Holmes, your fame is utterly unjustified. You're so slow!" Kevin complains. "The Parliament is my first target, remember? Your brother would never miss such a relevant political event. He is right there at this very moment, checking that everything is perfect, making sure that there isn't any threat..." he gives him a smug grin as he contemplates the perfection of his plan. "Needless to say, he is within the blast radius. You can't save him now, and he won't be able to save you in the future."
The bank becomes eerily quiet as a disheartening sensation of defeat takes hold of the detective. Sherlock gazes upon vacancy for long seconds while he desperately forces his brain to come up with a solution. He processes every piece of information thrusting open all the doors in his mind palace, only to find empty rooms. He has just one chance left, and he knows it.
He eventually surrenders and stares right into the killer's cold eyes, "And what is option number two?"
That's a rhetorical question.
Kevin tilts his head and bares his teeth like a predator in front of its prey. "Far easier, Mr Holmes," he answers passing his guard the gun and letting him hand it to Sherlock without ever lowering his own weapon. "You shoot her."
Sherlock reaches out and slowly grabs the gun from the hands of the wary guard. He grips the butt of the Browning and weights it in his hand; he has held his weapon so often that he doesn't even need to check the magazine to perceive that there is just one bullet in it. He looks down at the gun and tries to focus on his next move while a disturbing thought crosses his mind: with a weapon in his hand, is there really a line that cannot be crossed?
Kevin glances at him and anticipates his thinking process, "Before you do something rash and reckless, let's go through every possible scenario, shall we? You are now armed and this could give the impression of levelling the playing field. Nevertheless, if you reconsidered the whole situation, you'd understand that you're still on the losing side. Let's think: what could possibly be your best bet? Aiming for my head, for starters... Wrong!" he shouts. "In the time it'd take you to lift up your arm and take aim, my friend here would put two bullets in your skull."
Sherlock takes a deep breath reluctantly excluding that option from his mental list, then looks around the dark place. He shifts his eyes on the guard who is still aiming at him, and a corner of his mouth lifts upwards almost imperceptibly. But before he could make the slightest movement, Kevin forestalls him, "I know what you're thinking: everything would be easier for you if you could just overcome my guard. Once again, that would be utterly useless, because the moment you shoot in his direction, Giulia will die by my hand. I'm afraid I forgot to mention that I picked up another souvenir from your house. I thought it might come in handy."
He takes out of his pocket the multi-tool knife that Sherlock uses to stab his envelopes onto the mantelpiece. The detective immediately recognises it and closes his eyes, defeated.
"No matter what you do, you're at a dead end. She will be murdered with a weapon that belongs to you and you're going to be held responsible, anyway. You cannot save her. There is no room for a selfless sacrifice either: I'm not giving you the luxury of taking her place and play the part of the fearless knight."
"I am not a knight, not yet, technically," he theatrically rolls his eyes.
Kevin smirks at his snarky comment: soon, the great detective won't be in the mood to joke any more. He licks his lips, "I must warn you, though: if you don't pull the trigger and leave me the pleasure of this homicide, instead, I promise you I won't make it quick, let alone painless. I will torture her before your eyes until she begs you to shoot to spare her all the excruciating pain."
Suddenly, Kevin leans forward and pulls Giulia's chair towards him as the small wheels roll over the floor. He rapidly draws the blade of Sherlock's knife and places it near the girl's cheek. Sherlock feels as if his heart has suddenly jumped in his throat preventing him from breathing. There's no time for irrational reactions. Pull yourself together! he yells at himself inside his brain.
Giulia tries to wiggle out of that iron grip, in vain. The blade brushes her skin just for one second, then Kevin withdraws the knife and pushes the chair away leaving the girl paralysed in full sight under the beam of light: the perfect target. She squints her eyes, terrified. A single tear rolls down her face, passes over the little fresh cut and blends with a drop of blood, eventually turning into a crimson bead.
Kevin smugly gazes at their faces frozen in terror, "Make up your mind, Holmes. Do you want to be the protagonist or the spectator of this tragedy? What's your choice, option number one or two?" he trills in a singsong fashion and the echo of his voice disperses in the room right when the detective believes to hear a door click. Is he starting to hallucinate now? Or is there a sniper hidden in the dark pointing a red dot at his back, too?
Shadowy memories of a similar scene (one of his friends kidnapped, the doomed confrontation with a criminal in a deserted building) are projected inside his mind like frames on a screen.
Sherlock breathes in and swallows hard regaining control over his body. "I don't see why it should be important. The outcome is always the same: she dies and everyone will think I am the murderer."
Giulia looks daggers at him, a faint red trace still on her cheek: does he realise he is talking about her death?
"But what will you think of yourself? Jail time never passes, I can tell you. And a feverish mind like yours could do terrible things; it can torment you for months driving you crazy. What will you think when you are locked up? Will you blame yourself for not being able to save her, or will you also feel guilty about killing her with your own hands?"
Sherlock sighs. That man is right about one thing: the conscience is the only court before which everyone is always tried, in the end.
"That's it, then. You don't only wish to destroy my reputation and see me rot in jail. You also want to turn me into a monster," the detective finally realises.
Kevin smiles proudly at him: Sherlock Holmes is about to fall. Oh, the satisfaction of that moment! He has waited ten endless years to taste it.
"Time's up! The choice is all yours."
Sherlock exhales and raises his Browning toward the girl aiming at her head.
"I never had a choice and we both know that," he murmurs. He isn't addressing Kevin, but Giulia.
She slightly nods: she wishes she had the strength to tell him that she understands and forgives him. She wishes she could be strong for him and tell him that everything is going to be alright, but that would be lying. She wishes she could be strong for herself and embrace death peacefully. It seems just right: she managed to ditch the Grim Reaper before, but she can't escape it forever. But the truth is she is not ready to die.
She closes her eyes and waits for the end.
A few seconds before his finger can pull the trigger, Sherlock hears a whisper coming from the opposite side of the room. Just a couple of words: Vatican Cameos.
Then a gunshot echoes in the room.