A Thousand Cranes

Chapter 3

As it turned out, Victor Moreau was a model citizen. He worked long days at the museum and often well into the night. Most weekends he could be found volunteering at a local shelter for adolescent runaways. Importantly, he had been instrumental in helping to detect and prevent several significant security threats to the Louvre, and loaned his expertise to other Paris art museums.

Diana's intelligence revealed no information of criminal activity of any kind associated with Victor Moreau. The day was almost over and Peter hadn't unpacked his bags yet. He had to decide what to say to him. Why didn't you tell me? It was the one question he couldn't get out of his head. The man he knew didn't know how to be cruel. Now he wondered if he really knew him at all.

Victor Moreau's apartment was on a picturesque street in Montmartre. Peter stood for a few minutes looking up at the small wrought iron balcony on the second floor, before heading up the steep stairs. Was he ready for this? He knocked, there was no answer. Reflexively, he turned the knob. His door was open, to his relief, so that he did not have the sense of breaking and entering.

There were paintings everywhere, crowded into every space. It was astonishing. They were riveting, nearly life sized. Nothing like anything he had ever seen Neal create before. He tried to imagine Neal standing before them painting. Peter's eyes fell on one canvas in particular, the paint was still fresh. It was a picture of a man, holding the body of a younger man in his arms, grieving over him. He had to catch his breath. It was them.

The tremendous sculptural quality of the figures was astounding. The beauty of it was totally unexpected. Peter knew he was looking at work, which would last in importance long after they were gone. It was completely alive. The compassion, the grief in those images was disorienting. He stepped back from the canvas and sat down on a nearby sofa.

He sat there a long time, staring at it. The man who painted this understood grief in a way that only one who suffered that specific misery could. How? How could he have done what he did?

Suddenly he was exhausted to the center of his soul. He rested his head on the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. When he opened them finally, they came to rest on the delicate white crane sitting atop the table next to him. He turned it over lovingly, possessively, and was immediately flooded with memories of the past.

A small heap of handwritten letters sat next to it, he recognized the loop of Neal's hand. They were all addressed to him. Unmarked postal stamps from Amsterdam, London, Cairo… adorned them. Peter felt several things at once. Elation Neal was thinking of him all this time, sadness they were never sent and anxiety about what they revealed. Did Neal want him to read them? Did he want to read them?

Across the room, the door opened.

"You found me," Neal walked into the apartment.

"Old habits die hard." Peter stood, but made no effort to reach out to Neal. "You look well… for a dead man." All the words came out hard. He hadn't meant them to be.

"Peter. I never…."

"Stop. Just stop." He cut off the words Neal seemed desperate to say. He was unwilling to hear him out. Afraid he would give in and forget. He couldn't accept a lie, not now. And he was afraid of the truth…that it had all been a con and he should go home.

Peter looked at Neal. "I saw you today at the Louvre. You seemed so happy."

Neal froze for a moment.

"Peter. You have to understand. I couldn't tell you."

"People die. I get it. You needed to escape," Peter said. "Anyone could understand that, especially me, after everything that happened."

"Do you?" Neal moved closer to him.

"But you didn't trust me. After everything we've been through. You didn't trust that I would have helped you."

"You're wrong. Your trust meant everything to me. It's why I couldn't ruin your life. If anyone thought you were responsible for helping me. It would have been a death sentence, not only for you but everyone you loved. I had to die. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do."

"Jesus, Neal! Do you have any idea what it did to Mozzie… to June?"

"You have to believe me. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did. I went to your funeral, Neal." Peter's voice was low and traumatized. He looked into Neal's eyes. "Something came apart in me. I thought it was unfixable. I saw you everywhere. I'd walk into the office and smell the coffee you always brought us. You were right there in front of me."

"Please, Peter," Neal whispered, staggering back from him.

"You weren't gone. It was like some kind of dream. But it wasn't a dream, was it? All that time you were right here. Was it worth it?"

"Do you think I wanted that? Do you think erasing my past, erasing everything and everyone I loved is what I wanted?" Neal buried his face in his hands, his voice choked with tears.

Peter moved forward he felt his defenses weaken and fall behind him. The willingness to withdraw from his anger and hurt washing over him.

"Don't," Neal wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He knew he would break down completely if Peter touched him.

"Fate's a funny thing. All my life I've been on the run, even when I didn't know I was running. Speeding up, slowing down, but never stopping, never really resting…never having a place to call home…until I met you. You gave that to me, Peter. It meant everything to me."

"You made a difference, Neal. It was your decision, your choice."

"Yeah, but it was passing out of my hands, out of our hands. I couldn't let fate happen to me again, not this time. So I dared it, and I won."

"I didn't care what the cost was." He walked over to the painting and stood before it. "Not until that day…that moment. I'm so sorry, Peter."

"I don't understand."

"It was months before I could stop hearing your voice, in the morgue."

"What?" Peter's face drained of all color.

"I could hear you that day in the morgue. You and Moz. The poison I took… it was supposed to make me unconscious, something went wrong and I woke up too soon. I couldn't move. All I could do was lay there and listen to you."

"Oh, Neal. I didn't know." Peter hadn't realized what the secret cost him until that moment, when he saw the agonized look in Neal's eyes. He felt such raw sympathy.

"I can still hear you at times. I would change every second of that moment, if I could. But I can't. I was lost. Some mornings when I woke up I didn't know what city I was in. I found myself here. Paris. It was a place I was happy once, Kate and I came here whenever we could. I started to paint, I got a job. Painting saved me, it was salvation." He touched the canvas gently.

"Neal," Peter said softly.

"I thought if I could capture that moment," Neal strained for the words, tears burning his eyes. "You know, maybe. Maybe, I could make something meaningful out of all that ruin, create a truth. Live up to the good you saw in me."

"What you did. It's beautiful Neal."

"I'll understand if you can't forgive me. If you're here to take me back."

"God. No. Do you really think that's why I'm here?"

"Why are you here, Peter?"

"I'm here, because you're my best friend." He walked over to Neal and embraced him, "and I miss you."

"I miss you too," Neal wrapped his arms around Peter. They held each other for the longest time, like two men who had been buried and brought back to life. After some time passed, Peter was the first to break the silence.

"I'm glad you're happy. You are happy, right?" Peter said as he blew his nose.

"But if you ever decide to fake your death again, it better damn sure not be without me."

Neal traced an X across his chest, "Cross my heart and hope to…"

"Hah, hah. Very funny."

"What? Too soon?" Neal shrugged, his face all innocence. They both laughed through their tears.

It was late now, almost dusk. The Paris sky was tremendous as blue faded into purple and a soft breeze stirred the curtains lining the doors of the balcony.

"What now?" Peter asked.

"Would you like a drink? Neal grinned, "An old friend brought by a bottle of Cab Franc 93."

"Make mine a double," Peter laughed.

"Well it's probably unwise to drink on an empty stomach. I could cook something, if you want."

"That sounds great. I'm starving."

"Okay, then. Sorry, but I don't own a TV, no cable ESPN. Can I get you a book, a magazine?"

"I'd like to read these if that's okay?" Peter nodded to the stack of letters on the nearby table.

"I'd like that," Neal smiled as he busied himself in the small kitchen, the sounds of pot and pans rattling. He couldn't have wished for a better moment.

Dear Peter, the letter began

Legend has it that if you make a thousand origami cranes…a crane will grant you a wish. I wish…

Fin

Author's Notes

Thank you so much for all your lovely comments, it meant a great deal to me. If you enjoyed this final chapter, please consider leaving a review. It really is the only way we writers know if we've told a story that connected with you.