Chapter 12: Responsibility

The last step creaked. Three legs stumped onto the ground floor.

Monsieur Trousseau flexed his cane hand. He shuffled down the hall, past where, just yesterday, the elevator man had painted several marks on the wall, presumably so he could knock a great damn hole in it later. "Change is good," he muttered in disgust.

The back door edged open; the morning light poured in, followed by an unsteady, middle-aged man in an overcoat. He blinked bleary-eyed at the old man.

"Well," said Monsieur, "look who finally decided to come home."

"Papa? Oh gods…" Peter rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot.

"Yeah, 'Papa,'" said Monsieur, stumping towards him. "You know, your mother's husband? You remember her, right? Forget? She's upstairs. Can't miss her. She's the one who's been bawling her eyes out all night when you didn't come home!"

"I don't have time for this," moaned Peter, brushing past him.

"Then make time, you swine!" shouted his father. "What the hell were you thinking? Didn't call, didn't warn us you'd be late! And now you show up at ten in the morning, looking like hell itself! Answer me!"

"I'm a grown man, father," he said, with equal parts petulance and irritation. "I can do as I please. The meeting ran late; that's all."

"You have responsibilities, son. An apartment to run, parents to take care of."

"I know, father," he said, opening the door to his office. "You never let me forget," he added, to himself. He stooped to pick up a package by the door.

"Well, start living up to them, then! Start being responsible!"

He whirled on him. "Responsible? If I wasn't here running this old wreck I'd be off ensuring the safety of the entire nation, father!"

"And nations start at home," Monsieur shot back.

His son smouldered, and glared at him over the desk. "There's more going on in this world than you know, father, and people like me are all that stand between it and you."

"I know that," said Monsieur. "Your mother knows that. That's why we want you here, instead. You don't have to be out there, Peter!"

"Yes, I do. I took an oath, father." He tore open the package.

Something fell out onto the desk, obscured from Monsieur's view by a stack of papers.

The rest of the package followed shortly thereafter. It landed with a heavy, metallic 'clunk.'

"Well," continued Monsieur, "then maybe you should think about whom you owe more to: your country, or your family."

His son dropped into the chair, limp. Something in his face worked its way through the storm of rage surrounding Monsieur.

"What?" he asked, in irritation.

His son reached out with one shaking hand for one of the things on the desk, touched it, and then recoiled from it, as if it had stung him. He shoved it into the package.

"What?" he said, concerned. He set aside the cane and shuffled over to his son. "What is it, son?" He looked at the desk.

There, next to the crumpled package, was a white opera mask.

He eyeballed it, strangely. "Someone's little joke?" he hazarded.

"No," whispered his son. "No, no joke. This, this is it, this is real…"

"Peter? You're all pale; what is it? What's wrong?"

In one motion, he leapt to his feet, swept mask and package into his coat, and stormed out the door. Monsieur snatched up his cane and hobbled after him, hearing his feet rattling the floorboards. "Peter?" he called. "What are you doing?"

His son paused halfway through the front door. "Being responsible," he rasped.

"What in blazes does that mean?"

"I've got things under control," he said, half to himself. "Nothing to worry about. Just trust me, okay?"

"Son?"

He clutched at the doorframe. "Whatever happens, I'll take care of it, okay? That's what I do; I take care of things. I'll be back in time for dinner."

Monsieur reached out for him. "Peter, what's going on? Tell me, please!"

"You don't need to know, father!"

He drew back at the force of his voice.

"Just…just carry on as before," said Peter. "Carry on, as if nothing's ever changed. Like you always do." He stepped through the threshold.

"Peter, wait!"

The door slammed shut behind him.

Monsieur leaned on his cane and the nearby wall, the weight of years suddenly heavy upon him.

(Later that evening…)

"Dinner is served."

The great, age-blackened cast-iron pot clunked onto the table. Madame swept off the lid with a flourish, revealing a steaming, bubbling mess of onion, fish, and dismembered squid. She ladled out a generous portion to everyone at the table. "Eat up, now."

Peter scooped up a spoonful, and grimaced at it. A bit of tentacle went plop into the bowl. Monsieur Trousseau mirrored his every action, glaring at him from across the kitchen table.

"So," said Madame, clasping her hands together, "how was everyone's day?"

"Busy," said Peter, looking at the table.

"Dull," said Monsieur, still locked on his son.

"Oh."

Madame glanced briefly at either side of the table, and then helped herself to the chaudrée. Two spoons moved mechanically from bowl to lips, dribbling.

"I ran into Madame Duceppe in the hallway this afternoon," said Madame. "She's just back from Taiwan, apparently."

"In and out at all hours, they are," said Monsieur. "Never know where they're going. Or when they're coming back."

"Yes, that they are," said Madame, not certain as to his point.

Peter stabbed at a disagreeable lump of fish.

"How is it then?" she asked. "I added more squid, since I know you two like it so much."

"Good," muttered Peter, spoon held in mid-air.

"Mm," said Monsieur, doing likewise.

The pot simmered, slowly.

Madame clasped her hands together, making a mental note to check out that frayed section in the middle of the tablecloth. She cleared her throat, nervously. "So…nice weather we're having?" She forced a smile.

Peter set down his spoon, carefully, and pushed his chair back from the table.

"You can't be finished already," said Madame.

"Mama," he said, "I've decided to go back."

"'Back'? Back where?"

"To the Department."

There was a clink as Monsieur draped his spoon on the edge of his bowl.

"But I thought you already had," said Madame, not following.

"Full-time, I mean," said Peter.

"Full-time?"

Monsieur glared across the table.

"They…there's this opening in the foreign branch," said Peter. "Good pay, great hours. It…it's a bit out of town."

Madame raised an eyebrow. "Where, exactly?"

"Canada."

"Canada?!" Madame dropped her spoon with a clatter. "But, but that's the other side of the world!" she cried. "You'll be miles away from us! We, we'll be miles away from you! We — you'll be lonely!"

"I'll be fine, Mama."

"And what about the apartment?" continued Madame. "You can't take care of things from across the water, can you?"

Peter sighed. "You'll be well taken care of."

"How?" asked Monsieur.

Peter paused, drew a few pamphlets out of his pocket, and passed a copy to each of his parents.

Madame read her copy in disbelief. "A…retirement home?"

"It's a very nice place. Open gardens, a spa, world-class staff, right…by…the…river…" The words withered on his lips under his father's hellish stare.

Monsieur slapped the pamphlet on the table. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

"What the hell is this?' Peter slammed the package onto the desk.

Inspector Vélohr Verloc of the National Police looked up from his paperwork. "You shouldn't have come here," he said.

"Answer the question!"

"Keep your voice down, you idiot! Do you realise where you are?" Swiftly, he closed the office blinds, locked the door, disconnected the phone, and returned to his place behind the desk. "Now, what do you want?"

"You said it would never come to this," said Peter, his voice shaking. "You said it'd never happen, not in million years."

"I said it was unlikely," he replied, calmly. "That was all."

"Damn it, Vélohr, I'm an accountant, not a hitman! I don't do this kind of thing!"

"Monsieur Violet works for a bank; I don't hear him complaining."

"What right do you have to do this to me, huh?"

"Me?" He looked up, suddenly. Peter edged back. "I had nothing to do with this, and you know it. I got the package in the mail just the same as you: one call to arms, and one weapon to answer it with. Tomorrow I'll get the details. And the day after tomorrow, God willing, this whole affair will be over. We are not the ones who send out the call; we are the ones who answer it."

Peter shook his head, emphatically. "No, you are. Not me. I do the books, that's all."

"Oh, come off it, Peter," snapped Verloc, " that's garbage and you know it! You've been a part of every operation in the last twenty years. You come on-site for the clean-ups, help with the sterilization. Heck, you even fill out the death certificates!"

"It's not like I had a choice in the matter," he said.

"Choice? You made your choice when you took that oath all those many years ago. That choice still stands today, Peter. This," he said, with a nod to the package, "is just a reminder of that fact."

"I know that, don't you think I know that? Don't you think I remember that every time I come home at three in the morning?"

"It's a hard life, Peter," said Verloc, "but someone has to live it; we are merely those who step up to the challenge."

"Well, not me. Not anymore, Verloc."

The inspector studied him, carefully. "What is it, exactly, that you want?"

"A way out," said Peter.

"What?" said Madame.

"He wants out, Cosette," said Monsieur. "Wants out of our lives."

"No, no, it's not that," said his son.

"Then what is it, eh? Move across the world, shut away your parents, sell your home?"

"It's not that either," he replied. "Please, Mama, you'd like it there, really!"

"But, but…this is your home, Peter." She clutched the tablecloth. "Our home. And this is all so sudden. What brought this all up?"

"Something this afternoon, wasn't it?" said Monsieur. "Knew it. Way you rushed out and all."

Peter sighed. "I just think it's time for a change. That's all."

"Well, I don't."

He blinked. "Mama?"

"I'm happy here, Peter," said Madame. "So is your father. I…I'd hope you'd be too."

"Ma…"

"The house…it's feels so very empty nowadays, what with just the two of us and all. Felix passed on almost twenty years ago, now; your Aunt Gertrude left us in '94; and cousins Brandford and Brianne across the street…they died just last summer. And Toulouse and I…" She smiled, sadly. "Well, we know it won't be long now."

"Mama, no, don't start this…"

"It's true," she said. "It's why we asked you to come home, Peter: so we could be a family again, one last time. Please, won't you stay?" She reached for his hand.

"I want out," said Peter. "Out of Les Chevaliers. Out of the money, the cover-ups, the, the blood, all of it."

Verloc exhaled, slowly. "I thought so."

"Well?"

He spread his arms. "You would cast this aside?" he said. "Ignore the call?"

He nodded, once.

" After all they've done, all we've done for you?"

"I…I know I owe a lot to the group…"

"When you wanted into the Department," said Verloc, "you came to us. And we delivered. We pulled the strings, got you in. When you needed tenants for your parent's apartment, again, you came to us. And we delivered. And when you need all that money for those renovations of yours, it was our members who pulled the strings to get it."

"I know, Vélohr, I know."

"No, I don't think you do, Peter. I don't think you realize what it is you're asking of me." He exhaled. "Peter, you know how the higher-ups are; you know they always call in their debts, right?" Peter nodded. Verloc leaned forward in his chair. "Peter, if you don't do this, they'll take back everything, you understand? Everything."

"I…I can pay it back," said Peter. "All of it. That's no problem."

"How are you parents, Peter?"

A bolt of ice pierced his heart, and chilled his words. "Leave…them…out of this!"

"I want to!" said Verloc. "You don't think I'm fond of them, too? So is half the executive. But Peter, if you leave like this, that order will come down, and we will carry it out."

"You heartless bastard!" he spat, shaking.

"Heartless? You're not the only one with loved ones to worry about, Peter. And you're no saint, either. I've seen you work. Bribes, blood money, false visas, death certificates, extortion letters...you write and sign them all without even blinking an eye."

"You're no better!" he shot back.

"And I don't claim to be! None of us do. We're all sinners, right through to our black hearts."

He leaned back. " Listen, Peter. You know the way the world is. You know what people are like, what their true face is, stripped of all the fancy paints and oils that make up civilization. You've seen it. You've seen it every day you were on patrol as a beat officer, in every report you read at the Department, every second on the news. You call me 'heartless'? A 'bastard'? Everyone is, Peter."

"We're human beings: we cheat, hurt, betray, deceive and murder each other each and every day. Some call these acts sin; you and I know it as life. And it's a nasty, brutish, short business, Peter. Left on our own, every one of would tear each other apart. And we are alone. God is silent, Peter. He does not weep for us, and will not reach down to save us, no, not again. So it falls to us, Peter. It falls to we few who have the wisdom to see ourselves for what we really are, and the courage to do something about it."

"And what do we do, then, huh?" asked Peter. "Extortion, cover-ups…what, do these count as community service or something? Well?"

"We do what we must so that others don't have to," said Verloc. "How would the people out there live with themselves if they knew what we did, eh? How would your parents? How would my eight-year old daughter? It's better this way, Peter," he continued, coming around to his side of the desk. "Better to keep it secret. They wouldn't understand why we do what we do."

"I don't," said Peter. "Maybe I did once, but not anymore."

Verloc sighed. "Peter, did I ever tell you how I got involved in all this?"

He indicated he did not.

"The Tremsheld case, back in '76, remember that? Serial homicide. Twenty victims, all young women between the ages of 16 and 23. I spent three years tracking him, Peter. The investigation spanned two countries, took hundreds of men, thousands of man-hours. And then, one day, at last, I drew the net tight, and I had him. I had him cornered in a Paris subway. I had the cuffs on him, had the keys to his cell in my hand. And then, after one month, after one mistrial, after one stupid juror tried to make himself famous by talking to the press, he was free."

"We all knew he was guilty, and we all knew what would happen if he was set free, probation or not. He'd scurry away, off to some far corner of the world… and the body count would rise again. But no, 'justice' had to be served. We could not hold him." He grimaced. "I was furious. All that effort, all that hard work, and he had escaped! I had the full force of the law, civilization's greatest achievement, behind me, and, in the end, it was worth less than the paper it was written on."

"Then, soon after Tremsheld escaped, a man in the department came to me. He told me about the law, not the petty rules we play with in the streets, the government, and the courts, but The Law, the one no one talks about. He was talking about Justice, Peter, that ideal we both swore to uphold when we joined this police force. He was talking about the belief, the hope, the dream we all secretly share: that, in the end, we all get what we deserve. The innocent are rewarded, the guilty, punished."

"The laws we make, they are the tools we use to shape the world into this dream. But they are crude, clumsy things, that often go astray, and they try to deny the true nature of mankind. We can have law, we can have civilization, and justice, but we need finer, sharper instruments in order to find them. And in a world where the innocent are punished and the guilty walk free, well, sometimes we have to step beyond a lesser law to enforce a greater one."

Peter blinked. "You mean…?"

"I mean he put a gun in my hand, my quarry before me, and Justice. Was. Served."

He stared him, stunned. "You…you killed…?"

"If I hadn't, he would have killed ten, maybe fifty more before he was stopped. The world would have lived in fear, Peter. It's not pretty, what we do. But it is necessary."

"But why me?" asked Peter. "Why does it have to be me?"

"Because you have what it takes, Peter. You've got the courage to look at the world, to see it as it really is, and not back down." He laid a friendly arm over his shoulder. "The people of the world need us, Peter. They need us to save them from themselves."

Peter wavered. "I…"

"Look, Peter. I might not know what we'll be up against tomorrow. I don't know what will be in that envelope on my desk next morning. But I've a pretty good guess." He picked up a folder from his desk. "Remember Brannua?" Peter nodded. "These are the forensic results." He picked up several other files. "This is the D'Estaing case. This is Dux. The Feyder incident. LeGrande. The same two guns, Peter, a Walther and a Beretta, were used in each incident! And the people using them have never been caught." He showed him the evidence. "These people are murderers, Peter, heartless, cruel, and ruthlessly efficient. There's no telling where or when they'll strike next. They've already killed almost a hundred police officers and loyal members of our organization. Who knows whose lives they will claim next?"

Peter stiffened.

"You've always wanted to serve your country, right? To live up to what your father did before you?"

He nodded.

"Then do this, Peter. Answer the call. Help us stop these killers before it's too late. Before they claim someone you love." He leaned in close to him. "Make him proud, Peter."

He withdrew it. "I only want what's best for you two," he said.

"What's best is for us to be here, together," pleaded Madame.

He looked uncomfortable. "I leave tomorrow."

"What!" Monsieur exploded.

"It, it has to be this way, Papa!" said Peter. "Look, I've three tickets here, you can come with me! It'll be like a vacation! What do you think?"

Monsieur snatched the tickets from his hand. "This is what I think!" He tore them in half.

"No!" cried his son.

"Who do you think you are, eh?" growled Monsieur. "Springing all this on us all at once? Leaving your parents, your mother, your own father in the lurch? Without an explanation? Well, you're not getting away with it." He stood suddenly, his chair squeaking on the linoleum. "What's going on here, young man? The whole story!"

"Toulouse," said Madame, "calm down, please!"

"No, Cosette." He glared at his son, who had his face in his hands. "I've had enough of his secrets already. Time for answers."

"Selfish," whispered Peter.

"Hm? Speak up, boy."

"You're both so…so selfish!"

"Peter?" said Madame.

"Every time, my whole life, it's always been like this," he said, choking back anger. "Always. I always had to be there for you. I had to be the loyal one, 'the good son,' the one who didn't move away, didn't abandon his family." He looked up, sharply. "And I was. Oh, how I was. I did everything you asked of me. I stayed in Paris. My whole life, I stayed. Then, when I joined the police, and you, you, Mama, would come to me every night and worry about whether I'd be safe…I quit. I took a desk job. I did it for you, Mama."

"Oh, Peter…"

"Then," he continued, "I went to the Department."

"Which you never should have done!" said Monsieur. "Too dangerous! Want to get yourself killed?"

"I wanted to make you proud of me, father!"

Monsieur drew back, surprised.

Peter struggled to get his breathing under control. "And I listened to you. Again, father. I took the desk job. I pushed papers for ten years, Papa! I let promotion after promotion pass me by, all because of you two! And now, now you want me to do it again. Because you two won't let me live my life!"

"I don't want you to throw it away, is all!" shouted Monsieur.

"It's my life, Papa!" responded Peter. "Mine to do with as I please!"

"And what about ours, eh? You think you can storm off to another continent with barely a word and it won't hurt us?"

"I'm trying to protect you, father!"

"Protect us? From what? From you, and your secrets? Three damn cops bunking in the floors below us, Peter; plenty of protection there!"

"You don't know what's going on here, father!"

"And you won't tell me!"

"Because you can't. Know. Damn it!"

"Stop this!" cried Madame. "Both of you! No more fighting!"

"I knew it!" said Monsieur. "You're a crook and a criminal! You're in some bad business, and now you don't want me to find out about it! I can't believe I trusted you! I can't believe I trusted this apartment to you!"

"Trusted!? Forced! I never wanted to come back here! And I wish I never did! I wish I'd let you and your stupid home rot, along with the rest of history!"

"How dare you?" hissed Monsieur.

"You want to know what your problem is?" ranted Peter. "You want to know why Marien can't stand to look at you, even after all this time? Here's why! You're a coward! You. Are. A. Coward. Father!"

"Stop this Peter, please!" begged Madame. Monsieur trembled with rage.

"You both are! You've shut yourselves away up here all your lives, never moved, and you've never tried anything new. You keep telling yourself that you know how the world works, that it's the same it's always been, 'cause you're too afraid to change with it! But you, father, you're the worst! Do you know how I felt as a child every summer? How ashamed I was to be the only kid on the block who couldn't point to someone in the parades and say, 'That's my dad. He fought in the war, and he is proud of it?'" He shook his head, and laughed, bitterly. "Now, after all these years, I finally understand why. It's because you were ashamed of yourself, Father. Ashamed at the weak, frightened thing you had become."

"Enough!" Madame slammed her hands on the table, causing its other occupants to jump. She pointed a shaking finger at her son. "Get out!"

His rage was dispelled by surprise. "Mama?" said Peter.

"I thought we could be a family again," she said, her voice trembling. "I thought we could be together again, sharing dinner around the table, talking, like old times. I was wrong."

Peter looked at his mother, aquiver with rage, and then at his father, who looked on the verge of tears. "Mama…"

"Sleep in your office tonight," she continued. "Or with the neighbours. Or in a hotel. Or go to Canada, or wherever, if you like. But not here. You've changed. You're no longer the son I remember, the son who loved his father and mother."

"Mama, I'm sorry, I —"

"Get. Out!"

Peter stood up, and stumbled backwards out of his chair. He edged slowly towards the living room. He looked back at his parents, still at the table, their dinner for three left to waste away upon it. Suddenly, he dashed for, and through the apartment door. It slammed shut behind him. A floorboard creaked. Footsteps pummelled down the stairs and out into the night.

Madame slumped back into her chair. "What brought that on, I can't imagine," she muttered. "Do you know, Toulouse?"

He was shaking.

"Toulouse? Toulouse, what's wrong? It's all right; he, he's just having a bit of fuss, that's all. He'll be back soon, I know it. I'm sure of it."

He shook his head, emphatically. "Not that. Not that."

"Then what?"

"Right. He's right. He's so very right." He buried his face in his hands.

Madame moved over and held him in her arms.