A New Resolve

Paris, France; Friday, June 10, 6:32 P.M.…

There was not a single sound all throughout the house. The tension in the air was thicker than fog, and just as obvious. Ever since Sly left the basement, he had returned to his old room. It was still stocked up with old relics from his life as a thief. Some of his most prized possessions, favorite souvenirs, and other memorabilia within the room. Among them were his cane, hat, and belt. He had gone in, and not a single sound had come from that room. There was no movement, no sound, absolutely nothing. Bentley and Penelope had dared not to enter, instead trying to occupy their time with making preparations for the journey.

However, after nearly nine hours, it became obvious that someone had to say something to him.

Bentley slowly wheeled up to the door, taking a deep, nasally breath as he sat outside the door. He glanced back at the table, where Penelope sat twiddling her thumbs nervously. She glanced at him briefly, then turned away.

He slowly rolled up a little more, stopping just at the wood of the door. He slowly raised a gloved hand, balled it into a fist, and started to knock.

"Sly?"

Not a sound.

Bentley knocked a second time.

"Sly? You in there, pal?"

When there was no answer, Bentley took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. As it creaked open, he took one quick look around the room. Many of the glass cases had been opened and there were a few items scattered about. Sitting on the bed, the sheets still in place, was Sly. He sat with his legs hanging over the edge and elbows in his lap, holding his Cane in his hands, sideways, his eyes slowly skimming up and down its full length as if studying it.

Bentley's initial expression of shock slowly turned to concern.

"Sly…"

Sly slowly lifted his head up and looked at Bentley. Bentley had expected his eyes to be bloodshot and dry. However, to his surprise, they were quite clear. Sly had not been crying this entire time. No, it was something else. And the look in those eyes…it was a look that Bentley could not quite distinguish. It seemed to be a cross of anger and sorrow. A great, terrible suffering and anguish that was instead buried, perhaps substituted by rage, hatred, and fury. But it was fairly subtle. He did not glare as Bentley entered, nor were his fists balled or teeth clenched. He showed no signs of immediate anger. But Bentley knew full well how his friend was feeling. Nonetheless, he tried to avoid the subject.

"Sly, I…uh, just wanted to let you know that I've made arrangements for our flight. I've bought three airline tickets. The first plane takes off tomorrow evening at 5:30 sharp."

Sly held his head again and mumbled in response. Bentley wasn't completely 100% sure, but he thought that Sly had said "Thanks."

There was an awkward pause. Sly kept his eyes locked on the Cane. He lifted it out of his left hand and straightened it vertically, leading the fine weapon slid through the half-clenched palm of his right hand, where its tip smacked against the floor with a thud. He twirled it around several times, the hook spinning in full rotations.

Bentley eventually noticed, for the first time, what else was scattered on the bed. Sly's old blue hat, his belt, the red backpack from his earlier days, and the similarly red leg pouch that replaced it. All of his old gear, with the most sacred piece resting in his hand.

"Sly…" For once, Bentley found himself at a complete loss for words. Even a mind as deep as his own could not fathom the multiple emotions, the endless thoughts, the millions of speculations that were racing through his lifelong friend's head.

"Sly, I just want you to know that…" Bentley paused as Sly looked back up at him again. "I just want you to know that we're here for you. Me and Penelope. We've got your back. I know that you're hurting hard…but we'll do the best we can."

Sly repeated his mumbled version of "thanks."

This time, Bentley was convinced that the only way out was to speak his mind, giving it to him straight and simple. "Sly, I understand that you're upset about Carmelita's death…but I've seen what's happened to you. You seem to have completely lost yourself. You're not the same cocky, easy-going guy that we used to loot museums and art exhibits with all those years ago. It's like the old you died with her."

"It has."

"Look, what I'm trying to say is that now you're so…hard. Bitter. I mean, I can totally understand that…but the things you've said. Saying that all you want is the guy who did this dead…"

"I do. More than anything." Sly gripped his Cane harder.

"Sly, I can understand your pain, but you were never a murderer. You were many things. A thief, a police officer impersonator, even a recreation of Thadius Winslow Cooper. But you were never, ever, a murderer."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"Sly!" Bentley was now truly appalled with what his friend said. He wasn't going to allow it anymore. "Murdering is just wrong. There's never any justification for it."

At this, Sly raised his Cane high and slammed it to the floor. The result was a sharp crack! that echoed across the room, with the small confines of the room making its report even sharper and louder, even if it lasted only one second. Sly stood straight up, standing much taller than Bentley. He turned to his wheelchair-bound friend and glowered at him as he slowly approached.

He leaned in close. "Let me ask you something, Bentley. How much do you love Penelope?"

"Is that a rhetorical question? I love her more than anything else. More than my technology, that's for sure. Sure, I've known you guys longer…but she's special to me, and-."

Sly cut him off. "That's exactly how I felt about Carmelita. I loved her for all I was worth. Now put yourself in my position. What would you say? What would you do? How would you feel?"

"Well, Sly, I at least think about these things for a moment…"

"No, you don't. Look. You don't understand. For right now, you won't understand. Just remember that. The only way, the one and only way, you will ever feel the pain I am feeling, think the thoughts I'm thinking, and harbor the hatred I'm feeling right now…is if Penelope were to die. To be so suddenly and brutally murdered as Carmelita was. With a knife through her chest, or a gun against her head, or maybe pushed off a 20-story building. Get it? Once that happens…if that happens, then you'll know. But for now…don't tell me what I can and can't do. What I can and can't think or feel or say."

Bentley was stunned, and remained staring blankly at his fuming friend. Sly did not raise his voice; this entire speech was in a whispered tone. But it was so firm and absolute that Bentley knew now how serious Sly really was.

Sly slowly stood straight up again. He looked down at Bentley, into his eyes for a moment, before he noticeably eased up, his fingers relaxing their grip on his Cane.

"Look. I'm not asking you to help me kill anyone, OK? I'd never do that. I'd never force you to do something you don't want to. All I want is his death. To know that his life ended at my hands. It's between me and him. I understand your concern…but it's none of your business."

With that, Sly turned around and strode back to the bed. He stood next to it and turned slightly in Bentley's direction, but did not look straight at him.

"If you would be so kind as to leave now, Bentley. I want to be alone again."

Bentley opened his mouth, then closed it. Sly remained with his head ever so slightly in his direction, but he was not looking at him. Bentley, without a single sound, turned his wheelchair around and left the room, closing the door behind him.

To be continued…