Author's note: Nope, I didn't forget this story. And yes, I plan on finishing it. Probably about 5 or 6 more chapters.
CHAPTER THREE - Not Good
Megan stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping the gravelly pavement as Walter unlocked his Malibu. He had the key in the ignition before she could open her door. She was still strapping herself in when he put the vehicle into gear, driving off with a screech of the tires.
"Where do you think you're going?" his sister asked, clicking her buckle into place as they sped down the alley.
"Back to the garage," he snapped. Seeing Cabe reduced to such dire consequences. . . His stomach churned as his blood boiled. Baghdad had not been the older man's fault and it had taken Walter far too long to realize that.
But he could have forgiven Cabe at any time. It would have taken only a couple of keystrokes to locate him. Just like it had taken only a few keystrokes to reset the automatic timers around Amanda's grave. Starting or not starting Scorpion wouldn't have been a factor.
"Well, you're half right," Megan chuckled, breaching his defiant musings.
"What does that mean?"
"You'll see," she replied with a cryptic smile. "Turn left at the next intersection."
Walter ran his hand over his face as he sighed wearily. He didn't want to fight with Megan, even if she was just a figment of his imagination or a hallucination or. . . Whatever she was, she was still his sister, and he still missed her.
And if she wanted to take him on a wild goose chase, he'd endure it just to be with her again. Following her instructions, Walter brought his car to a halt in front of a dilapidated Quonset hut.
"This is it," Megan chirped.
"This is what?" he asked, suspiciously eyeing the rusted steel building.
"Our next stop." She undid her seat belt and got out. Halfway to the door, she spun around and beckoned with her hand. "Come on, little bro."
Exhaling, he did as he was bid, muttering under his breath he thought she had all the time in the world. He caught up to her as she reached the front door. The place was dimly lit, a sure sign whatever business was conducted inside was closed for the night.
"How are we. . .?" he began, his question becoming moot as Megan turned the handle and walked inside.
The tinkling of a bell above the door announced their arrival into a small room with a counter, although it was nearly drowned out by the blaring chords of Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" and the whooshing of a blow torch. Spare automobile parts were piled everywhere, along with a collection of hubcaps decorating the walls. Handwritten signs were plastered in between the hubcaps, offering everything from oil changes to tire rotation.
"Come back tomorrow," a surly voice called out as the music was turned down a notch. A voice he instantly recognized. "We're closed."
Walter glanced over at his sister, who shrugged, her face a blank slate. He opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on but he was interrupted as the batwing doors leading to the back of the hut were swung open.
"Hey, numbnuts, I said we're closed." Happy appeared in the archway, wiping her hands on a greasy rag. She glanced up, the cigarette dangling from her lips fell to the floor as her mouth dropped open.
"Walter O'Brien. You son of a bitch." The mechanic tossed the rag onto the counter. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" he asked, wondering why she was so mad at him. "You went home with Toby hours ago."
"Toby? That stupid jerk you kept from getting killed by a pit boss?" Happy sneered. "I haven't seen him since. . .since I left your sorry ass. I figured he's probably dead by now."
"He's not dead," Walter insisted. "He's your. . ." He nearly told her the shrink was her husband, had been for nearly eight months. But her irritated expression held him back.
"My what?" She moved closer, giving him a good look at her face. She looked like she'd aged a decade since he'd seen her earlier that evening. There were lines deeply etched into her skin. A faded yellow bruise encircled her left eye. She was a harder, meaner version of the friend he'd known for close to eight years.
Walter glanced over at Megan, who suddenly found a box of spark plugs fascinating. Running his hand over his face, he changed the subject. "So is this your dad's place?" He'd never been to Patrick Quinn's repair shop before, even though he'd met the man three Christmases ago.
She reached into her jacket, pulling out a pack of smokes. "My father. . .? That bum? Hell, no. I haven't seen him since he dumped me off at St Luke's like a sack of garbage." Flicking her lighter, she lit her cigarette. "For all I know he's dead. . .or in jail." She shrugged. "Wherever he is, I hope he's rotting there."
"But. . ." Happy's father was in jail, as part of a plea deal to bring down a ring of car thieves. Once again, Walter turned to Megan, who just shrugged.
"But what?" The mechanic blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. "Listen, O'Brien, I ain't got all night to listen to your bullshit. I washed my hands of you seven years ago."
"Seven years ago?" That couldn't be right. He'd met her eight years ago at a fabrication convention. She was the first real friend he'd ever had. Hell, when he'd been threatened with deportation, she even . . . "Seven years ago we got married."
A loud burst of laughter was followed by a hacking cough. "Married?" she sneered once she could speak again. "I wouldn't marry you if you were one of the last men on earth."
"But you did, to keep me from getting deported."
"What the fuck are you talking about? You were never in any danger of being deported." Happy pointed a finger at him. "If you were, I never knew about. I left because I couldn't stand to stick around and watch you destroy yourself."
Walter grew even more confused. "Destroy myself? What are you talking about?"
She ignored his questions. "You were so messed up, it wouldn't have surprised me to hear you'd died."
She said it so matter-of-factly, as if his death wouldn't have bothered her. Glancing at her, he saw her eyes belied her detachment, the moisture gathering in their corners giving her away.
"How was I messed up? I don't drink, I don't do drugs. . ."
A derisive snort interrupted him. "Didn't say you did. You weren't eating, you weren't sleeping. . ." Happy waved her hand dismissively. "I couldn't deal with it anymore. So I split."
A sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach again. Surely she couldn't mean. . . Giving himself a mental shake, he gestured toward the hub capped decorated walls. "So is this place yours then?
"Hell, no. I just work here. After hours. I'm the 'girl' who gets all the shit jobs the boys can't do but who then take all the credit." She practically spat her words at him.
Walter silently commiserated with her over the societal sexism she'd encountered. She'd had trouble finding jobs when he'd met her. It had been one of the reasons he'd started his company, so she could make a living using her genius. "But. . . But you work for me. At Scorpion."
"Work for you? In your dreams, O'Brien." She crushed out her cigarette into a overfull ashtray. "Listen, I got three more cars to do before the buyer . . ." Her voice trailed off as her eyes shifted away from his.
The puzzle pieces fell into place for him then; the dilapidated building, the piles of auto parts, why she was by herself on Christmas Eve. She was part of an illegal chop shop. He shook his head. She was more like her father than she knew.
She must have realized he'd figured out what was going on. "Get out, O'Brien, or I'm calling the cops," she snarled, reaching under the counter, bringing out a crowbar.
"Happy," he began, seeing through her bluff. "You don't have to do this. I can help you. You're going to end up like your father. . ."
She twirled the metal tool like a baton. "What the hell do you know about my father?" she snarled. "I don't need you. I don't need anybody. Take your little friend and get the fuck out, asshole"
"Happy." Any other time, he would be shaking in his shoes in the face of her temper. But he could see the pain and tears once again in her eyes, and he knew he couldn't give up on her. She'd been his first real friend. "Please. . ."
"Get. Out." She swung the crowbar in his direction and he ducked just in time to keep from getting hit up the side of his head.
Megan grabbed his arm. "Come on, little bro," she said, her gaze never leaving Happy. "I think you've seen all you need to see here."
She pulled him toward the door, its little bell tinkling mockingly as they left the shop.