Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
ICYMI: Following the events at the cemetery and flophouse, Vasquez is preparing a lethal injection with Arnold's name on it. Phoebe intervenes and foils him. But where is Arnold?
And now, on with the show!
15. That Which Keeps Us Going
That humming sounded familiar.
Arnold had no idea where he was. Wherever he was, he was lying on his back with his head rested in someone's lap. Someone who was humming Handel's The Bridal March in a tone that was sort of creepy. Someone who was mussing his hair as though not totally familiar with all the subtleties of intimacy.
It can only be Helga.
He opened his eyes and, sure enough, was looking up to Helga. Helga, smiling at him with joy and melancholy.
"Hey, Footballhead," she said sweetly. "What's happened this time for you to visit me?" Her question may have suggested reproach, but her tone was sweet, forgiving and accommodating; in fact, she even placed a tender kiss on his brow.
Arnold didn't answer. Instead, he rolled his eyes to survey the surroundings, even though he knew exactly where they were: Yep, it was the departure terminal at San Lorenzo's airport, and here they were, on their usual bench as their eleven-year-old iterations. He righted himself into a seated position next to her.
And…wow!
There was Helga in her Ghost Bride outfit: Wedding dress, combat boots, even the eye black. She looked…how did she look? She embodied so many contrasts simultaneously: Light and Dark; Purity and Immorality; Innocence and Mischief
"Like what you see?" she asked. "Do you perhaps find me…alluring?"
"I gotta admit," he replied, knowing full well this wasn't real and so there was no point in not telling the truth, "as soon as I stopped being scared of you, you started looking kinda hot."
"Oh really?" she asked in mock surprise. She then stood and walked to stand a short distance in front of Arnold. "And how about this?" she asked as she did an elegant pirouette, causing a blinding column of light to cover her briefly. When it subsided, there she stood, now clad in the pink one-piece pajama which she wore at his fire escape after sleepwalking across town.
"So adorable," he responded.
"And this?" Another pirouette, more blinding light. Now she appeared in the red one-piece swimsuit she wore in Babewatch. "Best mouth-to-mouth, ever!" he grinned as he recalled the moment.
He saw how Helga was enjoying the fashion show. Another pirouette/light combination and suddenly Helga stood in the frilly pink bridesmaid dress from Coach Wittenberg's wedding, complete with the bridal bouquet she had caught. Suddenly her expression turned demure as she looked at him for a comment.
"Who knows what could have been?" was all he could summon.
Another flash of light and Helga was back in her most familiar pink and white ensemble, but her demure expression remained. "Look, Arnold, I know a part of you wants to stay here and explore infinity with me…but it's not your time yet…and there's someone out there who'll be crushed if you were to croak just now."
And just as he wanted to engage her in the discussion, his voice disappeared in a sudden onset of laryngitis that nullified even his loudest attempts at shouting.
"Face it, Footballhead," continued Helga, "your happiness is not here anymore. It's with Phoebe now. You love her and she loves you. Don't you two leave it too late, like you and I did."
Arnold's mute protests continued, to no avail. Helga now stood motionless, her smile under strain and threatening to crack under the weight of her melancholy.
"You're a fighter. You never give up. Not on your friends and not on life. Not like I did."
Like she did? What does that even mean?
A final column of pure white light blinded her from him, and next he knew he woke with a start, to an immediate stabbing sensation somewhere in his ribcage. His vision was still swimming in shades of black as he struggled to focus on his bearings and surroundings.
"Oh! You're awake!" A female voice. Not Phoebe's.
"Guys, he's awake!" A female voice. Not Phoebe's. Calling to others. Probably the same people who carried him from the flophouse.
Arnold tried sitting up, only to be stopped by a pair of firm, nurturing hands. "No, Arnold. Wait! You still need to rest!" Someone who either knew him or knew of him.
Whoever issued the instruction, she was now in his face. Holding his left eye open, shining a light on it. Then the right.
"Brain activity seems normal," she said to him and to her unseen companions. Gradually, her distinctive triangular face, her dark olive skin tone, her dark brown hair done in a professional-looking bob…all of those came into focus.
"Sheena?" Where'd she come from?
"Yes, Arnold. Me!" Her tone made it clear that she was not to be disobeyed nor disturbed in her ministrations. "Sorry for my bedside manner, but most of my usual clients don't have the luxury of time. Now, please! No unnecessary movements! Your ribs are bruised, thankfully not broken. Plus you might have a torn intercostal. Don't worry, I treated the ribs and strapped up your chest. They told me you had a really bad fall, so I checked for back injuries as well. No dislocated vertebrae, no priapism either."
"Oh…" was all a still-groggy Arnold could say. Oh god, priapism? At least he had to commend Sheena on her thoroughness.
"Now let's talk about the bullet graze on your left arm that I had to disinfect and dress..!" Sheena was done with the pleasantries as her voice took on a disapproving note.
"Oh come on, Sheena, give the man a break! He was, after all, pitched out of the third floor of an exploding building." The voice spoke as its owner entered the room.
"You mean he fell three floors and he only has bruised ribs?" Sheena's look of disbelief at that revelation was one for the ages, eyes wide and mouth agape. "That can't be possible!"
Arnold was relieved by the semi-familiar new voice. "Brainy," he said wearily, "should I really be surprised that you're involved in my extraction?"
"Not just him, Son!" A third voice accompanied the two men who entered the room after Brainy: a wizened old man with thinning grey hair, and a younger, more strapping figure whom Arnold pegged as the old man's bodyguard. Arnold recognized the voice as the one giving the order to drive, so his guy must have been the one who carried him away from the building. "Like it or not, you're among friends here."
"Do I know you?" Arnold asked the old figure. "Because you talk as if I ought to."
"Let's just say, Arnold, that I'm finally making up for never paying my rent on time."
And then it clicked in Arnold's head: "Mister Smith?"
"Hey Arnold. Looks like you finally found me."
There was no time to waste on further pleasantries. A lot of explaining, a lot of note comparisons were about to take place.
She couldn't believe it: they took the bait!
It was a gamble, both personal and professional, showing herself at the briefing. But Phoebe saw no other way to remind people about certain events in Mark's past that called into question his integrity as a police detective. An anonymous online post would merely have been lost in the frenzy; a focussed statement made under focussed, far-reaching scrutiny…that could be a different matter entirely.
The murder of Joseph Banks, Mark's late partner, was a perfect starting point. Originally, it wasn't really newsworthy, only being mentioned in passing. And with the insanely quick news cycles that had become the norm, the murder was doomed to obscurity and quickly forgotten. Now, however, with Detective Mark Vasquez's star rising to its zenith, her making known a possible blemish on the man's image had the potential to start a feeding frenzy among the assembled vultures.
They did not disappoint.
She was back at the house, having slipped away from the melee that resulted after she had asked Mark those questions. She recalled the rush of feet and questions towards the 'Crime Scene' barrier tape which allowed her to slip away unseen. She made it back to the house undetected, or so she hoped.
Once satisfied that she was safe, onward to the news reports and news feeds and the Redditors.
Some of the less scrupulous sites had already started publishing articles – opinion pieces, actually, which skirted the very edges of journalistic integrity – hinting at possible links to organized crime as well as possible foul play in the death of his partner. Hillwood PD had been caught napping; they did not expect the barrage of questions focussing on Detective Mark Vasquez instead of the heinous mass murder he was expected to solve. The sudden death of Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater – whom all the press pointed out just happened to be assisting him at the time – did not go unnoticed either and cast further aspersions on Vasquez's public persona.
As a precaution – and to save face – the higher-ups in Law Enforcement called a hastily cobbled press conference of their own, not even two hours after their detective's PR disaster. They were all too eager to announce that Detective Mark Vasquez was being removed from the case, pending the outcome of a "full and thorough internal investigation".
They're throwing you under the bus, Mark!
On the one hand, Phoebe was reveling in the sadistic pleasure of seeing him suffer. On the other hand, she was relieved at buying Arnold more time to recover, wherever he was. Mark made no mention of a sixteenth body being recovered, which could only mean that Arnold was still alive.
It was daybreak on Wednesday and after the longest Tuesday of her life, Phoebe wanted nothing more than to slip into an indefinite coma. But her uncertainty over Arnold's safety still weighed heavily on her, and frequent attempts to call him only resulted in her being informed that "the person you have dialed is currently unavailable."
Just as she was running through all the possible scenarios for the umpteenth time, her phone rang to her greatest uncertainty.
'Caller Unknown'.
At this stage, it could only be one person. It had to be him. It had to be.
"Brainy!" she bawled all too eagerly. "Tell me it's good news! Please, Brainy, tell me it's good news."
"It's good-ish news." Indeed, it was Brainy. Through working with him, Phoebe had become used to his uncanny – seemingly preternatural – ability to deliver just the right information at just the right time; she was half-expecting this phone call.
"Is he OK? That's all I want to know!" She could feel the tears forming as she spoke the words.
"He's fine, don't worry. He's still banged up from last night. Bruised ribs and a bullet graze." Brainy then heard Phoebe's gasp at that revelation before he continued: "Take it easy! I got a paramedic friend looking at him. She's taking care of him; says he just needs to rest for a bit."
A paramedic friend? Sure, because…Brainy. Wait a minute..!
"You mean he's with you?" Disbelief mingled with hope.
"And how did you find him? For that matter, how did you know where he'd be?" Disbelief now mingled with suspicion.
Brainy mentioned no names as he explained how Smith contacted him as soon as the social media reports reached his department of sudden police communication blackouts in several blocks, including the one containing the cemetery. He mentioned how he had informed Smith of a possible hit on Arnold, organized by Vasquez for Scheck.
"..And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?"
"I told you in the alley; I met with our detective friend at Helga's grave. He knew about Arnold and Helga. I figured he might, but he also mentioned specifics that only someone close to her could have known. Stands to reason he'd want to use his memories of her to lure him into an ambush…somewhere…the cemetery seemed like the most logical place."
Even by Brainy's standards, that was excellent reasoning.
Brainy continued about how Smith and his driver rushed to Arnold's possible location. Smith had access to his own private security detail and was ready to activate it to intervene in the attempt on Arnold's life. He wouldn't need their intervention as he and the driver arrived at the location in time to hear the explosion at the flophouse, then rushed there to find and retrieve an injured Arnold before bringing him back to Brainy's place. There they rendezvoused with Brainy and his paramedic friend – who was rather livid at being woken up at some ungodly hour for another extracurricular medical emergency.
"… don't worry, she's discreet. She won't report the bullet graze to the police."
"She sounds like a keeper," said Phoebe.
"Yeah, she's awesome," replied Brainy in a low-key voice that did little to mask his admiration of his colleague.
He continued with his debriefing, citing how Arnold's phone was terribly banged up after his plummet – "I'll give him one of my own; I've got plenty to spare." – which was why Phoebe couldn't reach him.
"One more thing, Brainy. Where are you now? Give me the address, please. I'd very much like to visit."
"Sorry, Phoebe. No can do. Too risky for you right now after your earlier stunt. You're not exactly the most popular person with the police right now," Brainy solemnly explained.
"In that case…Arnold: May I please speak to him?"
"He thought you'd never ask," replied Brainy. Phoebe then heard the phone change hands before hearing the voice she most wanted to hear.
"Phoebe? So good to hear your voice!" She swore she heard him smile!
"Arnold! Before we chew each other out for our recent gung-ho, reckless, clay-brained, boneheaded, dim-witted actions, I have this to tell you first: I love you too!"
That bitch!
Detective Mark Vasquez was seething with fury.
She fucked everything up!
He was seated in one of the interview rooms in his station, awaiting the arrival of the IAB detectives.
Santalov was right! I should have killed her when I had the chance instead of fucking her!
Following the disaster that was his press conference, Detective Mark Vasquez was summoned to his Captain's office. Much of what the Captain had to say was done so in anger and included such insightful statements as "What the fuck were you thinking", "Why didn't you stick to the fucking script and fuck off when you were done" and "Of all the reporters, you let Phoebe fucking Heyerdahl herself make a complete jackass out of you".
That last one stung particularly painfully since Phoebe's standing as an investigative reporter was second to very few, and her peers would fall over each other to investigate whatever she happened to be investigating and follow up on any hints she let slip.
That fucking bitch! She probably planned this whole thing!
It was all he could do to keep his mind active as he waited on the side of the desk usually reserved for suspects and persons of interest. He had to marvel at how Phoebe had gotten him off the cemetery case and into IAB's crosshairs. At how she'd taken some heat off Shortman and bought him some time to regroup. Something else that vexed at that moment: he couldn't even have someone tail her, (1) because his mind at the time was focussing on the multiple fuckups he was having to address and (2) if word were to get out of the police tailing a reporter of her standing for no apparent probable cause…
Just then, the door to the interview room swung open and in walked the Rat Squad detective, a short, balding middle-aged bureaucrat whose suit made him look more like a bitter, ineffective vice-principal than anything else. The guy from Rat Squad made a show of seating himself opposite Detective Vasquez and using his remote control to switch on the recording equipment before asking: "OK, Detective, we're ready to commence our interview. Let's start with you stating your name and rank for the record."
She's dead, he thought as he answered the question. They're all dead!
For the second time in her lifetime, Olga Pataki-Vasquez was feeling her life unravel.
Was she fated to be the universe's eternal punching bag? What was it about her that precluded her from living a happy, fulfilling life?
The news broadcasts spared no details on how her husband's rise to prominence might have been tainted. Lots of possibles, lots of might-haves, the widespread use of the word "allegedly".
None which was new to her. She recalled how the media was interested in her for all of two hours following her father's conviction, then…welcome obscurity. This would be no different. The morning was breaking; by lunchtime some or other local politician would have said or done something idiotic, causing the vultures to chase new carrion and Mark to be all but forgotten.
Times like these made her grateful for news cycles that could be timed with stopwatches instead of calendars.
She still needed the truth from Mark.
Several truths, in fact.
Joey's murder.
The murder suspect in the hick town.
Phoebe Heyerdahl and how she so easily got under his skin.
That last one worried her more than it perhaps should have. Sure Phoebe Heyerdahl's questions to Mark during the briefing were pointed, and that could have been a hallmark of a good journalist. But…Olga's well-honed ear for voices – a benefit of her stage acting from another lifetime – had warned her that one or more aspects in their voices could have hinted at a history that was more personal than professional.
She needed answers, but she wouldn't get them now. It was daybreak and she'd been up all night following the news broadcasts. She was exhausted; she needed sleep.
One last task, though. She first instant messaged her colleagues at the library, announcing she'd be taking the day off. They'd understand.
Finally, time for some long overdue sleep! She shambled to her bedroom where she plopped onto the bed and allowed herself to be enveloped by the dark, welcoming abyss.
They were up all night, Big Gino following the news feeds while Myron pursued the potential human resources handed to them by Arnold and Phoebe. The focus of the news had changed from the actual massacre at the cemetery to how the lead detective had now been taken off the case and how the investigation may have been publicly compromised.
"That Heyerdahl chick really screwed over that detective, big time!" Gino thought out loudly, recalling how her unseen voice asked the questions that effectively derailed the case.
Myron, having taken a break from the cold calls, concurred: "Badly enough, Sir, to upset several prominent higher-ups in the process. I've noted that a large number of them are also among the names that your friends provided us." He was referring specifically to the Chief of Police, the Mayor and the District Attorney, whom his boss had watched gleefully as they called their separate press conference during the dead morning hours. He'd had a hearty chuckle at how they tripped over themselves to deliver their prepared statements of how the star detective would be removed from the case 'with immediate effect'.
Myron asked, not for the first time: "Sir, are you sure about not calling those three figures right now? Consider that they are at their most vulnerable right this moment."
"Look, Myron," replied his boss of diminutive stature. "We let them stew, we leave them alone, we let them think the shitstorm has blown over. Twenty-four, forty-eight hours, they'll have dropped their guard. Then we call them and make them our offer. I'll bet you a fifty-one percent stake in my organization they'll be willing to listen."
And that's where Myron left his suggestion. Big Gino, his boss whom he respected most highly, never gambled; Big Gino won.
Big Gino finally rose to his feet and announced: "I don't know about you, but I'm off for some shuteye. I suggest you do the same. It's going to be another busy day."
"I love you too."
She'd done it. She'd actually done it.
Oh my god, I said it!
For the first time in her life, Phoebe Heyerdahl had openly professed love to someone other than her parents! Unfortunately, that was before she and Arnold severely admonished each other over their reckless actions. Fortunately, the conversation concluded with both parties expressing their relief at each other's safety and reaffirming their mutual love.
This must be how Helga felt, she mulled over the euphoria that speaking those words – those words! – had visited upon her. Yes, he was dangerous, but…God, that Arnold is so easy to fall in love with!
Soon, however, she was hit full-on by the fatigue accrued over a period of time that included – but was not limited to – a seven-hour road trip, negotiating with an (alleged, of course…) underworld figure, an explosive session of – and she freely admitted it – the best sex she'd ever experienced, before providing support during a protracted gunfight. She managed to change into her sleepwear and climb into bed for some much welcome sleep. The instant her head made contact with the pillow, she was in dreamland.
Dreamland took the form of an overcrowded town square, seemingly infinite in its vastness. She was in the midst of the overcrowding: bodies passing from all directions, bumping against her, walking into her and continuing with no apology. She had no idea where to go, and one direction seemed as random a choice as any other. She walked, not knowing the where or the why. No matter the direction, it was always against the flow. The anonymous, uncaring crowd kept shoving and shunting. Eventually, her movement was a mere function of where she was shoved instead of a product of her own decisions.
Her frustration was building. She wanted to force her way through the masses, but her limbs wouldn't respond to her strong will. She'd scream, but she had no voice.
So the pushing and shoving persisted. Until…she bumped into the back of a stationary person.
A woman. No, a wind-up doll! Life-sized. Looking like…dressed like…Olga? Olga, as Phoebe had last seen in San Lorenzo.
"Olga!" was what Phoebe had wanted to exclaim, but her lack of voice made it a futile gesture.
The doll slowly turned to face Phoebe. It was uncannily modeled after Olga, but the eyes looked hollow and her smile was exaggerated enough to be miles from sincere.
"Olga? It's me! Phoebe! Phoebe Heyerdahl!" She strained, but no sound was leaving her mouth.
The doll raised her right arm… to reveal a pistol in the hand, a pistol trained on Phoebe's head.
More mute pleading followed.
"Olga, wait!" Phoebe wanted to scream.
"I didn't mean to…"
"It just happened, I swear!"
To which the doll was deaf anyway, as she pulled the trigger.
The gunshot and muzzle flash jerked Phoebe awake, and with relief, she surveyed her surroundings before concluding that she was still at the house and that her encounter had just been a dream. But it was so vivid, she recalled.
Olga Pataki: a semi-distant acquaintance from years ago.
Olga Pataki-Vasquez: someone whom she had – unintendedly, dammit! – wronged.
She recalled Arnold's words following the encounter with Big Gino: "…but there's still work to be done."
Was Olga part of that unfinished business? Phoebe decided that she was and resolved to seek her out and confess her sins, come what may. But she was still too sleep-deprived to do anything meaningful. She lay down again and hoped that the next bout of sleep would be more restful.
"Arnold, what the hell possessed you to pass on such sensitive information to Big Gino of all people?"
Smith wasn't gladdened at all by Arnold's revelation that Big Gino was now in possession of Brainy's intel on Santalov's organization. Neither was Brainy.
"Arnold," an equally disturbed Brainy chimed in, "I gave Phoebe that intel to take down an organization, not put another one in power!"
Brainy and Smith were stood around Arnold, who under strict orders from Sheena was resting and as such had not moved from the spare bedroom that hours before was also Sheena's makeshift operating theatre. Going solely on the appearance of this room, Arnold gathered that Brainy lived a life that prioritized the greater good above good housekeeping. Not by much, though, as there was enough immediate evidence to suggest that the furniture was occasionally cleaned, and that laundry days and garbage pickup days were at least adhered to.
"I'm surprised you of all people need to ask that question, Mister Smith," replied Arnold. "If Scheck gets taken out suddenly, do you really think that will be the end of it? He'll leave behind a power vacuum. Who knows how many factions will go to war over his territories and operations? You've got your Aryan Brotherhoods, the Dominicans, Mexicans, not to mention the Serbian and Ukrainian Mobs. And those are the ones I can remember offhand! Can you imagine the casualties, the collateral damage of such a war?"
"And how is Big Gino's outfit any better than those guys?" Brainy remained indignant at Arnold's contention.
"Call it a hunch, but I don't get the feeling that Gino is motivated only by power and profit."
"Of course he is!" Brainy was becoming more aggravated by what he was hearing. "He wants money, he wants power. Ergo, he wants to rule! Christ, Arnold, you said so yourself in the alley: Big Gino's making a play for all of Santalov's assets! Why else would he want them if not to take over the empire?"
"Is he? Are you sure? Or have you just looked at him as another criminal dirtbag? Hell, have you ever looked at his affairs, period?"
Brainy let out a stammer; Smith remained silent. Sheena stood by, struggling to keep up with the not-unfamiliar subject matter which was being discussed in detail not known to regular civilians such as herself.
"From what Phoebe has shown me on him, his tactics and acquisitions have been…interesting, to say the least."
"How's that, Arnold?" asked Smith, trying to compensate for Brainy's sudden brashness by being the adult in the room.
"He avoids conflicts with rival gangs. And when any rival member is killed and his assets and properties are seized and auctioned, Gino's the one who acquires them. Legally and through the proper channels."
"Go on," urged Smith, his interest genuinely piqued.
"Phoebe pointed out how he seems mostly interested in properties in and around our old block. Anything not located there, he flips at a profit and the money goes towards that particular neighborhood. It's like he's trying to reclaim and renovate the block, bit by bit."
Sheena quipped: "That would explain why the clinic in the area isn't falling apart, and the library is well-stocked and up to date. And the weekly soup kitchens…"
"Yes, it does make sense," Smith nodded in agreement. "If he's aiming to reclaim the neighborhood, then it would help to get the locals behind him. And from what you're telling us, everything with him seems above board."
"Bullshit!" Brainy interjected, to a dirty look from Sheena. "He's dirty like the rest of them!"
Arnold continued: "Seems like you were too focussed on Santalov to see the bigger picture. I'll bet you never knew about Scheck pulling his strings until Monday evening, did you? I'll bet you weren't even thinking what would happen after you took down either of them."
"Well…why wouldn't I?" uttered Brainy. He then pivoted: "It's not like you're the only one who suffered from what happened all those years ago! They were also my friends, those who died that day! While you ran away and hid and tried to avoid dealing with the matter, I stayed here! I wanted the bastards who did this to us to see justice, and if I had to make it happen myself, then so be it!" Knowing that he had cursed again, he glanced over to a now even more censorious Sheena. Only…he wasn't feeling apologetic for his utterance, so he continued: "You, meanwhile..! Have all the enemy soldiers you've killed over the years eased your guilt over not being able to save Helga and the neighborhood?"
"Brainy..!" admonished Sheena.
"Have all the people you rescued eased the dreams and nightmares?" Brainy continued.
"Brainy, that's enough! Leave him be!" Sheena reprimanded in a sharper voice.
Smith weighed in as well: "Son, getting pissed off at Arnold won't help your cause at all."
Brainy was too focused on Arnold at the moment even to register the presence of Smith and Sheena: "How about the women you slept with? Did they give you the same sense of unconditional love you always had from Helga but were too fucking dense to realize?"
"Now you're out of line!" Smith's authoritative voice sliced through Brainy's anger and rendered him instantly speechless. And when he turned to Sheena, her look of disappointment in him was all it took for him to realize that his conduct had indeed been improper. He then turned back to Arnold and was surprised to see not anger, but sympathy and understanding in the latter's eyes.
"Brainy," Arnold said softly. "Is this what you really wanted to tell me last night in the alley?"
Brainy's reaction to that question told Arnold that the answer was an unequivocal 'yes, goddammit!'
"Look, I believe you when you say you loved Helga. I even believe you when you say you accepted her decision. But the way you're making this crusade of yours all about her, that's not healthy. What we're involved in, is far bigger than just her. Look at the evidence you've gathered. Why didn't you just turn it all in yourself? With your rep and leverage, it would have been a slam dunk!"
He had Brainy on the back foot, but the latter remained steadfast: "You don't understand Arnold. I have to do this for her! Only, I'm unworthy of the task. That's why I reached out to you through Phoebe because only you deserve to end this madness."
At that, Arnold's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What's this about 'not being worthy' and 'deserving'?" Arnold had noticed Sheena's distaste for swearing, so he was curbing his for her sake.
"It is what it is, Arnold," was Brainy's meek attempt at an explanation.
Which neither Arnold nor anyone else in the room was accepting.
"Brainy," Sheena gently appealed to him with soulful eyes. "Is there something we should know? If so, please tell us the truth. You always looked to me like you were aching to get something off your chest. Remember the park bench? I always wondered if you were in this business by choice."
"Son," added Smith, "you don't strike me as quite the religious type, but I'm sure you know the saying about confession and the soul."
Another prod from Arnold: "Does it have to do with you surviving the blast and not Helga?"
And Brainy did something no-one in else in the room could ever recall seeing him do: he started weeping. He began his tear-stained explanation: "The truth is…she's dead because of me and not Arnold!"
A collective gasp, then a pin-drop, slack-jawed, disbelieving silence.
Then from Brainy: "I killed her. Not Santalov. Not Scheck. Me. I killed Helga Pataki!"
Hmmm, I do believe this is what's referred to as the cliffhanger ending. Anyway, that will be your lot for this chapter. Thank you, one and all, for your ongoing support and please review to let me know your thoughts of the story so far, even if it means calling me a heartless [insert chosen pejorative(s) here] for killing off your favorite character and continuing the story without her. At least believe me when I say it was a decision not taken lightly.
Author's Note: In case you haven't yet googled it, a priapism is an uncontrollable, often painful, erection of the penis. A paramedic would interpret its presence as a sign of nerve damage in the lower spine, or of damage to the lower spine itself. So yes, Sheena was indeed being thorough in her examination, much to Arnold's consternation after the fact.
Author's Note 2: If you think that Arnold and Phoebe are moving too fast in their relationship, then consider what they've faced together in the brief time in which they've been together. Then cast your mind back to the 1994 movie, "Speed", wherein at the end, Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock comment on relationships, intense experiences, and sex. And to repeat what I mentioned in a previous chapter, what's implicit in their character is how both of them have embraced an era of Tinder and easy hook-ups.
Author's Note #3: The section with Phoebe's dream was meant for the previous chapter to tie in further with the concept of Brownian Motion, but pacing issues saw me move it here. Who knows, maybe you read it and thought: "Aha! The writer is continuing with the Brownian Motion motif from the last chapter!"
And finally, here's the Spotify list that most influenced this chapter:
All About Soul - Billy Joel
People Help The People - Birdy
Real Gone Kid - Deacon Blue
White Flag - Dido
Heal - Ellie Goulding
King of New York - Fun Lovin' Criminals
I'll Take Everything - James Blunt
Luv (sic) Part 2 - Nujabes
Tainted - Swing Out Sister
That's it for now. See you all next chapter!