Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, but I finally got it out…I would have
written it earlier, but I was sick and dying and delirious…but anyway, here
it is, and me hope you likey. BTW, yes, it is very Indiana Jones-ish, and
will become more so…I had definite inspiration from good old Spielberg.
Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, I don't own Hey Arnold, yadda yadda yadda…you know.
Part VI
"Rescue"
Maybe the phenomenal luck of Arnold's youth was following Helga, because they reached the trucks outside of the jail without a mishap. There was a guard by the trucks, but a light blow from Raoul quickly put him out of commission.
Inside the truck, Sam unchained the others and removed their manacles. Helga climbed up into the front with him while Raoul and Katie kept watch in the back. Sam had barely turned on the engine, however, when a higher ranking officer than the one Raoul had knocked out came around.
"Hey! You aren't supposed to…" he started. Then, realizing what was happening, he turned and yelled something in Arabic. Immediately there was an uproar, and guards began pouring out of the jail.
"Drive! Drive!" Helga screamed. Sam slammed his foot on the acceleration and drove off in a cloud of dust that left the guards coughing behind them.
But the guards were piling into the remaining five trucks and following them. Sam passed his gun back to Raoul, who began shooting at the trucks, but they were moving fast over a bumpy road and his aim was off. The other trucks started to close in on them.
"Take the wheel," Sam said suddenly to Helga.
"What?" she asked, more than a little frantic.
"We're heading towards a marketplace. I don't want people getting hurt. I need to get back there, and you're the only one who knows the way. Take the wheel." Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and got ready to move.
Helga reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, holding the truck on course. Sam stood up as best he could in the cramped cab and let Helga slide underneath him, replacing his foot on the gas with her own. The truck slowed momentarily as she took over, then sped up again as her weight came down on the pedal. Sam clambered over her and into the back.
Suddenly Helga heard a gunshot and a sharp *ping!* "What was that?" she yelled back, afraid to take her eyes off the road. She glanced at the speedometer. Ninety-five miles an hour! She didn't know these old trucks could reach those speeds!
"Sam hit an engine," Katie replied, climbing in to join Helga in the cab. "He's aiming for the engines and tires. He's an incredible shot. He's also a bit reckless. I'm the steady one."
Helga smiled, swerving around a chicken stand. "Arnold got a little bit of both, I think," she said.
The truck that Sam had hit, now with a tire blown and engine problems, steered into the chicken stand. Trying to avoid it, a second truck swerved and hit a third with a frighteningly violent collision.
"Well, that leaves two," Katie said, surprisingly calm. Helga remembered suddenly the adventure stories that Arnold's grandfather had sometimes regaled the neighborhood kids with. Of course Arnold's father would be a crack shot, his mother more levelheaded than Arnold himself. After all, look at the lives they'd had. She was suddenly fiercely angry at anyone who could put such wonderful, fiery, exciting people in jail, break their spirits like that, try to push them down. What a waste.
And she was saving Arnold from that very fate—and reuniting him with his parents. She switched abruptly to joy, a thrill at the happiness she was bringing to her love.
She checked her watch. Six o' clock. They had a half hour, maybe an hour, to get to Arnold's jail, sneak in, free Arnold, and sneak out. She doubted that they could accomplish an all-out jailbreak like the one they had just conducted—Arnold's jail was far more heavily guarded. She needed a plan—and she knew just who could help her.
"Katie, when they execute someone around here, what do they do?" she asked the woman next to her. "What's the procedure?"
Katie explained, as they sped along. They were out of the marketplace now, with two trucks remaining on their tail. They came to a narrow, winding road on the side of a rocky dune. Helga was glad she had remembered how to get back, because the last thing she wanted was to be lost in the desert.
Sam took careful aim and fired. He hit the windshield of the leading truck, sending a maze of fine, hairline cracks through the glass. The driver, his vision suddenly impaired, was forced to slam on the brakes to keep from steering off the road. The truck behind him slammed into him, the force of the collision knocking both trucks down the side of the dune, the engines exploding into orange and crimson flames.
Helga relaxed a little. Well, that was one thing taken care of.
As the jail loomed ahead in the distance, Helga slowed to a more reasonable speed. Now to execute the sketchy plan she had come up with, aided by Katie's information. All they needed was a house…there. A low, off-white stucco building rose out of the sands. She drove up to it.
George Samson hurried to answer his ringing doorbell. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he called. He opened the door.
A very beautiful blond woman in a ripped, dirty black cocktail dress and no shoes stood in front of his door, looking like she hadn't showered in days, and flanked by a very, very large young man and a somewhat older man in uniform aiming a gun at his face. An older woman stood behind them. The blonde spoke.
"Hi. Helga Pataki. Listen, we need some help, and we're in kind of hurry. Shower, food, and new clothing, and we'll be on our way. Care to help?" She spoke in a determined, no-nonsense tone, hands on hips, legs akimbo. George shifted his gaze to the man with the gun, whose finger tightened on the trigger.
George smiled nervously. "Come right on in, Ms. Pataki!"
The blonde smiled, and the four escaped prisoners walked into George Samson's house.
Fifteen minutes later, Helga and her companions let the house, newly washed, fed, and clothed in traditional robes that were excellent disguises. Helga smiled under her veil.
"Wow, people sure are friendly when you use brute force," she said aloud. Sam and Katie laughed, looking more carefree than she had ever seen them. Cleanliness and a small snack did wonders for people deprived of life's simple pleasures for five years. Even Raoul looked more cheerful.
They piled back into the truck and approached the jail. The moment they entered, they were stopped by a guard. Quickly Sam explained, as they had rehearsed, that they were a family, there to visit their cousin. The others remained silent as Sam used the rudimentary Arabic he had picked up while there to appeal to the guard.
After a few minutes, the guard relented. He led them down a hall, to the cell they claimed their "cousin" was staying at. The moment they were out of sight of any other jail officials, Raoul gave the guard a light blow on the jaw that knocked him out. Helga gave her companions their orders in a low whisper.
"All right, you all know what to do, right?" They nodded. "Fine. Good luck, and I'll see you on the outside, if this works."
"When this works," Katie corrected. "You have to keep up hope."
Sam nodded. "She's right. This will work, if we all work together on it."
Helga smiled wistfully at Arnold's parents. "He is so like you," she whispered. "Thank you." Without waiting for a response, she disappeared down the hall.
The plan was in motion. All they could do now was hope.
* * * * * * *
Arnold could tell by the quality of the light in his cell that it was almost sunset. He looked down at the letter in his hand. It had taken him hours to compose. There was a lot he needed to say to Helga, and he only had once chance to say it right. He folded the thin paper into one of those paper footballs, the kind they used to flick back and forth across their desks as children. He hoped she would at least see the humor in that—a football from Football Head. Luckily, the triangle that was left when he folded it was one of the only places on the paper not covered with writing. He scrawled her name on it and capped his pen, awaiting his time.
He didn't have to wait long. Just as the light began to turn crimson, he heard the bolt on his cell door slide back. The door creaked open. Briefly he thought about making a run for it, but quickly scratched the idea. They would only shoot him then, and he preferred to die with dignity.
"You will confess before the Father first," the guard told him as they chained his manacles together.
That surprised him. "Confess?" he asked. "But I'm not Catholic."
"You will confess," the guard repeated, giving him a level stare. He sighed. What was the point in arguing over his theological beliefs now, anyway? It wasn't like it would make a difference.
"Who do I give this letter to?" he asked the guard, showing him the small triangular paper clenched tightly in his fist.
"Give it to the Father," the guard replied shortly.
Well, that simplified things. Holding his head up high, he allowed himself to be led down the hall towards his execution. He didn't see Niles anywhere, but he had a feeling the worm would pop up at the actual shooting. No way his enemy was going to miss this.
He was led out onto the ground floor, past the yard where the shooting would take place. At the sight of the guards lined up and the high stone walls, the smoothly swept yellow earth and the glistening silver barrels of the guns, he felt a swooping in his stomach, a faintness, and he knew if he didn't look away he would be sick. He closed his eyes as they led him out of the sun, into a small, cool, darkened cell, where a priest in a hooded black robe waited.
Suddenly it hit home to him. This was it. He would never see his grandparents again, or Gerald, or the boarders, or any of his old friends. He would never return to Brooklyn, never feel the Atlantic Ocean around his ankles or the rain on his face. He would never see the shores of America looming ahead of him, never be buried under rolling green hills. He wouldn't marry, or hear the patter of little feet, or grow old with the one he loved. If he was to be killed at sunset—why, he wouldn't even see the stars one last time. It was that last thought that saddened him, that the stars were to be taken away without him bidding them farewell.
Well, at least he would be with his parents again. He had long since given up hope in their being alive, but perhaps, if there was indeed an afterlife, he would be reunited with them in it. That was the best he had to hope for.
He felt them shove him gently into the cell, and he fell on his knees on the cool earth as the door closed slowly behind him. He lifted his eyes to the priest's face, obscured by the hood.
"Hello, Father," he said. There was no response. Was this normal? He didn't know. He had never confessed before, and said so.
"I don't really know what to say," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, but I'm not Catholic. I'm…I don't know what I am. I guess I'm agnostic. I was always raised to do good without any reward in this life or the next."
There was still no response. Suddenly he remembered the letter, its corner jabbing into the palm of his hand.
"Oh, I suppose I should give you this," he said, holding out the letter, both of his hands moving together because of his chains. "They told me to give it to you."
The priest took the letter. The silence was making Arnold uncomfortable, and he felt he had to fill it up with some kind of explanation. "It's for a girl, an American, in the jail on the other side of town. Helga Pataki…or Helga Geraldine, she changed her name, I always forget. She's blond, thin…very beautiful…"
He remembered a comment he'd made before. "I suppose you don't think that I've been good…that I have sins that I need to confess. I guess I do, but I really have tried to be good. You must have many people who tell you that they are innocent, just victims of circumstance, and I know I'm not perfect. But I've tried, I really have. Can you believe that, Father?" He knew there was a note of hysteria creeping into his voice, but he couldn't help it.
The priest spoke at last. "I believe you."
Arnold froze. That was no man's voice! "I…Helga?"
The cloaked figure put a finger to the lips he couldn't see, then pushed back the hood enough so that he could see her face. And there she was, Helga G. Pataki, in the flesh! He was flabbergasted.
"But…Helga…how did you? What did…?"
She smiled. "I overheard Eddie talking about your execution. Good thing he doesn't know I speak French, right? So I broke out, with the help of some friends, and came to rescue you. You'll like my friends," she added as an afterthought, her smile turning obscure.
His mind was reeling, so he settled on the last comment. "Male friends?" he asked, suddenly unreasonably jealous.
She exploded with silent laughter, as if something about the question amused her and she was trying to keep quiet. "Oh, just you wait…" she giggled, trying to keep her voice down.
With an effort, she got herself under control. "You'll see," she said finally, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Now, I brought you some food, because you'll need your strength. Eat it slowly, or I'll take it away from you." From under the voluminous priest's robe she produced a flask of water, a flask of milk, bread, cheese, and some fresh fruit. Arnold launched into the food, trying to follow orders and eat slowly.
"What happened to the real priest?" he asked between mouthfuls.
Helga smiled. "Oh, he's in his chambers. He was a real sweetheart. I explained the whole story to him, and he gladly agreed to let me come in his place. He'll just say that I overpowered him and he couldn't fight back because he doesn't believe in violence. Even if they don't believe him, they won't do anything to him, because they're too religious around here to hurt a man of the cloth. You're lucky you landed yourself in such a Catholic jail, not an Islamic one."
Arnold nodded, drinking deeply from the milk flask. "I haven't had milk in six months," he gasped. Helga grinned.
"Wait 'til you have your first Yahoo," she teased.
"Mmm, Yahoo," he said, closing his eyes. "Just drink it."
She laughed. "Shut up. You sound like Stinky. Now finish."
"What's the plan?" he asked, polishing off the last of the dates. He felt much better, having eaten a real meal for the first time in months.
She glanced at a chunky man's watch around her wrist. "In a few minutes they'll come and get you. I'll put my hood up and follow you out into the yard. I'll make the sign of the cross over you. Then Eddie," her nose wrinkled in disgust at the name, "will offer you your last request. Ask for a cigarette."
His brow wrinkled in perplexity. "But I don't smoke."
She rolled her eyes. "Not for your enjoyment, although personally I would kill for a drag. Just…you'll see." She continued, pulling keys out of her robe. "I'm going to unlock the manacles. If you turn them around and bend your fingers down like this over them," she demonstrated, "they'll stay unlocked but won't open. When I give you the signal, just jerk your hands apart and they should open. Then, when I run, you follow me or anyone else I tell you to. I'll have three friends, a woman and two men, and I trust them with my life, and yours. So do as they say too, okay?"
He nodded. "Helga, how can I ever thank you…"
She put a finger on his lips. "Don't thank me, Hair Boy. How could I not save you? Now you just keep quiet and remember the plan."
He nodded, enjoying the feeling of her finger on his lips. Maybe he would marry after all. Suddenly something occurred to him. "Helga, do you even know how to make the sign of the cross?"
She paused, then laughed. "Oops."
He shook his head in amused exasperation, then showed her. Suddenly they heard footsteps approaching. "Helga, if we don't make it…" he began.
"We will make it," she replied firmly.
"But if we don't…" Swiftly, he leaned forward and kissed her.
As he pulled away they heard the key turning in the lock. Helga pulled her hood down over her face, making it impossible to see, let alone read. The door opened, and Arnold was jerked roughly out, remembering at the last minute to keep his hands closed over his manacles.
He was led out into the yard, facing the row of guards, their rifles gleaming in the fading light. The sickness that he had felt before wasn't as bad now. He could still die, but it was better to go down fighting than to be executed for no reason except integrity—and making it with the girl Edward Niles wanted.
He could sense Helga behind him now, keeping pace with the little procession. Arnold was placed in the proper position in front of the firing squad. Helga stood in front of him, lifting her head a little so that only he could see her face under the cowl, and winked as she made the sign of the cross over him. He tried not to smile back.
Sure enough, Niles was there, a sinister smile on his too-perfect face. "Well, all of your pride hasn't gotten you anywhere now, has it?" he asked.
Arnold didn't answer, just looked levelly back at him. Something in his gaze seemed to unsettle Niles, because he looked away. "Prepare to die, then," he warned Arnold. "Guards!" he called. "Ready!"
"Don't I get a last request?" Arnold interrupted suddenly.
Niles glowered. "Of course. How could I have forgotten? At ease!" he called to the guards. They lowered their rifles.
"What would you like, then?" he asked Arnold. Arnold pretended to think it over.
"I'd like a cigarette, if you have one, you warthog-faced buffoon," he said civilly.
The comment seemed to irritate Niles for some reason, but he dug into his pocket and produced a cigarette, which he placed in Arnold's mouth.
"Care to light it, you flea-bitten excuse for a human being?" Arnold asked with some difficulty, trying to keep the cigarette from falling. He could see some of the guards smirking.
Niles' glare deepened, but he struck a match and lit Arnold's cigarette for him. Arnold inhaled, glad that he had let Gerald convince him into learning how to inhale when they were in high school. He let a thin stream of smoke issue from between his lips.
"Satisfied?" Niles asked. Arnold nodded. "Good." He turned to the firing squad. Arnold suffered sudden misgivings—when was Helga going to implement her plan?
"Ready!" Niles called out. The squad lifted their rifles to their shoulders. Arnold tried to relax. Helga was just waiting for the right opportunity, wasn't she?
"Aim!" Every rifle turned to face Arnold. His stomach was doing flip- flops and he was sweating profusely. Come on, Helga, old girl, give the command, he begged internally. Still there was silence from behind him.
The world suddenly seemed very small, and Arnold could see nothing but twelve rifles pointed straight at him. The blood was pounding in his ears, and he felt faint. He heard Niles' low snicker nearby. Twelve fingers tightened on twelve triggers.
"Fire!"
Heh heh heh…I never promised no more cliffhangers, did I? Oh, and there are more to come…*evil laughter*…R&R, if you please!
Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, I don't own Hey Arnold, yadda yadda yadda…you know.
Part VI
"Rescue"
Maybe the phenomenal luck of Arnold's youth was following Helga, because they reached the trucks outside of the jail without a mishap. There was a guard by the trucks, but a light blow from Raoul quickly put him out of commission.
Inside the truck, Sam unchained the others and removed their manacles. Helga climbed up into the front with him while Raoul and Katie kept watch in the back. Sam had barely turned on the engine, however, when a higher ranking officer than the one Raoul had knocked out came around.
"Hey! You aren't supposed to…" he started. Then, realizing what was happening, he turned and yelled something in Arabic. Immediately there was an uproar, and guards began pouring out of the jail.
"Drive! Drive!" Helga screamed. Sam slammed his foot on the acceleration and drove off in a cloud of dust that left the guards coughing behind them.
But the guards were piling into the remaining five trucks and following them. Sam passed his gun back to Raoul, who began shooting at the trucks, but they were moving fast over a bumpy road and his aim was off. The other trucks started to close in on them.
"Take the wheel," Sam said suddenly to Helga.
"What?" she asked, more than a little frantic.
"We're heading towards a marketplace. I don't want people getting hurt. I need to get back there, and you're the only one who knows the way. Take the wheel." Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and got ready to move.
Helga reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, holding the truck on course. Sam stood up as best he could in the cramped cab and let Helga slide underneath him, replacing his foot on the gas with her own. The truck slowed momentarily as she took over, then sped up again as her weight came down on the pedal. Sam clambered over her and into the back.
Suddenly Helga heard a gunshot and a sharp *ping!* "What was that?" she yelled back, afraid to take her eyes off the road. She glanced at the speedometer. Ninety-five miles an hour! She didn't know these old trucks could reach those speeds!
"Sam hit an engine," Katie replied, climbing in to join Helga in the cab. "He's aiming for the engines and tires. He's an incredible shot. He's also a bit reckless. I'm the steady one."
Helga smiled, swerving around a chicken stand. "Arnold got a little bit of both, I think," she said.
The truck that Sam had hit, now with a tire blown and engine problems, steered into the chicken stand. Trying to avoid it, a second truck swerved and hit a third with a frighteningly violent collision.
"Well, that leaves two," Katie said, surprisingly calm. Helga remembered suddenly the adventure stories that Arnold's grandfather had sometimes regaled the neighborhood kids with. Of course Arnold's father would be a crack shot, his mother more levelheaded than Arnold himself. After all, look at the lives they'd had. She was suddenly fiercely angry at anyone who could put such wonderful, fiery, exciting people in jail, break their spirits like that, try to push them down. What a waste.
And she was saving Arnold from that very fate—and reuniting him with his parents. She switched abruptly to joy, a thrill at the happiness she was bringing to her love.
She checked her watch. Six o' clock. They had a half hour, maybe an hour, to get to Arnold's jail, sneak in, free Arnold, and sneak out. She doubted that they could accomplish an all-out jailbreak like the one they had just conducted—Arnold's jail was far more heavily guarded. She needed a plan—and she knew just who could help her.
"Katie, when they execute someone around here, what do they do?" she asked the woman next to her. "What's the procedure?"
Katie explained, as they sped along. They were out of the marketplace now, with two trucks remaining on their tail. They came to a narrow, winding road on the side of a rocky dune. Helga was glad she had remembered how to get back, because the last thing she wanted was to be lost in the desert.
Sam took careful aim and fired. He hit the windshield of the leading truck, sending a maze of fine, hairline cracks through the glass. The driver, his vision suddenly impaired, was forced to slam on the brakes to keep from steering off the road. The truck behind him slammed into him, the force of the collision knocking both trucks down the side of the dune, the engines exploding into orange and crimson flames.
Helga relaxed a little. Well, that was one thing taken care of.
As the jail loomed ahead in the distance, Helga slowed to a more reasonable speed. Now to execute the sketchy plan she had come up with, aided by Katie's information. All they needed was a house…there. A low, off-white stucco building rose out of the sands. She drove up to it.
George Samson hurried to answer his ringing doorbell. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he called. He opened the door.
A very beautiful blond woman in a ripped, dirty black cocktail dress and no shoes stood in front of his door, looking like she hadn't showered in days, and flanked by a very, very large young man and a somewhat older man in uniform aiming a gun at his face. An older woman stood behind them. The blonde spoke.
"Hi. Helga Pataki. Listen, we need some help, and we're in kind of hurry. Shower, food, and new clothing, and we'll be on our way. Care to help?" She spoke in a determined, no-nonsense tone, hands on hips, legs akimbo. George shifted his gaze to the man with the gun, whose finger tightened on the trigger.
George smiled nervously. "Come right on in, Ms. Pataki!"
The blonde smiled, and the four escaped prisoners walked into George Samson's house.
Fifteen minutes later, Helga and her companions let the house, newly washed, fed, and clothed in traditional robes that were excellent disguises. Helga smiled under her veil.
"Wow, people sure are friendly when you use brute force," she said aloud. Sam and Katie laughed, looking more carefree than she had ever seen them. Cleanliness and a small snack did wonders for people deprived of life's simple pleasures for five years. Even Raoul looked more cheerful.
They piled back into the truck and approached the jail. The moment they entered, they were stopped by a guard. Quickly Sam explained, as they had rehearsed, that they were a family, there to visit their cousin. The others remained silent as Sam used the rudimentary Arabic he had picked up while there to appeal to the guard.
After a few minutes, the guard relented. He led them down a hall, to the cell they claimed their "cousin" was staying at. The moment they were out of sight of any other jail officials, Raoul gave the guard a light blow on the jaw that knocked him out. Helga gave her companions their orders in a low whisper.
"All right, you all know what to do, right?" They nodded. "Fine. Good luck, and I'll see you on the outside, if this works."
"When this works," Katie corrected. "You have to keep up hope."
Sam nodded. "She's right. This will work, if we all work together on it."
Helga smiled wistfully at Arnold's parents. "He is so like you," she whispered. "Thank you." Without waiting for a response, she disappeared down the hall.
The plan was in motion. All they could do now was hope.
* * * * * * *
Arnold could tell by the quality of the light in his cell that it was almost sunset. He looked down at the letter in his hand. It had taken him hours to compose. There was a lot he needed to say to Helga, and he only had once chance to say it right. He folded the thin paper into one of those paper footballs, the kind they used to flick back and forth across their desks as children. He hoped she would at least see the humor in that—a football from Football Head. Luckily, the triangle that was left when he folded it was one of the only places on the paper not covered with writing. He scrawled her name on it and capped his pen, awaiting his time.
He didn't have to wait long. Just as the light began to turn crimson, he heard the bolt on his cell door slide back. The door creaked open. Briefly he thought about making a run for it, but quickly scratched the idea. They would only shoot him then, and he preferred to die with dignity.
"You will confess before the Father first," the guard told him as they chained his manacles together.
That surprised him. "Confess?" he asked. "But I'm not Catholic."
"You will confess," the guard repeated, giving him a level stare. He sighed. What was the point in arguing over his theological beliefs now, anyway? It wasn't like it would make a difference.
"Who do I give this letter to?" he asked the guard, showing him the small triangular paper clenched tightly in his fist.
"Give it to the Father," the guard replied shortly.
Well, that simplified things. Holding his head up high, he allowed himself to be led down the hall towards his execution. He didn't see Niles anywhere, but he had a feeling the worm would pop up at the actual shooting. No way his enemy was going to miss this.
He was led out onto the ground floor, past the yard where the shooting would take place. At the sight of the guards lined up and the high stone walls, the smoothly swept yellow earth and the glistening silver barrels of the guns, he felt a swooping in his stomach, a faintness, and he knew if he didn't look away he would be sick. He closed his eyes as they led him out of the sun, into a small, cool, darkened cell, where a priest in a hooded black robe waited.
Suddenly it hit home to him. This was it. He would never see his grandparents again, or Gerald, or the boarders, or any of his old friends. He would never return to Brooklyn, never feel the Atlantic Ocean around his ankles or the rain on his face. He would never see the shores of America looming ahead of him, never be buried under rolling green hills. He wouldn't marry, or hear the patter of little feet, or grow old with the one he loved. If he was to be killed at sunset—why, he wouldn't even see the stars one last time. It was that last thought that saddened him, that the stars were to be taken away without him bidding them farewell.
Well, at least he would be with his parents again. He had long since given up hope in their being alive, but perhaps, if there was indeed an afterlife, he would be reunited with them in it. That was the best he had to hope for.
He felt them shove him gently into the cell, and he fell on his knees on the cool earth as the door closed slowly behind him. He lifted his eyes to the priest's face, obscured by the hood.
"Hello, Father," he said. There was no response. Was this normal? He didn't know. He had never confessed before, and said so.
"I don't really know what to say," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, but I'm not Catholic. I'm…I don't know what I am. I guess I'm agnostic. I was always raised to do good without any reward in this life or the next."
There was still no response. Suddenly he remembered the letter, its corner jabbing into the palm of his hand.
"Oh, I suppose I should give you this," he said, holding out the letter, both of his hands moving together because of his chains. "They told me to give it to you."
The priest took the letter. The silence was making Arnold uncomfortable, and he felt he had to fill it up with some kind of explanation. "It's for a girl, an American, in the jail on the other side of town. Helga Pataki…or Helga Geraldine, she changed her name, I always forget. She's blond, thin…very beautiful…"
He remembered a comment he'd made before. "I suppose you don't think that I've been good…that I have sins that I need to confess. I guess I do, but I really have tried to be good. You must have many people who tell you that they are innocent, just victims of circumstance, and I know I'm not perfect. But I've tried, I really have. Can you believe that, Father?" He knew there was a note of hysteria creeping into his voice, but he couldn't help it.
The priest spoke at last. "I believe you."
Arnold froze. That was no man's voice! "I…Helga?"
The cloaked figure put a finger to the lips he couldn't see, then pushed back the hood enough so that he could see her face. And there she was, Helga G. Pataki, in the flesh! He was flabbergasted.
"But…Helga…how did you? What did…?"
She smiled. "I overheard Eddie talking about your execution. Good thing he doesn't know I speak French, right? So I broke out, with the help of some friends, and came to rescue you. You'll like my friends," she added as an afterthought, her smile turning obscure.
His mind was reeling, so he settled on the last comment. "Male friends?" he asked, suddenly unreasonably jealous.
She exploded with silent laughter, as if something about the question amused her and she was trying to keep quiet. "Oh, just you wait…" she giggled, trying to keep her voice down.
With an effort, she got herself under control. "You'll see," she said finally, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Now, I brought you some food, because you'll need your strength. Eat it slowly, or I'll take it away from you." From under the voluminous priest's robe she produced a flask of water, a flask of milk, bread, cheese, and some fresh fruit. Arnold launched into the food, trying to follow orders and eat slowly.
"What happened to the real priest?" he asked between mouthfuls.
Helga smiled. "Oh, he's in his chambers. He was a real sweetheart. I explained the whole story to him, and he gladly agreed to let me come in his place. He'll just say that I overpowered him and he couldn't fight back because he doesn't believe in violence. Even if they don't believe him, they won't do anything to him, because they're too religious around here to hurt a man of the cloth. You're lucky you landed yourself in such a Catholic jail, not an Islamic one."
Arnold nodded, drinking deeply from the milk flask. "I haven't had milk in six months," he gasped. Helga grinned.
"Wait 'til you have your first Yahoo," she teased.
"Mmm, Yahoo," he said, closing his eyes. "Just drink it."
She laughed. "Shut up. You sound like Stinky. Now finish."
"What's the plan?" he asked, polishing off the last of the dates. He felt much better, having eaten a real meal for the first time in months.
She glanced at a chunky man's watch around her wrist. "In a few minutes they'll come and get you. I'll put my hood up and follow you out into the yard. I'll make the sign of the cross over you. Then Eddie," her nose wrinkled in disgust at the name, "will offer you your last request. Ask for a cigarette."
His brow wrinkled in perplexity. "But I don't smoke."
She rolled her eyes. "Not for your enjoyment, although personally I would kill for a drag. Just…you'll see." She continued, pulling keys out of her robe. "I'm going to unlock the manacles. If you turn them around and bend your fingers down like this over them," she demonstrated, "they'll stay unlocked but won't open. When I give you the signal, just jerk your hands apart and they should open. Then, when I run, you follow me or anyone else I tell you to. I'll have three friends, a woman and two men, and I trust them with my life, and yours. So do as they say too, okay?"
He nodded. "Helga, how can I ever thank you…"
She put a finger on his lips. "Don't thank me, Hair Boy. How could I not save you? Now you just keep quiet and remember the plan."
He nodded, enjoying the feeling of her finger on his lips. Maybe he would marry after all. Suddenly something occurred to him. "Helga, do you even know how to make the sign of the cross?"
She paused, then laughed. "Oops."
He shook his head in amused exasperation, then showed her. Suddenly they heard footsteps approaching. "Helga, if we don't make it…" he began.
"We will make it," she replied firmly.
"But if we don't…" Swiftly, he leaned forward and kissed her.
As he pulled away they heard the key turning in the lock. Helga pulled her hood down over her face, making it impossible to see, let alone read. The door opened, and Arnold was jerked roughly out, remembering at the last minute to keep his hands closed over his manacles.
He was led out into the yard, facing the row of guards, their rifles gleaming in the fading light. The sickness that he had felt before wasn't as bad now. He could still die, but it was better to go down fighting than to be executed for no reason except integrity—and making it with the girl Edward Niles wanted.
He could sense Helga behind him now, keeping pace with the little procession. Arnold was placed in the proper position in front of the firing squad. Helga stood in front of him, lifting her head a little so that only he could see her face under the cowl, and winked as she made the sign of the cross over him. He tried not to smile back.
Sure enough, Niles was there, a sinister smile on his too-perfect face. "Well, all of your pride hasn't gotten you anywhere now, has it?" he asked.
Arnold didn't answer, just looked levelly back at him. Something in his gaze seemed to unsettle Niles, because he looked away. "Prepare to die, then," he warned Arnold. "Guards!" he called. "Ready!"
"Don't I get a last request?" Arnold interrupted suddenly.
Niles glowered. "Of course. How could I have forgotten? At ease!" he called to the guards. They lowered their rifles.
"What would you like, then?" he asked Arnold. Arnold pretended to think it over.
"I'd like a cigarette, if you have one, you warthog-faced buffoon," he said civilly.
The comment seemed to irritate Niles for some reason, but he dug into his pocket and produced a cigarette, which he placed in Arnold's mouth.
"Care to light it, you flea-bitten excuse for a human being?" Arnold asked with some difficulty, trying to keep the cigarette from falling. He could see some of the guards smirking.
Niles' glare deepened, but he struck a match and lit Arnold's cigarette for him. Arnold inhaled, glad that he had let Gerald convince him into learning how to inhale when they were in high school. He let a thin stream of smoke issue from between his lips.
"Satisfied?" Niles asked. Arnold nodded. "Good." He turned to the firing squad. Arnold suffered sudden misgivings—when was Helga going to implement her plan?
"Ready!" Niles called out. The squad lifted their rifles to their shoulders. Arnold tried to relax. Helga was just waiting for the right opportunity, wasn't she?
"Aim!" Every rifle turned to face Arnold. His stomach was doing flip- flops and he was sweating profusely. Come on, Helga, old girl, give the command, he begged internally. Still there was silence from behind him.
The world suddenly seemed very small, and Arnold could see nothing but twelve rifles pointed straight at him. The blood was pounding in his ears, and he felt faint. He heard Niles' low snicker nearby. Twelve fingers tightened on twelve triggers.
"Fire!"
Heh heh heh…I never promised no more cliffhangers, did I? Oh, and there are more to come…*evil laughter*…R&R, if you please!