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: Brainy breaks down and reveals what happened in the rubble seventeen years ago. Can Arnold forgive him? Phoebe reaches out to Olga and immediately regrets it when she succeeds. Scheck isn't satisfied with a draw: Arnold must die!
So let us raise the curtain to the latest chapter!
17. Alea Iacta Est
And so it's come down to this. Brilliant!
Those were Phoebe's thoughts as she was sat in Olga's lounge, across from her shotgun-toting hostess. Shotgun notwithstanding, Olga had laid out a modest spread for her guest on the coffee table that separated the two.
Olga had aged remarkably well. She'd grown her blonde hair to shoulder-length, and her face showed little evidence of her advanced years. She wore an ankle-length floral dress that flattered her still-lithe figure and highlighted her not-too-modest bosom, proclaiming 'She's still got it!' to the world.
"So sorry for the slim pickings, Miss Heyerdahl, but then again I didn't have much time for anything more substantial. Plus, I wasn't entirely sure at what time you'd arrive," Olga explained herself in a smiling impersonation of a dutiful housewife fearing reprisal from her husband.
At least Olga's spread provided a temporary distraction for Phoebe from the borderline off-her-meds individual with the firearm. Surrounding an ornate teapot was a selection of treats that included shortbread, madeleines and mini cupcakes.
Short notice? This? Yeah right!
Phoebe decided that pacification might be her best option, so she moved to help herself to some of the treats. "I do appreciate the effort you've put into entertaining me. Thank you so much," she said in an accepting voice that she hoped would mask her nervousness.
"You know," Olga interjected, her smile unwavering. "I don't recall giving you explicit permission to help yourself to my things." Then, as the slightest hint of anger crept across her still-smiling visage: "But…somehow I get the impression that it wouldn't be the first time something like that has happened."
Phoebe's brain seized at Olga's conclusion. She was rendered silent and immobile almost instantaneously.
"Well, am I right? Or how would you have said it way back when?" Olga followed up with an almost pitch-perfect rendition of Phoebe's voice: "Is there any accuracy to my hypothesis?" She then reverted to her normal voice: "Yes, I believe that's more you!"
Olga capped off her musings by giving the shotgun a small but menacing wiggle.
Fuck you, impulse control! It was the only thought that immediately came to Phoebe's mind.
Two hours ago Arnold wanted to kill Brainy. That was when the latter had revealed his role in the death of Helga Geraldine Pataki.
Now, he wasn't nearly as blinkered in that intention of his. Two hours of subsequent internal reflection, of considering any number of similar actions he'd taken in his military career, had calmed him down. It didn't hurt either when Brainy offered him a beer, in all likelihood against doctor's orders. But the beer fulfilled its purpose; it helped lighten the tone of the ensuing conversation. And what an enlightening conversation it turned out to be.
"No effing way!" cried a disbelieving Arnold at Brainy's latest revelation. Two hours ago, these two men were connected only through an untouchable white-collar criminal and a long-deceased blonde girl. They weren't exactly spoilt for choice of conversational topics, but the fates of their schoolmates seemed as good a starting point as any.
"God's honest truth!" reassured Brainy, having revealed the fate of Patricia Smith.
If Brainy was to be believed, then Big Patty was an up-and-comer in the MMA circuit and not far away from a UFC, WAKO or ISKA title shot. Arnold, who didn't particularly follow combat sports, was taken aback at the revelation.
"Man, you won't recognize her at all! She's now built like a cross between Holly Holm and Vonda Ward!"
Again, Arnold didn't catch any of the references so all he could do was nod in agreement.
Damn, but Brainy was an encyclopedia! Any name Arnold could think of, Brainy had the info and the details.
Lila Sawyer (Of course, she'd pique his interest…): "Married to Lorenzo; now living in Canada; one son."
The Johanssens: "Parents retired to Florida with Gerald's ashes; Jamie-O runs his own custom car shop in Hillwood while supporting Timberly through college. Gerald's death seems to have brought the two siblings closer."
How about the Lloyds? "Moved to another part of Hillwood; successfully conceived another child, a daughter; happiest day of their life."
And it was the same pattern for pretty much everyone else.
The Horowitzes.
The Bermans.
The Petersons.
The Gamelthorpes.
Park.
Wartz.
Simmons.
Anyone, no matter how obscure. Arnold would mention a name; Brainy would tell of their fate and current status with no beat missed.
"What about you, Brainy?" It was quite a broadside from Arnold. "How are your parents?"
Hesitation from the spook. "Divorced," he reluctantly admitted. "And it's my fault once again."
"Oh?"
"After the blast, I was having nightmares every night, acting out at anything, seeing trouble everywhere, suspecting everyone was out to get me. Drove a wedge between Mom and Pop as they tried to deal with me and bounce me from shrink to shrink. It all eventually got too much for Pop and he split."
"Shit, sorry. I didn't know…"
"How could you know? I still see them every so often. Birthdays and holidays. Get this, I tell them I run a consultancy firm. I also tell them it's involved with law enforcement and very much hush-hush so neither one has asked any in-depth questions about my job…"
"Brainy, I'm curious," Arnold followed up in a sober tone. "What are your plans if we ever settle up with Scheck?
Brainy hesitated some more, before admitting: "Never really thought about it. Kinda living day by day, to be honest."
"What about your parents? Ever try to patch things up with them? Do you ever plan to tell them about…well, this?" He capped off his question by motioning towards the surroundings. "I mean, Jesus Christ, Brainy! You still have both your parents, still alive..!
"Duly noted," sighed Brainy, frustrated that Arnold's was a valid point. "When all of this blows over, I'll make a point to visit them more often. Just don't ask that I give them the full disclosure! Now what about you, Arnold? What are your plans after this tour of duty of yours?"
"For one thing, try for a normal life back in the country," mused Arnold while staring up into infinity.
To which Brainy scoffed. "Be realistic! There's no going back to normal life after what we've been through! I mean, look at us! Our jobs chose us, not the other way round."
"True that, but at least I've got someone for whom I'm willing to give it my best goddamn shot."
"You mean Phoebe, right?" Brainy spurred Arnold on.
Not that Arnold needed much encouragement. "It's funny, don't you think? I meet her for the first time in seventeen years, and in, like…three days...? I've gotten to know her so much better in the past three days than I ever got to know Helga in eight years. I don't know how or why, but I feel there's nothing I wouldn't do for her, her safety or her happiness."
Brainy had to smile internally at that revelation. This was in no way his intended outcome when he put Phoebe in contact with Arnold; all he wanted at the time was the easiest, least complicated, most expedient method of luring Arnold back to Hillwood. That the two were in love with each other – he'd figured that out from how Phoebe spoke on her side of their earlier phone conversation – was an unplanned, totally unintentional by-product.
"Now back to you," Arnold now steered the conversation. "If…when… we get out this situation. Are you really sure you don't have any other plans or goals?"
"I…err…" Brainy faltered. He was now cursing internally at Arnold's effortless ability to make people comfortable enough in his presence to answer even the most difficult personal questions, without the use of a weapon or any mention of his combat capabilities.
Arnold didn't wait for Brainy to continue. "Look, it's been years and…well…right now I'm the last person who should be doing this…but, you up for some free advice?"
A tentative nod from Brainy.
"Whatever plans you make, you'd do well to include a certain paramedic. And don't look so surprised!" Even though he wasn't looking at Brainy, Arnold's superior, combat-honed peripheral vision informed him that the mole beside him had a look of disbelief plastered all over his face. "Don't think I haven't seen how you look at her and how she looks at you. She's willing to help you out, last-minute at some unreasonable hour instead of biting your head off too much."
Arnold noticed a flinch from Brainy, which he read as a sign not to let up. "She was first to stand up for you during your confession. She believed you, well before me or Mister Smith. Over and above, she believes in you."
Brainy couldn't even react to that particular bombshell, because Arnold had more still to say. "I don't know your exact history, but something tells me at least one of you doesn't want to keep it strictly professional for much longer."
"In that case," Brainy conceded, "let me tell you all about our exact history. How about another beer before I start talking?"
"OK, let the questioning commence!". There was much dramatic flair in Olga's voice and mannerism. The shotgun was still trained on Phoebe, lending a chilling incongruence to Olga's almost playful delivery.
"I'd like to preface the first question with this," continued Olga. "You were brilliant at last night's press conference! A flawless, unwavering performance in which you cast enough doubt to effectively derail an entire investigation. However, here's the rub: I got the impression that there was some unusual aspect in your Q&A as if both you and Mark were taking either the case or each other's presence, deeply personally."
Shit, she's good!
Olga was not yet done with her preface. "Then came your reference to me." She then repeated the 'To your wife?' statement in another uncannily accurate rendition of Phoebe's voice. "You know, we were taught in Drama class how stressing different words in any given sentence can significantly alter its meaning. And the pointedness with which you emphasized 'wife' led me to believe there's history between you two, more personal than professional. And so we arrive at the first question: Did you have sex with my husband?"
So much for breaking the news gently, Phoebe silently cursed. Phoebe felt the inside of her mouth run dry as she let out a silent stammer instead of an answer.
"Oh, did I put too fine a point on it?" mocked Olga. "What I meant was: Did you fuck Mark César Vasquez, husband to the woman currently pointing the shotgun at you?" Her playful veneer was starting to erode.
So Phoebe figured that with nothing to gain from lying, the truth was all she had left. "Yes," she replied timidly. 'Yes', and no more.
"What, is that it?" asked Olga, taken aback by Phoebe's laconic confession. "No explanation? No rationalization? No excuses?"
Upon hearing those words, Phoebe saw an opening. She'd still need to play her hand very carefully; Olga still had the shotgun and her fickle demeanor. "Why bother?" Phoebe protested. "You sound like you've made up your mind already."
Olga's change in expression suggested that her interrogation was going off-script, so she tried salvaging the situation. "Don't think I've forgotten how instrumental you were in rescuing us back in San Lorenzo all those years back," she began, sounding sincere. "Were it not for you, we'd be at the mercy of Lasombra's men and I shudder to think what they'd do to us and the other girls over time." At that last sentence, she really did shudder. "My point is, as suspicious as I was when you arrived and as incensed as I am now, your efforts back then have at least earned you some benefit of my doubt. Think of it as me cashing in my gratitude."
A reprieve! Thank god! Now if only Olga could keep talking and maybe create another opening…
"Back to the question: What's your excuse. Did it just happen? Did he seduce you? Did you need him to help you chase down a story? For god's sake, why?"
"Yes. Yes. And yes." Phoebe was hoping that more laconic answers would incite Olga to keep talking to her distraction
Indeed, those words pushed Olga into abandoning her fading façade of playfulness, and the elder blonde stood up, gun in hand, and walked across to Phoebe, where she stood over the bespectacled woman who wasn't even looking her way. After a brief pause, she struck Phoebe across the left temple with the butt of her weapon. The strike drew blood and sent Phoebe tumbling off her seat and onto the floor where she lay dazed and disoriented.
So much for trying to play her, Phoebe thought in instant, painful regret.
Olga's voice had now completely abandoned any vestige of being in control of her emotions. "You want to use up what little goodwill I've shown you," she ranted, "keep giving me those useless one-word answers!"
And there goes my opening, Phoebe muttered internally.
"Bitch, answer the fucking questions. How did it happen? Why did it happen?"
"Vitaly Santalov. And you," Phoebe replied through her excruciating haziness.
Olga's rage gave way to confusion once more. "And how exactly does Santalov figure in you fucking Mark?"
Aha, another opening! Phoebe rejoiced quietly at another shot at getting her point across to Olga. She slowly and groggily rose to her knees, under Olga's unwavering 12-gauge watch.
"It all began when I started investigating Vitaly Santalov…" began a bloodied Phoebe.
"And just how–" interrupted Olga before Phoebe abruptly cut her off.
"If you want the truth, then no interruptions!" insisted Phoebe despite her disadvantageous position, with a slow-seeping cut on the side of her head. Her firm tone successfully convinced Olga to play by the former's rules, shotgun or no shotgun.
"Santalov. He's the man who carried out the Sunset Arms bombing—"
"Bombing?" Olga's disbelief was clear as day. "That was an accident! A gas main explosion or something!"
"I said…shut…up!" snapped Phoebe while doing a silent self-assessment. Shit, she concluded, she struck exactly where I didn't need to be struck. By which she meant: Olga had struck her already damaged prefrontal cortex, setting back her already slowly recovering impulse control by god knows how long.
Regardless of how ill-advised Phoebe's tone was, her command unsettled Olga back into silence.
Phoebe continued. "I came back to Hillwood to investigate the Sunset Arms incident. Some aspects of the original report didn't add up, so I wanted to look into it…maybe get at least some closure for the lives lost…for Gerald…and Helga. Maybe even some justice…" She had started feeling lightheaded from the blow and was struggling to maintain her lucidity.
"For Helga, you say? How fucking noble! How Machiavellian, the ends justifying the means! Oh Mercy, since it was all for 'closure' and 'justice'," she quoted those words in a more exaggerated imitation of Phoebe's timbre, "then I suppose that all must be forgiven, then!" Olga couldn't resist the barbs, having remembered that she was the one holding the shotgun.
Phoebe chose to ignore the mockery and forced herself to continue: "I…uncovered evidence of foul play. Suppressed evidence pointing to a homemade explosive device being used."
Olga's quirked eyebrow hinted at her interest having been piqued.
Phoebe pressed on with her tentative new advantage. "So then I looked into the owner of the building where the Sunset Arms once stood and—"
"Vitaly Santalov?" There was now curiosity in Olga's voice. Good, thought Phoebe, at least I have her engaged for now.
"Vitaly Santalov," concurred Phoebe. "I looked into him, his businesses and his associates. Hung around the courts for their trials and hearings. And that's…" And here came the part she most feared: "…that's how I met Mark."
Strewn across his desk was data of all sorts.
Graphs and bald figures.
Satellite pictures.
Thermal imaging scans.
Reports proclaiming the results of ground-penetrating radar surveillance.
Even the outcomes of numerous inland and offshore sonar explorations.
Then there were geological surveys and rock composition studies.
Topographical studies too.
And the more Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck pored through the documents, the bigger his smile grew. Strewn across his desk were several lucrative possibilities within San Lorenzo. Where to begin?
The geological surveys pointed at several deposits of alluvial diamonds along the lower Rio Clara, with the largest by the estuary near Puerto Clara. Within the rainforest preserve, the same reports pointed towards copper-rich chalcocite seams underground. That was chalcocite: one of the most lucrative ores for mining one of the most widely used metals in industry.
Oh, but the news got better still.
The results of the offshore sonar exploration pointed at vast, untapped reserves of crude oil, conveniently situated just outside of San Lorenzo's territorial waters.
And the flow of good news still hadn't stopped.
The topographical studies identified a section in the upper Rio Clara that was deemed highly viable for damming and for the generation of hydro-electric power.
Of course, the reports also included an environmental impact assessment component, any of which would give an environmental agent or activist a coronary. From deforestation, soil and water poisoning, mass extinction of several endemic species, topsoil erosion, all the way to a very high risk of oil pollution.
At this point, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was beaming from ear to ear at the possibilities. The environmental and socio-economic fallout far outweighed any potential revenue and profits. The earnings potential wasn't important; in fact, money wasn't his prime motivator this time. It was all about Arnold; it was always about Arnold.
Scheck had tried to get Arnold throughout the years through various methods.
Through his neighborhood.
Through his friends.
Through his job.
Through his deceased loved ones.
It was at this point that Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck now realized that he had been thinking small. For Arnold Phillip Shortman, he had to go big, really big. Like, destroying-the-population-and-economy-and ecology-of-the-boy's-country-of-birth-just-to-flush-the-little-shit-out-of-hiding big! Anything that could threaten the Green-Eyed People and their way of life, maybe even lead to their extinction.
Yes, more people whom you helped and saved, who'll die like the rest all because you fucked with me!
But which option to choose? Which one stood to do the most damage to force Arnold out of hiding.
Fuck it, we'll go with everything! It's all about portfolio diversification anyway. Oh yeah, shit was about to get real!
But first…he had to secure whatever rights that needed securing: mineral; water; even oil, just in case. He'd also need to sweeten the deal for whoever would grant those rights. Both would be the easy part. He'd simply call San Lorenzo's president and explain his business proposition, after which the head of state would earn a billion-dollar "consultancy fee" for his efforts in setting up the deal.
And with that, he contacted his secretary. "Red! I need you to set up a Skype call with a head of state."
"Very good, Sir. Which one this time?"
"El Presidente of San Lorenzo."
"Very good, Sir. I can have you good to go within half an hour. And Sir, should El Presidente enquire, what shall I tell him is the purpose of your call?"
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck smiled a devious smile as he replied: "The future growth prospects of his country's economy."
Big Gino and Myron met back at the office.
"Today's the day, Myron," the diminutive boss figure announced. "Today we go after the big three."
"Not wanting to sound contradictory, Sir," the man-mountain acknowledged, "but I recall you wanted the gentlemen to stew a bit before we make a move on them."
And this was why Gino was glad Myron was his second-in-command. As loyal and obedient as Myron was, he still retained much of his agency and so always offered respectful, constructive criticism to his boss's decisions.
"We'll let them sweat some more today, then in the evening, we'll hit them. And no, I haven't forgotten about this morning's business."
The business to which Gino alluded, was a meeting with a group of Canadian smugglers who had stumbled across a particularly lucrative niche by smuggling heavily discounted cancer medication and other critical-disease medications from north of the border. Gino had learned of their operation and was looking to acquire their exclusive services in his bid to win further favor with the more impoverished residents within his territories.
"Very good, Sir, and sorry for speaking out of turn."
"All in due time, Myron. Just stick to the timeline."
Well, at least I'm still alive…
Phoebe was still in her kneeling position, under heavy scrutiny from Olga and her weapon. Phoebe had just given, under heavy duress, a detailed account of her involvement with Mark. From the logistics, the accompanying conversations, and even – to her embarrassment and Olga's vexation – some of the more intimate coital details.
"Let me understand," Olga led off with another probing statement. "You knew from the start that he was married, and so you insisted on not knowing the name of his wife – that would be yours truly – just to ease your conscience. Is that correct?"
Phoebe was forced to gamble on her next answer. "Correct," she replied before immediately following through with: "and also I took pity on him because he insisted that you were giving him hell at home. His exact words, 'giving me hell', quote-unquote."
The answer goaded Olga into a brief contemplation; thereafter, she administered a left-legged soccer kick to Phoebe's stomach. The shock and intensity propelled the dark-haired woman forward onto all fours, gasping to reclaim the air she'd just lost.
"Liar!" shouted Olga as she followed up with a second kick in which her right shin connected sweetly with the left side of Phoebe's ribcage. Phoebe was left choking on the sudden impacts while nursing her left flank.
"I swear, it's the truth!" insisted Phoebe between desperate chokes. "He insisted…you could be…unstable…prone to mood swings…high…high maintenance…distrustful of everything…"
Upon hearing those utterances, Olga froze in place. Phoebe seized the opportunity.
"Was he wrong? Was he lying?"
Olga remained silent.
"It doesn't excuse what I did…and believe me…if I could undo all of this shit…I would." This was the opening Phoebe had been trying to find and she could ill afford to waste it; Olga would regain her senses shortly. "But Mark is as guilty of this deception as I am. He deceived both of us. Plus…he tried to have me killed afterward."
Did I nail it, wondered Phoebe. Will she bite?
An eternity elapsed, and then…"So the home invasion I read about…was that an attempted hit on you?"
Yes! She had a foothold! She'd still have to tread carefully. "Yes. They were Santalov's men, sent to silence me. They claimed to be Hillwood PD…their ringleader was in contact with Mark…the Sheriff's Department dumped the man's phone and it showed numerous calls between the two…"
"He told me they were out to apprehend a double-murder suspect, but…" Phoebe saw how Olga was recollecting something. "…but I remember a call he received on Sunday evening. He seemed agitated. He was putting on a show about how lethal force may be unavoidable. You mean to say he was planning your murder?"
Phoebe had always considered Olga to be highly intelligent, so she was satisfied to see how the gears in the elder blonde woman's brain were starting to engage properly. The context Phoebe had provided was doing its job. But she still had to press on.
"Because he was working for Santalov. Doing whatever bidding needed doing. Santalov put him up to keep tabs on me, and ultimately ordered the attempt on my life."
"You're starting to lose me again," warned Olga. "Now you're telling me he's a dirty cop? But he killed Santalov and got a commendation!"
"True, but that was on orders from his new boss."
"So who's the new boss, huh?"
"Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck."
Olga's eyes narrowed: a sign that her suspicion had not abated. "How do I know you're telling the truth and not just fucking with my head?"
Yes! Phoebe had steered the conversation further in the desired direction. "You might want to seat yourself; I still have a lot more to say. Just one request…I'm slowly going to reach into my pocket to retrieve my phone. I ask that you please allow me that concession."
"Don't you find it strange that no reports made any mention about the shattered graves?" asked Arnold.
"Why would they?" replied Brainy. "It's all in the framing. They tried setting you up as a vigilante, make it seem like you lured the shooters to the cemetery. Those graves…they'd just contradict the narrative. If they're working the revenge angle with you baiting the shooters, then you destroying the graves of your loved ones doesn't compute."
"Of course," mulled Arnold. "Much better for someone to discover them after the investigation so that they can write it off as a random act of vandalism."
It just wouldn't happen today, since the cemetery was still an active crime scene and the investigation was officially still ongoing. The chances of investigators stumbling across the sites were quite remote, given that they were located in a different area to where the shootout had taken place.
Gone, or at least delayed, was that means of connecting Arnold to the event. That left the .45 casings from his registered sidearm. Yet he wasn't too worried about that; Scheck was still his primary concern, him and his lapdog, Vasquez. From what he heard being speculated on the news, the evidence could implicate those two just as much as it could implicate Arnold. Which made Arnold the loose end to Scheck he'd always been.
And Arnold knew how much Scheck hated loose ends.
Arnold's conclusion: Scheck was already scheming to draw him out of hiding.
Meaning…
"Brainy," he turned to his new comrade, "about that less banged-up phone you said you'd give me. I think I'm gonna need it sooner rather than later."
"OK, give me a moment," replied Brainy, who disappeared to another section of the brownstone. A minute or so later, he returned carrying what looked like a large toolbox. He opened the box to reveal a broad array of immaculate smartphones that spanned several makes and models. "Pick one," he said plainly. "Don't worry, they're all fully charged," he added, just as plainly.
Arnold was agape at the variety, to which Brainy commented: "Tools of the trade. I always keep a stockpile, plus I have others stashed in lockers and PO Boxes all over the city."
"Shit, you take being prepared to another level!" commented an impressed Arnold.
"You know, that's a compliment coming from you!" said Brainy.
Arnold then picked a mid-range model with similar specs to his damaged phone. After that, it was a simple case of transferring his undamaged – small mercies..! – SIM card and the similarly undamaged SD card to the new phone and switching it on.
"So now what?" queried Brainy.
"Now…I take Gino up on his offer to help me."
"Excuse me?" Brainy's mistrust in Big Gino resurfaced. "Arnold, I still think Big Gino is bad news! You're still an idiot to trust him! Maybe you're right about him serving the neighborhood, but I've seen this game played out for years, so I know that guys like him ultimately serve themselves. No exception!"
"Even if that is so, he'll be useful in taking Scheck out of the picture, so why not take advantage of the situation?"
"OK, point taken," conceded Brainy. "But only because even your most crackpot, totally fucked-up schemes always have a way of working out. Besides, it's your life."
"Thanks, Brainy…I think. Now can I have some privacy if you don't mind?"
Brainy left the room in compliance, leaving Arnold to dial a number. Three rings, then the recipient picked up.
"Wrong number!"
"Cut the crap, Foutley! It's Arnold!"
"Oh yes! I read about you! The man who returned to Hillwood. Next, I'm reading about a bloodbath in the cemetery – such flair! – and a building being demolished, on exactly the same day you return. Coincidence?"
"Foutley, listen up!" Arnold could afford no time for banter. "I'm still not done; in fact, I'm preparing for round two. Scheck's gotta be doing the same. I need you to find out what the hell he's planning. Check his network, check FTI's network, find me something! I know he's scheming to draw me out!"
"Only because (a) you asked so politely and (b) you always provide me with the most interesting cases. I'll let you know when I have anything substantive."
"Foutley…thanks…for everything," said Arnold, almost sheepishly at having to be reminded of common civility, before ending the call.
He then placed another call. Another three rings before pickup.
"Arnold?"
"Hey Phoebe, are you OK?"
"Arnold! Yes, I'm fine. I'm at Olga's place." Upon hearing that factoid, Arnold felt his heart stop and his stomach churn. As if Phoebe sensed those two occurrences, she hastily added a reassurance: "I believe we've been able to reconcile her mistakes and my indiscretions."
"Are you OK, Phoebe," Arnold repeated his initial question more urgently. "Are you OK?"
"I promise you, Arnold, I'm mostly OK."
"Mostly?"
"Well," began Phoebe, somewhat self-consciously, "Olga has dressed my head wound, but my side still hurts from the kicking."
To which Arnold was rendered barely capable of controlling his agitation. "Phoebe, what the hell were you thinking? Walking into that lion's den. Get out of there before Vasquez returns. He gets you, and Scheck gains the leverage over us that he needs."
"Sorry Arnold, but Olga deserved to know what she's involved in. And I…well, I needed to confess and settle up with her and with my conscience."
"In the most boneheaded move I've ever heard of!" scolded Arnold.
"Oh, that's rich, coming from you! Someone who not even…fourteen-or-so hours ago was willing to face deadly, almost insurmountable odds in a life-or-death situation!" Phoebe fired back.
"At least I didn't blunder in without a plan!"
"Yes, for all the good it did you!" Phoebe was having none of his reprimands. "How are the ribs, by the way?"
"Point being, Phoebe, that you're not safe where you are! Get out of there, right now, before Vasquez gets home!"
"Arnold, I know from past experience that Mark is currently being interrogated by IAB for botching the investigation. Those things take forever."
"But Phoebe—"
"No buts! You forget that I too have become quite adept at handling dangerous situations. You'll do well to accept that reality."
With that, she ended the call. Arnold immediately redialled the number, only for the call to go to voicemail. Fuck, when she sticks to a decision…
And just when he thought his late morning couldn't get more interesting, a contradiction arrived in the form of a pounding at Brainy's front door. Though he had no idea of who was at the door, the knocking was that of a law enforcement officer: booming and commanding.
Shit, have we been made? It's too soon!
His Glock was back in the bedroom. It might as well have been in San Lorenzo for all the good it currently would do him. The knocking persisted. A visibly worried Brainy appeared in the room. He too recognized the nature of the knocking and a look of 'What do we do now?' was apparent on his face. In confirmation of what his expression was conveying, he whispered to Arnold: "Shit, they've found us, and it sounds like they'll be shooting first and fuck the questions."
Arnold, meanwhile, was weighing several possibilities. It couldn't be a whole unit to take them down: too visible; too many witnesses; too many questions. It had to be a single officer…two, maximum. Easier to gain entry, less likely to arouse suspicion.
He could work with two. Engage them, maybe bullshit his way out of the situation, if not buy him and Brainy some time.
As the knocking continued Arnold decided to bet with chips he knew he didn't have. He moved silently to the side of the door. He waited for a break, whereupon he announced: "With a knock like that, you'd better have either a warrant or damn good probable cause!"
From outside: "Who said anything about warrants? As for probable cause, I have reason to believe that my favorite cousin is holed up at this location."
The voice was familiar.
"Fuck it. Arnie?"
"Lucky guess," replied Arnie in his usual easy-going voice. "Wanna let me in?"
Arnold complied, and in walked Arnie. Arnie briefly surveyed the surroundings before seeing Brainy, on whom he commented: "Who's the guy who looks like he just shat his pants?"
"Forget him!" Arnold was a curious mix of anger and confusion. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"What does it look like? I'm here to help."
When Phoebe informed Arnold of her current situation, she was, of course, telling the truth.
Olga had allowed Phoebe access to the latter's phone, which proved to be the turning point. Through the device, Phoebe was able to present several bits of evidence.
Olga saw the bank records showing how Mark's student debt was paid off from an offshore account, plus regular monthly payments to a separate offshore account set up in her name ("So it doesn't trace back directly to him," explained Phoebe.)
She saw that the payments originated from an account belonging to Vitaly Santalov, who in turn was receiving a monthly stipend from an FTI account, for which Alphonse Scheck was the only authorized signer. She saw too how Santalov owned Mark and how Scheck owned Santalov. ("So Santalov's death was arranged?" By Scheck?" concluded Olga.)
She saw the dumped phone records showing repeated calls to a Santalov lieutenant which became especially concentrated leading up to the assassination attempt. ("He was coordinating the entire event," explained Phoebe.}
There were other examples, but the most damning was how Mark had lured Arnold to the cemetery. When she clapped her eyes on Helga's shattered stone, she was propelled over the edge. Her state was not improved when Phoebe recalled what Mark had said of Helga to goad Arnold out of hiding: "…that batshit crazy weirdo…"
("Why are you making me see this?" Olga begged. "Why are you telling me this? Couldn't I just live with my illusion of happiness?")
Regardless of her enmity towards Phoebe, Olga could no longer bring herself to lash out against her late sister's best friend. What Mark had done with Phoebe was but a symptom of his deceptive nature, of a man who would strike a deal with Satan himself if there was any benefit to be had.
Knowing this was no comfort as she laid down the shotgun and embraced Phoebe, into whose chest she buried her head and mewled uncontrollably. Ten or so minutes later, she spoke again, feebly: "I still hate you, you know? This is what I get…for giving you…" she fought the urge to resume her mewling, "…the benefit of the doubt…"
"This wasn't about forgiveness," replied Phoebe. "This was about getting the ugly truth out there."
"Even if you had to destroy a vulnerable woman clinging to false happiness?" Again, Olga's voice was bitter, but she couldn't force herself to do Phoebe any more harm.
In fact…
"Stay here. I'll get some iodine for that cut," she announced softly. "And help yourself to some treats; I think you've earned it."
That was twenty minutes ago. Now, with Phoebe's cut dressed – done by Olga during which time nary a word was spoken between the two – and with her heated call with Arnold concluded, Olga saw a chance to administer a harsh burn on Phoebe.
"Was that Arnold you were fighting with over the phone?" she asked an unsuspecting Phoebe.
Olga still felt bitter about how Arnold had broken up her family at Helga's memorial all those years back and set in motion the series of events that sent her father to prison. Phoebe, however, had explained to her that Arnold was much more a victim of Scheck's machinations than the two of them combined. Olga subsequently promised Phoebe that she'd try to hate Arnold a little bit less over time.
"We were having…a disagreement," Phoebe confessed.
"So what exactly is he to you?"
To which Phoebe paused.
So Olga continued: "Is he a comrade? Is he true love? Or just a fuck buddy? A rebound, maybe?"
Phoebe remained uncomfortably silent.
"Because…you know…it must be great being single. The guy you're fucking ditches you, you move on to the next catch. Not like us married girls who still have to share a bed with the lying, cheating bastard."
Olga Pataki-Vasquez would have loved to continue tormenting Phoebe, but for the fact that she heard the front door being opened. Phoebe heard it too, and instantly both women's eyes were focussed on the point of entry. As the door swung open, Olga quickly retrieved her shotgun. By the time her husband entered the house, he found himself staring at the last two women he expected to find together in the same room.
"Oh hi, honey," Olga was back to her saccharine voice, shotgun aimed at him. "You won't believe what Phoebe here has been telling me about you! Then again, maybe you will!"
There you go, dearest readers! Another chapter is done and dusted! Please accept my deepest gratitude for sticking thus far with me. As ever, if you feel compelled to comment on what you've read in this chapter or any prior one, I'll be only too happy to hear you out.
Author's Note: I had a difficult time settling on a title for this chapter. One rejected title was 'Building Bridges In Bottles' (A reference to Bottle Episodes and of characters rebuilding relationships. The title on which I settled, well...thanks to Google you now know it to mean 'The Die Is Cast' in Latin. In other words, we've started preparing for the endgame.
Author's Note #2: I suppose I could have given detailed summaries of what happened to all of the families of the deceased and to all of Arnold's surviving PS 118 peers, but that would have slowed the story down and added to an already long chapter. I solved the matter by employing the Edgar Wright method of storytelling, whereby I only reveal what both Arnold and the reader (OK, OK, the writer) might consider interesting. Everything that only Arnold might find interesting, is alluded to without any details given. At least be assured that all their fates are known to Arnold.
Author's Note #3: I got the idea of Big Patty as an MMA fighter from a Jebbiepinka picture in which the girls are working out in a gym. I saw Patty in the picture and my first thought was 'Holly Holm'. I might still want to incorporate this observation in a future story. Incidentally, of all the Hey Arnold fanart out there, Jebbiepinka's works are what I consider the benchmark. Her Helga is simply gorgeous.
Author's Note #4: The mineral richness of San Lorenzo was a calculated guess. I based it on the current and expected future mining activities in Angola, a Subsaharan African country which would have a similar subtropical climate and soil and mineral composition to San Lorenzo. It's these little details that I sweat for your enjoyment.
Author's Note #5: Are you really surprised that Olga would lash out like that? I'm not, especially when I considered that she and Helga share the same genetic material and are cut from the same cloth. Put Olga in the same situation as her late sister - alienated from her family; feeling betrayed and abandoned - and there's no reason to believe she'd respond any differently.
And finally, the Spotify list that influenced this chapter:
Woke Up This Morning - Alabama 3
Ten Seconds - Cutting Jade
Boulevard of Broken Dreams - Green Day
Losing My Mind - Liza Minelli
Everything Changed - Nigel Stanford
It's Bad You Know - R.L. Burnside
Erase/Rewind - The Cardigans
Forgiven, Not Forgotten - The Corrs
And that's your lot for this chapter. See you shortly, I hope!