Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and 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: Arnold, Brainy and Arnie conspire to keep tabs on Scheck. Vasquez gets a proposition he'd ordinarily have abhorred. Phoebe fails to defuse a tense situation involving Olga and Vasquez.
Dear Readers, the next chapter commences!
19. Because…Family Matters (Part 2)
Gino Giovinazzo, a.k.a. Big Gino, heard his inbox ping, signaling the arrival of a new mail. He was initially skeptical when he didn't recognize the sender, but his hopes were raised upon seeing the heading: 'Compliments of the Boy Scout'.
He opened the mail.
He opened the attachments.
He read the attachments.
He grinned in devilish anticipation.
The bits about Scheck wanting to devastate San Lorenzo didn't interest him much. That was a foreign matter, to be committed on foreign soil outside of Uncle Sam's jurisdiction. What really made him cackle on the inside were the mails detailing the prep work surrounding the Sunset Arms incident, as well as the aftermath.
He paid special attention to those.
He read each one of them.
He read them again.
And again.
Once more.
And, just to make absolutely, 100% certain, he read them again.
He clicked back to the main body of the mail. Whoever sent this mail, must have anticipated that the receiver would jump straight to the attachments. As such, whoever sent this mail had written in the main body:
"Yes indeed, the metadata of all the attachments has been properly verified. You're welcome. "
This was it: evidence of a conspiracy by Scheck to commit domestic terrorism and proof of the conspirators following through with the plan! Proof that Scheck's powerful government connections had indeed aligned themselves with a domestic terrorist.
This was it: the crucial leverage he required.
This was it: his chance to get back at the fuckers who killed his family and stole his home and his youth.
"Sir, is everything alright?" asked Myron from his nearby desk. He and Big Gino had successfully concluded the meeting with the Canadian smugglers, and the articulate hulk called Myron was finalizing the distribution logistics, as well as determining an appropriate pricing model to sell the incoming medication for as low and as profitably as possible.
"Myron," announced Big Gino in a business voice doing its best to mask his glee, "come look at this, then tell me if everything is alright!"
Myron did as told, and minutes later he too spoke in understated joy: "Sir, this is the leverage we require over the gentlemen. Between this, the bank statements and the other correspondences…I do believe that the appropriate term would be 'we have them by the balls'."
"Language, Myron!" Gino responded in mock disapproval. "Now do you see why I said we should wait? The boy scout, Myron, the fucking boy scout! He just has this goddamn gift of getting people to help him out with whatever he's up to!"
"Does this mean I may resume the cold-calling, Sir?" asked an expectant Myron.
"You mean you haven't started yet?" was Big Gino's reply, to which Myron eagerly beat a path to the desk bedecked with the cellular phones.
Big Gino, for his part, was not yet done. He knew a final showdown was brewing between the boy scout and Scheck. He knew that Scheck was trying to lure the boy scout out of hiding and that the former would probably throw an army at the latter. He knew too that the boy scout had not checked in with his guy, whom Gino had said could help.
From his desk, Big Gino dialed his guy.
"Boss, anything you need?" the voice on the other end replied.
"You receive a visit from a guy with a weird football for a head yet?"
"Can't say I have, Boss. This guy causing you grief? You want him taken care of?"
"Idiot, this guy did the whole fucking organization the biggest fucking favor we've ever been granted. So if you get a visit from a football dome, you treat him like fucking royalty!"
"Yes, Boss!" the man was quick to respond apologetically. "Does that include…?" he left the second question unasked as if he was about to commit a major blasphemy by completing it. He recomposed himself within moments, however: "Does that mean I let…her…handle him?"
"Damn right," confirmed Big Gino. "Anything he wants, no questions. You got it?"
Ten minutes ago, the man named Smith received an encrypted call from Brainy.
The mole had called out of nowhere and announced that he would require satellite surveillance over Hillwood Harbour for the next three days. Real-time, high def, heat vision…infrared too, if possible.
The first request merely made Smith go apoplectic; the second set of parameters gave him a full-on conniption. Smith then launched into a tirade on the short notice of Brainy's request. It was only when Brainy informed him of Scheck's current activities and intentions that Smith came on board, and fully at that. Quoth the older gentleman: "Why the fuck didn't you say so in the first place!?"
Then, after some contemplation: "High def, you say? I know a woman at NASA who can help you. I call her, she can have one of their satellites at the ready over the harbor, but she'll need time to change its orbit. Maybe an hour, hour-and-a-half, tops. Off the books, of course. After that, you've got your three days. And don't fucking blow it!"
That was ten minutes ago.
Smith was still at his desk, contemplating the events that had led him to exactly this position. Plus the events that would form the aftermath. Arnold and Scheck were heading for a collision, and the fallout would be ugly whoever came out victorious. If Smith could have intervened directly against Scheck, he'd do it without hesitation. The problem was that Scheck, even in his weakened state, still had the juice to go several levels above Smith's head and potentially end his department, his career, maybe even his life.
Suddenly he felt an onset of guilt for allowing Arnold Shortman and Phoebe Heyerdahl to be pawns in this wicked game he was forbidden from playing. With a heavy heart, he allowed himself to hope against hope that they and Brainy would make it out of this shitstorm alive.
Bean…bag…rounds…
Detective Mark Vasquez was flat on his lounge floor, on his stomach. Intermittently coming close to blacking out. An all-encompassing spasm having replaced his abdominal muscles. His lower organs: pressing against his spine. His lungs: flattened into a vacuum which he was trying to refill without drawing attention to himself.
This is non-lethal..?
Being shot was a mixed blessing for him. Sure, he now knew that 'non-lethal' didn't necessarily mean 'painless'. On the other hand, his incapacitated state had allowed him to hear Olga dropping the shotgun and running out of the room in horrified tears with Phoebe in tow. Both of them must have assumed he was dead because neither had checked him for entry wounds. He was thus granted time and space to writhe in agony as he recovered in silence. Next, he heard Olga throwing up in the bathroom, in between hysterical sobs. Phoebe was still with her, offering…whatever…reassurances, rationalizations…strategy? Who knew? Who cared?
The gamble paid off…kind of…
It all gave him time to reflect on an amazing instance of foresight on his part. Over the past three months when he became involved with Phoebe, he noticed how Olga started unraveling ever so slightly. Nothing big: a tic here and there; the occasional outburst. Enough to suggest that she was occasionally going off her meds. Enough for him to reconsider keeping the sawn-off shotgun – which he kept for self-defense and which both he and Olga knew how to operate – in the house. Then word around Hillwood PD started going around of bean bag rounds being implemented as a new non-lethal method of dealing with perpetrators and suspects, all in the name of scoring much-needed PR points. Mark Vasquez was so intrigued by the idea that he looked into it, before eventually switching the shells of his home-defense weapon with those selfsame rounds. Best of both worlds: protection against intruders; insurance should his wife commit fully to the deep end.
While mulling over his bad good fortune, he heard the footfalls leaving the bathroom, but not heading back towards him. Olga, sounding suddenly strident; Phoebe, asking some question or another. Mm, sounds like they were headed to his study.
What the hell, let them, he thought as he felt his breathing – indeed, all his vital signs – stabilize. As soon as I recover, they're dead anyway.
"Hey, Mark! Ten minutes before you DI-I-I-E-E-E!"
The voice delivering the loud message had a jubilant, mean-spirited melodic edge to it. From where was it coming, and how come the women weren't reacting to it? The speaker seemed to sense his confusion and continued: "Oh, come on, Brother-In-Law. Have you forgotten all you've learned from that dossier about your dearly departed sister-in-law?"
He moved his head in the voice's direction and…stood in front of him was a girl with whose mind he had become most acquainted over the past twenty-four or so hours. That blond girl, pigtails, wearing pink and white. Big eyes, prominent overbite, equally prominent unibrow.
"Helga?" he gasped in recognition. "You're supposed to be dead!" he found himself shouting, though his voice was also attracting nobody's attention.
"Well, doi!" was her unperturbed response. "Now we know how you made detective!"
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Just watching you make a jackass of yourself one last time," she casually remarked. "It's all so satisfying to see the look on the face of anyone who gets their ass kicked after underestimating my beloved and my best friend."
The detective sneered: "Ha! They're just two people against a giant fucking organization!"
The apparition had started traipsing about the room, oblivious to his threats and determination. "And you believe that gives you an advantage," she stated – that was not a question! – as she continued in her playful gait as if his opinions and insights didn't matter.
"He may have been able to rally you to beat the fifth graders in football and baseball," Vasquez continued. "Big fucking whoop! How did that translate against guys with guns and explosives?"
"Well…admittedly it's a far cry from the days when I had to escape on a tandem bicycle from a troupe of angry clowns," she sounded as if she was conceding that he had a point, although she was casually and noncommittedly picking at her teeth. Her overall body language gave no indication of her taking him seriously.
"And look what happened when pro's came gunning for you! You never stood a chance! Tell me how you're boyfriend's never-say-die attitude helped you then. He showed his true colors that day: 100% pure pussy!"
With her body language, the otherworldly being continued not taking him seriously. She was done picking her teeth and had moved on to an ear.
"See what I mean?" began Helga's spirit nonchalantly. "When he's down, you think that's the end of it. But he always gets up, finds a way to come on top. Or…he inspires others to find a way." As she extolled these virtues, her tone became more swooning as she capped off her statement, eyelids aflutter, with: "What a guy..!"
"But he's not here!" snarled the downed detective.
The vision of Helga remained unaffected: "He doesn't have to be. You'll still be dead in…" whereupon the imaginary being reached behind her back to produce a pocket watch which she briefly studied, "…eight minutes and forty-three seconds!"
Before playfully adding: "Compliments of Helga G. Pataki.." then switching to a more sinister, demonic tone while retaining her youthful appearance, "…WHO HATES YOU!"
That last sentence jerked him back to consciousness, where he felt that his abdominal spasm had subsided enough for him to try standing up. It was a struggle, but…success, as he drew the gifted HDM and slowly made his way toward the women's activity. If that freak was right, and he was destined to die soon – which he wasn't, hell no! – then there were two others taking the ride with him.
Detective Mark Vasquez's silent recovery and the imaginary argument went unnoticed by Olga and Phoebe.
The former had thought that she had shot her dirtbag husband dead, and her disbelief at her action manifested in uncontrollable sobbing and overwhelming queasiness that made her drop the weapon and bolt for the bathroom. Phoebe quickly followed her in support. After Olga was done with her reverse peristalsis, Phoebe was there to help her by offering whatever assurances she could.
"Olga, Olga," said Phoebe frantically while trying to remain the more rational of the two. Admittedly, that endeavor was becoming more difficult by the minute.
"Olga, listen! Listen!" she repeated. "What happened back there…that was self-defense! Your husband snapped after being disgraced, then wanted to take it out on you! You had no choice, Olga!"
But Olga, done vomiting in disgust, was too preoccupied with washing her face at the basin. "Olga, are you listening?" Phoebe cried out as she grabbed Olga by the shoulders and spun her around so that they were facing each other.
"None of this was your fault!" Phoebe continued insisting, her voice bordering on anger, "None of this!"
But Olga's shakiness spoke of one who couldn't – or wouldn't – be convinced of any innocence.
"You had no choice, Olga," Phoebe continued, although at this point even she was wondering whom she was trying to convince. "It was self-defense, either you or him, do or die!"
"You're thinking in terms of truth and justice."
Suddenly, those words echoed inside her brain. The words Arnold spoke in the car on their way to Hillwood. As if truth and justice were hindrances instead of virtues. Oh shit!
"You may even have to forgo your journalistic integrity."
More of Arnold's words of wisdom. Was that what she was doing right this moment? Did he see a situation like this one coming?
"…I absolutely will not be forced into committing any crimes..."
She had protested vehemently against Arnold's assertions. Yet here she was, herself committing a felony. Urging a killer to lie to the police. An accessory, a co-conspirator. Harboring, aiding and abetting. Oh my god!
Olga, however, paid no attention to Phoebe's inner turmoil. She wore a blank expression as she looked into the mirror. Then, an abrupt expression of curiosity. "How did he know?"
Olga's simple question snapped Phoebe out of her self-doubt if only to query the former's sudden question. "How did he know what, Olga?"
Olga didn't register either Phoebe's presence or her question; she simply repeated: "How did he know?"
With that, she took off, out the bathroom, towards the back of the house. Her stride was single-minded, and Phoebe once again found herself in tow, calling after Olga, wanting to know what had piqued her interest. Olga headed to a study, which Phoebe surmised was Mark's given that the door was closed to deter unwanted company.
"He'd always claim to be working on cases here," explained Olga. "Always confidential, no entry." Some measure of stability was returning to her voice.
More than a study, the room seemed more like his sanctuary in the house in the same way that the piano Mark had mentioned was Olga's. Spacious desk, bookshelves containing literary works and various reference books, covering two walls. Modern-looking PC with printer. But on the desk…holy shit! On the desk was an open folder, its contents spread across the surface. Transcripts and reports and psych evaluations, all pertaining to Helga Geraldine Pataki.
The women were aghast at the revelation. Phoebe had known of Helga's visits to Doctor Bliss, both before and after San Lorenzo, but not of how deep-rooted her troubles were.
"That bastard!" spat Olga. "So this is how he knew how to bring Helga into the conversation!"
"And how he knew how to corrupt her memories to bait Arnold," added Phoebe.
"Well, one out of two ain't bad," the voice at the door startled them.
They turned in shock to see a pained Mark Vasquez, smiling self-assuredly while pointing a suppressed pistol their way.
He then answered a question both of them were moments from asking: "Bean bag rounds, Olga." Then, in reaction to her surprised look: "What, you think I'm stupid enough to load live shells with a nutjob like you in the house?"
Then to Phoebe, he gave a cocksure snarl: "You may know Psychology, but I know my wife."
The car was a blue 2006 Chrysler 300C, the SRT8 Hemi model to be precise. And it was tearing through Hillwood's midday traffic, lights flashing and siren blaring. The car was Arnie's personal vehicle, and so far the lights-and-siren ensemble was having the desired effect: giving fellow road users the impression of an unmarked Hillwood PD vehicle and making them give way without fuss. Beside him, in the front passenger seat, Arnold. Doing a brass check on his Glock, not knowing what to expect once they reached their destination.
A brief assessment of his preparedness did not look promising as he said to Arnie: "Eight in the Glock, one mag left. Plus the Black Widow. What are you carrying in case things go south"
"Super Redhawk on me and the McMillan in the trunk," replied Arnie without taking his eyes off the road.
Shit, cursed Arnold. Not really suited for close quarters. He'd have to take point on this one…
Mere minutes prior, Brainy had divulged the detective's address and Arnold had rushed to join Arnie in the vehicle, where he fed the address into Arnie's satnav to be shown the location, a new suburban residential area situated about ten miles outside of Hillwood proper. Sign of the times, he reckoned, people working in the city while living a world away from it in the surrounding suburbs. Before Arnold could yell for Arnie to get going, the latter was already in the process of shredding the rear tires mid-launch.
Arnie's driving style suggested a deep affinity with and an intimate understanding of his vehicle as he eschewed precision driving in favor of using the ample brute power and torque at his disposal to slide the 300C around the corners at any given opportunity and floor it anywhere there was an open road.
Regardless of Arnie's speed, regardless of his driving prowess, both he and Arnold sat worried that it wouldn't be enough. Though not one word was spoken between the occupants, they were united in one thought: 'Please let us make it on time…'
"I consider myself a fair person," claimed Mark Vasquez, "so I'll be offering you ladies a choice. One headshot each. Either you turn around and feel nothing, or you stare down the barrel and see it coming. Your choice."
Olga's quickening breath gave away her shock at what he intended to do. "Mark…why..?"
"I was intending to deal only with our guest, but then you had to learn the truth and become a loose end!" He was relishing how his soon-to-be late wife was trembling at his words. "Plus," he added, "didn't you just shoot me, and cap it off with a big 'FUCK YOU'?" He gave it his best attempt to imitate Olga's voice on the 'FUCK YOU'.
He then saw how regret had joined the fear etched on her face, and he loved it. "Pity I now have to kill two fine pieces of ass like you two."
"Mark, wait!"
It was Phoebe now, having her turn at dissuading him. "That shotgun blast could not have gone unheard! Surely the police are on their way?"
At which Mark Vasquez scornfully remarked: "Ha! Shows what you know! We're in a suburb miles away from Hillwood proper, in an insulated house with all the doors and windows closed. Plus, I spent a small fortune soundproofing it because the HOA kept complaining about the noise whenever Olga played her piano. Plus, right this moment, everyone else, including those HOA bastards, is either at work or school. I'll be long gone by the time anyone suspects anything."
With that, Mark Vasquez made a motion to hold for applause, satisfied with the quality of his explanation.
When he heard none, he concluded with: "But now...the time has come, the walrus said." This was a crack at Olga and her theatrics when she had her weapon trained on him earlier. "Now, who shall be first?" With that, he raised the pistol. With that, any lucky break for which the women were hoping…manifested itself.
The motion of raising the pistol caused Mark Vasquez's abdominal muscles to seize once more, and his resultant flinch offered Phoebe the precious fractions of a second she needed to make her move.
Quickly, she rushed Vasquez, grabbing hold of the gun with her left hand, pointing the weapon away from her while using her right fist to strike him repeatedly on his forearm. She was aiming for the nerve cluster just below the elbow fold, trying to force his gun hand to spasm open involuntarily. Yes! His grip on the weapon loosened enough for her to pry it away from him. Not that it would help her, for he appeared to have recovered from the initial abdominal spasm. He sent a vicious left hook her way which connected against her cheek and sent her reeling backward, sent her glasses flying and caused her to drop the pistol.
Vasquez moved to follow up on his advantage with a right hook aimed at Phoebe's head. Fortunately for Phoebe, her presence of mind enabled her to see the punch coming and she slipped under it to Vasquez's right-hand side which had now become his blindside. But he was not to be denied; with his back now turned towards Phoebe, he spun anti-clockwise towards her with a vicious spinning left backfist. At least it would have been vicious had it connected. But alas, Phoebe saw that one coming as well and was able to slip underneath it too. She was now inside his defence and followed up with a right ridgehand strike to his trachea.
"GAAAAKT!" A coarse gasp telling her that her strike had found its target and that he was now struggling to breathe.
No time for Phoebe to gloat. She launched at him with a left roundhouse towards his lower right torso, which must have struck him on his kidney if his wounded response was any reliable indicator. She immediately followed up by leaning back to lift the left knee and follow up with a second – faster – roundhouse kick to the head, without putting her foot down. The second kick connected, her instep crashing against his right cheek, staggering him. While he still seemed sluggish, she went into a clockwise spin, trailing he right leg before lifting it mid-spin on the way to a spinning hooking kick also aimed at his head. That kick was also a success, with the heel of her foot connecting crisply with his right temple. She saw his legs go wobbly on impact, and how he was raising his hands to protect his head. With his chest now open and with no time for her to rest, Phoebe moved to press her advantage even further and came in fast and hard with a spinning back kick, her right foot aimed at his vulnerable core muscles.
Only, he read her movement this time as he moved in to catch and trap the leg, before using her forward momentum to flail her out of the study by the captured leg. Out she flew, crashing spine-first into the passage wall, hard.
"BITCH!" cried the detective in a still-raspy voice conveying intense hatred. He closed in hard, ramming shoulder first into her to pin her against the wall, then pummelling her left flank with short, powerful right uppercuts. One. Two. Three times. Each one sending flares of searing pain from her left ribs to her brain. She had the briefest of moments to regret letting him see her nurse those ribs during his standoff with Olga. Eventually, after the fourth or fifth blow –she had lost count – the pain was overwhelming enough for her to go limp and for him to let her fall to her knees.
"Fuck shooting you," lorded Vasquez while standing over her in triumph. "After what you've done to me and my career, I'm going to enjoy slowly beating the shit out of you!"
The next bit of luck for Phoebe: Vasquez's overbearing self-confidence. She used that brief respite to catch whatever breath she could, before putting her all into a right uppercut of her own that connected as perfectly and powerfully with his groin as she could have wished for. The desired effect was achieved: the detective immediately doubled over in profound pain, squealing like a stabbed pig, while an incoherent jumble of what sounded like words issued from his mouth. Phoebe was not done yet as she quickly took to her feet and threw a jumping Muay Thai knee strike that caught her adversary on the soft tissue beneath his chin.
She followed up by grabbing his head and holding it up by the hair with her left hand while feeding him a steady stream of right forearm strikes. She was especially targeting his nose, and eventually, when she heard the crunch and squish of the cartilage giving in, she could only smile in malice at his obvious pain.
"Oh my god, Arnold! What have you done?"
For some reason, her words of admonishment to Arnold after he brutally killed Rawlins with the sledgehammer had decided to insert themselves into her thought process. No, her conscience retorted, that was different!
"Truth and justice aren't enough for these guys. Sometimes you have to sink to their level."
Arnold's words. For which she read him the riot act. Now here she was, assaulting a cop in a life or death struggle.
Vasquez sensed her distraction and capitalized by grabbing her by her shoulders and butting his head, hard, against her left temple. The impact caused a momentary blackout in her as she felt her knees buckle for the briefest of instances. Vasquez, sensing he had regained the advantage, followed up by grabbing Phoebe around her waist and lifting her off her feet in an adrenaline-fueled berserker rage. Then he ran down the passage and used his momentum to whip her spine-first onto the wooden floor in the lounge. He then followed up by falling on top of her, into her guard position, raining ground-and-pound punches wherever he thought an opening existed – head, chest, ribs – eventually stopping to drive his strong right forearm onto her throat.
As he put his full weight on his forearm to push down hard on her trachea, he took another opportunity to gloat. "Admit it, bitch," he bayed over her frantic gagging. "There's no escape now! How about after this, I get Old Man Scheck to put a hit on your parents? Just because! There's no AAAAAAAAARGH!"
His scream was feral, guttural. Not human. His response to her biting his arm, clamping her jaws for maximum pressure and damage. She'd been able to maneuver her chin under his arm and gain the necessary purchase to bite down hard. Now she refused to let go until she had bitten off a sizable chunk. But it wasn't to be; she felt his left fist crash flush on her face, forcing her to release her dental grip. But he was still inside her guard and she had to act quickly.
So…quickly she acted.
While he was distracted and still close enough, she swung her right leg over his left collarbone and around his neck, letting her calf run parallel to his shoulder line to the opposite shoulder. There, she had raised her left leg straight up, parallel to the flank. She slotted her right ankle behind the left knee, then bent the knee to secure the lock while grabbing the back of his head and pulling it down towards her right thigh for extra leverage.
In less than half a second, she had him in a triangle choke and was applying it for all her worth. His choking sounds were encouraging. Sounds of his carotid arteries and windpipe being constricted. Sounds of the blood flow to his brain being abruptly cut off. Sounds of a man blacking out.
She had him. I HAVE HIM!
But then…oh no!
His fading strength was not yet fully depleted as he grabbed her legs and steadied himself to his knees, then his feet, before standing up with her still applying the lock. Shit, she surmised, he's going to slam me to the ground again. The prospect of a third impact on her spine was unacceptable, so she broke the lock and landed on her feet in front of him. Before he could react to her movement, she deftly and powerfully spun into another back kick attempt, and this time it found its mark – still his abdominal muscles – unhindered. Vasquez's wind was knocked out, but Phoebe knew he hadn't had enough. Immediately after the first kick, she launched into a jumping spinning crescent kick. The impact was perfect as the outside of her right foot crashed into and through the right side of his skull.
There he stood now, out on his feet.
His face: a mangled, bloody mess. His mouth was bleeding. Plus, she could swear he was missing teeth, those that remained intact were now stained red from the blood in his mouth.
His nose: bulbous and swollen blue from repeated impacts. Definitely broken.
She glanced into a nearby mirror and saw that she hadn't emerged any better. The head wound that Olga had dressed earlier had opened up again and the bleeding had saturated the dressing. Her right eye was almost swollen shut from his repeated strikes. And the ribs…definitely bruised at the very least, maybe cracked. She tasted blood in her mouth, but was unsure if she was bleeding internally or if the bleeding was superficial or even—
MISTAKE!
She felt his hands grab her by the hair, yanking her out of her sudden contemplative state.
"You…fucking…WHORE!" he shouted as he shook her violently by her hair. He followed up the shaking with a knee strike that caught her flush on the breadbasket and made her double over, her raspy breaths desperate for air. He followed up by pulling her along with him, still gripping onto her hair. Away from the lounge to the open-plan kitchen, where he flung her over the closest countertop. Over she crashed amid a cacophony of falling cutlery and breaking crockery. She didn't stand up after the collision.
Not that he wanted her to. But just to make sure…
He drew his Glock 22 and began weighing the situation and his options.
Easy justification for lethal force, or so he reckoned. I mean, I called off our affair she came here to turn my wife against me. When that failed, she killed my wife and waited for me so she could kill me too. I must look like shit right now after what she did to me. A clear case of self-defense. No grand jury on earth will ever indict for this.
Having determined those assurances and hearing only moans and gasps from the other side of the counter, he called to Phoebe, loudly and proudly: "Well I must say, Phoebe, you know how to show a man a good time! Now, why not show yourself so I can end it? The offer of a headshot still stands. You know what? I'll do you a favor! When it's Arnold's turn, I'll do him quick, just so that he can be with you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
And that was the undoing of Detective Mark César Vasquez. Him trying to taunt Phoebe once too often. Him pointing his weapon at the ground instead of training it in her general direction. When she emerged from behind the cover with a snub-nosed revolver aimed at him, he wasn't ready. Not for the first shot, nor the second, nor the third. All three struck him in the chest. He didn't know – and to be fair he would never know – that the bullets were Glaser rounds, frangible rounds that upon penetration shattered into fragments and bounced around inside his body while doing all sorts of damage to his blood vessels and organs.
The damage done by Phoebe wasn't terminal, not yet anyway. Despite Phoebe not having taken her aim off him, he still craved the last word, the final say. Held together by adrenaline, grit, and intense hatred, he slowly lifted his service pistol toward Phoebe. Then he heard a faint pop, before feeling a stinging sensation on his back. He turned to see Olga, stood with the HDM.
Olga, always his blind spot.
"Et tu, Olga?" he asked in dramatic confusion.
"Me especially," replied Olga Pataki with a look of newly discovered clarity in her eyes as she squeezed off five more rapid rounds, each one striking Mark Vasquez in the lungs and heart.
Suddenly, he found himself staring at a still frame of his surroundings. Nobody was moving; neither Phoebe nor Olga. Just him and…that girl again: Helga! She stood in her pink dress and pink bow, staring through him with no expression on her face. Remaining straight-faced, she said simply: "Five".
Then "Four".
"Three…"
"Two…"
"One…"
As the blackness engulfed him, he heard the apparition speak one last time: "Boys are so stupid."
"We were supposed to battle these people within the confines of the law! Did you understand that, Arnold? Did you? Within the law!"
Her castigating words to Arnold after the Rawlins incident. And here Phoebe stood in Olga's kitchen, gun in hand, having enacted the greatest hypocrisy in her life. Killing a cop, in his home no less. Where within the law was that?
"Well, I hope you're happy!" It was Olga's acrimonious voice, conveying her still-simmering hatred to her raven-haired guest. "You've officially taken me back to rock bottom."
"You killed tonight, not because you had to, but because you wanted to! Right now I don't think you're any better than them!"
More harsh words that she dumped on Arnold. Oh, how high and mighty, how morally superior she must have sounded! Now...was she any better? She'd be lying for not admitting a small sense of satisfaction in beating up and shooting that glib Judas. She couldn't deny it: deep down, she wanted this outcome with that slimy, traitorous bastard, Mark Vasquez, dead.
"And why'd you bring a gun with you, anyway?" Olga asked pointedly. "What did you intend doing with it?"
It was then that Phoebe Heyerdahl, realizing that she couldn't answer those two questions, dropped her gun. After a prolonged pause, she herself dropped to the floor, to her knees where she buried he head in one hand and wept dryly and silently. She then felt a prod from someone's foot on her side. "Hey, snap out of it!" goaded Olga mockingly.
Somewhere outside, a fulminous engine note could be heard in the distance.
Olga stood over her, pistol still in hand. "I suppose this is the part where I thank you for rescuing me from the marriage from hell." Her tone still conveyed her original bitterness toward Phoebe. "Sorry, not gonna happen! This morning I wake up, still having a husband and a happy life. Now, I have nothing left and what I really want to do…"
She paused, and Phoebe looked up to see Olga pointing the pistol down at her. Upon reflecting on her actions and their consequences, Phoebe wasn't too sure if she wanted to present a counter-argument to Olga.
"But," continued Olga, "that would be an act of mercy for one like you who can't process and live with any sort of guilt. Correct, Little Miss Do Right? Why else would you take the time to visit me just for your confession?"
With that, Olga placed the pistol on the countertop. She then moved away from Phoebe and stood silently in the lounge while contemplating the life choices that had led her to this point.
The engine note was getting louder and ever so closer. Eventually, it idled to a halt in front of the house and the women heard a door open, accompanied by a loud 'Go! Go! Go!'. And when Arnold kicked the door down and stormed in, pistol at the ready, neither woman had any remaining capacity for any more surprises.
Arnold was apparently happy with what he surveyed, for he spoke 'Clear!" into a radio transmitter. He then holstered his weapon and turned his attention to the living occupants. "Everyone OK?" he asked. He could see Olga, but Phoebe was out of his sight.
Olga's glare towards him screamed 'I remember the memorial, you son of a bitch!', but she nevertheless nodded to the affirmative. Arnold had more important matters on his mind than worrying about Olga's enmity towards him as he called for Phoebe.
Hearing his voice snapped Phoebe out of her funk and she slowly stood up from behind the counter and conveyed her presence. She then watched Arnold go pale as he saw the state of her face.
"PHOEBE!" he shouted as he darted towards her. His professional demeanor disappeared as he held her head close to his and examined the extent of her injuries. He seemed overcome by emotion as he let go of her head and instead hugged her tenderly.
But not tenderly enough…
"OW-OW-OW-OW, Arnold! Ribs! Ribs!" Phoebe painfully gasped.
So he let go of her torso to cup her cheeks in his hands and stare lovingly – if somewhat disapprovingly – at her. There were so many points for which he could berate her, only he couldn't remember what those points were. Instead, he kissed her gently and ever so gratefully on her lips. She, in turn, found Arnold's kiss to be the most effective and pleasurable analgesic ever administered, and let it continue a bit longer.
"I thought I was supposed to be the reckless one," asked a relieved Arnold once their lips parted. "What happened?"
Phoebe gave him a condensed version of the preceding altercation and its results. After which Arnold turned to Olga, who was still glaring at him in utter repugnance.
"You? You saved her?" Then, when the realization sank in: "You saved her! Thank you! Thank you!"
With that, he walked to Olga, whose visible distaste towards him failed to deter him from hugging her in gratitude. For the briefest of instances, she felt in his embrace the warm sincerity of the kindly young boy who won over her sister's heart and soul. Until…
"Hey, did I say you could touch me?" she exclaimed as she extricated herself from him.
"Everything OK in there?" crackled Arnold's radio.
"Fine and peachy, Sheriff!" replied Arnold. "Stay put and keep the motor running."
"'Sheriff'? Arnie?" queried Phoebe as all inside heard the engine maintain its glorious low-pitched idle.
"Long story," replied Arnold, before focussing his attention on the late Detective Mark Vasquez. "You say he had orders to kill Phoebe?"
The women nodded.
"OK, that's helpful," declared Arnold as he went over to rummage through the dead man's pockets, much to Olga's unease. He found what he was seeking: the mobile phone, miraculously still in good nick.
"Arnold," asked Phoebe, her curiosity having overridden her pain, "would you mind giving your reason for disturbing and possibly tampering with a crime scene?"
"You say he was under orders to kill you. Chances are his handler will want to check in with him. I want to be there when the call comes."
"Hence, Arnie remaining outside so as not to be implicated in any wrongdoing."
"Exactly!"
"Look, lovebirds," a pouty Olga interrupted, "there's still the matter of the dead body. What about that?"
After some thought, Arnold turned to Phoebe. "Phoebe, can I have your phone's SD card?"
"Certainly, but why would you require it?"
"Planting evidence. Making sure Olga goes off the radar after killing a cop. Buy us time so we can figure out how to get her out of this mess."
To which Olga sharply protested: "Wait a minute! I don't recall asking for your help!"
Arnold's reply was soft, but nevertheless conveyed that he was not suffering any of Olga's protests: "Well tough! You've earned it, like it or not."
Phoebe, meanwhile, had caught on to Arnold's gambit and suggested once she had handed him the card: "May I suggest planting it in the study down the passage. And Arnold, could you please acquire the folder on the desk there? I feel it may prove useful somehow. Oh, and while you're there, would it be possible to retrieve any remnant of my glasses?"
"Sure," he sweetly replied, despite the urgency of the matter and the seriousness of their current situation. Off he went.
"Look at you, Miss Acclaimed Journalist. Party to your man planting evidence after you two fucked up my entire life." But before Phoebe could feel any guilt, Olga followed up with: "The question still stands. What is he to you?"
Phoebe could only smile as she played back some more words spoken to her by Arnold which gave her all the justification she needed for her actions:
"But for those I love and care about – those I think make my life worth living – I'm willing to go to any extreme, law or no law!"
"Someone I love dearly," she replied.
And another chapter is complete! And once more, my dearest readers, you have my eternal gratitude for sticking with me thus far. I hope I've continued meeting any of your expectations. Let me know one way or the other; I'd appreciate any feedback.
And..please accept my deepest apologies for initially releasing a chapter so far below my self-imposed standards that it needed to be withdrawn and retweaked. Rest assured that the mishap is regretted.
Author's Note: Since Arnold and Arnie were created as opposite sides as the same coin, their choice in cars had to be polar opposites as well. And since my version of Arnold favors nippy European hot hatches, Arnie would have to be more partial to Detroit V8 muscle. Hence the lazily powerful Chrysler 300C, which I believe suited Arnie's laidback disposition better than other equivalents.
Author's Note #2: My number one goal with the fight scene was to keep it grounded and realistic, not make it come off as too choreographed. I wanted to convey the technical aspects, but also the down-and-dirty nature since there are no referees in a self-defense situation. Another point I wanted to highlight is that being punched and kicked hard hurts, and so victory would be hard-won.
Author's Note #3: As someone who has fought K1 Full Contact, I can personally vouch for Vasquez's muscle spasms. Take enough full-contact shots to the abdomen, and be prepared for the muscles to seize up at the slightest provocation within up to twenty-four hours after a fight. It ain't fun.
Author's Note #4: Phoebe's propensity for martial arts was based on two scenes from the series. The fencing scene in 'Phoebe Cheats' made me believe that her footwork was fast, explosive and efficient. Qualities that lend themselves very well to any fighting art. Then there's the clip from 'Parents Day' with her as the wheelbarrow in the wheelbarrow race that made me go 'Damn, this girl's got amazing core strength!'
Finally, here is this chapter's Spotify list:
The Blood That Moves The Body - a-ha
The Gates Of Hell / Penn's Wish - Basil Poledouris
Another Body Murdered - Faith No More & Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E.
Yours Fatally - Jamali
Flesh - KMFDM
I Against I - Massive Attack feat. Mos Def
Stop The Cavalry - Music Lab Collective (only because the original Jona Lewie version sounded a bit too comedic for my purposes...)
The Crooked Kind - Radical Face
6 Underground - Sneaker Pimps
And that's your lot. See you next time!