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: Olga studies Helga's file and learns more about herself instead. Brainy helps Arnold muddy the waters around Vasquez's death. Phoebe comes to terms with her recent actions.
Readers, the next chapter is here!
21. Because Family Matters (Part 2)
"…Details surrounding the murder of Hillwood Police Detective Mark Vasquez are slowly beginning to filter in following the conclusion of the on-site investigation two hours ago. Sources close to the investigation have stated that the investigators are looking into the possibility of this killing is in revenge for the fatal capture of Vitaly Santalov by the late Detective Vasquez.
Those same sources also say that preliminary evidence shows signs of – and I quote – 'a significant struggle', suggesting that the late detective had put up a fight before being shot nine times in the back and chest.
Police are also concerned about not being able to locate Detective Vasquez's wife, Olga Pataki-Vasquez, whose phone was found at the scene. Her current location and condition remain a mystery and…"
The television in Phoebe's main bedroom had offered this bit of news, a mere snippet picked from reams of fact and speculation. She and Arnold were encouraged that the police seemed to be looking at the crime as being related to organized crime and not a domestic squabble. They were then relieved when Brainy called Phoebe to announce the evidence he'd sent to the Commissioner in hopes of steering the investigation away from her, Arnold, and hopefully Olga too.
Brainy then followed up with how after he delivered the bombshell, the investigation into the murder of Detective Mark Vasquez's murder was brought to an abrupt halt. Indeed, his sources had informed him that the investigators had concluded their work and the working theory was that the celebrated Detective Mark Vasquez was the victim of a hit staged in revenge by two or more parties still loyal to the deceased Vitaly Santalov – no other viable suspects were being considered.
So, having sensed a brief moment of respite in the storm, Arnold and Phoebe were now lying together in bed. He was down to his boxers and T-shirt; she was wearing an oversized sleepshirt into which she had allowed Arnold to help her change. While both agreed – very reluctantly – that any form of intimacy involving physical exertion was out of the question given Phoebe's injured state, both still craved each other's physical contact. They settled on spooning as a compromise. Which was fine with Arnold; earlier he was fearing that he'd never have another chance to have Phoebe back beside him, to hold her close to him, to be as close to one with her as possible.
He planted a kiss on her cheek, then another on her nape, then once more on her collar. She responded to each one with a sensual, contented moan. "Someone's acting gratefully for my survival," she teased.
"Don't even joke about it," replied Arnold in such a way to convey his seriousness without ruining the mood. "I was fearing the worst. I was dreading we'd never have any more moments like this."
"If I didn't know better, Arnold," Phoebe butted in, "I'd think you were serious about loving me."
Ha-ha, thought Arnold, but before he could confirm just how right she was, she continued: "Because let me assure you, the feeling is 100% mutual."
Oh, how he wanted to continue the conversation and affirm his feelings all night long. But alas…
"You two!" barked Olga as she stormed into the bedroom. "I need to see my mother! Right now, in fact!"
Olga's sudden entrance snapped the couple out of their blissful zone as they quickly disentangled then seated themselves to face the new houseguest.
"Say what?" Arnold was the first to respond.
"You heard me!" fussed Olga. "I need to see my mother before the police eventually catch up with me!"
"Olga, that is a most illogical and ill-advised move," rebutted Phoebe. "Think it through, please. Mark's dead and you're officially missing. The police's first action would be to contact your mother, maybe even surveil her, for a lead on your location."
"But didn't Arnold get rid of any evidence tying me to that cocksucker's murder?"
"True," agreed Arnold, before explaining further, "but that was just to buy you some time before we take down Scheck. Then miraculously, you are found, still alive. We spin some story that you knew he was crooked and how you and he became loose ends to Scheck and how you were lucky enough to avoid the hit and stay hidden."
"And just how sure are you that it will play out that way?" Olga challenged.
"Because the police have found incriminating evidence on Vasquez that we planted," Phoebe answered, "and another associate of ours provided further evidence of him confessing his corrupt behavior."
Arnold added: "With luck, you'll emerge unscathed."
Olga then eyed Arnold very warily. "You guys are going a long way out of your way to help someone who hates both your guts and will spit on your graves if you were to drop dead right now."
Arnold was unfazed. "Look, Olga. Hate me all you want. But when this is done, at least you'll be hating me while never having to look over your shoulder all the time and worrying if there'll be a target on your back."
"But there's no guarantee," countered the elder sister while trying not to show her surprise at the footballheaded man not caring one way or another about her hatred towards him. "It may not play out the way you're expecting it to."
"True, Olga, true," Phoebe weighed in. "Which is why I wouldn't advise taking any unnecessary risks at this delicate stage."
"Well, fuck you and your unnecessary risks, you harlot. I haven't forgotten that you and your boyfriend are the reason I'm holed up here and on the run in the first place. And if it's my fate to die tonight, then I absolutely refuse to go before seeing my mother one last time! You owe me that much at least!"
"I owe you to get you out of this situation alive," Arnold's voice now reflected some testiness. "No more, no less."
"To hell with you then!" Olga's anger was becoming more emotional, with tears threatening to flow. "I'll go there myself if I have to!"
"No! Way!" Too risky!" Arnold fired back.
"Police are also concerned at not being able to locate Detective Vasquez's wife, Olga Pataki-Vasquez, whose phone was found at the scene. Her current location and condition remain a mystery and…"
Oh no! The shock from learning of Mark's death was bad enough for Miriam Pataki, but the latter part about Olga cost her what little calm she had retained.
She'd been browsing several tech sites, tracking the latest developments in cellular and computer technology. She was particularly interested in the most recent announcements regarding the latest lines of a specific brand of CPU's and how they were set to revolutionize the communication field. Miriam could only sigh in bemusement at how the same pundits had said the same about the previous generation's products, not even six months ago.
Satisfied that she had gathered all the pertinent information that she could, Miriam Pataki had then turned to the television for whatever might grab her attention. She settled on a drama series that wasn't particularly good, but still watchable. Then the show was interrupted by the shocking news story she'd just sat through, and of which she was presently trying to make sense.
Who would be so brazen to kill a policeman, she'd wondered. In broad daylight, too?
Furthermore…Why Mark? He was such a good man! After his positive influence on Miriam and Olga, what did he do to deserve this? And as if that bit of bad news wasn't bad enough…
No, not Olga too! Not my one remaining daughter!
Every worst-case scenario came flooding through her mind. Had Olga been kidnapped? Was she holed up in a dark cellar somewhere? Oh dear God, oh sweet Jesus! Was she dead? The dread was making Miriam Pataki feel severely ill.
NO! She resolved that since the police didn't know yet what had happened to her, then there was still hope! While she was mentally playing with the different optimistic permutations, she heard the front doorbell.
Great, she suspired in irritation. The police, here no doubt to ask questions about Olga and her possible whereabouts. Which she'd be unable to answer since she was still very much estranged from her daughter despite all attempts at reconciliation.
She was mentally preparing to be of the least amount of use to whichever detective was at her door. Her surprise was therefore palpable to all assembled at her threshold: Olga, flanked by…who exactly? They looked so familiar. They looked like Helga's boyfriend with the weird head and the girl who was her best friend. Neither seemed in any good condition. The woman in particular: her face looked pretty banged up. She had in her possession an attaché case. The man, now he looked pissed off, like being here wasn't his idea.
Their names…their names…
Arnold! And Phoebe! What did they have to do with this matter?
Not now, she self-rebuked. What about Olga!
"Olga? Oh my god oh my god! Are you OK? Are you hurt? I heard it on the news I was so worried!" she exclaimed in panic and hysteria and pure unbridled relief and joy.
Olga stood in silence at her mother's reaction. Then, with a quivering lower lip and tears flowing from her eyes she managed a pathetic whimper: "M-…M-…Mommy...?"
That was enough for Miriam – more than enough – as she lunged for her daughter and wrapped her in the warmest, firmest, most maternal hug she could manage. Miriam's waterworks were a match for Olga's as she responded: "Don't worry, Sweetie, Mommy's here. Mommy's always been here."
Arnold did not want to be there: the risk of Olga being spotted was too great. They'd driven to Miriam's brownstone in Arnold's Golf after leaving Arnie still sleeping on the couch. Arnold would have preferred to park away from the address, but the road was parked solid by the residents and the only available space just happened to be in front of their destination. Not ideal when being inconspicuous was the goal, but Olga had screeched up a shrill, high-pitched storm at his refusal to bring her here and he and Phoebe had to relent.
But what was done, was done when Miriam let them in.
This meant that Arnold would not be around to witness how lucky he was to have friends in low – practically underground – places. Shortly after the group's ingress, a police car arrived. Its occupants were two uniforms, sent to check up on Miriam Pataki, mother of the missing Olga Pataki-Vasquez. Confirm that she was fine, maybe coax her to the station for the detectives to ask their questions. They noticed a red VW Golf parked In front of her address, which they thought suspicious being that it was the only vehicle in the street with out-of-state plates. The prudent course of action was to run the plates, which traced back to—
"Arnold Shortman? The fuck is he doing here?"
"You know him?" his partner was curious.
"Went to school with him, years ago."
"Oh? Sounds like you don't like him much," she pressed on.
"He was a stand-up guy," her rather burly partner replied. "I was a total loser back then, but he helped me out. Never gave up on me."
"You? A loser at school?" That was news to her. "But didn't you pass college, and the entrance exam, to get this job?"
"Got him to thank for that. He helped me, got me back in the books. Wasn't great, but every day it got a little easier."
"And how lucky are we for that?" she approved, before switching to another line of questioning. "So why's he here? Think he's here for Miriam Pataki?"
"Well, she was his girlfriend's mother. Former girlfriend, like killed-in-a-building-explosion former."
"Shit!" her surprise almost had physical substance, so palpable was it. "You mean that Pataki girl…uh, Helga, right? The Sunset Arms Incident!"
"Yep, losing her and his whole family tore him up so bad he just upped and left for fuck knows where."
"So you reckon he's up there catching up with the mother?" she asked.
"Even odds say he is," he answered in a tone that matched his certainty. "I'll bet you too, that our missing person, Olga Pataki, she's in there too."
"OK, now you're making shit up!" The partner now sounded leery at his train of thought, but she took the bait anyway. "Based on what, exactly?" she challenged, playfully.
"Based on almost every suspect we've had to collar. Guys…girls, who know we're looking for them and are laying low. Ninety percent of the time, we track them where exactly?"
The lightbulb went on in her head and she sighed her response: "The mother's…"
"The mother's," he repeated. "Blacks, Latinos, the Russians, and Triads. Even the Aryans. Every time one of them fucks up and we want to have a chat, they'll bail to Mommy."
"Impressive," she dryly commented. "It's a wonder you haven't made detective yet."
"Not smart enough," he answered with a strong hint of self-deprecation.
They had been so engrossed in their little conversation that they barely noticed their screen. A flag had appeared beside the name of Arnold Shortman.
"Extend all courtesy to Arnold Philip Shortman and all known associates. By order of the Mayor," the burly officer read. "The fuck is this? Are we back in the Prohibition era?"
"Agreed," she replied. "Sounds like something they would do for Capone. How do you want to handle it?"
"What can we do? He's definitely inside there. We'll have to consider anyone inside with him a known associate."
"Are you seriously considering…" she asked. "Just now you said how certain you were that our person of interest was holed up in there!"
"What? We're not disobeying orders; we're following them to the letter." With that, the big, muscular man put the car in gear and pulled away to continue on their patrol. "Besides, it's not like they don't know each other. It would seem cruel to interrupt their reunion."
"You're all heart, Torvald," his partner commended. "A real sweetheart when you want to be."
Hillwood Harbour was nowhere near the size or importance of any major West Coast counterpart like the Port of Los Angeles for example. But at least satellite surveillance was much easier with less area to cover, as Brainy was experiencing. On a forty-inch flatscreen, the images were detailed enough from altitude so as not to require too much zooming in. Not that there had been much to report. What he'd seen so far comprised mostly fishing vessels, the occasional luxury yacht to and from the marina, and a few small cargo boats.
Nothing eventful. Nothing meriting any great interest.
Another advantage for those looking to use Hillwood Harbour as a base of criminal activity, or indeed those surveilling it, was that it didn't operate 24/7. Thus, it was easy for the former to conduct their activities undisturbed while the latter could have an easy time spotting anything unusual.
So far, no unusual activities, and now it was knocking-off time. The stevedores were now spilling out the front gates on their way home.
Then came the quiet, the peace. About two hours' worth. Time enough to follow the news feeds. One developing story caught his attention. Apparently, the president of a Central American country called San Lorenzo had been implicated in some shady deals that had come to light. Several mining and mineral deals that could spell Armageddon for millions of acres of pristine jungle and coastline, not to mention the endangered, endemic fauna and flora therein. Greenpeace and the WWF had been anonymously informed about this wicked enterprise and were using all available channels to turn the screws on El Presidente. Reports were mentioning how thousands of activists were flying to the country to join the protests already underway by San Lorenzo's citizens. Word had apparently reached them as well about El Presidente planning to sell them out for billions of US Dollars, of which they wouldn't see a nickel. He got to see Eduardo give a series of interviews in English and Spanish on how their president, the man charged with guiding a country to prosperity had turned Judas and would now have to answer for his actions.
Eventually, the cycle started repeating itself, at which point he turned his attention back to the Hillwood Harbour footage. That's when he noticed the vans arriving.
"Olga, what have you done?"
Miriam Pataki was shocked beyond human understanding at what she had been told over the past half an hour.
Arnold's history. Phoebe's history. Everything.
Murder plots, shoot-outs, criminal conspiracies. Everything.
Mark. His duplicitous nature. His corrupt nature. Everything.
His infidelity. His attempt at murder. His death at the hands of Phoebe and Olga. Everything!
"Are you telling me that man, your husband, tried to kill you?" her voice verged on mania as she vented her disbelief.
"Yes-yes he did!" Olga was faring no better at keeping her calm. "But it was Phoebe he wanted to kill, and she happened to be with me at our house when he arrived."
Miriam's franticness instantly gave way to anger as she turned to glare at Phoebe, who was seated beside Arnold on a couch opposite the one which held the Pataki women.
"You mean that strumpet over there?" Miriam spat out as she maintained her glare towards Phoebe. Phoebe felt her innate confidence evaporate and she lowered her head, having no courage to explain herself. "And don't you dare say how you saved Olga. You're the one who put her in danger in the first place! All because you…you…"
She'd continue berating Phoebe, but her tears were building up and would no longer be held back. Arnold had said nothing during this exchange. Instead, he was reflecting on why he was against this meeting happening so soon after Vasquez's death when emotions were still raw and rational thought had not yet shown itself. He continued watching as Miriam overcame her tears and resumed reaming out Phoebe.
"You…how do I know it wasn't you who corrupted him? Mark was such a nice man, such a loyal husband. He was even trying to bring this family together. Now you sit there and tell me he had us all fooled, all this time? How dare you?" Despite the tears, her anger was rising again.
"Mommy, he fooled us both! He fooled us all," Olga spoke softly, almost contritely. "Us Pataki women sure can pick 'em, can't we?"
To which Miriam, along with Arnold and Phoebe, stared at her in shock.
"Please Mommy," Olga pleaded. "I…I didn't come here so that we could harangue Phoebe. I've come to accept that despite everything, I'd be dead but for her. Maybe not today, but sometime in the future maybe?"
"Then why, my daughter?" Miriam was confused, a state she was sharing with her other two guests.
"To tell you that I was wrong, and you were right all these years!" Olga's voice was breaking with each word. She paused to gather her emotions, before continuing: "When you testified against Daddy, I thought you were selling out on the family. I won't lie, I hated you, absolutely despised you."
She stopped for a few more emotional sniffs, then: "I thought you stopped caring about us. Stopped loving us. Stopped loving me. I carried that ugly thought with me for all these years."
Miriam moved to counter. "Olga, Sweetie, I—"
"Please let me finish!" implored Olga. Miriam's silence signaled the go-ahead. "But you know what? Today I was shown a file, a thick one from very long ago. It was Helga's psych report with Doctor Bliss."
"Oh my god! Helga?" gasped Miriam while clutching at an imaginary heart attack. "How'd you get hold of such a document?"
Phoebe wanted to answer that question, but she felt Arnold's hand on her shoulder and turn to see him shaking his head, silently telling her that this was Olga's story.
"Not important right now!" insisted Miriam's one remaining daughter. "Anyway, you were mentioned in a lot of the sessions. Mostly very unflattering, to put it mildly. About how inattentive you were as a mother, how your alcoholism was affecting her."
"Olga, please understand!" Miriam attempted another interjection. "I was a different person back then and—"
"Still talking!" Olga cut her off while pointing at her own mouth. "Anyway, I was no angel to her either. I always convinced myself that I loved my baby sister oh so much, but the reality was I was jealous that she'd take attention away from me, so I kept fighting for all your and Daddy's attention. Even if it meant driving her away."
The look in Miriam's eyes reflected old wounds being picked and scratched open. Nevertheless, Olga had to continue. "But I realized that I got it wrong. I was the weak one in the family. You were the strong one, you always were. You weren't getting drunk to avoid us. You were doing it so that bastard Bob could take his frustrations out on you instead of Helga. You're the one who stepped up to testify against him and put him away for good!" The tears were threatening to return, but she didn't relent: she couldn't. "Meanwhile, I was the delusional one, trying to keep together a family unit that was doomed from the start. And when it all fell apart, so did I. I'm the weak one."
"Olga, that's not true!" her mother blurted as she reflexively grabbed her daughter's hand.
"It is! It just is!" insisted a borderline tearful Olga. "You've at least put that part of your life behind you. You turned a failing business around, and then some. You've taken your life back! Meanwhile, I—"
"That's enough, Olga!" declared her mother, highlighting her words with another maternal embrace. She then cooed into her daughter's ear: "No matter what you say, you'll always be my daughter and I'll never stop loving you. Ever!"
At those words, Olga was overcome by her emotions and broke down into a sad mewl while still being hugged. "It's OK, Daughter", reassured Miriam. "Just let it out."
Through her mewling, Olga managed: "I'm sorry…"
Arnold and Phoebe let this display run its course before Phoebe chimed in. "Mrs. Pataki?" she ventured as she reached into her case. "Here's the file on Helga." She produced the file and held it out to the matriarch, who walked over from her side and readily accepted the offering.
Phoebe went on to explain the folder's contents, its chain of procurement, and its intended criminal purpose towards Arnold.
"Good Lord," gasped Miriam, not for the first time. "You're saying this was all about getting revenge on Arnold for saving the neighborhood from Scheck? And Helga was used to get to him?"
"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Pataki." A solemn Arnold spoke his first words. "He thought my memories of her would make me an easy mark."
"I see…" trailed Miriam. "But you did love her, didn't you? I mean…back at the airport. San Lorenzo?"
Olga decided to answer on his behalf. "Of course he did! I'm telling you, Mommy, I don't recall ever seeing Helga as happy as she was on that day! Too bad…"
"Yeah, too bad," Arnold repeated. "Too bad it didn't last for long before she was taken from us."
Miriam caught on to the sense of loss and regret his voice had just projected. "Young man…Arnold…Olga is right. After you and Helga became a couple, she seemed so much happier at home. I'm not saying her life at home got any better. God knows, it didn't. But I recall her having more of a spring in her step every day. And I think that's all because of you." She then placed her free hand on Arnold's cheek, holding it there, full of warmth. "You brought her more happiness in those weeks than her own family did in her entire lifetime."
Arnold was rendered silent at that revelation. He watched next as Miriam hesitated, seemingly arguing internally with himself: a sort of should I or shouldn't I moment.
" Arnold," she began, "you said you're a retired Army Lieutenant, right?
"Yes Ma'am," replied the ex-soldier, not knowing where Miriam was heading.
"Then answer this question, and answer truthfully, please. I always think of you as that sweet, helpful young boy from long ago. You're really the last person I would have imagined to serve in the Armed Forces. Did Helga's death have any bearing on your decision?"
It surprised Arnold how quickly he answered the question. "Yes. Yes, it did. Hers and Gerald's both."
"Gerald, you say?" she tried recalling that name. "Oh yes, he was your best friend, wasn't he?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And you," she turned to Phoebe, becoming angry in the motion, although her eyes did now convey a small measure of understanding. "You said that Helga was the reason you started your career and investigation?"
"Y-Yes, Mrs. Pataki," Phoebe squeaked. "Her…and Gerald as well."
"Gerald? And what exactly was he to you?" queried the elderly Pataki woman.
"He was my boyfriend at the time."
Miriam ruminated on their answers for a while longer, before speaking again.
"Come with me, all of you," she said. "There's something you need to see".
She led them up the stairs to her study, where she bade the trio to enter a dark, unlit room. They heard a switch being flicked at the doorway, and instantly the room was bathed in bright LED light. They were in a study, austerely furnished and appointed.
Desk.
Three chairs.
Laptop.
Router.
Printer.
Scanner.
Only the essentials. Even the shelf space was kept to an absolute minimum. But why show us such a simple room, Arnold and company asked in silent unison. Arnold was the first to see why, to shock and surprise to which he had believed he was long immune. Phoebe and Olga followed in short order with their own gasps from the shock of what they saw.
There, in a large frame mounted on a sidewall, it stood: the dress worn by Helga Pataki on that fateful day, complete with bloody flecks and grime marks, even the hole left by the pole that had pierced through her body. Draped above it was the pink ribbon that became the girl's trademark. It too bore the grimy, bloody legacy of Helga's final moments.
"All for the sake of torturing myself daily with the memory of how as a mother I failed my younger daughter when she needed me," Miriam answered their unasked questions from the doorway.
Her guests were speechless at the revelation. Olga and Phoebe were rendered paralyzed by the intense emotion; so was Arnold, despite his stoic exterior. Thus it was left to Miriam to fill them in about how she had claimed the items from Hillwood PD after their investigations had ruled Helga's death an accident to which no criminal culpability could be attached. She explained how afterward she went to great expense to have the items preserved and framed.
The party was still too stupefied to comment, which was understandable to Miriam. "It comforts me to know that she was loved while she was alive," she began. "And it shames me to say that I left it too late to tell her as much. But you…"
She then entered the room and walked to Olga, whom she embraced again as if the act would never become old. "She may be gone, but she brought my surviving daughter back to me and I'll forever be grateful for this."
She then moved to Phoebe, whom she promptly slapped across the cheek as soon as the Asian woman turned to face her. The slap reverberated across the sparse room, and Phoebe was left holding her stinging cheek in a state of confused pain.
"For insinuating yourself into Olga's life in the way you did," Miriam softly scolded, before reaching for Phoebe's comforting hand to hold in her own. She then lifted Phoebe's hand to kiss it. The kiss was as tender as the slap had been stinging. "For saving my elder daughter. And for being the person most loyal to my younger one. "
Arnold was next. When Miriam was in front of him, she simply leaned in for a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, for loving Helga the way she deserved to be loved. For making her happy."
There was hardly a dry eye in the room as each occupant's memories of Helga came flooding back. Not even Arnold was insusceptible; this would be his first proper mourning of Helga in seventeen years.
The screen spared no detail.
As soon as the five vans came to a halt, they disgorged their occupants: a contingent of heavily armed individuals. Brainy watched as they dispersed across the harbor to secure the site. He remained transfixed by the practiced efficiency on display as each…what? Soldier? PMC? As each individual and group moved to accomplish their objective. The three nightwatchmen were no match for the enemies' tactics as they were overwhelmed, incapacitated, and rounded up in short order. Next came the Harbour Master and crew. A group of enemies blitzed their office with stun grenades, then entered the room to drag out a motley band of dazed civilians. The sweep continued unabated; every nook was examined, every cranny explored. The net result was five vagrants being gathered as well.
Soon, it was all over. The captives were gathered together at a central outside location and kept under heavy watch. Among the captors, some had started patrolling the harbor perimeter, while the rest were setting up sentry stations. Except for the three who were moving to isolated locations. Brainy tracked one onboard a particularly big cargo boat, on the highest point of its superstructure. The second one's resting place was on the roof of a tall warehouse, also on the fringe of the harbor. The third one settled on top of a stack of shipping containers, some distance opposite the warehouse.
Shit, snipers! That was the only conclusion that Brainy could draw. The sons of bitches were prepping a kill zone, no doubt for Arnold! Shit, he had to get hold of him, fast!
He was about to call Arnold with the information, only for his attention to be diverted by the arrival of a limo. It came to a halt near the vans, where only a single passenger exited: Scheck, it had to be him. The elderly man strode over to the captives and spoke to one of his crew, presumably someone in charge. Brainy watched as Scheck spoke, then his underling spoke back, then Scheck spoke back in body language that even from space could be read as loud, demanding, and profoundly displeased. He watched as the subordinate called together a group of his friends and headed for the captives.
In front of whom they stood.
In front of whom they…raised…their…weapons.
Oh shit. That heartless motherfucker!
The screen spared no detail.
It showed brief muzzle flashes from the weapons, followed by the captives dropping like ragdolls. It showed the shooters moving to stand over the downed victims for one more shot to each one's head.
Fucking double taps, Brainy cursed. They were going to die no matter what!
Scheck seemed unmoved by this activity. He moved to the deceased, where he casually produced a phone. That sick fuck, thought Brainy as he watched how Scheck took pictures of the dead; the fucker was even taking his time to get the angles right! Brainy then watched as he punched a button sequence on his phone. No prizes for guessing to whom he was sending the pictures. After some more fidgeting, the old man then held the phone to his ear – he was making a call. No prizes for guessing whom he was calling.
The shitty part of all of this was that Brainy couldn't call the police. Guaranteed, they'd been instructed to stay the hell away from the harbor for a specified period. Figuring that Arnold was about to be informed about this current development, Brainy dialed another number.
Four rings. Pick-up.
"Fuck off, Four-Eyes! I'm sleeping!" answered a gruff voice.
For which Brainy had no time. "Sheriff, you need to wake up. Shit's about to go down. Tonight!"
The rest of the visit was quite civil as the quartet fondly and remorsefully reminisced about Helga. Phoebe, in particular, felt her tongue loosen to the point where she divulged bits of her involvement – directly or indirectly, willingly or coerced – in Helga's furtive attempts to woo Arnold.
"So that's why you were with Helga by my window that night?" Arnold asked.
"I'm afraid so," blushed Phoebe. "Pork rinds and somnambulism, who would have guessed there'd be a causal relationship?"
It may have been long overdue, but Helga was finally getting the wake she deserved from the surviving people who remembered her most fondly.
Miriam provided more details on her life post-Helga and post-Bob. No, she explained, she hadn't stopped drinking entirely. "It's just," as she elaborated, "during the trial, Robert's lawyer kept bringing up my drinking in her cross-examination. She tried to paint me as an unfit mother and use that to destroy my credibility as a witness. Imagine...all my sins and shame aired out in public as a matter of record. That was one hell of a reality check. But you know, after Robert's sentencing and our divorce, I started realizing I didn't need the alcohol as much as before. Five-a-day became five-a-week, then eventually three-a-month, if that."
Still, it didn't preclude Miriam from offering a round of whiskey to those assembled. Glenfiddich, she said it was – something she only saved for special occasions. Her gesture was accepted by all. Arnold even noticed how Miriam's relationship with alcohol had changed. The way she confidently sipped her drink made it clear that she was now in control of her drinking instead of the other way round. An encouraging sign. And so the remembrance of Helga continued
Until a phone was heard ringing. One carried by Arnold. One not belonging to him, but to the late, unlamented Mark Vasquez. Seeing that, as well as the name on the Caller ID, Arnold went back to his steely military professionalism as he asked Olga and Miriam to leave the room.
"But why, Arnold?" asked a confused Miriam.
Olga, who recognized whose phone Arnold was holding, answered on his behalf. "Mommy, it's best if we're not around for this phone call." With that, she led her mother as they exited the room.
Having been granted the opportunity, Arnold answered the call.
"What?"
"Imagine my surprise, Arnold, to hear of the death of Detective Vasquez. Imagine my further surprise to hear from my minion in CSU that his phone was nowhere to be found at the scene. Now I wonder just who could be in possession of that phone?" It was Scheck, sounding as unfazed as ever.
"Dear Boy, it's you I want! Well, you and that Heyerdahl woman. You might as well put the phone on speaker; let her join in the conversation." Scheck's calm demeanor was riling up Arnold badly, but he complied with the request.
"Miss Heyerdahl, a pleasure to finally hear your voice!" Scheck proclaimed with rehearsed cordiality.
"I can't say the feeling is mutual," was Phoebe's terse reply.
"Oh my!" Scheck's voice was one of admiration, not wounded pride. "You're every bit the firebrand I've been led to believe you are! It's such a pity I might not have the chance to get to know you – how shall I put it? – more intimately."
Phoebe was having none of his glib flattery. "I suppose then that you'll have to keep paying for female companionship."
Scheck should have been riled up by that comment. Instead, he maintained his detached demeanor. "Now I'm even more intrigued to meet you, my dear."
Arnold interjected sharply: "You lay so much as a finger on her, you die painfully!"
"And what exactly has you so hot and bothered, Arnold? Could it be that she's spread her legs for you as well? Have you fallen for her charms?" The way he spoke that sentence made both Arnold and Phoebe feel suddenly very dirty. But before either could counter, Scheck continued. "Very well, she's excused from the game. You, however, are not. I've been preparing the playing field just for you, here at Hillwood Harbour."
"The hell are you on about? I know about your plans for San Lorenzo and how you bribed the president for the mineral rights. I've gotten the word out about it and—"
"Yes, I know," Scheck interrupted. "The deal's as good as dead and El Presidente is most likely to be ousted in all the controversy. I believe the locals have started revolting against him already. So am I worried? Not at all, Arnold, not at all. There'll be a replacement; there always is a replacement in the wings. And he – or she – will be just as easy to coerce, and maybe a little more discreet."
"So San Lorenzo was just to get me out in the open, right?"
"Oh no! San Lorenzo will go down eventually. You just won't be alive to see it happen."
PING!
"Finally!" exclaimed Scheck. "I believe you've just received my invitation. I'll wait for you to open it."
They did, and what they saw left them horrified. Pictures of a dozen or so bodies, each with a bullet hole or two in the chest, plus one in the head.
"You sick, godless, motherless FUCK!" Arnold spoke in escalating emotion and anger, while Phoebe recoiled at the sadism of which Scheck was capable.
"Anything to get the point across, Arnold," Scheck stated coldly and without emotion. "And by the way, no-showing isn't an option. No-show and three of my top operatives win themselves a trip to Honolulu, Hawaii."
Arnold witnessed Phoebe go ashen at that revelation.
"Miss Heyerdahl may be looking a bit fretful right now," Scheck pre-empted. "Could it be that her retiree parents just so happen to live there as well? Oh my, what were the odds?"
Arnold kept looking at Phoebe as her legs buckled from the shock and she was barely able to catch herself from collapsing. "You have three hours to RSVP", he heard Scheck explain before the old man hung up.
"Phoebe," he turned to his shell-shocked companion, "this is serious business. I know, I know, I promised no unnecessary risks. But Scheck has escalated the game and I can't just ignore him. Besides, your parents may also be at risk and—"
He was cut short by two of Phoebe's fingers pressed against his lips. Her words were cold and simple: "How can I help?" As he was about to praise her splendor and magnificence, the study door swung open and in walked the Pataki women. They seemed to notice Arnold and Phoebe's worried expressions because Miriam's first words were: "How bad is it?"
Arnold, seeing no reason to lie, explained the situation as concisely as possible. He concluded: "No matter what happens, it ends tonight. No matter the outcome, Olga will be needing a lawyer." With that, he took out a scrap of paper that Brainy had given him and handed it to Miriam. "Call her any time, day or night. Tell her you're a referral from Brainy. She'll take it from there."
Miriam was touched by this gesture, Olga too.
"Arnold," proclaimed Miriam, "you've risked so much to help and protect us, and I can't begin to thank you enough…"
"I can," corrected Olga. Her gesture took the form of walking over to him for a tight hug and a heartfelt, whispered 'Thank you'.
"But don't do it just for us," added Miriam. "This is for all those we lost, who were killed by that bastard! For Helga."
Arnold turned to face the framed dress and ribbon.
"For her especially," he determined. "In her honor."
That's it for now, Valued Readers! As ever - as ever! - thank you, one and all, for your readership! Please review if you feel compelled to do so, please review. The Story Stats show that you are reading the story in decent numbers, but numbers alone may not tell the full story; I'd appreciate it greatly to hear from you how you are finding my tale.
Author's Note: I read up on the possibility and viability of controlling one's drinking as opposed to going through the Twelve Steps. So I made some assumptions on Miriam's circumstances and decided that Bob was her reason for drinking, and with him out of her life, her dependence on alcohol would be greatly diminished. At the very least it is a change from the common fanfic narrative of her going full AA and stopping her drinking entirely.
Author's Note #2: I realized while writing this chapter that I need Spotify while I'm writing. So this chapter was delayed while my wifi was down for most of the past week and I found myself unable to concentrate fully without a constant stream of music.
Author's Note #3: I hope I've made you dislike Scheck intensely in this chapter. I'm not going for a cartoony villain; I want a serious, amoral, stone-cold reprobate who doesn't deserve your sympathy.
And here's the Spotify list that most influenced this chapter:
Another Cup of Coffee - Mike and the Mechanics
We Don't Need Another Hero - Nils Landgren Funk Unit
Why Should I Cry For You? - Sting
Mama - Spice Girls
Twist In My Sobriety - Tanita Tikaram
Woman in Chains - Tears For Fears
Control - Unknown Brain
And that will be that for now. See you next chapter!