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: Aided by his comrades, Arnold finally takes down Scheck. But has he paid the ultimate price in the process?
Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We've begun our descent.
24. Postcards from the Aftermath
Hello Arnold. It's been two weeks and a bit but here I am. Do you have any idea how difficult a task I had tracking you down? Not so much the actual tracking part, but the complications that ensued as a result of our actions that night. You probably can't hear me, but that's fine as what I need right now is a sounding board. There's much I must say and much to unpack. I'm having a difficult time organizing my thoughts over what happened after that night in the harbor into anything resembling a coherent sequence, so my recollection may be all over the place and for that, I apologize in advance.
But I will start with this. Unfortunately, there's no way to break this news to you while maintaining any sense of suspense, but…you did it. You did it! Scheck is no more. FTI is all but gone. Olga is safe. And that's just the tip of the iceberg! But as always, I must start at the beginning, with Sheena…
It had been at least an hour since she arrived, and now she was knelt over a very vulnerable Arnold. Sheena had done all she could to stabilize her fallen comrade, but his injuries were too severe for him to stay out here. He needed to get to an ER as quickly as possible if he was to stand even a fighting chance of survival. All the big shots were at this scene, even the Commissioner who was moving from tech to tech, officer to officer, feverishly talking to everyone. She never heard what he was saying, asking or ordering, but his body language hinted more toward damage control than solving a case. Then the reality hit Sheena: the police were trying to delay Arnold's release from the scene. She had a suspicion…that if Arnold were to die, then Hillwood PD would somehow breathe more easily.
Then the others arrived.
They arrived in a procession of SUVs, an eighteen-wheeler, even a chopper. The SUV's had flashing blue lights, with sirens at full wail. In and among the fleet was a white Crown Vic that Sheena recognized. The vehicles all came to a halt and the chopper landed a short distance from them. She watched as the man called Mister Smith exited the Crown Vic and how several soldiers and officials took it as their cue to exit their own vehicles, except for the chopper pilots.
The armed soldiers congregated around Mister Smith, who then issued orders to them, perhaps to secure the area, set up a perimeter…same as what she'd overhear site commanders issue at the numerous crime scenes she'd worked. The soldiers dispersed, except for three who accompanied Mister Smith to meet with the Commissioner. Again, it wasn't clear to her what was being spoken, but in short order, the elderly man had the Commissioner shrinking and quivering in front of him. The senior police official then reluctantly pointed towards her and Arnold, whereupon the man called Smith signaled something to his three men. The armed men then approached Sheena and her patient.
"I don't know who you are, and I don't care!" Sheena growled at the approaching armed military men, her voice loud and shrill from worry over Arnold's survival. "But this man needs urgent medical attention right this moment!"
The three men stopped in front of her and her charge. The one in the center was probably in his late forties, clean cut with greying temples, and cut a very stately figure. The men flanking him looked about Arnold's age and just as battle-hardened. Mere moments after their standstill, all three saluted Sheena, much to her confusion.
"Ma'am," began the elder man, "I'm Major Knowles, these are Sergeants Gomez and MacPherson. On behalf of Unit 42, consider us in your debt for ensuring the survival of Lieutenant Arnold Shortman."
"L-L-…Lieutenant..?" Sheena began her questioning, only to be firmly and politely cut off.
"Ma'am, we understand and appreciate that your patient needs urgent medical attention. Our mutual acquaintance, Mister Smith, has arranged for us to transport Lieutenant Shortman to one of our medical facilities where he'll be in the most capable hands."
Direct and straight to the point, with no threat or menace in his voice. Still, her doubts lingered She looked past the Major toward Mister Smith, who simply nodded back at her when their gazes met. Clearly, he knew what questions her gaze was asking, and his stern, authoritative nod answered all of them. Smith's assurance was all that she needed, so she let the men take Arnold to the chopper. She helped them carry him to and load him into the craft. She then watched as it took off and took flight, but not before seeing the soldiers turn to her and offer one more salute each.
I suppose that even for you, Arnold, no good deed goes unpunished. I later uncovered that Hillwood PD was under instruction from Big Gino not to harm you or me in any way, nor any of our associates. But I think…well, that they thought they'd stumbled on a loophole. Let you die as a result of injuries and events not initiated by them, then say sorry, not our fault. A loose end eliminated.
Arnie is safe, by the way. It turns out the distance from which he fired aided him immensely in his escape. He was able to avoid any traffic cameras by using the back roads. Plus, he collected all his bullet casings, so that if an investigator were to stumble upon his nest, at best they'd have a very difficult time proving that a sniper had even used it as a nest. However…
The flashing lights of the cruiser loomed in his rearview mirror after he was pulled over. He watched as the Hillwood PD officer approached his window.
"Good evening officer. Any way I can help you?"
"License and registration please, Sir."
To which Arnie complied. The officer studied the documents and returned them. Arnie thought he was in the clear, then…
"Sir, if you don't mind me saying, you look awfully familiar."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Arnie played along. "Like some TV star's stunt double or something. Do you believe that?"
The patrolman was in no mood for jest; who would be while on a late night/early morning patrol?
"Awfully late to be out on the road. Where you headed, sir?"
"Came to visit a friend. Visit lasted longer than expected, now I gotta get back home in the boonies in time for work. No booze involved, Officer. Not a single drop."
He watched as the officer mulled over his answers. Mulled over them a bit too long for comfort, then resumed the conversation.
"Sir, the reason I stopped you is that a call came in about an incident at the harbor not even half an hour ago. One that as it happens, requires all patrol officers to stop and check any and all vehicles seen on the road within the immediate vicinity."
Oh shit! The medic had called in the scene and HPD's response had been swift. Just his luck he had remained in the nest, keeping Arnold in his sights right until the moment the paramedics arrived and went to work on him.
"And seeing as we are well within twenty miles of the scene, I'm sure you'd understand my suspicions at your answer. In fact, I'm sure you'd understand why I'd like you to step out of the vehicle."
This guy's sharp! Arnie was more impressed by this patrolman's smooth communication skills than he was worried about his own impending arrest.
"But before I ask you to do that, I have one more question. Arnold Shortman. Do you know him?"
Oh, what the hell. "Yep! He's my cousin."
"And would you consider yourself…associates?"
OK, something was going on! He should have been ordered out of the vehicle by now. What's this guy's deal? Is he trying to cut me a break?
"Kinda," Arnie answered cautiously. "He's a bounty hunter, I'm law enforcement. Same county. We sometimes help each other with collaring bail jumpers."
He then watched as the officer exchanged a knowing glance with his partner, before looking back at him. "Well, that concludes our discussion. Thank you so much for assisting the Hillwood Police Department higher-ups in such a profound way. They'll be sleeping more easily, all thanks to you! "
Huh?
"You be sure to drive safely now, sir! Good night!"
Arnie drove off in relief, befuddlement, and suspicion. Why were they letting him go so easily? Why was knowing Arnold such a key factor? On he drove, irked yet also relieved by not knowing just what the hell the full story was. However, the further away from Hillwood he drove, the more he started believing that ignorance might be bliss. He did, however, seek assurances from whatever deity happened to be on the air that night that his favorite cousin and his best friend would survive his injuries.
He also allowed himself the luxury of shedding a tear.
xxXXXxx
"Torvald, you are such a jackass!" his partner berated as they were driving after letting the man called Arnie go along his way. "We ran the plates! We knew who he was! You said so yourself that he was Shortman's cousin! Was all of that necessary?"
"Didn't mean we couldn't have some fun with him! Make him sweat a little and earn his free pass," Torvald was unapologetic. "Besides, Maryam, don't pretend that you didn't enjoy watching him squirm a bit."
"Hardly! That guy had the best poker face I've ever seen! He hardly flinched!"
"Anyway," Torvald turned to his partner, "our shift's almost over. What say we get breakfast when we're done?"
"You read my mind, Torvald," his partner replied in anticipation as she paused to adjust her hijab. "You read my mind."
So it turns out that Big Gino's protection extended to our 'known associates' as well. And by confirming that he knew you, Arnie earned his ticket away from suspicion and prosecution. Anyway, he's back at home with Hilda and Helle, happy to hear that you're safe and on the mend. I asked him what happened to his weapon, and the only answer I received was a very vague and enigmatic 'it's somewhere safe and secure'. I do trust his judgment, however, and so have pursued the matter no further. But I must confess to being intrigued by the patrol officer. Going by Arnie's account, I suspected a sense of familiarity with which he asked his questions. Arnie described him as about your age, maybe a year or two older. Someone you helped at PS118, perhaps? Someone else besides me, Brainy and now Sheena who didn't vilify you after the tragedy?
The answer may forever elude us.
Anyway, I'm allowing myself to get distracted when I need to remain focussed. You definitely will want to hear of Olga's fate…
"You have nothing!"
"Miss Vail, Your client's hands tested positive for GSR," the interrogating detective smugly announced.
"Which only proves that she fired a weapon. Look, she belongs to a gun club. Given time, I'll be able to pull any amount of footage of her firing away at their firing range."
They were roughly two hours into the interrogation at Hillwood PD's main precinct, seated in what was euphemistically called an 'Interview Room' because, apparently, 'Interview' didn't sound as foreboding, intimidating nor unwelcoming as 'Interrogation'. But Lana Vail wasn't buying the rebranding: it was an interrogation room in every detail, from the wobbly chair provided to her client, to the broken AC, that one flickering light, and the lack of a clock. Lana Vail had informed her client, Olga Pataki-Vasquez, of these and other tactics geared towards making it easier for them to elicit confessions from suspects. With that said, she'd also advised her client to remain silent and let her do the talking. That was roughly four hours ago when Olga had called her on the number provided by Arnold and explained that Brainy had recommended her. That last bit of info was enough for her to kick her latest, barely legal, boy toy out of bed and hastily prepare for the meeting that was currently underway.
"But then why was she in hiding, Miss Vail?" The detective's smug look prevailed as he continued with his questioning. "Experience dictates that killers are loath to remain at the scene of the murder."
"What scene? Her house? And I suppose you found her fingerprints and DNA at the scene? Where she also happens to live? Shocker!" She emphasized her point with an imitation of Edvard Munch's The Scream.
"There were definite signs of a physical altercation and a particularly violent one at that."
"Detective," sighed Lana, "My client is wearing the same light summer dress she's been wearing since yesterday morning, and it bears no evidence of any violent activity." She then instructed Olga: "Olga, would you be so kind as to place your arms flat on the table, please?"
Olga did as instructed.
Lana Vail turned back to their interrogator. "Detective, kindly point out all the defensive wounds you can find. Take your time, please."
Silence. Nervous coughing.
"No bruised knuckles. No cuts, no scrapes. No suggestion of so much as a punch having been thrown."
"Be that as it may, the victim was repeatedly shot. The coroner fished nine bullets out of his body. Sounds personal, don't you think? It sounds like a crime of passion. Right, Olga? What happened? You found out your husband was cheating on you and then—"
"Hey!" Lana cut him off. "Suspect has invoked right to counsel – me. One more stunt like that and we're done! And as for Detective Vasquez's fatal shooting…where's the murder weapon? Your report states that no such weapon was recovered, let alone any spent casings."
"Very well, Miss Vail," the detective appeared to concede. "But the fact remains that we can't account for your client's whereabouts around the time of the murder. Perhaps if she could enlighten us?"
Lana Vail remained unfazed by the question. "Detective, assume hypothetically that she uncovers evidence that her husband is not a shining example of blue virtue. Assume furthermore, that she discovers that said husband has been lying to her about late-night assignments when he is, in fact, doing the bidding of a suspected Russian mobster."
She watched as the detective went silent and began breathing in uncomfortable swallows. But she had to turn the screws even more.
"Lastly, and again just for the sake of hypothesis, assume that when she sees him snafu a press conference, she concludes that his usefulness with whoever he's in league with has come to an end and that his life is now at risk. And hers too by extension. Do you really think she'd have any reason to leave any trails to her whereabouts, given that she now suspects that all of Hillwood PD is on the take?"
"This…hypothetical situation," the detective gulped while trying to maintain composure, "does it perhaps come with any corroboration?"
"Why, Detective!" Lana responded in an arch manner that she could see was upsetting the would-be closer of this case. "So thoughtful of you to ask!"
She reached into her handbag to produce a flash drive which she placed on the table. She also watched how the detective went pale in anticipation. "And what is that?" he asked. Very, very fearfully.
"A selection of bank records pertaining to Vitaly Santalov and Detective Mark Vasquez," Lana coolly explained. "Regular payments made by the former to the latter, dating back quite some time. I'm not saying my client knew about the payments, but this by itself certainly lends credence to her fears. Don't you think so, Detective?"
"Where…how…did you get that information?" The detective's smug veneer was no more, having been replaced by panic.
"Tell you what, Detective," Lana Vail was about to bet the farm on this gambit. "Charge my client, then arraign her. Then at the trial, I'll introduce this as evidence and answer any question you care to ask. Of course…I can't vouch for what it will do for the reputation of your late star detective. All the collars he made. All the confessions he secured. All the cases he closed. All those perps he sent to prison. All those appeals you'll be facing. Bye-bye, Hillwood PD's reputation."
The detective was now a pallid, dry-mouthed husk.
"Or, you could stick with your initial – highly plausible and probably true – conclusion that this was a Russian hit in retaliation for Santalov, suspects unknown, whereabouts unknown. The evidence you've collected certainly supports that scenario. Your call."
Suddenly a knock on the door summoned the detective outside. "One moment please," he hastily excused himself and just as hastily exited.
"Lana, what's happening?" Olga spoke her first words.
"You're a free woman, that's what's happening."
Indeed when the detective returned accompanied by his captain, he had the following to say: "Mrs. Pataki-Valdez, we've been made aware of new evidence regarding your husband's murder. The evidence exculpates you in any and all involvement. You are free to go with our profound apologies and our deepest and sincerest condolences."
Upon hearing those words, Olga felt her legs, her shoulders, her head – fuck it, her entire world – lighten as a result of the overwhelming relief.
Her attorney was more blasé, not eager to share her client's relief. "Told you," was all she said.
xxXXXxx
It was only when they exited the precinct that Olga actually took the time to look at and properly examine Lana Vail – who lit up a cigarette the instant it was legal for her to do so. Approximately in her late forties, Lana Vail was of a slight build with an elegant hourglass figure and well-proportioned breasts. She had a long, narrow face with striking if somewhat tired-looking eyes and her unkempt, dulled-with-age brown hair somehow added to her appeal. She had an aura of faded beauty about her, but that too somehow added an irresistibly cynical quality to her.
"What?" Lana asked when she noticed the scrutiny.
"Uh, thank you? You did such good work today, and you never even knew of me before I called. It's like you were on standby just for me."
"I didn't do it for you, kid," replied Lana. "I did it for Brainy."
"Brainy?"
"Did I stutter? Yes, him!"
"Forgive my curiosity…and I mean no disrespect…but," Olga asked with a tentative voice, "why you? I mean, your conduct inside, the way you made sushi out of that detective. How come you're not a partner in some prestigious firm?"
"I was once," admitted the older woman.
"So what happened?" Olga persisted. "Hey, it's the dead hours and our rides are still some time away."
Lana took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaled, then explained. "People have their vices, even lawyers, believe it or not. Some drink. Some do coke or weed. Me, I'm into young men. Young, but still old enough to legally consent. Only, that's not how the Ethics Committee saw it ten years ago. Some bitter prosecutor tipped them off about my proclivities. I had to prove the boys were all eighteen or nineteen, and that they all consented. In the end, the law's the law and it prevailed. The committee cleared me of any wrongdoing, but my reputation was shot to shit and I was down to chasing ambulances."
"From the penthouse to the gutter, huh?" Olga added. "Been there, done that!"
"Yeah, something like that," Lana used the interruption to take another drag. Then: "Anyway, a couple of years later, a case comes my way. Some schmuck's on the hook for murdering his three kids; stabbing them to death. Not exactly a model citizen. Heavy drinker, chronic skirt chaser, heavy gambler. Plus, Prosecution says they've got an airtight case with blood, DNA and strong circumstantial evidence."
She turned to Olga to find the blonde woman in wide-eyed anticipation. She smiled slightly as she continued. "Anyway, the guy's Legal Aid lawyer seems way in over her head and wants to plead him out. I step in and take his case because…why not? Poke some nice big holes in the Prosecution's case, get him acquitted. Turns out it was the wife and mother-in-law who killed the kids. Wife wanted to leave him, mother helped her stab the kids dead, then plant the bloody knife on him while he was passed-out drunk in the house. Sort of like a final 'fuck you' to the bastard."
"Oh wow!" Olga exclaimed in fascination.
"So yeah, my reputation was back on the up-and-up. I only later find out this man called Brainy was following the case. He believed the guy was innocent and sent me the file with a note. 'How about a second chance?' it read. I still have the note framed on the wall at my office."
"So you've turned things around, have you?"
"Well, I'm not earning nearly what I used to, but at least the work is steady and I'm not exactly hurting financially. And every so often I get a case from Brainy and I drop everything to handle it pro bono because it always involves giving someone a second chance."
"Like he gave you?"
"And you too. He must have thought you deserved one."
They'd have continued the conversation had both their lifts not arrived at the same time. They said their goodbyes and off they went on their separate ways.
To hear Olga talk, she must have rushed straight back home to Miriam and they must have been overjoyed. Yes, we've started talking again despite our past. Nothing profound, but at least no firearms are involved anymore. I doubt we'll ever be best friends but at least the mood between us has become much more civil.
And in a long, convoluted way, she's in for quite the pay-out. It started with your friend and Brainy's, Mister Smith. How come neither of you told me before that he works for a federal counter-terrorism agency? He's a more powerful figure than that Crown Vic he gets driven in may suggest! He has access to so many other agencies and departments: FBI, NSA, Treasury, NASA, and the list continues all the way to a detachment of Army Rangers that he has on permanent standby. Your old unit, Arnold: Unit 42. Apparently, after Asmara, the unit was seconded to Mr. Smith's agency as a means to avoid further scandal.
Alas, while he wasn't in Scheck's pocket, his bosses were, and so were their bosses. Anyway, Brainy kept me in the loop on what happened after the harbor shootout. While we were in the brownstone watching the events unfold, Mister Smith was doing exactly the same in his office. As soon as you took care of Scheck, his hands were untied, and he mobilized his resources.
They secured and processed the scene, superseding HPD's jurisdiction. They even came across a certain .22 pistol – wiped clean of any fingerprints, surprise surprise – on Scheck's person, which they were able to identify as the weapon that killed Mark. They may not have had any spent casings to compare, but they did get a metallurgical match between the remaining bullets in the magazine and those recovered from Mark's body.
After that, the pieces just seemed to fall into place.
The late Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was implicated as the mastermind behind Mark's murder. And since neither of them could refute any of the claims, no trial was had and HPD could spin whatever story they wanted. They spun the tale of how the evidence overwhelmingly pointed at Scheck running a crime organization using FTI as a legal front. How he came to power by aligning with Russian mobster, Vitaly Santalov. How he used his power to wrest control of Hillwood, beginning with the Sunset Arms incident. Then there was the tale of hotshot detective Mark Vasquez who was pursuing Scheck's organization, an endeavor that led to his assassination.
You're in the tale as well, Arnold. They mentioned how Scheck had been targeting you for revenge after you sent him to jail all those years back. They mentioned how you repelled all the attempts on your life from Monday to Thursday. They mentioned how Scheck thought it would be a good idea to frame you for Mark's murder by planting the weapon on you after you were dead. They went to great lengths to stress that you acted in justifiable, appropriate self-defense and that the DA won't be pursuing criminal charges against you, nor will the State Attorney.
Back to Mark…He received a highly publicized hero's funeral, alongside Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater. Two exemplary policemen who offered their lives in pursuit of justice. Two glowing obituaries and one emotional press conference, and Hillwood PD redeemed itself in the public eye. I still feel rather dirty for having written Mark's obituary…but needs must.
Olga couldn't care less about her husband's fate, but she made a perfunctory appearance as the grieving widow for that extra emotional oomph. Let me tell you, she put her acting skills to exemplary use that day. Thankfully she's in line to receive Mark's full pension benefits, and Brainy was able to get your friend Foutley – they seem to be friends now – to obtain access for her to Mark's offshore account. Seven figures, Arnold. Seven! Tax-free! It's safe to say she's comfortably back on her feet.
Then we must touch on Big Gino…
The moment was now, he could feel it! He could feel it even before his home phone rang.
"What?" he responded, maintaining his gruff voice.
"Are you sure?" he queried the answer he had received.
"If you're fucking making any of this up...!"
The voice insisted that it wasn't.
Gino Giovinazzo had been waiting for this call ever since Arnold's visit. It was all he could do to contain his glee when he dialed a number on his mobile (one of several burners he owned). Upon pickup, his instructions were concise: "Myron! Office! Twenty minutes!"
Big Gino was at the office in eighteen minutes, only to find that Myron had already been there for ten and had an espresso and biscotti waiting for his boss.
"Good morning, Sir," spoke the articulate man-mountain. "Am I to assume that we will be conducting a business transaction?"
"You assume correctly, Myron," Big Gino replied before downing the espresso and taking a nibble of the biscotti. "You can start by gathering all the stakeholders."
"But Sir, it's half past four in the morning," Myron pointed out. "How do you know they're even awake?"
"Myron, not only are they awake, but they are shitting bricks right this moment. Just trust me and make the call!"
Soon enough, a conference call had been set up with the Commissioner, Mayor, and Governor.
"Gentlemen," began Gino, "word has reliably reached me that the State of Washington, will soon be coming into possession of a number seized assets comprising mostly properties in and around the City of Hillwood."
"You mean the assets belonging to the deceased Alphonse Scheck?" one voice nervously queried.
"Now, who said anything about their owner or his current condition?" Gino responded. "That matter is irrelevant for the sake of this proposed transaction. For that's what we're conducting: a business transaction. Anybody who doesn't agree?"
Silence.
"Glad to hear that we're all in agreement! Now, my terms! Myron?"
Myron proceeded to reveal a list of properties previously owned by Scheck that Big Gino was eying to purchase once they'd have been forfeited to the City of Hillwood. They were all located in Big Gino's childhood neighborhood, where he had terrorized the PS 118 kids but would now sell his soul to have them back. Sure, they were never what he'd call friends, but they were the heart and soul of the neighborhood: they gave it its distinctive character and vibrancy that it was now missing and that he now wished to restore.
The devil doing the work of angels, he silently reflected.
Gino tuned back into the negotiations once Myron was done, in time to hear a voice over the speaker: "I'm certain we can expedite your acquisition of those properties."
"Excellent! Now let's discuss the payment terms. I wish to explain that my offer for all the properties factors in asset depreciation. I won't bore you with what assumptions I made in determining the depreciation, nor with the method itself. I will merely present you with a figure, which you three will accept. Lest we forget, all three of you have pledged collateral on this transaction, collateral that I'm sure you all received very recently."
He was referring to the incriminating evidence that he had sent all of his participants on the day Vasquez was murdered. He was gladdened that all three had remembered. He then named his price, which they gladly and unanimously accepted.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he concluded. "My aide will be your facilitator for these transactions. Be sure to stay in touch. And have a nice day."
While thinking in the back of his head: Fuck you, you bunch of fucking Judases!
So the consequences of that night at the harbor were far-reaching. Not even FTI was spared this time. The harbor shooting was egregious enough to warrant federal involvement – thanks again to Mister Smith – and was quickly deemed an act of domestic terrorism. Naturally, a federal investigation was conducted which pointed to one Alphonse Scheck being the financier and co-ordinator of that particular activity. Guess what? They expanded the investigation and uncovered evidence of his involvement in the Sunset Arms incident. Their evidence? Emails stored on FTI's mail servers! I knew Scheck was brazen, but…wow!
So they dug deeper to find – you guessed it! – the suppressed piece of evidence proving that the blast was not an accident. The FBI's forensic experts were called in to reopen the investigation. Their conclusion was exactly the same as yours, regarding the use of thermate (See, I got it right this time!). I won't lie, Arnold, I covered this story with much malicious glee.
Believe you me, justice was swift! Brainy tells me that Mister Smith chose to pin this matter only on Scheck. Going after the political higher-ups who assisted him could last years, so they've been spared…for now. They all know they've been implicated, and they'll all be treading carefully for the rest of their lives. Meanwhile, I've been leaking snippets of evidence suggesting their involvement in domestic terrorism on Reddit. I'll admit only to you the joy I've experienced in watching voters lambaste their representatives online. I think one of those implicated resigned, while two more were harassed into committing suicide. As I said, I felt not one iota of sympathy. I've spared those from the state of Washington, however, as I feel that Big Gino may have some use for them.
As for FTI? Welcome to the world where public opinion rules. Word of its involvement in Scheck's criminal enterprise traveled very quickly and before any subpoenas could be issued, the share price plummeted. FTI lost ninety percent of its stock in just over a week on the back of a public outcry. Bankruptcy is a foregone conclusion at this point, as the entire board resigned. Again, you may ask if I feel anything for those who've lost their jobs, to which I only say that they made their decisions and now must take the consequences. Maybe it makes me a horrible person, then so be it.
But I know I'm not the only one rejoicing. Big Gino appears to have gone on a buying spree. Local financial publications and sites have noted how several properties once belonging to FTI have steadily been bought up by an anonymous person or entity. They all appear to be concentrated in one particular neighborhood: our old neighborhood.
There have also been unconfirmed whisperings and murmurings about the neighborhood being converted back to the low-cost housing area it originally was, only with improved facilities. If – and this is a big 'if' – this is the work of Big Gino, then kudos to him for wanting to make the neighborhood as cosmopolitan, diverse and accessible as we remember it. It probably will never be the same, at least not overnight and certainly not for us and our generation. But who knows? Maybe future generations will reclaim the character that was lost seventeen years ago. We can only hope.
Anyway, you may be wondering it took me two weeks to be here. It does appear that I haven't missed much, but that's beside the point. Anyway, my delay has little to do with how long I took to deduce your location, and more to do with Sheena and her concern for my wellbeing.
Sheena arrived shaking at the brownstone, to a firm, comforting hug from Brainy the instant she walked through the door.
"Brainy," she said softly between spasmodic breaths, "what happened out there? It was like a war zone. Some vics had their heads blown off, others had these huge cavities through their chests! What were you involved in? Then there were these men with guns coming at me and I didn't know whether or not they—"
"Sheena," Brainy responded in as soft a voice. "It's OK. It's OK. You're not part of any of this, you're not in any trouble. I've seen to it myself, I promise." He continued his embrace as he stroked her hair, pressed his head against hers, anything to remain as close to her as possible. Eventually, he suggested: "You must be exhausted. Wanna crash in the spare bedroom?"
"What about you?" she countered. "You must be exhausted too, you know."
"Sorry, I'm still monitoring the situation. Just in case…you know, damage control." He felt and heard her disappointment in her embrace and breathing, but what could he do? "Just get some rest, please. You need it more than I do. You deserve it more than I do."
"Brainy, is that your paramedic friend you're talking to?" Phoebe called as she entered the lounge. Sheena and Brainy released themselves from one another upon the journalist's entrance and turned to face her. Phoebe then was stopped in her tracks upon seeing the identity of Brainy's mystery friend.
"Sh-…Sheena?" Phoebe cried in sudden recognition.
"Phoebe Heyerdahl?" Sheena cried back.
Phoebe, before this moment, had been studying maps of both Hillwood and the greater Washington state for possible medical facilities to where Arnold could have been taken. And here was a possible lead, dropped right into her lap!
"You're the paramedic friend from the harbor? Oh, thank god!" She began a round of breathless rambling. "Where's Arnold? Where did you take him? Did you see where he was taken?..." Where, when, how and why, as her questions segued into each other to form an incoherent jumble.
While Phoebe's lack of proper decorum was defined by emotion, Sheena's was marked by cold, shocked professionalism.
"Phoebe, your head! What happened?"
Her Hippocratic instincts kicked in, overriding her exhaustion as she moved to examine Phoebe's still-somewhat-swollen head. She noted the stitched laceration on her left temple, bruising on her one eye, and also her swollen left cheek.
"How did this happen?" she asked in a stern, expert tone that would suffer no lies.
Phoebe instantly picked up on her tone but instead of replying, she looked to Brainy. Brainy simply nodded and said: "It's OK. You can tell her."
Phoebe tried her best to downplay her fight with Mark Vasquez and the injuries she sustained. Sheena believed not a single word, and within an hour she and Phoebe were seated in a doctor's office inside Drymon Clinic.
"Martial arts training, you say?" the doctor repeated the reason Phoebe had given for her injuries.
"What can I say? I always had trouble keeping my guard up…" Phoebe tried sounding coy as she kept selling her lie.
"Miss Heyerdahl," the doctor spoke. "I daresay that a wise martial artist would have learned that lesson after the first blow. Anyway, I must commend whoever dressed your wound on a sterling job. But your friend here is correct: you may have a concussion and so we must administer a baseline test.
It took some prodding from Sheena for Phoebe to agree to the test. The results pointed to a definite concussion.
"Miss Heyerdahl," the doctor concluded. "The test shows the onset of a concussion concentrated on your left frontal lobe in particular. I can prescribe some painkillers for you and plenty of rest for the next week."
"But Doctor Singh," Phoebe protested, "I have some tasks at work that I need to handle with utmost urgency! I can't just take off—"
"Yes, she can!" Sheena cut her off. "It's a miracle she's made it this far in her condition." Then an idea flashed through her mind. "Say, Doctor. Given her current state, wouldn't it be a good idea to keep her for observation? Maybe do some blood work to confirm the concussion's severity, and also check for organ damage and other internal injuries."
The doctor smiled at Phoebe. "Miss Heyerdahl, I hope you realize how lucky you are to have such a caring friend. Those are all excellent suggestions. I'm scheduling you for a week of observation, we'll run some tests on your blood. I'd also like a better idea of your medical history. I'm particularly interested in any prior head injuries you've incurred."
Phoebe Heyerdahl turned to Sheena with the dirtiest look she could muster, only for the medic's expression to suggest that she'd squared off against much worse and that the injured woman was wasting her efforts.
So there you go, Arnold. Medically indisposed, just like you currently are. It wasn't a complete waste of time. Sheena and Brainy visited me daily, keeping me abreast of the aftermath. Based on what Sheena told me about that night – the most important facet being the direction in which your helicopter took off – I was able to pinpoint your whereabouts. Gaining access to your ward, that's another story.
While I was still a patient, I also took the opportunity to contact my parents in Hawaii. They were at my bedside within forty-eight hours. You may not consider it my wisest decision, but I told them everything about our adventures after our forced reunion. You may be fearing the worst, but if anything they are even more eager to meet you now. You've saved their daughter's life again. You were instrumental in saving their lives as well. I hope you don't mind, but they're currently looking after your place in the country, waiting for us. Take your time recovering. Remember, they're retirees living comfortably so they have all the time in the world.
There's still some more to say, but I'll want you to be awake to hear those bits of news directly from me. In the meantime, sleep well and get well soon.
And remember this: I love you, Arnold Shortman.
Chapter 24 is done! And as always, thank you ever so much for following this story! It appears I might actually wrap everything up in two more chapters. The plan is to have the final denouement next chapter, with hopefully...er, on second thought, that might be telling.
Author's Note: My biggest challenge here was giving a detailed account of what happened after the events of the previous chapter, without boring you or slowing the pace to a crawl. As you've realized, my solution was to skip forward and tell it in flashback from the viewpoint of someone who sounds pressed for time. Remember, it's all in the framing. Let me know whether or not you feel I succeeded with the method.
Author's Note #2: Pop quiz. Where have you encountered the characters Knowles, Gomez, and MacPherson? A major theme with this chapter was bringing events full circle, and these characters form part of that theme.
Author's Note #3: Lana Vail was a joy to write! Watching the series, I always imagined her as a highly competent lawyer who hadn't yet gotten her big break. Hence her living at the Sunset Arms. Then when she did, her increased income meant she could move out. And you'll be correct to think I am somewhat enamored by her, judging by my description of her.
Author's Note #4: Gino and Myron were two more characters with whom I had much fun. Gino especially appealed to me not as a villain, but as an antihero. The sad thing is that he seems fully aware of his situation as an evil person genuinely wanting to uplift his neighborhood.
And here's the Spotify list that influenced this chapter, with help from Youtube since Gil Scott-Heron is under-represented on Spotify:
Veteran of the Psychic Wars – Blue Oyster Cult
Calling Elvis – Dire Straits
Angola Louisiana – Gil Scott-Heron
Kansas City Milkman – Level 42
This Used To Be My Playground – Madonna
That Voice Again — Peter Gabriel
Terminal Frost —Pink Floyd
Innuendo —Queen
Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own —U2
Shake Your Head (Let's Go To Bed) —Was (Not Was)
Well, that'll do for this chapter! Stick around for the penultimate chapter, and see you soon!