Here is the final part of Poisoned Heart. Enjoy!

"That dratted Calculus!" growled the Captain, slamming his fist on the wall. The whole sitting room seemed to shake with his anger. "He said he'd be finished with that cure today! So where is it?" He stood up, fuming, and began to pace. "He had no right to give me that darned pill! It's my right to drink what I want! He couldn't do that! And now! Now! He's taking forever to finish that cure!"

He paused before going over to the pantry and grabbing a bottle of whiskey. Going back to the sitting room, he muttered to himself, "I should try it again. Maybe, just maybe, it'll work this time." So he pried off the top and took a gulp. Immediately, everything burned, and the alcohol seemed to taste like poison in his throat. He had no choice but to spit it out, not caring that it ended up on the carpeted floor.

He shook in rage where he stood and ground his teeth, slamming the bottle down on the table. "That blood sucker! I ought to go down to the lab myself and give him a piece of my mind! Blistering barnacles, I will!"

Picking up his mariner's hat from the table, he slapped it on his head matter-of-factly, twisting it to face forward. Grabbing the half full bottle from where it sat, he stormed from the hall. He made the trek to the lab in short time, throwing open the door violently.

"CALCULUS!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, hurling the bottle blindly across the room. "JELLYFISH! FRESHWATER PIRATE! ECTOPLASM!"

He heard a crash and looked to see Tintin sitting on the opposite side of the room as him. "Where's Calculus?" he growled.

"Um, not here," Tintin answered. "And thank you for the incredible save, Captain. Couldn't have timed it better myself."

"Your welcome," the Captain snapped without knowing or caring what it was that he done. He simply stormed from the lab.

"Captain!" yelled Tintin. "Come back!"

"Whippersnapper," Captain muttered under his breath and stalked back. "What do you want?"

"Could you untie me, by any chance?" asked Tintin.

"Untie you? What kind of a request is that?" huffed the Captain as he stomped over. He stopped when he saw George lying on the floor, unconscious, soaked in whiskey with pieces of glass scattered around him. "What am I missing?" he asked.

Tintin explained what had happened as the Captain released him, then went to retrieve his poor puppy in the other room.

"So . . . George is the criminal?" the sailor frowned, scratching his head. He was confused. "I thought he was helping you."

"Using me is what he was doing," Tintin replied as he grabbed a phone and began to dial the police station. "He was using me as a way into the station to poison officers. It was his revenge on the police for arresting his dad and consequently wrecking his family and his life."

"Hello?" said a voice on the other line as they picked up.

"Thomson?" guessed Tintin.

"No, this is Thompson," replied the detective.

"Without a P?" inquired Tintin, puzzled.

"No, with a P, as in pseudonym," answered the officer.

"Right," responded Tintin. "Well, detective, I caught your criminal. The real one."

"Wait," interrupted Thompson. "Are you saying Macneill is innocent?"

"Yes, I am," answered Tintin. "I'm sorry for the mistake."

"Well, who's the real criminal, then?" asked Thompson.

"George Ruben," Tintin replied, "Professor Calculus' assistant."

"Why, he's only a child!" exclaimed Thompson.

"Yes, but he still did it," Tintin confirmed, outlining George's motives.

The two officers agreed to come down and pick up the fourteen-year-old, then they both hung up.

"Well, that's another case successfully solved," sighed Tintin as he cradled the phone. "I just hope that George can get some help."

The next couple weeks showed promise. George's trial convicted him as guilty but allowed him to receive therapy. He was terribly scarred from losing his family and mentally unstable; however, the doctors at the institution were very talented at what they did, and each week, George was recovering. In a little more than a year's time, he had made so much progress, Tintin decided to pay him a visit.

It was a Friday afternoon when Tintin drove up to Clearwater Mental Institution in Ostend, Belgium, about an hour from Marlinspike Hall. He arrived to find a large white building with many windows, sitting near the shore. Since it was summer, a small crowd of patients were out on the beach, some of them wading in the water.

This looks like a lovely place, Tintin thought. He smiled as he walked into the building.

Inside, he found a sparsely decorated lobby, though the blue-colored tiles that covered the floor seemed to make up for it. The room was only slightly busy, so Tintin had little trouble spotting the receptionist desk on the far wall. He quickly headed over to it.

"Hello," the receptionist greeted him amiably. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking to visit a friend of mine," Tintin answered. "His name is George Ruben."

The woman quickly checked her computer. "Ah, yes," she answered. "He's on the third floor, room 319." Her expression dropped slightly. "I think his doctor – Richard Harrison – will want to talk to you first, though."

Tintin felt everything around him freeze, including himself. "Why?" he asked.

She stared at him a moment before dropping her gaze to her computer screen. She scrolled busily through it – doing anything not to look at him, it seemed – while she replied hesitantly, "George . . . is a complicated patient. He is making good progress, of course, but you must realize that where he started is a horrible, horrible place."

"I understand," Tintin replied.

The lady nodded. "You'll find the doctor on the third floor. The lift is just down the hallway."

Tintin bid her thanks before walking down to it. He was alone on the short ride up, and he spent it silently thinking. In the past year, Tintin had thought a lot about George and what had happened that day, and he had developed a soft spot for him. True, he had tried to kill him, but he realized that his acting irrationally out of a place of pain. That couldn't excuse or justify his actions, but it did make it easier to forgive.

The lift glided to a stop and dinged, opening its doors for him. Tintin stepped out and headed down the hall. There was a desk halfway down, as Tintin supposed there was on every floor. At the desk, he was met by a nurse.

"Hello," she said. "May I help you?"

"Yes, please," Tintin answered. "I'm searching for a Doctor Richard Harrison."

"Ah," smiled the woman. "Doctor Harrison is just down the hall. If you will follow me, I can take you to him."

Tintin expressed his thanks as they started off down the row of doors. They stopped at one down the hall, marked with the numbers 342. The nurse knocked on the door, and after a few seconds, another nurse opened it.

"Nicole," she spoke, "what is it?"

"I have someone here to speak with Doctor Harrison," Nicole answered.

"All right," the other nurse replied. "I'll relay the message to him. He won't be out for a second, though. He just has to finish tending to Mr. Fredrickson."

"Of course," smiled Nicole as the lady ducked back into the room and shut the door softly.

It was only a minute later when the door opened. Nicole's friend and another nurse exited first, heading down the hall. Doctor Harrison followed them and closed the door, greeting Tintin and Nicole.

"Doctor Harrison," Nicole said, "this gentlemen was looking for you."

"I see," Doctor Harrison answered. "Thank you, Nicole."

She nodded with a faint smile, hurrying off down the hall.

"Well, young man, what might your name be?" asked the doctor.

"Tintin," replied the boy.

"Tintin? The journalist?" questioned the doctor.

"I'm afraid so," shrugged Tintin.

"Why, I've heard of some of your cases," Doctor Harrison replied. "Amazing, really."

"Indeed," Tintin answered modestly, wishing they didn't have to discuss those.

"Well, Tintin, what brings you up here?" asked the medical man.

"I was hoping to visit a friend, actually," Tintin responded, relieved. "George Ruben. I was told I could find him on this floor. Room 319."

The doctor paused. "George Ruben?" he repeated. "How do you know him?"

Tintin gave a brief explanation of the previous year's case, and the doctor frowned.

"I see," he replied. "Well, George's room is down the hall." He started walking in the direction Tintin had come from the elevators. As he walked, he turned his head towards Tintin and continued, "However, before we go in, there are things you must know about George's condition."

"Of course," Tintin answered. "I was aware you needed to inform me first."

Doctor Harrison nodded, not surprised. "As you know, George's family died several years ago. However, what you may or may not know is that George blamed himself for their deaths."

"I was slightly aware," Tintin admitted, flashing back to George's breakdown right before he attempted to murder the journalist.

"Yes," confirmed Doctor Harrison. "George always blamed himself but never consciously accepted it. Instead, he covered up his guilt by blaming the police officers. If they hadn't caught his dad, he wouldn't have left them without enough money, his sister and mother could have been taken care of, and no one would have died.

"However, despite his blame of them, he knew deep down it was all his fault. This lie planted a seed of poison in his mind and his heart. By crafting the poison to kill the officers last year, he thought it would get rid of his own poison. But instead, it poisoned him even worse. Bad decisions cannot cure other bad decisions. They just pile up."

With all this in mind, Tintin asked, "So, how is George now?"

The doctor sighed as they stopped in the hall outside of the room of the patient in question. "It took more work than I can say to get to where George is now. Compared to how he was when we took him in, he is doing amazingly."

"Where exactly is he at, then?" Tintin inquired, dissatisfied with the vague answer.

Doctor Harrison hesitated. "Well, why don't you see for yourself?" he said. "George is here; you can talk to him. Just be careful. It is unpredictable how he'll react to you. I'm right here, though, if you need me."

Tintin nodded before carefully opening the door and entering. "George?" he called softly. He didn't want to risk startling the unstable boy.

However, he didn't have to worry. George turned from where he was reading a book on his bed. "Tintin!" he said. "Hi!"

Tintin was taken aback by this friendly greeting. "Hello," he replied slowly. "How are you?"

"Good," George answered. "They treat me well here."

Tintin relaxed a bit. George seemed to be in a cheerful mood, so he figured not much could go wrong. "Well, that's nice to hear," the reporter answered. Deciding to start on a safe, light topic, he asked, "What do you do here?"

"Oh, plenty of stuff," George answered. "They let me read books and newspapers, sometimes I get to watch the news on TV in the sitting room. There's one on every floor, and whenever they turn it on, the other patients can go to the TV of their floor. We see the news mostly, maybe five times a week, and once a week, we're allowed to watch a movie."

"Well, that's cool," Tintin enthused.

George nodded. "In the warmer seasons, if the days are nice, we can go out on the lawn or to the beach, whenever we want. There's always nurses around to help and supervise us, though. But they're not bad; I don't mind them."

Doctor Harrison is right, Tintin thought. George is doing really amazing! "What else do you do?" he asked.

"They always have a sort of game or activity on Saturday afternoons," he answered. "And on Sunday, the five patients who behaved the best during the week get to go to the city with supervision, of course. I've done it a couple of times."

"To the city?" Tintin exclaimed. "Where?"

"They took us to a show once," George shrugged. "Another time we went to the zoo."

"Why would they do that?" asked Tintin in disbelief. These were mental patients!

George frowned at the attitude that slipped into the journalist's voice. "We might be hospital patients, Tintin," he answered, "and we might have some problems, but that certainly doesn't mean we're wild animals to be caged. We just need help, and whatever you might assume, going to the city is encouraging us. We like those trips, and it helps us be on our best behavior."

Tintin was ashamed of his thought. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm afraid I wasn't thinking rationally."

George was silent for several seconds, staring down at his book. He spoke up again suddenly, "As much as I like this place, I'm excited to get out."

Deciding not to doubt anything the child said anymore, Tintin only asked, "When will that be?" instead of wondering if it would ever happen.

"In three years," George responded, "when I'm a legal adult. I'm doing well, they say, and by the time I'm sixteen, they tell me I'll be able to hold down a job. I'll work for two years while I stay here, and my paychecks will add up until I can afford to rent an apartment. When I'm eighteen, they'll release me, and I can live there, work my job, and support myself."

Tintin thought it was an effective plan, and he voiced his thought.

"Yep," said George proudly. "I'm gonna become a reporter like you, Tintin."

"What?" Tintin faltered. "I thought you'd become a scientist, George."

George hesitated. "Well . . . I probably will," he confessed. "But I'd like to be a journalist. I've been reading about your cases, you know, ever since I came here."

"You have?" Tintin asked.

"Yeah," George answered. "They're really great. You're really talented, Tintin."

"Um, thanks," Tintin answered, though he was rather shocked by this turn in attitude on George's part. Wasn't it only a year ago this boy had tried to murder him?

His surprise must have shown on his face, for George answered, "Yeah, I know. I'm really sorry I tried to poison you, Tintin. I wasn't really in my right mind, then, though I understand that's no excuse for my actions."

Tintin was touched by the apology, and he answered, "I understand, George."

George turned to face the window, which looked out over the ocean. "I didn't mean it, I really didn't," he admitted. "But the death of my family killed me, Tintin. I was blinded." He paused before looking back to the reporter. "I know now that I couldn't have done more than I could. Even though it's not my fault, however . . . I still miss them. I just wish . . . . " He cut off the end of his sentence bitterly.

"You're always going to miss them," Tintin murmured softly, "and that's fine. But whatever you do, whatever happens, and wherever you go, you must always remember that it wasn't your fault. You loved your family, George. If you had the ability, I know you would have sacrificed everything in the world for them. That's what counts. And I know that if they could, they'd tell you that they appreciate how much you did do for them, George."

The boy was silent for a few seconds. "You think?" he asked finally.

"I know," Tintin replied.

For a moment, George was quiet and still. Then he suddenly stood and ran up to Tintin, giving him a hug. "Thank you, Tintin," he said.

Tintin was startled by this act, but he recovered quickly enough to accept it and give the boy a light hug back. "You're welcome, George," he replied.

Pulling away, the younger teen said, "You know, I'm gonna come visit you when I get out. Maybe, if I'm really good, they'll let me come see you sooner, too."

"I'd like that," Tintin said.

Doctor Harrison stepped in the room. "It's time for dinner," he announced. "I'm afraid visiting hours are over for today."

Tintin and George bid their goodbyes, and George left to the dining room, where he would eat with all the other patients. Doctor Harrison, meanwhile, bid Tintin his own goodbye before walking off down the hall.

That was amazing, Tintin thought to himself as he got in his car. He started it and pulled out of the parking lot. I'm so glad George is doing so well. As he turned onto the highway, he thought of his final words with George and was pleased to know that maybe, just maybe, he'd had the smallest part in helping to heal George's poisoned heart.