Three days passed uneventfully until, in a move that shocked and frightened most of North Corel, the Phantom Gang struck again. And this time they went right for the jugular, knocking off a bank and getting away with over five hundred thousand gil.
Predictably, rumours of Shinra and its unstoppable force of Soldiers started up again. The police station was suddenly bombarded by another steady stream of concerned citizens, despite the media statement they'd made to assure people that the four original perpetrators were still incarcerated and that they were doing all they could to stop the robberies. But it was becoming evident that their words didn't help anymore. People were demanding action.
And they started asking questions about the stranger, a man who hadn't released his name to the media, who'd been the only one so far who'd been able to do anything.
Chief Inspector Len Neilson was the only one on the police force who wasn't caught completely off guard by the sudden and ferocious comeback by the Phantom Gang. Although the crime surprised him, he'd been more impressed by the foresight of his strange visitor who'd somehow managed to call the gang's next move as if he'd been privy to their way of thinking. And, against his better judgment, the next day found him flipping through the phone book for a number under the name 'Valentine'.
Pegatha was just finishing up a page of long division when the phone at her right elbow jangled suddenly. Startled out of her silent concentration, she jumped and then frowned at the two-inch line on her page where she'd meant to put a seven. After quickly erasing the mark with a sigh, she put her pencil down and picked up the receiver on the second ring.
"Good afternoon, Valentine's Weaponry Station, how can I help you?"
There was a small pause on the other end of the line, and then the gravelly voice of a man floated to her ear. "Good afternoon. Is Mr. Vincent Valentine available?"
Pegatha was momentarily surprised. Customers rarely asked to speak directly with her parents; most of the regulars had become used to hearing her voice on the phone during the hunting season and knew that she could answer the majority of their questions without aid. But this person didn't sound like any of the customers she'd ever dealt with. Maybe it was that stupid TV station again, hoping to get some more information on her father even after he'd told them in no uncertain terms that he didn't want his name or face broadcast across the world. Sighing and hoping that they would take 'no' as the final answer this time, she cleared her throat and asked, "Who's calling, please?", trying her best to continue sounding friendly and polite.
There was another brief pause. "This is Chief Inspector Neilson of the Police Department," the voice answered finally. "May I please speak with Mr. Valentine?"
Pegatha raised her eyebrows. What did the police department want with her father? Hadn't he gone there just a few nights ago to answer some more of their questions? She was just about to ask for the reason they were calling, although she had a feeling it really wasn't any of her business, when she remembered the bank robbery that had been all anybody would talk about at school. She sat a little straighter on her stool. Was it possible that the police wanted to talk to her father about helping them catch these new robbers? Was it too farfetched to believe that the kids at school had been the only ones who'd been impressed?
Standing quickly from the stool, Pegatha told the man on the other end of the phone, "Just a minute, I'll get him," before dashing into the forge.
The first person she saw as she stepped through the doorway was Arick. He didn't see her as she entered, busy as he was sweeping up the wood shavings around the lathe, so Pegatha allowed herself a discreet glance at him before heading for the table by the furnace. The others were hard at work. Kade was the one working the lathe today; he'd just finished making the butt of a rifle and was just handing it to another employee for sanding. Her mother, she knew without looking, was engraving at the back table.
Her father was molding the barrel of a shot gun when she came to stand across from him, his hands moving with the practiced ease of someone who'd done the action so often he could've completed it with his eyes closed. Without looking up at her, he asked, "Yes, Pegatha?"
Pegatha watched him work for another second before saying, "There's someone on the phone for you."
Vincent put the barrel piece he'd been molding down on the cooling sheet before glancing up at her, idly pulling the heat-resistant glove he'd been wearing from his hand. "Who is it?" he asked.
"An inspector," she answered, "from the police department."
Pegatha was interested to see something flit across her father's expression. Had he been expecting this call, or was he just surprised? She had no more time to wonder as her father stood briskly and made his way into the front room. Her mother noticed the movement and glanced up from the handle she was engraving. Had it been anything else, Pegatha would've let her father take his call in privacy while she wandered over to fill her mother in, but as it was she was unable to do anything but obey her curiousity and return to the till. She had to know what this was about.
Her father was just putting the receiver to his ear as Pegatha entered, slinking around the corner and onto the stool as unobtrusively as possible as if to escape her father's notice, and tried to pretend she wasn't listening to the conversation. Picking up her pencil, she looked to her homework, but since there was no way she could concentrate on both things at once she began to doodle in the margin of her paper.
Her father spoke in a clipped tone that didn't allow her to distinguish much of what the other man was saying. She was beginning to think that the call wasn't as big a deal as she'd first thought when her father finally said more than two words together, asking the inspector, "Would you mind if I called you back in a few moments from a more private location?"
Pegatha tried to make herself look engrossed in her homework as her father hung up the receiver, but a glance he sent in her direction made her suspect that she wasn't fooling him. However, he made no mention of her eavesdropping before he walked out of the front room and likely up to the apartment to finish his call. Once he'd disappeared through the doorway, Pegatha gave up all pretenses of doing her homework and began to wonder again what the police wanted with her father that required the conversation to be private. It was a little too strange for her imagination to believe it was something ordinary.
Neilson had given Vincent the extension number to his office so that he could call him directly instead of having to go through one of the secretaries. He was answered within the first ring.
"Chief Inspector Neilson's office."
"This is Vincent Valentine."
"Ah, Mr. Valentine." There was a short pause. "Sorry about the call at work. I would've telephoned your home number..." Neilson gave a small laugh through his nose. "...but it's unlisted."
Vincent didn't reply to this. His phone number was unlisted so that people they didn't know couldn't call them at home. "What is this about, Inspector?" he asked promptly.
Neilson cleared his throat. "I was mentioning the bank robbery before we hung up because three days ago, in my office, you predicted that the gang would pull a big heist before they'd consider laying low." Vincent didn't acknowledge or dispute this and, after a moment, Neilson continued. "Why did you make that prediction, Mr. Valentine? What made you suspect that they would do that?"
Vincent didn't speak for a moment. How much to reveal? "I have had dealings with the inner workings of some organizations before, and these experiences led me to believe what I did. Many organizations run in the same basic patterns."
Neilson made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "What organizations have you been involved with?" he asked.
But Vincent wasn't about to say 'the Turks' aloud. Ignoring the question, he said instead, "Is there anything else I can help you with, Inspector? I really should get back to work."
Neilson made a noise that sounded like it could've been a wry chuckle. After a moment, he spoke again. "Yes, actually, there is one more thing. I was wondering, Mr. Valentine, if you would be willing to come down to the station again to brainstorm with me and my group. It's becoming obvious that we could use whatever ideas you have."
Vincent hesitated, unsure of how to answer. His first inclination was to decline, but...he had been looking for a way to protect the shop from further offenses; this seemed like the perfect opportunity to do something. As he spent another moment weighing the decision, Neilson interrupted the silence to say, "Whenever's good for you, of course. You could come down tonight, or tomorrow, or whatever's a good time."
Vincent pursed his lips and then he sighed. What was he getting himself into? "I'll come down to the station this evening at eight o'clock."
Neilson grunted, pleased with his decision. "We'll be waiting for you. Thank you for your willingness to help, Mr. Valentine."
Vincent gave a noncommittal grunt and hung up the phone. And then he frowned. Elira wasn't going to be overjoyed about this, though he knew already that she would see the logic behind his choice. However, that hadn't stopped her from lecturing him at the rashness of his actions when he'd stormed into the front room to confront the robbers. His logic then hadn't made her any less upset that he could've been killed.
But going to the police station to talk with some of the officers wasn't a rash action. They just wanted to pick his brain for an evening, maybe to stimulate some of their own theories and ideas. Perhaps Elira wouldn't be bothered by this as much as he thought. It really wasn't that big of a deal.
One evening was all they wanted. And if it would help them stop the people who'd tried to rob him, who'd threatened Pegatha, he was willing to do it.
"How well do you know this guy?"
Neilson looked up from his fingernails and into the expectant face of his group's newest member, Yves Gunther, the man who'd asked the question. Gunther was young, barely a day over twenty-five, and he'd hardly been on the force two years, but Neilson had seen in him from day one a sensibility and prudence that tempered everything he did. His ideas were always thought out and he could often point out small judgment errors in the suggestions of those he worked with, though not in a way that gave offense. He was a man others, including Neilson, had learned to put trust in, and everyone liked and respected him despite his youth. Neilson was glad everyday that he'd managed to snag him into his group before anyone else had noticed him.
Neilson glanced back down at his nails as he admitted, "I've only met with him once before."
No one said anything for a moment until Flanning, one of the older men in the room, wondered quietly, "You trust him?"
Except for Marsington, Flanning was the group member he'd known the longest. Neilson looked up again and gave a small smile. "I trust him. I don't know why." He sighed and shifted in his seat at the head of the table. "But I trust him."
Silence descended again, something that rarely happened with this group. They'd met together in the interrogation room they usually used for their brainstorming, but the same easygoing atmosphere was missing, replaced by an awkward hush as they waited for Valentine, the civilian Neilson had invited to their meeting. It was unorthodox and somewhat of an unexpected action for the Chief Inspector who was usually so adamant about following rules and sticking to the norm, so instead of sitting down with cups of coffee and going over the latest station gossip, everyone was standing around with their hands in their pockets and shuffling their feet as if waiting for some sort of punishment to be dealt out. It was unsettling to see his group so on edge, Neilson decided with a sigh, and he hoped for what felt like the fiftieth time that this would turn out all right. Impatient for things to get started, he glanced at his watch. It was eight now. Neilson wondered if Valentine was as punctual a man as he'd guessed he was.
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. All of the heads in the room swiveled to look as Mindy cracked the door open a few inches to say, "Mr. Valentine is here, Inspector."
"Please, show him in," Neilson said with a wave of his hand.
Mindy nodded and ducked out of sight. A moment later, the door opened to admit their civilian guest. Similar to three days ago, he was dressed almost completely in black clothing and his expression was composed and unreadable as if coming to talk with the police was something he did regularly. There was unbroken silence for a few seconds as the group took in the stranger, and then Neilson stood to greet him.
"Good evening, Mr. Valentine. Thank you for coming."
Valentine nodded once, curtly, before moving further into the room without a sound. Neilson nearly let a wry grin twist his features at the way his men seemed to lean away as he approached the table. He gestured at the chairs.
"Please, everyone, sit down."
His men moved hesitantly to comply as if they fully expected all hell to break loose at any moment. Valentine, Neilson noticed, didn't seat himself until the others had settled into their chairs, as if he was also feeling some apprehension about this meeting. Hopefully, if things went as Neilson prayed to God that they would, the stiff uneasiness he could nearly taste in the air would wear off as the meeting progressed.
While he was still standing at the head of the table, Neilson began to introduce his group, starting at his right hand and going around the table, naming off the men he'd been working with every day for the last seven weeks. He was glad to see Marsington nod his head as he was mentioned, giving a cue to the rest of the group to do the same. Gunther was the only one to keep still as his name was called, not even looking up to acknowledge as he sat to Neilson's left with his arms crossed over his chest.
"And men," Neilson continued, gesturing to Vincent who was seated at the other end of the table, "this is Mr. Vincent Valentine." Valentine gave another slight nod out of courtesy and Neilson smiled a little as he sat, relieved that they'd at least survived the introductions. Once he was arranged comfortably in his chair, he glanced around the room. No one seemed eager to be the first to speak so, with a sigh, he began to speak again. "As everyone knows, I met with Mr. Valentine three days ago in my office, and he proved to have some idea about who or what is behind these robberies. I was hoping that he would be willing to speak again on the subject and maybe help us put a stop to this crime wave." He sent a pointed look in Valentine's direction.
Valentine, to Neilson's relief, took the cue readily enough. "We spoke briefly about how this organization could be a resurrection of the one brought down in Neo-Midgar a couple of months ago," he said quietly, speaking mostly to Neilson. "If this is the case, the robberies are likely no more than a front for their weapon-running operations, distractions to keep the law enforcers too busy to investigate further."
Neilson glanced to his right as Flanning whispered something to Marsington. Marsington smiled grimly and nodded once. Neilson sat up a little and caught Marsington's eye.
Marsington cleared his throat. "He can't be suggesting that we should ignore the robberies in order to focus on finding the organization? That would be chaos."
"I am not suggesting that," Valentine said immediately, and Neilson was surprised he'd heard the comment from the other end of the table.
"Then what are you proposing we do?" Gunther asked, his arms still crossed stubbornly over his chest.
Valentine glanced at him and Neilson watched in some satisfaction as Gunther stiffened a little under the scrutiny of those sharp gray eyes. "It is true that you will need to get to the root of this before any headway will be made, but dropping all law enforcement to do it is simple stupidity. I suggest that an effort be made by one person, or by a small group of people, to scout out the robbers during a heist and then track them back to the place they're working from. This may give some clue to help you find the organization and stop it."
"You're talking about using an elite to track them down?" one of the others, a dark-skinned man named Ryers, asked.
Valentine said nothing. Yes, that was what he was proposing. Neilson frowned a little. It was a good suggestion, but... "We don't have the trained personnel to form an elite of that type, Mr. Valentine."
Gunther gave a short laugh and sat up in his seat. "Plus, the people would practically have to be there during the crime. In case you haven't heard, the gang is called 'The Phantom Gang' because they work lightning-quick and then disappear. This is a completely impractical suggestion."
"Not if the elite has the proper training," Valentine argued quietly.
"And who's going to give them that training?" Gunther asked, leaning back into his chair again and crossing his arms over his chest. "You? You seem to know an awful lot about it."
Neilson found himself giving Gunther a warning look. It was odd to see him reacting to a suggestion so forcefully; something about the meeting, or about Valentine himself, must've rubbed him the wrong way. Usually, if he had a problem with an idea, he spoke up with tact and a ready smile to banish any feelings of offense. Right now, it was almost as if he was trying to cause offense. At least Valentine seemed unaffected, Neilson noticed. His expression hadn't changed a fraction from what it had been when he'd entered.
Gunther met Neilson's stare for a moment, but then glanced away in resignation. Maybe he didn't like it that Neilson had brought in someone from the outside, but Neilson was still his superior and if Gunther had any concerns or complaints he could voice them later once the others were gone from the room. Neilson glanced around and the rest of his men were suddenly looking at their hands or at the table; only Marsington would meet his gaze, but even he seemed unsure. Did all of them think as Gunther did? Was he the only one who believed that Valentine could be the leg up they'd been looking for? He frowned inwardly. This wasn't going at all the way he'd hoped it would.
If Valentine witnessed any of this interaction, he gave no sign of it. Neilson decided he'd better bring this to a head before it moved out of his control. "I think Mr. Valentine has come up with the first whiff of the solution we're looking for. Does anyone have any ideas to add to it?"
No one answered. Not that he'd really expected them to. "Well, I have something to add. I believe that one man would do better in the business of the actual tracking, and I think we have him in the room." Neilson glanced at Valentine and was surprised to see him stiffen as he guessed the choice. "Mr. Valentine, would you lend us your help?"
His men knew better than to oppose him outright, but Neilson wasn't unaware of the silent tension that was suddenly in the room. Even Marsington, the man who'd worked with him the longest and knew the way he thought, seemed shocked by his decision. But he wasn't about to take it back. He knew he could trust Valentine; he wasn't sure how he knew, he just knew. And, whether the others wanted to acknowledge it or not, they needed the help of someone like Valentine in taking the first step toward stopping this organization. Neilson was experienced enough in this business to know what their limitations were, and he'd made enough mistakes to know that sometimes one needed to put pride aside and accept the help of someone else.
But Valentine was hesitating and there was a small, nearly imperceptible frown on his face. When he finally did speak, his voice was quiet and apologetic. "I'm sorry; I can't. I have a shop to run and..."
"We would pay you, of course," Neilson interrupted him suddenly, "and you could choose your hours. We wouldn't keep you from your shop for very long; just until we've got a location or something we can use against this organization. Please, Mr. Valentine, we need your help. It will take time we don't have to train someone if you refuse." When Valentine didn't reply immediately, Neilson decided he had no choice but to use his trump card. "Without your help, this organization could possibly continue its reign over North Corel indefinitely. Your shop could become a target again. Your family..."
The dark emotion Neilson had seen in his office three days before flickered across Valentine's features, but it was only noticeable for a moment until it was replaced by a strange weariness that took the sharpness out of Valentine's eyes, as if he'd seen too many of these wars and just wanted to be left out of them. But Neilson had taken that option away from him, and although he felt a short-lived twinge of regret for that, it was nothing to the painful hope he was holding that Valentine would say yes.
Valentine sat still for so long that Neilson wanted to call his name, to bring him back from his thoughts. Before he could, however, Valentine stirred and gave what might've been a shallow, silent sigh. "I will help you, but only once the rush of the hunting season has ended."
Neilson felt a smile trying to twist his lips. "Thank you, Mr. Valentine. We appreciate your willingness. Feel free to take whatever time you need to prepare your shop for your absence. I'll need time to fix up the paperwork anyway. We'll call you sometime late next week, if that works for you."
Valentine nodded faintly as if he couldn't quite believe he'd agreed to this and stood from his chair. Neilson stood as well and met Valentine at the door as he left. Once he'd exited the station, Neilson turned to the rest of the group. "Well, that's everything. You can all go about your usual tasks again. Thanks for attending."
As the room emptied, Gunther stayed behind. Neilson wasn't surprised. He'd actually expected more of the group to want to speak with him. Maybe they hadn't all thought his idea was insane. As Neilson went around the table straightening the chairs, Gunther followed him, his arms crossed resolutely over his chest. Eventually, he began to speak.
"Len, I've worked under you for the last, what, six months? Is that right?"
"Sounds right," Neilson muttered, pushing a seat into its place against the table and then leaning casually against it with his hand propped against the back.
"In that time, I feel like I've gotten to know you pretty well, and I want you to know that I've respected you and all of the decisions you've made. You've never been reckless or hasty and you've always had the safety of those involved in situations at the forefront of your mind. I've never felt the need to question you in any way."
"Well, I'm glad," Neilson replied. "I always try to use the best of my judgment to make all of my decisions."
"But," Gunther continued as if Neilson hadn't spoken, "this decision, bringing a civilian in to help us, especially someone so...so questionable, seems very out of character to me. I can see what you're trying to do by enlisting Valentine's help, but I don't think you're going about it the right way. There must be some way we can do this without digging through the populace of North Corel for volunteers."
"What way, Yves?" Neilson asked pointedly. "I've been wracking my brains, we've been wracking our brains, for two months now and have come up with nothing. We haven't even been able to stop these robberies. That man, Valentine, has been the first who's been able to do anything against any of this, and frankly I think we would be fools not to use him when he's willing to help us. If you can think of some other way to do this, by all means mention it to me, but otherwise..." He hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward to lay a hand on Gunther's shoulder. "...just trust me. I've got a gut feeling about Valentine, and for the first time in weeks I feel a glimmer of hope. Please, just put your anxiety to the back of your mind and trust me. And help Valentine as much as you can. He may be the only weapon we have against this organization."
Gunther didn't reply, but after a few seconds he dropped his arms to his sides and nodded. Neilson smiled at him. "Thank you, Yves. You're a good man, and I appreciate your willingness to talk to me about your concerns." Gunther nodded again, and Neilson took his hand from his shoulder. A moment later, the younger man turned and left the room. Neilson watched him until he was out of sight and then continued straightening the chairs.
It felt as if he'd won the first battle in what would probably be a string of many.
Pegatha sang along quietly with the radio as she lay in bed in her nightie, idly skimming through the third chapter of Momo as she waited for her father to come home and say goodnight to her. It had been a nightly ritual since he'd read to her as a child and she wasn't about to forgo it just because he'd been called away for the evening. She couldn't slumber peacefully without feeling his hands, one flesh, one latex-metal, tuck her into her blankets, without feeling his lips on her forehead. And so she waited, tired but not willing to go to sleep yet, hoping the radio and her favourite novel would hold enough of her attention to keep her awake until he arrived.
She'd been in her room after supper when he'd left, and when she'd finally ventured out for some help with her geography, her mother had told her he'd gone to talk to some people who wanted his assistance.
"The police?" she'd asked, but her mother had claimed ignorance.
Now it was almost half past nine and he was still out. What had the people wanted that was taking so much time? She hoped it wouldn't take too much longer. Her eyelids were beginning to droop despite her best efforts at keeping herself from drifting off. Another few minutes and she was sure she'd fall asleep where she was sitting.
The song on the radio ended and Pegatha allowed herself a yawn. After a moment of listening to the announcer, she reached over to turn the radio off, taking a second to double-check that her alarm was set. Another second convinced her to put her book down on the floor, and then she rolled onto her side and snuggled into her pillow. So comfortable and warm. But she wouldn't fall asleep. She'd just rest like this for a minute. She wouldn't...fall...asleep...
Her mother's voice brought her, bleary-eyed and fuzz-brained, back from the brink of dreamland. She couldn't understand what her mother was saying, but she certainly sounded upset. Had her father come home with bad news? Swallowing back another yawn and rubbing stiffly at her eyes, Pegatha pulled her weary body out of bed and hopped across the cold floorboards to the door.
Once she was in the hall, she could hear her mother's voice clearly. As she wandered closer to the light peeking around the kitchen door, the words of the conversation became discernible.
"...without even telling me?" Her mother was trying in vain to talk in hushed tones despite the obvious displeasure in her voice. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. "I mean, I wish you would've asked them for some time before answering, so that you could talk it over with me. Or something." Another pause in which Pegatha crept silently to the door and put her eye to the chink of light.
"Elira, I couldn't have refused. You understand why."
For a moment, Pegatha couldn't see anything, and then her mother wandered into view, her hands dropping to her sides. A second later, she'd wandered out of sight again. "I do understand. But, I wish...I wish they could do this without you." This last sentence was spoken as if she was talking into his shoulder. "I mean, you've never been gone before. I'm...I'm going to be worrying about you all the time."
A longer pause, and then her father spoke, his voice soft like it had been after she'd had bad dreams as a child. "It will only be for a little while, Elira, and I'm not going to be putting myself into danger. You won't have to worry."
The silence after this statement was so long that Pegatha was unable to keep still. Doing her best to keep her movements silent, she pushed the door open, slowly to keep it from creaking, until she could see her parents. They were embracing: her father had his eyes closed and his mouth and nose were hidden in her mother's curls; her mother's face was turned away from her, buried in her father's collarbone.
When her father spoke next, it was in a voice no louder than a whisper. "I'm not going to be starting for another few days anyway, not until the rush of the hunting season has ended."
This last bit of information was too much for Pegatha's impatient curiousity and she couldn't help but interrupt the moment to ask, "Starting what?"
Her parents stirred suddenly and moved to face her, drawing apart from each other slowly as if pulling at invisible seams that were holding them together. Her mother was the first to clear her throat.
"You're father's going to be taking another job for a little while, to help some other people out." Her mother glanced up at her father and a look seemed to pass between them, but no more information about the job was offered. Pegatha felt immediately that they were keeping it from her, and this knowledge made her a little afraid. What kind of a job would make her mother worry about her father?
"Does the job have something to do with the police?" she asked, feeling the need to clarify.
Another brief look passed between her parents, and then her father was coming towards her, holding his hands out to usher her back down the hall toward her room. "I think it's time for you to get to bed, Pegatha."
Pegatha obeyed; she was curious, and still a little unsettled, but the mention of bed made the weariness of her limbs suddenly that much more obvious. Once they were in her room, she clambered onto the mattress without a fuss and slipped under the blankets. As her father proceeded to tuck her in, she put out a hand and caught one of his prosthetic fingers in her grip. He stopped plucking at the blankets to look at her.
Pegatha squeezed the finger, feeling the familiar contours of the metal underneath the latex. "Dad, why's Mom going to be worried about you?"
One side of her father's mouth twitched up into a partial smile. "Your mother worries too much," he answered quietly, and then leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. "Now, get some sleep."
But her body was already doing that without him having to tell her. He seemed to feel that everything was all right; he wasn't worried. And her mother did worry too much about some things. Maybe one of the other robbed gun shops wanted his help. Maybe that was all it was.
The light in her room disappeared as her father turned it off, and then the door was creaking softly with his departure.
And Pegatha, with no real reason to distrust her father, fell into an easy slumber.