Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to 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: Phoebe has gotten to understand the new Arnold, who insists that he's put the past behind him. Has he really? And what of the moment they shared, inspired by none other than The Boss? Will they even get a chance to address that matter, when a band of pursuers has other plans?
5. This Changes Matters Considerably
He was still processing the events of last night: dinner with Phoebe; the long chat; that shared embrace which neither he nor she seemed to want to end. It had ended when Phoebe succumbed to exhaustion that she said was the product of three hours sleep and a six-hour road trip. He'd offered her his bed while he would crash in the lounge. The offer was accepted, and so to bed.
It was Monday morning, about five-thirty according to his internal clock when he heard the vehicles pull into the driveway and come to a stop. Shortly afterward, the sound of many people alighting, then a sharp knock on the door and an abrupt voice: "Police! Open up!"
This felt wrong. This was not the mannerism of the Sheriff's Department, plus the timing seemed off. Which was why Arnold first retrieved his holstered equipment – a Glock 21 and two spare magazines – from the counter and put on the holster before silently making his way to Phoebe to the incessant pounding at the door. The hard rapping on the door had woken her up as well and she peered at him quizzically from underneath the sheets, sans her glasses, but before she could question what was happening, he motioned to her to stay at the back and remain out of sight. Maybe it was his stern expression or the sight of him wearing the holster accompanying a pair of red plaid sleep shorts and a white vest, but Phoebe nodded back to him in quiet compliance. Lastly, he punched in a code to the gun safe and left it ajar – in case he would need some of its contents – and put on an oversized check shirt that concealed the holster.
Finally, he was ready to confront whoever was at the door.
"Good morning, Officer. How can I help you?" he asked as he scanned the driveway. He saw two black SUV's, definitely not standard issue for any police department outside a major metropolitan area: why were they here in this Podunk region, and so soon after Phoebe's arrival? The vehicles were parked in an imperious single file and flanked by a total of…he counted eleven men whom Arnold thought were too well-tailored and too cut to be cops. He noted that their suits all had a bulkier-than-normal cut, perfect for concealing a bulkier-than-normal firearm. He'd have to play this one carefully.
"Sir, I'm Detective Banks of the Hillwood Police Department," the twelfth man at the door introduced himself with the flash of his badge. A cursory glance told Arnold that Detective Banks wasn't whom he was claiming to be; in fact, none of the men was. The man in front of him had a tattoo of something or other peering out from under his left sleeve; since when had Hillwood PD revised its no-tattoo policy?
"In that case, you must have taken one hell of a wrong turn. What would require your attention all the way here?" Arnold queried with as much naivety as he could credibly feign.
"Sir, this is a serious matter. We're tracking a fugitive, suspected of a double homicide. We have reason to believe she is hiding out somewhere in this area."
"This suspect, does she have a name?" Arnold was doing his utmost to mask his skepticism.
Detective Banks produced a photograph of Phoebe, and Arnold was barely able to mask his surprise. His gesture did not go unnoticed by the detective, who asked: "You flinched, sir. May I assume that you know the woman?"
"I once knew a Phoebe Heyerdahl, but that was way back in elementary school."
"I see. Has she tried to contact you recently?"
"No. I haven't seen her in seventeen years. No clue what she's been up to," was his answer. But he could see the detective's suspicion growing.
The Detective's tone changed to a threatening one: "Sir! Are you aware that harboring a known felon is itself a felony? We're talking five years!"
Oh shit. Arnold had the feeling that Detective Banks already knew that Phoebe was inside, 'somewhere in this area' be damned. It was also clear to him that Phoebe's apprehension was not the objective. The murder rap was bogus, and these men weren't cops. Their goal was either abduction, permanent silencing or both, none of which boded well for him or Phoebe. He had to push back, but how? The men by the SUV's were growing restless and their trigger fingers were certainly following suit. Their expressions suggested that all they needed was an excuse.
"Detective, you have me confused. To get here from Hillwood, a fugitive of justice would have to cross at least one state line. Clearly, this is a federal matter, so why isn't the US Marshalls involved? Also, how come none of the local law enforcement is with you? Certainly, you'd need their co-operation to effect an arrest within their jurisdiction. And that aside," he peered towards the SUVs before declaring in hope that Phoebe could hear him at the back, "twelve policemen to arrest just one suspect. That seems way excessive, doesn't it? Surely Hillwood's police resources could be used more efficiently."
"We have a warrant, smart-ass!"
"Issued in Hillwood? By a Hillwood judge? What was your probable cause...what, five hundred miles away?" Arnold retorted. Bounty hunting had exposed him to some of the ins and outs regarding arrest warrants. "Sorry, but I do believe you require a federal warrant," he continued to a man now waking up to the fact that Arnold Phillip Shortman was no fool. "I'm calling bullshit on the warrant. You'd be conducting an illegal search and any evidence you obtain…well, even the dumbest lawyer would be able to get that excluded."
"Well…" the now-supposed detective stammered for a good riposte without success. Then a look of resignation: "Very well, we play by your rules. We get the warrant and pay you another visit."
He then walked back to the SUV's and his partners. Arnold watched every movement, scanned for every gesture, anything at all that could signal trouble. The confirmation he was dreading came when Banks spoke to the group in Russian. Arnold's grasp of Russian was spotty at best, comprising mostly pejoratives and expletives gleaned from the myriad idle threats he received from collared Russian bail jumpers. As such he was familiar with the Russian words for "kill", "fucker", "bitch" and "burn", all of which he heard Banks issue.
"PHOEBE STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" he shouted as he watched the men draw an assortment of automatic weapons.
That Arnold was carefully watching the group and not letting his guard falter, was ultimately what saved him. That, and the fact that he had never stepped beyond the doorway. Upon seeing the weapons being drawn, he allowed himself to fall back on the floor, thus narrowly avoiding the opening volley of their bullets. He drew his Glock and stayed low as bullets peppered into his lounge through the windows and lodged into the stone wall – at least the walls were holding up.
A constant stream of bullets, no report of any significance: sound suppressors, so this was a hit. Then, a lull. They were reloading, possibly advancing. He heard the footfalls heading towards the door. The first assailant sprinted in, just in time to see Arnold's weapon trained on him. Arnold fired off two shots that struck him in the chest, and forward into the lounge he fell. His partner followed him in and received the same treatment: bang-bang, tap-tap, thud.
Ten to go, nine rounds and two clips left against machine guns. And Phoebe. Shit, he had to check up on her! He then heard the man named Banks issue orders in Russian, and afterward, through the shattered lounge window he saw a man rush by, heading to the back of the house. Crap! Phoebe! He moved quickly back to the bedroom where he found her scrunched up against the bed…in full view of the goon he had seen sprinting…who now had his bead on her from outside the window! "PHOEBE!" he screamed as he squeezed off three rounds in desperate hope. The bullets found the goon's chest and heart, and down he went as well.
Nine left. Only a matter of seconds before the attackers would advance again; from the footsteps at the front of the house, the advance was already underway. He did, however, have time to notice the periwinkle jammies Phoebe was wearing and noted internally: damn, she makes blue look good.
"Phoebe, you OK?" he frantically whispered as he raided the open gun safe.
"I think so," he heard her stammering reply.
He could no longer look her way as he was more focused on the safe's contents while the footfalls were getting closer.
He pulled out a flashbang grenade, then ordered Phoebe: "Close your eyes and cover your ears!"
"Covering!" she needed no further prompting as Arnold pulled the pin and lobbed the projectile out the door and down the passage. The advancing party had barely the time to proclaim its presence before it exploded in a burst of intense light and noise. What followed immediately afterward were sounds of pain and disorientation: just the break Arnold needed.
From the safe, he produced a shotgun, a Benelli M4. He ventured into the passage to find five dazed would-be perpetrators. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The first three had no time to react and were dropped easily with a chest shot each. The other two were able to raise their weapons at him. BOOM! Arnold was able to put the fourth one down with a heart shot as the fifth one started firing while still dazed. Arnold spun out of the way into his music room while the man fired blindly until…CLICK CLICK. That was Arnold's cue to break cover and – BOOM! – fire a shell into the man's chest.
Four to go. He could do this. He had to.
"Phoebe, to me!" he called to her, and she complied.
He motioned to the bathroom: "Stay in there, out of sight! Avoid the windows!"
"Avoiding!"
Arnold turned to her and noticed her hands were trembling, so he reassured her: "Don't worry, we're gonna make it. I promise."
She gave an assured nod back to him before retreating to the bathroom and closing the door.
Arnold had put his attackers on the back foot, however briefly, but he needed to press home his advantage. The Benelli only had two rounds left, not good against four enemies. Time for a change in weaponry. One of the downed had dropped a carbine, a heavily modified HK416. Arnold laid down the Benelli and quickly appropriated the automatic weapon. A quick inspection: sixty-round extended magazine, full. Burst fire mode selected. Serviceable.
Banks' voice from outside: "Hey Mister White Knight! What say we make a deal? You're obviously good at what you do. Why not join us and make some real money while you're at it? All you do is give us the woman and you can name your price!"
Arnold was insulted. "Sorry, I've become rather attached to her," he shouted back.
"You'll turn away all the money you can make just for one bitch?"
Arnold's answer to that was to fire a volley out the door and window, hoping to discourage anyone else from advancing. The sound of feet scrambling to the vehicles told him he had succeeded. He inched back towards the door and stealthily peered towards the SUV's. Four figures crouched behind the vehicles. He still had to work fast.
The lighter on the kitchen counter caught his attention. He moved to retrieve it, then fired another sustained volley from the carbine in the direction of the SUV's – to keep his attackers' heads down – while advancing back to the doorway, where he rolled the lighter towards them.
They must have fallen for his bluff, for he heard one man scream "GRENADE!", which caused the two behind the front vehicle to lift their heads in preparation for a hasty retreat. They only succeeded in presenting themselves as targets, and Arnold rewarded them with a three-round burst each, tight center mass groupings.
No respite for the other two – Banks and his last cohort – behind the rear SUV. Arnold strode in quick measured motions through the doorway burst-firing in a staccato meter.
Rat-tat-tat.
Rat-tat-tat.
Rat-tat-tat keep advancing.
Rat-tat-tat keep their heads down.
Rat-tat-tat keep them pinned.
Rat-tat-tat keep them guessing.
He made it to the vehicle, which he crossed from the rear. The men behind were so deep into formulating a counter-attack that they never saw him as he fed them the last of the carbine's bullets.
"Don't you ever call her a bitch!" he said as he watched Banks expire.
A relieved Arnold then turned to face the front door and saw…oh fuck…one of the five had survived his shotgun blast…and retrieved his weapon which was now onehandedly trained on the football head. What little time Arnold had to assess the man was enough to spot the exposed Kevlar weaves where the slug had struck. He must have been the only cautious one of the group, a trait that Arnold was about to regret.
Quickly he dove behind the vehicle as the gunman fired off sustained three-round volleys at him. The urgency of the situation forced him into a slither-crawl motion as he scrambled away from the stream of bullets closing in on him. Way to spoil the party, asshole, he cursed under his breath. He kept moving frantically to the engine bay where the engine block would offer protection from the strafing gunfire. It did its job admirably – No replacement for displacement, Arnold ruefully recalled. He had time enough now to draw his Glock and wait for an opening to return fire. Moments later a heavy thump was audible, accompanied by a multi-pitched scream over a persistent crackle. He peered over to see his attacker spasming violently on the ground, two wires running from his one hamstring. The wires were connected to a taser located somewhere inside the house. A now bespectacled Phoebe Heyerdahl walked out to reveal herself as its wielder.
"Never leave home without one," she offered with a shrug.
Arnold emerged from behind the perforated vehicle, walked over to Phoebe and her victim and raised the Glock to the victim's head intending to finish the job.
"No, Arnold! No!" Phoebe yelled. Arnold saw in her stern expression that her call for his co-operation was not a request.
"His friends were all self-defense, standing your ground and protecting me from imminent death, no problem," she continued. "Kill this one now and it's murder."
"She's right, you know," a voice came from down the driveway. Apparently, the noise and the spike in adrenaline associated with a life-or-death gunfight had rendered inaudible an approaching police cruiser now parked about fifty feet down the driveway. Its driver, the sheriff, was approaching the trio, standard-issue Remington 870 at the ready.
He added: "I'd have dropped him myself…I mean, I had the shot while you were pinned down, but then your lady friend went and fried him."
"A regular cavalry," Arnold addressed the lawman more in annoyance than deference. "How'd you know I was jammed up anyway?"
"Hilda got a crazy 911 call. Believed enough of it to figure you might be in trouble. I swear that woman is never wrong with her suspicions."
Arnold could only sigh in agreement: "But that's why you love her, Arnie. But for the love of everything holy, wouldn't it have been easier to call me and warn me about this attack?" The agitation in his voice was now plain to hear.
"Hey, ease up! We got a call saying someone might be planning an attack on you this morning. Key word: 'might'! Anyway, that was after hours so we tried calling you this morning, only we couldn't get any signal. So here I am, to check up on you."
At the mention of the sheriff's name, the penny dropped for Phoebe. The similar cranial structure, the pallid skin, the flaxen hair…Good Lord, this was Arnold's cousin!
As she made the realization, she heard Arnie ask: "Ma'am, everything alright?"
"Yes yes…officer…uh…Arnie…" she sputtered in surprise, wishing for an immediate redo.
"Arnie, Phoebe. Phoebe, Arnie," Arnold introduced the two.
"This your friend from elementary school?" Arnie quizzed.
"Focus, Arnie!" Arnold gestured towards the bodies, the spent casings and the Escalade-as-Swiss-Cheese exhibition.
"Yeah, I suppose there's a sound, legal explanation for all of this," Arnie said, suspecting that there probably was.
"Yes, there is!" Phoebe inserted herself forcefully into the conversation. "You have twelve assailants impersonating police officers, armed with illegally modified automatic weapons, engaged in a home invasion with intent to commit abduction and felony murder. You have two occupants of the property acting in self-defense according to your county's Stand Your Ground statute, one of whom was forced to use justifiable lethal force in the process."
"That's about as plausible as it gets," Arnie concurred. "I'm still gonna have to get the Crime Scene guys over. I'll need your weapons as well. And you'll have to find somewhere to stay today, while they process the area. You can give your statements at the station later today."
Arnold complied and presented his Glock to the Sheriff, who dutifully accepted it with a handkerchief he had produced. "The Benelli's laid down inside, near the kitchen," he offered. "You'll want that too," he continued. Then, pointing to the back of the SUV's: "Plus I appropriated one of their weapons, that HK over there."
"Duly noted," replied the lawman.
"I have a question," Phoebe piped in again. "Uh…will you be getting around to handcuffing the suspect? Maybe even get him some medical attention? He did survive a shotgun round to the chest at close range, but even with whatever protection he was wearing, he may be nursing a cracked sternum."
Arnie was embarrassed by his omission: "Sorry about that. I'll get to it." After cuffing and mirandizing the incapacitated foe, he escorted the gentleman to the cruiser and called in whoever needed to be called in.
That left Arnold in his sleepwear ensemble alongside Phoebe still in her jammies. Their attention was on the SUV's.
Arnold broke the silence: "So…seems this isn't your first time around dead bodies? You seem to be taking it alright."
"Human Anatomy at college. Visits to the morgue while working stories. I got used to it eventually."
"Phoebe, what are we to make of this?" time to address the bullet-riddled elephant in the room.
"I'd say they had a signal jammer in one of the vehicles. For cellular and 4G at least, so the victims can't call for help, nor can help call for them."
"Hence Arnie being unable to reach us."
"Correct. Plus, I calculate a high probability of at least one hidden compartment in each vehicle. Convenient transport of victims, dead or alive, for later disposal."
"Any idea of how they knew you'd be here? Believe me, they knew."
She hooked her right arm around his left arm and rested her head against it as she sighed: "Arnold, I wish I knew."
Arnold was no stranger to the Sheriff's Department. He'd given many statements before, but today he'd be giving one in his sleepwear, much to the delight of the female staff and a few of the males too. He virtually coasted through the process, recounting and retelling the preceding events in forensic detail. Eventually, all that remained was to sign the statement, which he did.
Phoebe's experience was different. On her way to the station she'd been offered any number of coats to preserve her modesty, coffee and doughnuts on arrival for her energy, and commiserations for the ordeal she'd endured. Word had reached the station before her about how'd she saved Arnold by tasering his would-be killer in the thigh – or the ass, depending on who was relaying the story. Word of that act had earned her rousing applause upon arrival.
That was six hours ago.
She too was about to sign her statement, which she would have done much sooner had she not been transfixed by the officer opposite her, conducting the interview. The officer named Hilda and who insisted that Phoebe address her as such. She looked exactly like an adult…Helga? Only…not. Exact same facial features: jawline; eyes, unibrow. Same shade of blonde, only her hair was done in an elegant ponytail. She was much friendlier, more feminine, nowhere near as coarse. And very, very pregnant.
"Thirty-five weeks," Hilda confirmed. "And every week she finds a new way to torment me! Her kicks are getting more and more brutal"
"At least she sounds very healthy," Phoebe ventured.
"Oh, she'd better be, the way she's kicking and fidgeting!" Hilda joked.
"Not to sound condescending, but are you sure you'll be OK working here in your current condition?"
"Sure! They got me working dispatch and admin. Occasional interviews too. And speaking of which, you haven't yet signed your statement."
"Oh yes! Sorry, Deputy…"
"Ah. Ah. Ah. It's just plain 'Hilda'," the woman named Hilda reminded. Phoebe could only admire how she remained warm and cordial in instances where Helga would have blown her stack. Phoebe signed the statement. Hilda proclaimed: "Good, now we're done." Then she produced a remote to switch off the recording equipment in the room. "Okay, now you can tell me why those men really attacked you," she asked with no change whatsoever in her friendly demeanor.
"Excuse me?" Phoebe was as far off-guard as was possible.
"I'm sure that you and Arnold worked together on keeping your stories consistent. That you repelled a party of home invaders intent on silencing any witnesses. Don't get me wrong, that's the story that will go on the report. The CSU guys say everything they found so far corroborates a self-defense scenario anyway. But…" her friendliness had a chilling, soul-piercing quality to it. "But…home invaders in Cadillac Escalades? In finely tailored suits? Wielding exotic weaponry? What would Arnold have for them to covet so badly? Everything about them screams Russian Mob. High-level Russian Mob from the city, with connections to spare."
All said in a non-threatening, non-accusatory tone. Phoebe was rendered helpless and confessed every microscopic detail that had led her over seventeen years to this point. Except for Helga; she didn't want to spook a physically delicate Hilda unnecessarily.
Hilda ruminated over what she'd just heard, let out a whistle and commented: "Sounds serious. But hey, you made it this far. Plus you've got Arnold on your side. Do me a favor please and take good care of him. He'll be needing you as much, if not more than you'll be needing him. And you'll be needing him a whole lot."
Just then the door opened and in walked Arnie: "Are we done here? CSU says a clear-cut case of self-defense."
"Statement's been signed, husband of mine. We're just getting to know each other a little better."
Wait. 'Husband of mine'? Hilda…Arnie? Arnie…Hilda?
Phoebe's skepticism was daubed all over her face, so Arnie explained: "Yeah, funny thing about seventeen years back. Seeing Arnold lose everything made me appreciate what joy I had in my life so much more."
"He's right," chimed Hilda. "He cleaned himself up, got himself properly educated, ditched the lint collection – thank god; don't ask – and started actively courting me."
"Liar," Arnie protested. "You were after me! She made such an impression that I ditched my girlfriend to pursue her. I mean, who wouldn't want her?" he asked as he embraced his seated wife. "She's beautiful, intelligent, kind and gracious," he ended the sentence with a kiss on her head.
"And he's become such a flatterer! Oh, just look at us!" Hilda said as she noticed a now-flustered Phoebe. "Miss Heyerdahl, you're free to go. Your man is waiting for you!"
"Going!" Phoebe reflexively responded. Then, more timidly: "Thanks…Hilda. And all the best for your family."
And she was gone.
Hilda sighed to Arnie, a tinge of sorrow in her smile and voice: "You know, Arnie? I can't help but think that if circumstances where different then she and I would have been the best of friends."
"What the fuck do you mean 'No response'?" Vitaly Santalov was apoplectic as he voiced his frustration over the phone.
"I mean, 'they traced her through her phone's GPS, then moved in to intercept, then nothing for the past six hours'," Detective Mark Vasquez was trying to maintain his composure on the other side.
"Christ, Vasquez, find out what the fuck happened! I mean right goddamn now!"
"Right away, Mister Santalov."
"Twelve men, Vasquez! TWELVE OF MY FUCKING MEN! Just to take care of one nosey bitch!"
"Well Sir, I wasn't sure whom she was meeting. Or how many people she was meeting. Where the meeting was taking place..."
Vitaly Santalov cut him off; he was having none of the excuses: "We should have offed her here in Hillwood when we had the chance!"
"No disrespect, sir, but there was a chance she wasn't working alone. Killing her then would not have been the best move. We'd still have unanswered questions."
"Vasquez, shut the fuck up and find out what the fuck happened. Don't think you're the only cop on our side! Cops are easy to replace!"
"Understood…" Vasquez said through gritted teeth before ending the call. He was at least relieved that he wasn't called while at the station. He also marveled at the advent of wireless technology that enabled him to use his tablet as an effective investigation tool, in this instance from the comfort of his regular coffee shop. For the umpteenth time, he refreshed his search on N-DEx for 'Phoebe Heyerdahl'. Nothing new so far, only one real mention containing the words 'Phoebe' and 'Heyerdahl': The Sunset Arms. Ping! One recent item was now available. He hoped for the desired outcome.
The report begged to differ.
it spoke of a failed home invasion attempt at the residence of an Arnold Phillip Shortman – situated in the county to which they tracked Phoebe – and how he was able to repel his attackers. Eleven were fatally wounded by Mr. Shortman and one was incapacitated by a Miss Phoebe Heyerdahl. The Sheriff's Department ruled the matter a case of self-defense and no charges were filed against either Mr. Shortman or Miss Heyerdahl. Not all the deceased had yet been identified, but positive ID's had been made on Yuri Denkova and Oleg Grishin, known associates of alleged Hillwood crime figure, Vitaly Santalov. Investigators also discovered on Mr. Grishin's person a Hillwood PD badge, the number on which corresponded with Detective Joseph Banks, who five weeks prior was gunned down under mysterious circumstances and whose case is still under investigation.
Shit! One man saw off twelve of Santalov's soldiers? Who was this mountain man? And what the hell were they doing with a dead cop's badge? Especially one whom Vasquez had led to an ambush after being told that Joe was closing in on a particularly lucrative gambling operation run by Santalov.
He entered 'Arnold Phillip Shortman' as his search topic. What the search yielded did not please him. He saw Arnold's performance as a bounty hunter ("Not good!"), and his military record ("Fuck me!"). But what most caught the attention of Detective Mark Vasquez was the report of the Sunset Arms Incident seventeen years ago, and its three survivors: Arnold Shortman, Phoebe Heyerdahl and one other whose name the report had stated was rendered illegible but who commonly went by the alias of 'Brainy'.
Thus his detective's brain started mapping the connections. Arnold was the poor sap Phoebe had mentioned to him after their night of passion. As for Brainy…Vasquez had distinctly heard Phoebe mention that name in the alley, so he had to be her spook. Too bad the handle was all the detective had to work with, for now at least. Knowing what he did now, he reached for his phone and dialed Santalov's number.
"What?" was the gruff answer.
"Mister Santalov, can we meet? I have some information you will be interested in."
Author's Note #1: My main benchmark for the action scene was the John Woo movie, 'Broken Arrow', in that I was going with a capable but unassuming hero. I imagined Arnold to be able to prepare and improvise as the situation demanded, much like Christian Slater's character, Riley Hale, I also drew inspiration from the HA episode, 'Mud Bowl', in which Arnold uses tactical know-how to help the fourth-graders to best the physically superior fifth-graders.
Author's Note #2: There's no way I was making Phoebe a damsel in distress, especially after her actions in TJM! What I was also implicitly stating was that she was no stranger to threats to her life as a journalist and instead of cowering away from danger, she'd prepare herself for any eventuality.
Author's Note #3: Main deviation from the series continuity: Hilda as a real character. For the sake of this story, I assumed that the events at Arnie's town in 'Arnold Visits Arnie' were not a bad dream, but a rather exaggerated recollection of past visits.
Author's Note #4: The music that inspired the action scene: 'Entropy' by Nigel Stanford (low-key while hinting at relentless waves of impending danger); 'Hammerhead' by Hans Zimmer (Broken Arrow Score, enough said).