Disclaimer: Hey Arnold and its 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.
Author's Note: So, yeah...I killed off Helga. There are a number of reasons, chief of which is that as much as I adore her and as much of a Shortaki proponent that I am, I feel that in a fanfiction context, Shortaki would be too obvious a theme. Besides that, the best Shortaki fanfic has already been written: Let me be your hero by AiraSora.
So I went with Phoebe, to explore her possibilities.
2. Aftermath: Phoebe
The pain was overwhelming. Her vision was kaleidoscopic.
Her main recollection had been of hands cradling and caressing her. Hands, strong and caring, comforting her.
A sad voice. A gentle voice. Willing her. Encouraging her. Pleading with her.
"Phoebe, stay with me!"
"Phoebe, don't die."
"Phoebe, you're gonna make it."
Another voice. More voices. Rough hands making her lie flat. Noise, speed, blackness, silence.
.
.
.
She was conscious again. On and off. She sensed frenzied movement and heard fragments of frantic voices.
"…severe head trauma!"
"…pupils blown!"
"…compound fractures on both legs…"
"…broken ribs!"
"Jesus, what a train wreck!"
"…massive blood loss!"
"She's going into shock!"
"…Shit! She's fibrillating!"
"PADDLES! STAT!"
.
"CLEAR!"
.
"CLEAR!"
.
"CLEAR!"
.
.
.
"OK, let's call it. Time of death is…"
"I got a pulse! I GOT A PULSE! SHE'S BACK WITH US!"
.
.
Sounds of desperate activity. No end in sight.
Sensations. Poking. Probing. Cutting.
Sensations, registered but not felt.
.
.
.
"OK, we've done all we can. This is as stable as she's gonna get. Rest is all up to her"
Emotions surrounding her. Despair. Doubt. Then…hope?
.
.
.
Finally, one more relieved voice: "You are one tough little lady, you know that, don't you?"
Then, merciful blackness again.
"So what happened next?" he asked.
"Oh, you know. I pulled through," was the answer. "Full eventual recovery, barring these nasty scars." She raised her left leg to remind him of the rough dark splotch on the shin where her once fractured tibia had pierced through the skin. Then the right leg to show off a similar rough patch of scar tissue on that leg's shin.
"But the therapy was the real ordeal. I pretty much had to learn to walk again, but hey, being in a three-week coma will do that to a person," she continued. "Imagine! Travelling to another country on someone's cockamamie quest to find his lost parents just to get kidnapped by machete-wielding river pirates! Then…"
"Whoa, time out! Machetes?" He was confused. "Those guys never heard of firearms? I'd expect them to pack at least AK47's."
"Yes, well, turns out San Lorenzo has really strict gun control laws that even the criminals abide by. Anyway, I survive that, then back home this giant explosion destroys the building I'm standing in, kills my boyfriend and best friend and damn near kills me too. The really shitty thing is that I'm there because the guy who got me kidnapped in the first place, invited us all there to apologise!"
"Death of irony, right there!" he concurred in measured deadpan.
"And I have to relive all that with a trauma counsellor! I think Doctor Bliss is still living comfortably off the hours she billed for my sessions all those years ago. It was terrible having to relive the fear and emotional distress and the belief that I could have died. Twice in six weeks. TWICE! But, you know, breakthrough eventually after many words and many more Kleenexes. Congratulations, Miss Heyerdahl, I do believe you've conquered this ordeal. One day at a time and all that."
This was Phoebe Heyerdahl, aged 28 and lying naked in bed post-coitus. Lying next to her was Detective Mark Vasquez of the Hillwood Police Department, age 32, a friend with benefits. She had just sampled one of those benefits and was smiling with content. His other benefit was being a fine detective with keen investigative instincts, a talent for eliciting good confessions from suspects and closing cases. As such he was usually assigned the high-profile major cases, the types she usually covered. An interaction between the two seemed unavoidable; theirs was initially strictly perfunctory – some would say antagonistic – with snippy conversations confined to whatever case they were pursuing, and also their conflicting understandings of the First Amendment. Gradually he started warming up to her and their conversations became more and more off-the-record, more personal, more intimate. Next was coffee, drinks, dinner. And now, eventually, this. Not that she wasn't averse to mixing business with pleasure, especially with someone whose appearance strongly recalled that of a young Benjamin Bratt.
"And what about the poor bastard who put you through all that?" Vasquez was genuinely curious.
"Not a clue. I mean, he finds his parents alive then he loses everything not even a month later. When I come out of my coma, I hear he's skipped the country. I ask around at school, no-one knows where he's gone and even fewer people care. They blame him for the explosion, call him a murderer and terrorist, even if the investigation cleared him of any involvement. I couldn't believe it. These used to be his friends! And not just the school, the whole neighbourhood has made a pariah out of him. I try sticking up for him and they turn against me too! To the point that my family and I move to Seattle and start over. New school, new people, new life."
"Yeah, I know that. But what about him?"
"That's just it. No-one has seen him since. He's completely off the radar. No social media presence. At. All." She placed particular emphasis on those last words.
"A ghost, huh?"
"Not that I hate him. He was one of the sweetest boys you'll ever know, so pure of heart."
"Gay!"
Phoebe chose to ignore that remark, "The EMT's and doctors said if not for him, I would be dead. Apparently he got me away from the building as it collapsed. Otherwise I'd have asphyxiated in the rubble. Plus he got the emergency guys aware of our location. It must have been so hard for him, having to choose between saving me and trying to save his girlfriend. I think that must have sent him over the edge."
She would have continued the conversation, but the alarm on her phone went off. She reached for it, looked at the screen and immediately started cursing: "Shit, I'm late!"
"For what? It's seven o' clock on a Sunday morning for heaven's sake"
She disregarded that comment as well as she leapt out of the bed and headed for the hotel room's shower. She showered in record time and returned to the room to gather her clothing. What unfolded was a reverse striptease that Detective Vasquez found no less appealing. He got to see again how her baby blue panties accentuated her firm, pert derrière, how her similarly hued bra brought attention to her perky B-cups. He took in the sight of her flat, smooth belly and her long sleek legs. In fact, her entire 5'7" frame invited close appreciative scrutiny, right down to her black shoulder-length hair.
"Sorry, got to go!" she said hurriedly as she slipped into her shoes before presenting herself to him in a now slightly wrinkled cobalt blue summer dress that truly flattered her features. Her cat-eyed glasses lent a sultry, intellectual edge to cap off her irresistible, finely proportioned beauty.
"How do I look?"
"Intoxicating," as if there was any other answer. "Can't you stay a bit longer?" his voice bordered on begging.
"It's Sunday," she rebutted. "You should really save some energy for your wife."
Phoebe knew from his wince that her barb had found its target.
Becoming a journalist – freelance at that – had not been Phoebe Heyerdahl's original goal and definitely not her parents'. The incident had damaged her intellectual faculties not one iota, and with neither Helga nor Gerald around, high school and college were an academic blur. She graduated high school at age sixteen and before her twenty-first birthday college was done and dusted as well with Majors in Psychology and Journalism and a Minor in Criminology.
Her parents had foreseen a successful, high-powered career as a clinical psychologist in her future, so they were most surprised to hear that she intended to proceed as a crime reporter. Many arguments ensued, but the parents eventually conceded that her choice of vocation was just that: her. Their only proviso was that she'd made the fullest use of her talents.
Four years of disillusionment followed, with her covering the Seattle courts and every crime du jour for detailed write-ups that often wouldn't survive the editing process; her bosses were more concerned with sensationalism and ad space than with a truthful story. This status quo fuelled her decision to go freelance, where the hypothesis was that she would write detailed stories about whatever crime caught her interest and sell to the highest bidder. The gambit was successful, with mostly the progressive media lapping up her "exquisitely researched" and "100% fact-based" stories centred around local political corruption. Such was her writing prowess that she even landed two book deals, one for her scoop on a county sheriff acting in cahoots with various methamphetamine dealers and the other involving a city official receiving kickbacks in exchange for several dubious tenders all over Seattle.
Phoebe's standing as a writer had earned her a relative degree of financial independence, and the trust fund her parents started for her since her birth didn't hurt her situation much either. She was at the point where she could comfortably pick and choose her investigation topics. Which was why she relocated to Hillwood six months prior for a proper, thorough investigation into the Sunset Arms incident.
The old block was different now, its character was different: where once children played freely in the streets and mom-and-pop stores thrived, now stood luxury condos and high-end stores and boutiques frequented by the well-heeled social elite. The Sunset Arms matter proved to be the catalyst for the gentrification. In its wake, property values suddenly plummeted, leaving the locals desperate to sell for whatever pittance anyone would offer before leaving for good. Then came the construction companies, then the new breed of residents.
It was the neighbourhood, but not as she remembered it.
Phoebe Heyerdahl stopped her reminiscence and snapped back to the present as she negotiated the labyrinthine maze that was Hillwood's network of back alleys before eventually finding the rendezvous point. It was a little-known square within a lesser known maze of alleyways. She noted how there were no windows facing the square on any of the buildings surrounding it. He was cautious – how else would one explain this venue with its zero opportunities for spying and eavesdropping? He was also waiting for her with an A3 envelope in his hands. He was tallish, dressed from head to toe in grey: shoes, slacks and polo shirt, his hair slicked back.
"You're late," he wheezed.
"Sorry about that, Brainy," was her weak apology.
"Still want the intel on Santalov?"
"Oh, indubitably!"
Phoebe's mind drifted again. Santalov was Vitaly Santalov, suspected Russian mob figure and owner of the luxury condo block where once stood the Sunset Arms. This she discovered from the Deeds Office, along with several properties spanning the entire block where once she had lived with her friends, all owned via shell companies that traced back to him, and all acquired in very rapid succession.
After the Deeds Office, a visit to the Federal Records Office was in order, where she obtained copies of the case files for the Sunset Arms Incident together with any closed cases regarding Santalov.
The files of the former alluded to a "thorough and extensive investigation" which concluded that two explosions had taken place, the first one within the gas main and the second one with the dynamite that was set off. Phoebe's problem with that conclusion was that she was practically at ground zero and she could have sworn she was lucid enough hear three. Even Arnold in his witness statement mentioned three explosions. Phoebe couldn't even testify in the matter: the investigation lasted two weeks; her coma lasted three.
As she studied further, she uncovered a deeply buried report stating that the number of explosions could only have been three. The report mentioned remnants of a circuit board found in the basement near the gas main, suggesting that a homemade explosive device could have been present and could have triggered the disaster. However, the report was repudiated, ruled inadmissible because certain information about the tech who made the findings was leaked to the media: apparently he was an attention seeker and – most damningly – had falsified some or other aspect of his qualifications, enough for irreparable damage to his reputation. Said tech was later found with what was ruled a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his temple and a note stating how embarrassed he was for churning out a false result in a high-profile matter. After that: two explosions; tragic accident; case closed.
The other case files revealed a pattern with Santalov. He would acquire properties in low-rent areas, often through dubious means, and convert them to luxury locations. "Dubious means" did not preclude, for the sake of argument, the use of explosive and/or incendiary compounds for extra encouragement. Then emerged more serious allegations of bribery, assault, money laundering and murder. Plenty of charges, no trials; most of the charges wouldn't even make it past the pre-trial hearing. There'd always be a complication: Witness recanted; Witness disappeared; Evidence disappeared; Evidence suppressed; Blah Blah Blah.
"Hey, snap out of it!" Brainy chided. "Look, this is serious shit," he continued. "The moment I hand you this, you're officially the top priority on that man's radar." But instead of handing her the envelope, Brainy produced a flash drive from his pocket and held it for her consideration.
"I know it's risky…" Phoebe havered, "but I've been preparing for just this moment, to nail whoever killed my friends back then. Maybe get some closure for me."
"I knew that would be your answer," Brainy relented as he handed the flash drive to her, "but you'll need extra help against these guys. Truth and justice alone won't get you anywhere."
"What kind of help…exactly?"
"None that I can provide. But this man can," he waved the envelope before presenting it to her.
She took it and was about to open it for a quick peek inside when he stopped her.
"No! Not now. You open it in the car. It's a six-hour ride. Plenty of time."
"What car?" her sudden bemusement made her jolt her attention from the envelope back to Brainy.
"The one picking you up. Your place. Eight twenty."
"Eight twenty?" her bemusement turned to abject disbelief. "That's.." she paused to look at her phone, "…forty minutes from now! Just to meet this stranger? Why not just call him or even text him?"
"Trust me, face to face will be your best chance."
"You say so. But why me? It's not like I can just up and walk away! Had you even considered that when you cooked up this plan?"
"You want Santalov taken down, this is what you must put up with. Besides…you're not exactly hurting for money. Book royalties and an offshore trust. Plus your job isn't exactly nine to five, is it?"
The things Brainy knew sometimes scared Phoebe. "Seriously?" she asked in indignation.
"Seriously. Spoiler alert: you're going after Vitaly Santalov. The man has more than half the city's elected officials in his pocket. Not to mention plenty of low-level street thugs just itching to do him whatever favour he requires."
"But…"
"No more questions. Clock's ticking. Think of it as just another assignment with some extra travel required. When you find the guy, try to get him back here. I'd really like a word with him, maybe give him some proper motivation."
Good luck indeed, she grumbled internally. Find some random stranger and convince him to take down a powerful, well-connected alleged mobster. It's not like she was being asked to perform a miracle.
"Oh, but she already is on our radar, Mister Spook!"
Detective Mark Vasquez was sitting in his unmarked police car, hidden but with a clear line of sight to the entrance of the alleyway. This wasn't his first tail nor his first stakeout and he was good at them. Phoebe didn't even look his way as he followed her, nor when she exited the alley and rather hurriedly headed away.
Then he took out his phone and placed a call.
"Secure line?" was a suspicious response.
"Yes, this line is encrypted."
"What do you want, Vasquez?"
"Looks like the princess is getting serious. Like cloak and dagger serious. She might have picked up extra intel on you."
"So? Take care of it! That's what you're for!"
"About that…there's another mystery guy out there who's supposed to help her. She's off to meet him. Not sure where but it's a six-hour journey from here. I'd rather we tail her and let them meet. Handle them together. Stage a tragic accident maybe. Two birds, one stone? You'll have a 500-mile alibi at least."
A pause.
"Handle it however the fuck you want, but just get it the fuck done! And take care of her fucking mystery man! And that damn spook!"
"Sure thing, Mister Santalov."
So Phoebe Heyerdahl had to die, he mused to himself. What a pity. He allowed himself momentarily to recall the path that led to this soon-to-be tragic conclusion. A clerk at the Federal Records Office had informed one of Vitaly Santalov's lieutenants of the journalist who out of nowhere was requesting several files on Santalov and the Sunset Arms. The lieutenant, in turn, had informed Santalov himself, who in turn ordered Vasquez to identify her and to keep tabs on her.
He first met her four months ago when she was covering the armed robbery trial of a low-level Santalov soldier. The whole trial was a set-up by Santalov's organization because (a) the dumb schmuck was expendable and would be killed in custody before any verdict could be reached, (b) anything Santalov-related would surely be a dog whistle for this reporter, and (c) Vasquez would be the lead detective on the case, thus creating a perfect pretext for a "chance encounter" between him and her.
It worked; they met. Not amicably at first; he had to spend weeks building a rapport with Phoebe and getting her to warm up to him. It worked; she did. Not even his being married was a deterrent for her. From her behaviour, he pegged her as someone without any close friends, who had convinced herself that she didn't need any but was secretly desperate for any companionship. So much so that she even enjoyed exchanging messages and inane viral videos with him via instant messaging. She'd especially appreciated the cute cat videos and LOL'ed especially loudly at the one that concealed the spyware that gave him access to her phone, its contents and its facilities. Hell, he could even remotely use her phone as a microphone and listen in on her through his own phone. That's how he came to know of her spook and the details discussed at her rendezvous.
He hung up, then dialled another number: "Hello Honey! Listen, I'm done with the stakeout but something else came up."
"Explain." The unsurprised voice of a cop's wife now used to the frequent call-outs.
"We got word of a murder suspect hiding out in the boonies," he replied. "Multiple murders actually. We really want to make the arrest before she slips away again."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I have to be at the station to organise and coordinate a task force for her capture and arrest."
"You'll be travelling again?"
"No, not this time. If I have my way then they'll send out the junior detectives to make the collar."
"Still seems a long way from home, even for mass murder."
"We're talking high-profile here. The brass wants to avoid any clashes over jurisdiction. You know, I's dotted, and t's crossed." His wife had above-average sharpness, so his lies had to be bulletproof. Not that she was untrusting, she just required more in-depth detail before believing anything.
"And I suppose it'll be another suspect whose name you can't divulge, due to the sensitive nature of the case, quote-unquote." Her voice reflected her frustration at being a cop's wife.
"That's usually what happens when Hillwood PD's top detective catches a case. Comes with the territory."
"Whatever. Will you still make it in time for lunch?"
Yes! She bought it. Times like this almost made him feel sorry for deceiving her. Almost…
"Doubt it," he replied, "but definitely for dinner."
"Fine. On your way can you bring a bottle of white wine? I'm making chicken."
"For you, my love, anything!"
It was a rush and she would be cutting it fine. Phoebe hurried back to her rented house where she quickly changed into more appropriate attire. She surmised that six hours on the road from Hillwood, in any direction, would take her to a heavily wooded area. Thus, for such an area in the middle of summer, she changed into dark blue cotton cargo shorts, a light-blue short-sleeved shirt made from thick cotton, and a denim waistcoat. She couldn't resist glancing into the mirror, and with a cheeky twist of her hip, a seductive arch of her back and a smouldering pout of her lips she could only admit that damn, she made blue look good. She didn't own any hiking boots, so a pair of sneakers was her best hope for the presumably rugged terrain, together with the thickest pair of socks she could find. Next, she stuffed a backpack with what she hoped was not a random mishmash of items: towel, toothbrush, hoodie, jacket, anything really that she thought would be helpful.
Her laptop too; she'd need it to read the flash drive after all. Plus the chargers...hopefully her destination had heard of such concepts as electricity.
She checked her phone: five minutes until the driver's arrival. She noted with concern too that her phone's battery was at about fifty percent charge. This was odd; she could have sworn that it was well over seventy when she woke up after her most recent dalliance earlier that morning. It had been doing this for the past week already; maybe her battery was about to call it quits. Too bad she'd forgotten to buy a new one.
She gave the matter no further thought, for a horn sounded outside her door: her car, presumably. She opened the door and stood at the doorway for a look at the street. Outside stood a white Crown Vic, its engine still running, its windows heavily tinted. The driver lowered his window and turned his head to make eye contact with her. His expression suggested a curt "let's go already", thus subtly motivating her to hurry up. Which she did by hurriedly gathering her bag and laptop, before rushing outside, locking the front door and making a beeline for the vehicle. The driver didn't greet her; his only acknowledgement of her presence was popping the trunk for her to load her luggage. When she got into the backseat of the Crown Vic, the driver took off with no fuss. No small talk let alone an explanation of their destination. Not that trying to chat him up would have helped due to the partition between her and him. He only had one job: he drove.
She waited until they hit the smoother highway asphalt before opening the envelope. She was most intrigued by her mystery man as she fished for the first random piece of information: a photograph by the feel of it. Indeed it was. One look at it and she was in wide-eyed astonishment at the revelation.
The photo showed a man in soldier garb, seated on a rocky slab somewhere in the middle of some slum area, a rifle rested on his lap. His surroundings looked like the aftermath of a lengthy, particularly violent skirmish. Clearly he was in pain, clearly he was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, possibly medical attention. But somehow he was still able to force a sincere looking smile for the photographer. Dust and grime caked his face, but they diminished not one bit of the piercing intensity of his eyes. Those eyes reflected a lifetime's worth of melancholy, mixed with a tinge of joy at having survived whatever ordeal he had just faced. For all he had been through, he conveyed a sense of never intending to give up on life.
But that head, that distinct oblong profile, that tousled blonde hair. It was Arnold.
On the flip side of the photo, someone had written: Lt Shortman. Fucking Legend of Unit 42!
"Oh my...!" she whispered to herself, feeling herself becoming more intrigued by the second.