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.
Disclaimer #2: The lyrics referenced in this chapter belong to Bruce Springsteen.
ICYMI: Phoebe has now reached Arnold after seventeen years, unaware that her moves are being monitored by the very people she is investigating and that she may be marked for termination. And with that said, I now declare this bazaar open.
4. A Not-Unhappy Reunion
After their awkward greeting, Phoebe wanted to get straight to the matter and started rambling off about Russians and explosions and rampant inconsistencies and a man called Vitaly Santalov. Arnold cut her short by pointing out that they were still standing at the front doorway. He followed up by asking her (1) how she found him and (2) where in the area she was staying. That's when she realized that Brainy, for all his meticulous planning, had mentioned nothing about accommodation.
"Uh, actually…I-I…" she stammered for an answer but found not one approaching.
"You didn't plan that far, did you?" his voice was deeper and raspier, the product of seventeen years' worth of growth and circumstance. His tone was flat, non-judgemental. He decided to skip the first question for now.
"I didn't plan that far," replied Phoebe Heyerdahl, now acutely aware of the situation into which Brainy had thrust her.
"Look, we're a good few miles away from the town and the motel. Plus I'm in no mood to drive anywhere right now. You can stay here for the night. I reckon there's some catching up to do anyway."
Phoebe realized that stood in front of her was not the naïve young boy with whom she'd shared a childhood a lifetime ago. The man in front of her was colder, more analytical, more distant. She was convinced that if not for their history, he'd have sent her on her way by now instead of offering her quarter. She understood now why Brainy had insisted that she meet with Arnold face-to-face: she had the best chance of unearthing the Arnold who would help his friends regardless of their circumstances.
She also noted – purely for her own reference, no more and no less – that his wiry frame and athletic build were not without appeal.
"You've twisted my arm hard enough, so I accept your hospitality with much gratitude," she answered in genuine thankfulness that sounded teasing.
He stepped aside and allowed her to enter. As she did, she took the opportunity to observe the interior properly. Her first impression was of a modest but comfortable living space. The front door led to a lounge area that comprised a single sturdy-looking couch and an equally sturdy coffee table, both facing a large fireplace. Her eyes then focussed on the adjacent open-plan kitchen with its gas stove and oven, retro-looking fridge and equally retro-looking sink. On a spacious counter she spied a fruit basket, a…holstered pistol (?)…and…was that a grenade next to it?
"Um, Arnold? Just what is the story behind that?" she tentatively asked while pointing at the counter and its contents. Arnold followed her finger to the counter and blithely commented: "Well, fruit is a good source of vitamins and fiber."
"Not that, that!" Phoebe kept pointing at the M67 fragmentation grenade on the counter. Arnold, not a whit abashed, casually strolled to pick up the item and commented in a calm tone that did nothing to assuage Phoebe's nerves. "Well you see, this is my little problem eliminator," he explained while tossing the grenade lightly before pressing down on the plug lid to reveal a small flame. He added with a wry smile: "Especially useful when any of the pilot lights go out, don't you think?"
Phoebe Heyerdahl was livid inside at how convincingly Arnold had sold the lighter as an actual grenade, scaring her witless. She wanted to tear into him, chastise him from a dizzy height on what was and what wasn't appropriate humor within a given context. Instead, she muttered: "You jackass!"
"I know," he conceded somewhat unapologetically but still smiling. "Listen, I was about to start dinner. You OK with salmon?"
Now Phoebe wanted to tell him that the unplanned road trip and its associated low quantity and quality of proper nourishment had left her famished to the point where even old shoe leather would be a gourmet option. To convey that sentiment, she replied: "Sure."
"Wow, that was eager! Sounds like it was a long trip."
"You have no idea! Six hours in the back of a Crown Vic is no fun. Luckily I had your life story to keep me occupied."
Now it was Arnold's turn to be surprised: "Say what?"
And Phoebe's turn for a wry smile of her own: "I'll tell you after dinner. Meanwhile, can I freshen up somewhere?"
"Y-Yeah," Arnold's composure returned. "Bathroom's down the passage, first door on the left. Feel free to use the shower if you want. Towels are in the cupboard."
Phoebe Heyerdahl needed no further prompting and trotted down the passage: "Showering!"
On a bench, in a park, in the city of Hillwood, two figures were in the middle of a conversation.
"Driver confirmed half-hour ago that he dropped her off. The rest is up to her."
"And you're sure this guy is your man for the job?"
"Positive."
"A military burnout. The hero of Asmara, now a lowly bounty hunter. And you're positive."
"It took some time, but I have faith that his psych profile and skillset are where they need to be."
"Faith is for religion, son."
"Consider this. His military record shows him excelling in whatever mission he was in. You said so yourself: Hero of Asmara. Christ, that story is a legend among the Rangers."
"So what? Could have been a death wish. Could be he was hoping for suicide by enemy. Could be he failed, and the result was a happy accident."
"All due respect, that's bullshit. Look what he did as a bounty hunter. Bail jumpers now avoid his town like the plague. He's more respected there than the Sheriff's Department."
"So he's got a hard-on for being someone's white knight."
"Now you're just being a douche. You once said you considered him family. He never saw your face, but he was always kind to you even if you didn't always pay your rent on time. That's what you said, isn't it?
The older figure was rendered momentarily silent, but the younger wasn't done: "'Family', right? Is that the reason you paid his hospital bills and fast-tracked his move to San Lorenzo?"
"Look, son, the fact that I'm helping you at all should tell you that I see some merit in your…whatever you call this plan of yours."
The younger admitted: "Think of it as the most dangerous Make-A-Wish experience ever, but what the hell, our guy's long overdue for some closure. Maybe a crack at being happy again."
"And it just so happens to involve this Santalov asshole?"
"Correct. Santalov ripped the heart out of this city and has been sitting pretty ever since. The pieces have never been in a better position than now to take him down."
"Good luck with that, Brainy. And let's hope this plays out as you predicted."
"You worry too much, Smith."
With that, the younger figure took his leave.
Phoebe Heyerdahl's second shower of the day, while not as luxurious as the one at the hotel, was just as refreshing. Once showered, toweled off and clothed again, she remembered her phone and its recent excessive battery consumption. She checked it: ten percent charge. How? The phone had sat unused for the entire journey! Regardless, it needed charging.
"Um, Arnold?" Phoebe shouted towards the kitchen area. "Can I perhaps persuade you to let me charge my phone? The battery's close to dying."
From the kitchen, over sounds of chopping: "Check the study! There should be an unused socket somewhere!"
The study, located opposite the bathroom, was a spartan affair. It comprised a desktop PC hooked up to three monitors, a printer/scanner and a router, all set on a desk of minimalist design; nearby stood a police scanner. Tools of the bounty hunting trade, Phoebe reasoned. All of this in a relatively small space with no indication of clutter: typical Arnold. Phoebe reflected on how effective he was at making the most of any given amount of space as she recalled his childhood room as a model of maximizing one's living quarters. True to his word, there was a slot for her charger and soon her phone was replenishing its power supply.
Arnold was still scurrying about in the kitchen, so Phoebe thought not to interrupt him and to explore the remaining rooms. His bedroom at the far end of the passage provided no new insights: just a three quarter size bed, a set of cupboards, and was that a gun safe next to the cupboards? OK, so maybe there was some insight to be had.
The final room was next to the study, but its door was closed. Not locked, as Phoebe discovered by trying the door handle. That room contained the most advanced looking music system Phoebe had seen. High-end everything: Turntable, music server, amplifier, speakers as well as other equipment the use of which she couldn't yet determine. To say nothing of the massive collection of vinyl displayed in banks of shelves and the sound dampening on the walls. If ever proof was needed of Arnold's love of music, this setup was it.
"I see you found my echo chamber," Arnold stated from right behind her.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry!" she scrambled for the apology as she turned to face him.
"No harm," was his reassurance. "I just happen to like my music." As if she hadn't made that connection yet.
"Interesting," said an impressed Phoebe. "What do you listen to?" she asked before immediately wondering how on earth that information would benefit her.
He answered anyway as he entered the room to retrieve the setup's remote control: "Basically anything that I find appealing." Then, as he switched on everything: "Mostly I just set the server for random playback and take it from there."
The server selected its song and shortly thereafter Bruce Springsteen was performing "Human Touch" for the two. The speakers bellowed out The Boss's opening lines in pin-sharp detail:
"You and me we were the pretenders
We let it all slip away
In the end what you don't surrender
Well the world just strips away
Girl ain't no kindness in the face of strangers
Ain't gonna find no miracles here
Well you can wait on your blessings darlin'
But I got a deal for you right here"
And just as quickly Arnold killed the song, but from his and Phoebe's awkward stares at each other, it was obvious that both of them had taken in the coincidental significance of the lyrics.
These city slickers sure are a noisy bunch!
This was the thought currently occupying Maureen Thompson's mind. Maureen Thompson owned the bar in which this particular interaction was taking place, an interaction she was observing from behind the counter. The bar was a less than savory establishment situated at the edge of the town. It's status as such counted in its favor as it was the meeting place of choice for equally unsavory characters to discuss and plan several dubious enterprises. Such was the case at that particular table.
Two tables seated twelve mobsters, definitely Eastern Bloc judging by their accents – Maureen was an old hand reading people and an older hand at understanding Russian. The haggling was intense, the drinking more so. Eventually, after much expletive-laden language, a plan was in place and had been agreed upon before the tables settled up (with a most generous tip) and left for wherever they were heading.
Maureen Thompson usually paid no attention to such plotting and planning – being an accessory carried no appeal for her – because usually the process entailed a degree of discreetness, but the amount of liquor consumed by the parties concerned had put paid to that notion. The whole table had whispered as though they learned to do so in a helicopter.
Thus she became aware of a…gee, could she really call it an operation? A raid at dawn tomorrow, at a lodge five miles out of town? Only one person they could be talking about: Arnold. Maybe they were looking for payback for all their comrades he sent back to jail. It didn't matter because the bottom line was that Arnold could be in trouble. So she performed the civic duty and dialed 911.
"911. What is your emergency?"
"Hilda, it's Maureen! I need your help!"
"How so?" came Hilda's voice, hinting strongly that her shift was close to ending, thus seemingly oblivious to Maureen's urgency.
"Some men may be planning an attack at Arnold's place at dawn."
"Uh-huh…do you know this for certain?"
"Well, I heard a group of twelve men talk in my bar about hitting a lodge outside of town. Russian guys, mean-looking!"
"You know, Maureen, there's this thing called profiling. How do you know they weren't a hunting party that stumbled into your bar because they didn't know better?"
"You know, Hilda, I've been bartending for twenty-five years. I know how to read people. I'm telling you it sounded like they were up to no good!"
"Based on what? Hearsay?"
"Sometimes that's enough!"
"Well do you have any descriptions? Where they were headed? Where they're staying? How about a vehicle description and license plate number? Anything at all to assist? Because let me tell you: 'they sounded like they were up to no good' won't impress the Sheriff or his deputies."
And so Maureen Thompson's civic duty unraveled. "Fine!" she huffed. "I stand by what I heard! Use it or don't use it!" Then she hung up.
The woman named Hilda was left to process what she had just heard. Twelve men…possibly Russian Mob…with a beef against Arnold…yeah, get in line, guys…sounds like a fair fight. Still…
She opened a channel on her switchboard: "Sheriff, come in, please. We just got this crazy call on 911…"
Dinner was surprisingly not a tense affair. Phoebe felt almost disappointed, seated with Arnold in the lounge with each of them enjoying Arnold's surprisingly good epicurean skills. He'd prepared grilled salmon and a salad. She had arrived expecting Arnold to be surly and withdrawn given his history, but his act of mischief with the lighter suggested otherwise. She dared to believe that he was appreciative of her company.
The conversation started lightly enough: small talk and a general outline of each other's past and present vocations. As Phoebe became more comfortable and less hungry – the salmon did not last long on her plate – in Arnold's presence, she broached the subject of the explosion and its aftermath and observed as his demeanor became impassive. It remained that way even as she divulged her investigations and their revelations.
"And in the course of your investigations you just so happen to uncover my home address and military history, right?" his tone was more flat than suspicious.
"Actually, you have Brainy to thank for that. I personally had accepted that you'd dropped off the radar, probably for good."
"Brainy…" Arnold repeated the name as he ruminated on the mystery of Brainy's survival and his stake in Phoebe's undertaking.
"Lest you forget, Arnold, he's the one who provided the material on you. It was uncanny, even disconcerting, the information he has on you. Education, service history, current employment. I swear he has a direct line with the Pentagon or DOJ or something. I mean, isn't this supposed to be classified?"
"Probably," Arnold couldn't be sure. "I'm not really surprised that he could get all this info. Back in the day, the guy was able to show up anywhere, anytime, at will. Remember Wheezin' Ed, how he just appeared on that island? Who knows what he's seen and what secrets he's picked up over the years?"
"Yes indeed," Phoebe concurred.
"I'm convinced he's not human, not entirely anyway. Kinda like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable. Superpowered…only it's not obvious. I mean one time Helga pitched him off a speeding train. He was back at school the next day like nothing ever happened!"
"Oh wow!" Phoebe was taken aback at the revelations that Brainy might be immortal and the Helga at one time had committed attempted homicide.
"Now, about this Santalov character…"
"Yes?" was her cautious reply.
"Question," he continued. "Don't get me wrong, I think your goals are…admirable. But how do I fit in the picture? Why did you endure such a long commute to find me?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure. All I had to work with was what Brainy told me. Someone who could help me in my…endeavour." Then, in a poor imitation of Brainy's wheezing voice: "In ways I cannot, quote-unquote."
She saw a faint hint of a smile creep on his face, only for him to stifle it. This was her opening, so she took a deep breath while organizing the courage to ask: "So how come you're all out here and not in Hillwood?"
His impassiveness vanished suddenly, replaced by an expression of emotional discomfort. He answered anyway: "Look, I need to be blunt. Hillwood is dead to me."
The answer was a broadside of note. She stared at him with an unspoken appeal for further explanation. He interpreted her expression as such and continued: "No family, no more close friends."
"No more Helga?"
That one stung: Phoebe wondered whether she'd pushed too hard.
"Excuse me?" his voice projected his incredulity.
"She was my friend too, you know? My best friend. Whom you'd come to love. But so much that her death was enough to cause you to withdraw completely from society? What about your family? Your friends?"
His answer hinted at preparedness for just this question: "I didn't see my family die, or my friends. But the last thing I saw before the building collapsed was Helga's frightened expression. I saw just how helpless I was to save her. Then after the collapse, I listened to all those fading voices calling for help that I couldn't give."
His voice faltered momentarily but he quickly caught it: "I…remember going to the memorial and the dirty looks I got from parents and family. Deep down I knew they were right. I dragged their kids to San Lorenzo to get kidnapped and almost killed. Then I tried to apologize and only managed to finish the job."
Yes, the memorial. Phoebe was comatose at the time and only heard about it long after the fact, about how Arnold instigated an altercation that ended with the arrest of Bob and Olga Pataki. Conclusive proof to Hillwood that Arnold Shortman was bad news to all who met him.
Phoebe motioned to intervene, but Arnold continued. Sadness and cynicism had now taken over his tone: "Who'd blame them, right? They were on the roof because I invited them. I should have been there with them! All because…all because…"
Phoebe reflected that this blonde football-headed man was spilling his deepest darkest thoughts for the first time in many years. Brainy's facts and figures, as thoroughly researched as they were, lacked the aspect of humanity, of Arnold's motivations. "All because of what, Arnold?" she asked as non-pryingly as she could.
"All because I tried to do right by them!" More emotion was creeping into his voice: "All my life I'm this good kid on the block, the one who helps everyone, the one who gets along with everyone. Good ol' benevolent Arnold. One accident later, I'm the most hated kid in the city."
"Arnold, you don't believe that! The court ruled it to be just that: an accident!" Phoebe tried to reason with him.
But the floodgates were wide open: "You were still in a coma, so you wouldn't have known. As far as Hillwood was concerned, I might just as well have bombed the building myself. Didn't matter what the court ruled. Nobody was about to believe otherwise! That's why I chose to move to San Lorenzo, where I wouldn't be reminded daily of my fuck-up. Fine load of good that did. The nightmares wouldn't go away, even after I volunteered to help at the remote villages and the Green-Eyed People. But none of that was enough and the nightmares stayed."
"Hence your decision to join the military?"
"Yeah…" his voice trailed off on that one.
"There's more to it than that, isn't there?" Her superior observational skills were on display.
"I don't know," he was trying to phrase his answer properly. "It was a lot of things. To show the world that they were wrong about me. A big 'fuck you' to those who accused me of all those deaths. Maybe even a chance to die with glory." He then noticed Phoebe's horrified expression and quickly added: "I wasn't suicidal! But I wasn't that keen on living either. So I always volunteered for the most dangerous assignments. But…"
"But…? What, you had an epiphany of sorts?"
"Of sorts. I was exposed to carnage that made The Sunset Arms look like nothing. I saw civilians scared out of their minds. In them, I saw Helga on the roof all over again, only this time I felt I could actually help. Then it happened. The Football Head. The damn Football Head who wanted to help everyone…be their friend…he returned."
Phoebe attempted some interpolation: "So then, more rescue missions, more risky situations, hence the myriad medals. Maybe even a new reason to keep living."
"Exactly," he concurred in visible admiration of her astuteness. "Also…it just stopped hurting. The memories stopped hurting. I mean the dreams are still there, but they don't bother me anymore."
"What dreams?"
"About San Lorenzo and about Helga and my parents…. anything to do with what got me here. Look, I've made my peace with them."
"So why not return to Hillwood?" she pressed on.
"New beginnings I guess," was the answer. "I just wanted to divorce myself from the past."
"Did that include me?" she asked, not sure if she'd like the answer. "Did you think I'd hate you too?"
That was her most pointed question so far. He looked as though he was staring down a firing squad. Before he could attempt an answer, Phoebe rose to her feet and stepped over to him, where she spun around and stood with her back towards him.
"Phoebe?" the gesture left Arnold quizzical. "What's happening?"
"Arnold, I need you to indulge me this one time. Can you please do this one thing for me? No questioning."
"OK?" He didn't mean to answer that quickly; he blurted out his answer with very little hesitation.
"Can you please hold me around my waist?"
OK, that was strange, but he did agree to no questions. He stood up behind her and proceeded to wrap his arms around her waist in a loose, uncertain embrace.
"Tighter, please," she insisted.
So he tightened his grasp.
"Tighter."
Arnold did as he was requested and then realized that his head was now pressed against the nape of her neck. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable in this position so close to her soft hair, her freshly-showered scent, her delicate frame. It wasn't necessarily arousing him, but her presence was making him regret his solitary life. He'd had his share of one-night stands while growing up, but those women understood with him that the act was purely physical, of mutual carnal benefit. Not for the longest time had he been able to talk this freely about his deepest personal thoughts with anyone, much less with someone he hadn't seen in almost two decades after she'd blithely waltzed through his door.
Even so, he wondered what Phoebe Heyerdahl's game was.
Phoebe Heyerdahl's game was one of recollection. She had been unconscious for most of the immediate aftermath of the explosion. Her subconscious, however, had made her aware of a presence, of a tight, caring embrace. Of arms and hands strong enough to rescue her from Hell itself, yet gentle enough to soothe her pain and anxiety. She was feeling those reassurances in Arnold's tight embrace. Without realizing it, she let her breathing deepen and slow down as she took in the sensuousness of the moment.
"Do you really think that everyone in Hillwood hated you?" Her question snapped Arnold out of his thoughts. "Because," she continued, "I know of three people who are eternally grateful to you."
"Hm?" Arnold asked as if what wordsmithing skills he possessed had suddenly abandoned him.
"They told me after the coma of a brave young boy who risked his life to carry me to safety, who was selfless enough to make sure that the paramedics got a hold of me first. Even though he himself was in terrible shape, what with all the bad cuts and bruises and burns he had received. They pointed specifically on how a flying glass shard nicked his left brachial artery and how he refused treatment until he was sure I was taken care of first."
"You were in worse shape," was the best he could muster.
"Oh, don't remind me!" she said. "The physical injuries were bad enough, but…do you know what a TBI is?"
He'd heard that abbreviation in the Rangers: "Traumatic Brain Injury, if I remember correctly."
"Oh shoot! You're too clever!" Phoebe pouted in playful child-like grumpiness. She continued in her normal timbre: "GCS of 11. Serious enough to cause major worry, mild enough not to fully doubt in a full recovery."
"Sorry that you and your parents had to endure all of that," Arnold meekly offered, aware that he was about seventeen years too late with the apology.
"Don't be!" insisted Phoebe. "I'd rather my parents worry about my recovery than start planning my funeral. If they were to meet you, I can guarantee they'd shower you with gratitude until the end of time."
Arnold was taken aback by this statement, but Phoebe had more to say. "These arms," she continued as she rested her hands on his forearms, "saved me, brought me back from the brink, called me away from the light. These arms made two parents weep with joy and relief, instead of sorrow."
She'd made her point more than adequately, only he found himself reluctant to let go, not knowing that she was just as reluctant for him to let go. So they just stood as they were in contented silence, their breathing gradually settling into a shared rhythm. The silence was eventually broken by Arnold with: "Phoebe, there's still dessert. Would you like some prune cookies?"
Phoebe kept looking away from him as she snorted out a muffled titter. "Fuck you, Arnold Shortman!" she retorted in mock indignation, before giving in to a chuckle that would not be denied. Arnold matched her chuckle and before long both of them were sharing a heartfelt giggle.
They maintained their embrace, neither in any hurry to let go as The Boss started ringing again in Arnold's mind:
"You might need somethin' to hold on to
When all the answers they don't amount to much
Somebody that you can just talk to
And a little of that human touch
Baby in a world without pity
Do you think what I'm askin's too much?
I just want to feel you in my arms
And share a little of that human touch..."
The Santalov matter could wait a bit longer.
Author's Note: Thank your deity of choice for Spotify! I've set up a playlist for the sole reason of providing inspiration while I'm typing each chapter. For the first three chapters, I listened most frequently to the likes of: 'Ultraviolet' by Freya Ridings, 'Little By Little' and 'Falling Down' by Oasis; 'Private Investigations' by Dire Straits. I'm sure the theme of ER also came to play as well as the theme of House M.D. For this chapter, my main inspiration was Bruce Springsteen's 'Human Touch' a together with 'Have Faith' by Nianell.