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: Arnold has seen off Phoebe's would-be killers, with a little help from Phoebe herself. They've both provided the local Sheriff's Department with an explanation that doesn't draw the town into their mess. Meanwhile, Vasquez is under increasing pressure from Santalov to deliver results and damage control.
Pushback
"Wow, look at you! Those John Woo movies have nothing on you!" she exclaimed, visibly impressed.
"It was just my training kicking in, nothing more," he replied modestly.
"Oh please! If I had known back then that you had all this kick-ass ability in you…" she let her voice trail as she gazed his way, eyelids aflutter.
Arnold and Helga were seated in the San Lorenzo departure terminal as their eleven-year-old selves. On the big screen display which would usually display the arrivals and departures, they were watching his recent altercation in a first-person point of view.
Helga offered yet another commentary: "That bit with the flashbang was genius! Arnold Shortman: Master Tactician! Able to salvage any situation. How I love him!"
"Too bad I couldn't save you.." said a now-dejected Arnold.
"Hey hey hey! There'll be no self-pity on my watch, Mister! Besides, you gave me all the payback I needed back at my funeral."
She was, of course, referring to Bob.
The memorial altercation seventeen years prior had sealed his fate. The news stations latched onto his aggravated assault of a minor and subsequent police investigations revealed his patterns of domestic abuse. The resulting trial was swift and brutal, lasting less than a week. Bob was found guilty for charges ranging from felony domestic abuse to aggravated assault. He would spend the rest of his natural life in an out-of-state penitentiary.
Miriam was portrayed by the media as the helpless, frightened wife who was powerless to stop her violent husband. As such, she became the Prosecution's star witness whose testimony survived vigorous cross-examination and damned him to his confinement. And in exchange for her cooperation, she was cleared of any involvement in Bob's actions. She also became the sole owner of the beeper emporium, which she immediately repurposed into a massively profitable purveyor of cellular products and technology. Helga eventually came around to Arnold's thinking that Miriam was long overdue even a small chance of happiness and success.
Olga was another case entirely. After her and Bob's arrest, she suffered a breakdown and was sent to a mental institution for treatment. What happened to her, Arnold knew not nor did he lose any sleep over the matter.
Helga and Arnold resumed watching the onscreen action before Helga once again broke the silence: "So…when do you plan on banging my best friend?"
Arnold's response could only be described as a dry spit take.
"Oh come on, Arnoldo! I'm dead, remember? You won't exactly be cheating on me, remember? Besides, from what I see, she's filled out very nicely indeed!"
Arnold wanted to answer but couldn't. His lips were flapping but no sound was being produced. Helga kept talking as the surroundings started spinning and distorting around him: "Remember our deal! Find your happiness in life. Live your life fully, and I'll be waiting here for you. Otherwise forget it, Bucko."
Then…poof!
"Aaar-nold..! Aaar-nooold!" Phoebe was tugging at Arnold who had nodded off on the bench near the building's front desk.
It took him a few seconds to recognize Phoebe, whereupon he snapped back to instant consciousness and asked: "Hey. How'd it go?"
"All I can say is that Hilda is quite the character," Phoebe replied.
"She's very astute, right?", Arnold offered.
"Oh definitely!" confirmed Phoebe before continuing: "So, have you been waiting long?"
"Long enough to deal with my carrier. Long enough to convince them that the damage to my home was neither self-inflicted nor self-induced. They have what they need from the case file, so they'll probably be paying for the repairs. Hopefully…"
"Oh, Arnold, I'm so sorry to have dragged you into my mess," said Phoebe contritely. "You've every right to sever whatever ties we established last night. I mean…here I just waltz to you after all this time and then…this! Some first impression, huh?" With that, she lowered her gaze to the floor. Arnold's response was to lift her chin up gently with his left index and middle fingers and assure her: "Hey, this happens more often than you might think. I got enough people in the county pissed off with me, with or without you."
Phoebe saw an opening: "So…if this is something of a regular occurrence, wouldn't you like to take some time off from this town. I hear Hillwood might have some appeal."
Arnold shook his head, and Phoebe felt her heart sink. "Sorry," he explained, "but my clothes and car are still at home, which until further notice is still an active crime scene. We'll have to wait for the official all clear."
Phoebe's eyes beamed in hope: "Does this mean the damn Footballhead is back?"
"What choice do I have? As far as they're concerned, we're partners so we're sharing the same bullseye."
Before he knew it, he felt her arms around his waist and her head against his chest as she excitedly exclaimed in maybe a little too much delight: "Oh thank you thank you thank you!"
The excessive delight wasn't lost on her as she abruptly pulled away and recomposed herself before explaining: "What I meant was…I am grateful for your assistance against these men so far…"
Her thoughts drifted for a while before she continued, her gleeful tone replaced with a more calculating one: "Speaking of which, I've been thinking about how they were able to track me. I've theorized that they've somehow been using my phone." Phoebe had had foresight enough to stash her phone on her person following the firefight. She was now staring at it in frustration as she added: "The battery usage has just been too high to be normal. Down to seventy percent charge. For what? And what are you thinking so hard about?"
She noticed that Arnold was in deep thought, and he answered: "Come with me. Let's go find out."
Surprise number one: Phoebe did not expect a Sheriff's Department way out in the sticks to have a tech lab of any note, let alone one staffed by capable personnel. Yet here they were: she and Arnold, in a far-flung corner of the building, consorting with its sole occupant.
Said occupant was an unkempt, round-headed man wearing an oversized lab coat. He had an overbite so pronounced it could be considered grotesque. His nose was bulbous, his eyes narrow. His red hair was a curious combination of bowl cut and bald fade.
They had explained to him the anomalous battery usage of Phoebe's phone and whether or not they could deduce from said anomaly that said phone was being used as a tracking device.
"Well, Foutley, any comments?" asked Arnold.
"Arnold, my good man, cases like this is why I enjoy your company! Usually, the brass asks for the mundane stuff like call records and IM messages." He then turned to Phoebe: "This man will ask to wire what can't be wired, hack the unhackable, crack the uncrackable. What this man would have me do…is art itself!"
"I'm glad you enjoy your work, really and truly," Phoebe replied in a careful balance of urgency and courtesy, "but the matter in hand is of a life-or-death nature, possibly."
"Duly noted, oh fair Mademoiselle," he was quite charming, despite his outward appearance. "However, matters involving Arnold Shortman tend to be just so. If I may be so bold to state, your handling of a potentially deadly situation easily puts you in the first percentile of his…shall we say…previous associates."
With that, the man called Foutley held out his hand for Phoebe's phone, which she duly handed over and he accepted with overblown – but still sincere – gallantry. As he was setting up, Phoebe turned to Arnold and with her right forefinger made a circular motion next to her right temple. Apparently, she underestimated the extent of Foutley's peripheral vision, for the tech quipped: "Actually, I prefer to think of myself as 'neurologically atypical'."
"OK, let's see what secrets you are hiding," continued Foutley to no one in particular as he plugged the device into his workstation. Much to Phoebe's astonishment, he was able to bypass her password and access her files within a matter of seconds. Despite his obvious prowess, she doubted that…
"Found your problem!" Foutley exclaimed with glee. Then with disappointment to Arnold: "I thought you said this would be a challenge!"
Phoebe was impressed. Arnold was nonplussed.
Foutley continued regardless: "Spyware. Someone's been controlling your phone remotely. They had access to your files and your camera. They could use the mouthpiece as a mic and listen in on conversations. They could even track you using the GPS data or the cellular signal. The only downside is that it causes the device to devour its battery life. I stand corrected, Mister Shortman, this endeavor may yet be of interest. This nasty little program was hidden in…" he paused as he confirmed the source, "…a cute cat video. Specifically, the one in which the little kitty slips into the bathtub and scrambles like crazy to get out. I do so love that one…"
Phoebe became anemic. Arnold noticed her change in humor.
Foutley continued: "Sent as an attachment to an instant message." He then proceeded to read the message: "Hey babe. I'm sure this little kitty is only half as energetic as you were last night. Sweat Droplets Emoji. LOL. What a charmer."
Phoebe went crimson. Arnold noticed her change in humor.
Foutley continued: "Whoa! You should see the reply. What's that eggplant emoji mean anyway..?"
Arnold cut him off: "Foutley! Stay within the scope!"
"Right, right! Sent by someone designated 'Mark'."
Phoebe stood mouth agape.
"Wait a moment!" Foutley snapped. "This number looks familiar!" He then rummaged through a stack of seemingly random pages before finding what he sought. "Aha! Found it! Mobile phone belonging to the late Oleg Grishin, aka the late 'Detective Joseph Banks' of the Hillwood PD. I dumped the call records and guess what..?"
Phoebe didn't want to guess.
"…During the last twenty-four hours of his pitiful existence, Oleg Grishin, aka the late 'Detective Joseph Banks' of the Hillwood PD, exchanged lengthy words no less than three times with one Mark César Vasquez, who as it turns out is a detective from the self-same organization."
"THAT BASTARD!" Phoebe's howl of disbelief echoed throughout the building's corridors.
Vitaly Santalov was seething: how could one woman – one woman – cause so much trouble for the organization? He reminisced about how much simpler things were as a soldier way back in Kosovo or even more recently in Crimea: anyone causing problems would be shot, as simple as that. Didn't matter who found the body. Didn't even matter if anyone saw the act. Now in the USA however, he found himself suddenly having to be discreet in all of his dealings. The shift would have been too much for him had the financial benefits not been off the charts.
The new country supposedly had laws, but those laws had loopholes and blind spots and he had several defense lawyers on retainer. As far as the outside world was concerned, he was a property developer with uncanny business savvy, who was always the target of rumourmongering by a biased press. As far as Vitaly Santalov was concerned, he was untouchable.
He was staying in the penthouse of a luxury apartment block situated where once stood The Sunset Arms. The interior was a showcase of ostentatiousness, featuring every possible luxury amenity. And he was letting Detective Mark Vasquez profane the area with his presence and excuses.
"Mister Santalov, thank you so much for your time!"
"Get to the point, Vasquez!"
"Yes, Sir. I've obtained a lead the reporter's contact in the country and may have a line on her spook."
"And I'm supposed to read your mind?"
"Firstly, the men are all dead. All except for Yuri, and he's in custody."
Santalov felt his blood boil: "What? How?"
"Well, her contact was able to fight them off, according to the Sheriff's report."
"One man? Against twelve Crimean veterans? And who is this action hero?" Santalov's mood was a long way from improving.
"His name is Arnold Shortman, Sir. Ex-military, Army Rangers to be exact. But get this: he and the reporter, they were survivors of the Sunset Arms incident from seventeen years ago."
"Vasquez, pretend I have no fucking idea what you're talking about!"
"Well, Sir. It's the building that stood where this building now stands. It was wiped out completely. Only three survivors. Those two, plus a third. We couldn't get a name or location on him, only a handle: 'Brainy'. We believe he is the spook that sent her to the country."
"So where is he?"
"That's just it. We don't know. Best I could find was a picture of him from his elementary school's yearbook, which I ran through aging software to get an approximation of what he looks like now. Even so, we can't trace him. It's like he's a ghost."
"Vasquez," Santalov was unimpressed, "are you telling me our biggest threat is a bunch of elementary students with a grudge and their ghost friend? They should all be dead by now!"
"It doesn't end there," Vasquez steeled himself before delivering the news. "I heard through the reporter's phone of a flash drive the spook gave her. I asked your IT guys to check your network security…and well…you've been hacked. Someone – possibly the spook himself – was able to find a backdoor and make off with important information about your operations."
Santalov did not expect this: "And what type of information did this man steal?"
"Operations. Floorplans. Bank statements. A bit of everything, really. Looks like he was fishing."
"Shit! How did he get that right? Those IT guys were supposed to be the best! Were they at least able to trace who did it or whatever the fuck it is they do?"
"Well yes. Yes, they did. Only he was smarter than expected. We traced the breach to a remote server in Richards Bay, South Africa. He's been playing us for fools all this time."
"Vasquez, I want this man dead. I want those insects all dead!
Detective Mark Vasquez was about to explain in detail how they were still tracking Phoebe's movements through her phone and that for all her intelligence she hadn't yet figured out the ruse. He wanted to elucidate on how, despite the setback with the hit squad, Phoebe had gained no advantage and was still effectively on the back foot with or without her bodyguard. As soon as she made a move, they'd know about it. He would have mentioned all of these points, but the sounding of the door buzzer cut him off, as did Santalov's curt dismissal: "That's my business partner. Fuck off, Vasquez. Remember it's your ass on the line! Your wife's too if you fuck this one up!"
Fully motivated to succeed, Vasquez took his leave: "Understood, Sir."
"That two-faced, pus sucking, untrustworthy, underendowed, antediluvian...oooooh! That glib, self-serving, blank-firing, fast-finishing…asshole!" Phoebe had sustained her vituperation ever since learning the true nature and intent of her now erstwhile friend with benefits.
To the point where she almost didn't notice the town's surprise number two: shopping options that defied many expectations. Not that they were spoilt for choice, but she and Arnold were easily able to purchase a change of clothing for each of them: Arnold stuck with his trademark ensemble of jeans, white t-shirt, and loose check shirt; Phoebe went with khaki shorts and a blue checked shirt, plus she sprung for proper hiking boots.
Finally feeling fully clothed, the pair made their way to the local gun shop, which also doubled as the local electronics store. There Phoebe had purchased a brand new phone and the most powerful power bank for her old phone, from which she had removed the battery.
Now they were having brunch at a breakfast joint that was competing with a barbecue restaurant, a vegan(?) café, and a sushi bar. Phoebe had calmed down considerably by then, spurred by a sudden onset of hunger. Throughout Phoebe's ranting, Arnold had remained calm and silent, not wanting to place himself in her verbal crosshairs.
Phoebe was aware of his state and initiated the conversation: "You've been awfully quiet since the tech lab. Something on your mind?"
"Trying to wrap my head around something. You always came across as someone who'd do her research thoroughly before committing to anything. I never thought of you as the type who'd fall so in love that you'd let your guard down."
At that statement, Phoebe frowned: "It wasn't love. It was sex. He was charming, he said his wife was giving him hell at home. I don't know, I felt sorry for him."
Arnold almost choked on his pancakes, before exclaiming: "Whoa…married? He's married?"
Phoebe blushed in instant regret: "What, are you going to judge me now?"
"No," Arnold was still in his calm tone.
"Then what?" Phoebe had suddenly become agitated. "You're disappointed, aren't you? Disappointed that the innocent, virginal Phoebe Heyerdahl you once knew is now someone's other woman. A homewrecker!"
"No, I…"
"What? Thought I'd remain a mousy saint all my life? You want to express anger that you'll never be my first time?" Her agitation had now become full-bore defensiveness.
Arnold remained calm, allowing Phoebe to continue: "Because I'll have you know, Arnold Phillip Shortman, you wouldn't be my second or even my fourth!"
"Too much information, Phoebe," Arnold's deadpan was almost disarming. Almost.
Undeterred, Phoebe continued ranting about how at The Sunset Arms she sustained what the neurologist diagnosed as damage to her prefrontal cortex, which over seventeen years would manifest in the occasional lack of impulsivity control. As a result, she was prone to rushing headlong into decisions without proper consideration. Decisions which included the sexual history to which she had alluded: a buff high school senior, a nerdy fellow college student, a college lecturer and now a married detective who wanted her dead.
Arnold ruminated over what he'd heard. "Very impressive. But I reckon I have you beat by one," was his eventual reply.
"Pardon?" Phoebe asked incredulously.
"Well, do you think I'm the same innocent little boy you knew from PS 118? Think I haven't had my share of sexual encounters? Since we're comparing notes…"
Now it was Arnold's turn to reveal the women who formed part of his sordid history. Two in San Lorenzo by the time he was seventeen, including one from the Green-Eyed People; his drill sergeant's daughter – three years his senior – while on basic training; an Iraqi doctor with MSF he met while on furlough near Baghdad; finally, a particularly rough PMC in Eritrea – "I still have the scars from that one", he quipped.
He concluded: "Plus, I'm sure you've never had a…session, shall we say…interrupted by a bomb attack on the block where your hotel was situated."
"No way!" Phoebe was stumped.
"Let's just say the earth moved for all the wrong reasons."
Phoebe felt her agitation gradually give way to amusement as she took in that particular carnal misadventure. Her smile widened and she started giggling to herself. She realized too that she and Arnold were equally changed; there'd be no point in holding on to the innocent and wholesome ideals from way back when.
Two flawed individuals who suddenly found themselves needing one another.
"So, about that bomb attack…"
This time Arnold didn't look up from his plate: "Finish your food. We need to pay a visit."
"Finishing!" Phoebe quipped mischievously, noting tinges of red on his cheek. All the same, she couldn't resist: "And where exactly are those scars..?"
They met Arnie at the clinic, by which time Phoebe had stopped being surprised by the amenities of this supposed backwater town. Arnie was holding a folder as he acknowledged their presence and led them to their destination. When they got to the room, the guards on duty waved all three of them in.
"Wakey wakey, Yuri!" Arnie said loudly, startling the sleeping Yuri Denkova who immediately winced in pain from his cracked sternum.
"Careful, Yuri! Your ribcage is still healing from your encounter. Hard to believe a 6'4" mountain like you got his ass kicked by this," Arnie said as he motioned to Arnold and Phoebe, noting tacitly that neither of them could have been more than 5'10".
Yuri Denkova, strapped up as he was, began a torrent of Russian invective. Unfortunately for him, one other person in the room understood what he was saying. "Really, Yuri, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" asked Phoebe, but neither Arnold nor Arnie understood her for she was speaking Russian as well.
Defeated, Yuri Denkova conceded in English: "What do you want?"
Arnie responded: "Just to point out that you're in serious trouble, Yuri. Attempted murder, impersonating a police officer, home invasion, possession of an illegally modified firearm. Too bad none of your friends are around to help you out."
"What friends? I was out for a hike in the area and I just happened to hear the gunfire, so I thought I might help the homeowner who was under attack."
To which Arnie countered: "Dressed in a two thousand dollar suit, designer shoes and also a Kevlar vest? Not exactly hiking gear now, is it?"
"It's the truth, Sheriff."
"Then let's talk about the weapon found in your possession. Heckler & Koch HK416, full auto conversion, sound suppressor, flash suppressor, laser dot sight. Very impressive. Very, very illegal."
"Hey, can't be too careful in the woods."
"So you admit that the weapon belongs to you? Good! Saves me having to ask how your fingerprints got on it."
Denkova wanted to explain away that piece of evidence, but Phoebe cut him off. "Sheriff," she said to Arnie with feigned disapproval, "is it not clear that this man is a hero? He claims to have had second thoughts during the home invasion, before turning against his friends. Truly a man of newfound virtue!"
Arnold caught on and added: "It certainly explains why he was firing at me by accident, not being able to tell who was attacking and who was defending, I must say, it takes balls of steel to turn against Vitaly Santalov."
Then it was Arnie's turn: "Well, then, Mister Denkova, it seems your story has been corroborated and that you were willing to defy one Vitaly Santalov in the name of what is right. I'll be sure to mention this in the report."
To which Yuri Denkova went absolutely pallid. He wanted to protest, but Phoebe had gotten the Sheriff's attention: "Sheriff, what about the ballistics report?"
"Oh yes!" Arnie pretended to have forgotten as he rifled through the folder. "Sorry Yuri, but you know that weapon with your fingerprints. The darndest thing, but our ballistics guys matched the casings from the weapon found in your possession to the killing of one Detective Joseph Banks of the Hillwood Police Department. Now I'm sure you must have an explanation for that too, but don't worry. You can straighten it all out with the Hillwood PD."
Again, Denkova attempted to protest. Again, he was cut off. "Clear case of wrong time, wrong place," Phoebe commented with barely concealed vindictiveness.
"Wrong weapon, too," Arnold added, equally relishing in the schadenfreude.
"Mister Denkova," Arnie regained his authority, "I've had to add that rather unfortunate detail to the report as well and also inform the Hillwood PD. It appears that they want a word with you. They're coming over to pick you up as we speak. I wish you all the best."
Denkova knew instantly that the trio was setting him up against his fellow criminals and began another stream of Russian expletives. Arnie, with melodramatic concern, loudly called out: "Doctor! We got a patient in terrible pain here! Can you do something about it?"
On cue, a doctor rushed into the room, syringe at the ready, and administered a sedative to the Russian. Phoebe saw him drifting to sleep, and quickly seized the opportunity to slide over to him and whisper into his ear, in fluent Russian: "You know you'll be dead within twenty-four hours. Sleep tight, motherfucker!"
They left the sleeping giant be, passing the two deputies guarding the room on their way out. The older, wiser specimen waited for them to be out of earshot before turning to her younger subordinate: "See, Rookie? That's why we love Sheriff Arnie. Every problem our county has, he makes it some other county's headache."
Detective Mark Vasquez did not like what he was seeing on the screen. In his favorite coffee shop, N-Dex was showing on his tablet an updated report of the failed home invasion of Phoebe and her hero. New developments. Like how Yuri Denkova was no longer being considered a suspect; apparently he recovered sufficiently to make a statement claiming that he was a passer-by on the attempted crime and decided to intervene in the matter. His intervention included firing on the police impersonators. The local Sheriff's Department bought his story; apparently, their CSU couldn't find any evidence to the contrary. More disturbingly was the weapon found in his possession ("Please, no!") which the local ballistics team was able to link to the shooting of Detective Joseph Banks of the Hillwood Police Department ("Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"). Denkova also confirmed in his statement that he was the owner of said weapon, which made him a person of interest in the eyes of the Hillwood Police Department who at this moment were arranging his extradition.
Not good, not good at all! The report now spoke of a rogue cop killer – a self-confessed former associate of Vitaly Santalov at that – turning against his employer's organization. Worst case: he blabs about the details surrounding Joe's death. Absolute worst case: he turns evidence against Santalov's organization. Either way, he had to die.
He was about to call Santalov to inform him of the new development when his phone rang. Caller unknown.
"Detective Vasquez." A statement, not a question: the voice knew it was Mark César Vasquez on the other side.
"Who is this?"
"Who I am is of no immediate importance. What I have to offer you…well, I'd suggest you stay on the line."
"OK, I'll bite…"
"Detective Vasquez, I understand that you find yourself in something of a tight spot your current employer."
"Well yes. Yes, I do. I mean, the Union is still trying to negotiate better overtime regs for us…"
"Do not be facetious, Detective," the voice turned an authoritative shade of intimidating. "I have it on proper grounds one Vitaly Santalov has started considering you a loose end and wishes to terminate your employment with him."
Whoa! How did the caller know of his involvement with Santalov? This had to be IAB on another of their fishing expeditions. He was about to deny his involvement when the voice resumed: "I assure you, Detective, I do not represent any law enforcement agency in any capacity."
"Look, if you are whom you claim to be…"
"I am, Detective, and if you wish to benefit from my offer then I'd suggest no further questions."
Vasquez offered no further resistance with his silence.
"Excellent. You see, Detective, Vitaly Santalov forms part of my organization, and his recent recklessness has made him a liability and also suggested that his usefulness has come to an end. We will be holding a disciplinary hearing against him later this evening and I would very much want to call on you as my star witness."
"If I refuse..? Speaking hypothetically of course," Vasquez did not want to sound too eager.
"Let's just say, Detective, that a loose end in Vitaly Santalov's organization would also be considered a loose end in mine. So too would be his beautiful, if somewhat older wife. Hypothetically speaking, of course."
Resigned to his fate, Vasquez answered: "In that case, I'm in."
"Excellent, Detective! Splendid! You'll be texted the time and venue shortly. I look forward to dealing with my newly-acquired asset."
Author's Note: One of my bigger challenges here was trying to think of appropriate words that a profoundly angry Phoebe would use. Base words alone would not have sufficed, so I had to think of words with a more intellectual edge to add to the mix.
Author's Note #2: I deliberately set up Phoebe's relationship with Mark Vasquez not for the purpose of driving a wedge between her and Arnold , but to highlight their character traits: (1) Phoebe is strong-willed and in charge of her own sexuality and (2) Arnold is not the type to judge others on such simplistic a basis.
Author's Note #3: How about that lab tech? I reckoned he would grow up to work in such a field, given his proclivities in As Told by Ginger.
Author's Note #4: On my Spotify playlist while writing this chapter: "It's Probably Me" - Sting; "Private Investigations" - Dire Straits; "Am I The Same Girl" - Dusty Springfield; "Come Undone" - Duran Duran