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: Vasquez zeroes in on Arnold. Phoebe and Arnold strategize for the path forward. Brainy sifts through intel and then receives medical treatment from someone who may consider him more than a patient.
And with that, the show goes on.
11. My Enemy's Enemy
The single-storeyed house was located in a middle-class suburb of Hillwood with aspirations of affluence. The plot was sizeable, the house relatively well-equipped and well-furnished. Among the amenities was a garage, an unused one at that since Phoebe made use of ridesharing services as her main form of transportation. It became the home of Arnold's Golf, hidden from would-be prying eyes on the sidewalk. Arnold and Phoebe had wasted little time offloading their luggage from the vehicle and settling in.
It was now about four o'clock. Arnold was in the lounge, sprawled across the couch, happy to be in such a position after a seven-hour drive. The lounge contained the couch as well as a large coffee table on which rested an assortment of legal briefs, sundry reports and a selection of crime scene photos. The latter immediately grabbed his attention. Arnold picked them up a discovered them to be crime scene photos highlighting the devastation of the Sunset Arms explosion in cold, unfeeling detail.
Seeing the photos…being reminded of his helplessness in the situation…remembering how he heard his loved ones slip away…
He felt an onset of nausea. He felt his chest tightening, his airways constricting. His breathing, reduced to loud, ragged gasps. His vision suddenly streaked by welling tears.
A voice entering the room. "Arnold? Arnold! Oh my god, are you OK?" Phoebe's voice. Phoebe's voice, approaching at an urgent pace. "Arnold! Arnold!"
His eyes opening, a blurry Phoebe in front of him. Her hands on his shoulders, her voice pleading for his acknowledgment. His acknowledgment? Wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his head against her chest. "It's OK, Arnold, it's OK." Her soothing voice as she held his head tighter against her chest.
His tears, ebbing. His breathing, normalizing. Nausea, subsiding.
A few seconds. A few minutes? Hours? Resting against Phoebe. Pressing against her. Her presence, her touch, calming him.
Until…
He pulled his head away from her chest and meekly apologized: "Sorry, Phoebe. Sorry for going off like that. I saw the photos on the coffee table…I…I was back at The Sunset Arms…I remembered how helpless I felt…It just…It just all came back and…and I don't know…I was suddenly overwhelmed."
"Shh, Arnold, hush now," Phoebe cradled his head back against her chest, maternally stroking his hair, her voice a soothing presence. "It was my carelessness in leaving the photographs out in the open. I should have remembered that you lost your loved ones while I," she hesitated for a bit, "…did not. Sorry about that."
"I thought I had it under control, Phoebe. I truly thought I did. But every so often…the memories creep up and…this happens."
"Just let it out, Arnold. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all" reassured Phoebe. At that moment, she recalled Hilda's word's from the interview room.
"…and take good care of him. He'll be needing you as much, if not more than you'll be needing him."
It made sense: Arnold was still searching for closure following the tragedies and needed support and understanding from someone who could empathize with him. Circumstances had made Phoebe that someone. Did she mind? On reflection, not one bit.
She released Arnold back onto the couch. "Just sit down and take a moment. I'll make us some green tea. It ought to help calm you down."
Off she went, leaving Arnold taking deep, slow breaths as he tried to maintain his reclaimed calm. As much as he was struggling with the memories, he had to have another look at the photos.
He grabbed them in another attempt. So far, so good: no sudden flashbacks. One by one he scanned, scoured and analyzed. The pictures depicted the remains of the Sunset Arms basement with cones and markers highlighting the bits considered of special interest to the investigators. Everything on the picture that was marked supported the official story of the gas main rupturing and ultimately causing the devastation.
Two explosions. Only, he wasn't sure of that.
"Phoebe?" he called out.
From the kitchen: "Yes?"
"Are you still looking into how the explosion was caused?"
"Yes, I am! I just don't agree with the final report. They said two explosions, I know I heard three! Hence those photographs."
"Phoebe, what if I told you I believe you? What if I told you I also heard three?"
Phoebe peered into the lounge; her bespectacled eyes lit up with curiosity. "I'd breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I'm not yet totally crazy."
"I've had a look at those pictures," He then saw her curiosity change to worry, no doubt over him having another spell. "Don't worry, I'm fine!" he reassured to her slight relief. "What if I told you I know what caused the first explosion?"
Before Arnold had time to register any movement by her, Phoebe was sitting next to him on the couch. "I'd say that the tea can wait a while longer."
How did it come to this? Twenty minutes prior, Brainy had revealed his name to Sheena. Now, they were seated on a bench in Tina Park, eating ice cream. Actually, Brainy was the one eating ice cream; Sheena was enjoying a vegan-friendly sorbet.
Knowing Brainy's name was not enough for Sheena, so she had invited him to join her in the park. She reasoned that since she had already sacrificed a part of her day off for him, she might as well go all in.
Conversation comprised mostly shoptalk. Brainy detailed the ins and outs of spotting and shaking off tails, as well as where all the surveillance camera blind spots in Hillwood were. Sheena, in turn, related the gory details of stabilizing victims struck by fast-moving vehicles, of how her first night on the job included seeing a gunshot victim's brains splattered across half of his kitchen floor, and of helping a pregnant woman give birth after her Kia Picanto came off second best against an eighteen-wheeler.
Brainy's responses surprised her, pleasantly so. Over the years, she had played the dating game with little to no success. The pattern was always the same. They'd hook up via Tinder and arrange the first date. Which often was also the last. The ones that didn't take issue with her veganism, were left too squeamish to finish their meal when she gave any gory details of her job. Brainy was different. Brainy took all of what she said in his stride with no ill effects.
"How do you do it, Brainy?" Even though she knew his name, she thought that 'Brainy' just sounded…cuter? "I've had dates bail on me for telling them not even a third of what I just told you. One guy even fainted at the table. Another one was so grossed out that he couldn't perform when we went over to his place."
"I think we've both seen the worst of what people can do to one another. We just got used to it, is all." To Sheena, Brainy's tone suggested that while he was the best in his field, deep down he wished that circumstances had not made him forge his current career path. But she chose not to pursue that conversation.
Instead: "So tell me this, Brainy. This business of yours, does it pay the bills?"
"Well, I happen to be on retainer with some clients. Law firms and private detectives mostly, all off the books. For the people I like and care about, it's pro bono."
"So does that mean…?" Sheena turned to look at Brainy. "Does that mean you like and care about me?" There were rays of hopefulness in her eyes.
"I haven't forgotten our friendship. Not ever," Brainy replied. "To me, you're a friend first, a paramedic second."
Only a friend? Well, she reckoned it was a starting point.
"A friend to whom I owe my very life and for whom I'd do anything," he continued. Silence descended over the bench as Sheena made sense of what she had just heard. "Anything?" she inquired.
"Anything," he answered.
"Like this?" she pressed her luck further as she shifted towards him and squeezed against his flank and rested her head against his shoulder. To her surprise, he responded by leaning his head towards hers. And so in silence they remained.
Each one at ease with the other's presence.
Their serenity was abruptly broken by Brainy's ringing phone. Sheena stared in its direction. Brainy stared in its direction. Sheena then looked at Brainy. Brainy then looked at Sheena.
"One more minute?" asked Sheena.
"One more minute," answered Brainy, letting the call go to voicemail.
"And you're sure of this?" asked Phoebe.
"Absolutely, one hundred percent! In Baghdad, we'd use it on wrecked cars left out in the open. Bonus points if there was still gas in the tank."
"I take it there wasn't much to do on your off days?"
"Yep! We had to make our own entertainment."
"So…thermite you say?" While she was skeptic, Phoebe was nevertheless willing to hear Arnold out.
"Thermate. It's thermite cut with sulfur and barium nitrate," Arnold explained.
"Ah, so that it burns with an actual flame and is easier to ignite?" Phoebe filled in the blanks. "Makes sense, since thermite is not particularly incendiary."
"Exactly!" concurred Arnold, expecting nothing less from the brilliant mind of Phoebe Heyerdahl. "So get this: they find the underground gas main, they place the thermate in a flowerpot above it, then ignite it remotely."
"Hmm," Phoebe interjected, her interest piqued, "your hypothesis seems promising."
"We'll have to go back to that day," he said as he noticed an onset of discomfort within her while feeling no differently himself. "You're standing at the doorway, I'm a short way down the road."
She was doing her best to mask her uneasiness and it reflected in her reluctant answer: "Ooo-K?"
"Don't worry, I'm just as tense trying to relive that moment," Arnold comforted her, "but can you describe the first explosion that you heard?"
"Describe?"
"Yeah. Was it like...a pop? A bang? A boom?" Arnold maintained his line of questioning.
"Let me think. It was a…it was…more…like a…a fizzing sound. Yes! It sounded very effervescent. As if someone had set off a very loud, very big sparkler."
"Anything else?" Arnold's interrogation continued.
"Uh…let me think. A fizzing…then…then? Something similar to…to? A fizz and a…whoosh. Like something erupting!"
"AHA! That's what I heard too! OK, only that last part. The fizz and the whoosh, 'like something erupting'." Arnold partially confirmed her memory. "Sound familiar?"
Phoebe thought for a brief moment before the realization washed over her: "Like thermite igniting? Like thermite igniting, then combusting!"
"Thermate," Arnold repeated his prior correction. "But full marks regardless."
Inside Arnold was whooping up a storm at having figured out the seventeen-year-old mystery. A skeptical Phoebe tempered his enthusiasm: "Arnold, while I am deeply impressed by the conclusion you have reached, I fail to understand how you derived said conclusion from the crime scene pictures."
But Arnold's inner glee would not be dampened; he was ready for this question, or any variation thereof. "Here," he said as he handed her the damning picture. It showed debris strewn over a large surface area, surrounding what an annotation pointed out to be ground zero of the gas blast. Phoebe took what was shown at face value: "So? That tells nothing."
"Look closer," urged Arnold. "Here. Here. And here." He pointed out particular bits of metal in and amongst the concrete.
"That's not scrapped metal, is it?" Phoebe opined, before taking a closer look. "No, I don't see any jagged edges, so it can't be from the gas main. What you're showing looks more globular...like it cooled down and hardened from a molten state. Elemental iron?"
"Keep going," encouraged Arnold as he showed her another picture. More of the same, but this time she spotted what she was seeking: shards of a white, crystalline substance.
"Aluminum oxide!" she declared. "That and elemental iron? By-products of the thermite…thermate reaction!" She didn't want another correction from Arnold.
"My guess is this. They use the thermate to burn through the top of the metal pipe and ignite the gas. But the concrete below stops it from burning all the way through."
Phoebe completed the conclusion: "So the molten iron and aluminum oxide solidify within the pipe and cause at least a partial blockage. Pressure builds up until, kaboom. World's biggest pipe bomb."
Arnold went on to explain how the thermate could have been lit most efficiently ("Silicone micro fuse would be my guess.") and detonated ("Via radio or Wi-Fi through the circuit board.").
Both Phoebe and Arnold should have been glad at their achievement, but instead, a heavy pall of gloom had now descended over the room, rendering them silent. They had solved what the authorities didn't, but the reality remained that they were seventeen years too late: their friends and loved ones were still dead.
"Arnold, stay here," Phoebe's voice broke the funereal stillness. "There's something I must show you."
She stood up and left for another room, from where Arnold heard the sound of boxes being moved and papers being shuffled. Eventually, she returned, brandishing a sheet of paper which she handed over to him.
Her simple instruction: "Read this."
He did, and his eyes widened with his progress. Phoebe had given him the preliminary forensic report of the Sunset Arms Explosion. The one positing that three explosions had occurred. The one repudiated once the tech who had written it was smeared in the media and subsequently driven to suicide. Large portions of the report were redacted, deemed either incorrect or inadmissible. Arnold in his explanation to Phoebe had filled in the redacted blanks.
"They knew," he said in a soft tone that did nothing to hide his disbelief. "They fucking knew!" Louder, his disbelief turned to anger, threatening to boil over.
"Yes, Arnold. They knew," Phoebe's voice offered scant consolation. "They knew but they covered it up. And the one person who spoke the truth was made to pay the ultimate price. I don't believe for one moment that his suicide was voluntary. See why I was so skeptical in the car? We're dealing with an individual who could interfere with a high-profile investigation, plus arrange for the only person who can disprove him, to be permanently silenced. All of which he accomplishes from his prison cell. Imagine his capabilities as a free man! Even if we go public with what we've just now discovered, it will simply end up being buried as well."
Arnold seemed to have regained some resolve and composure as he maintained: "No! We can do this! I just need to know who the number two criminal figure in Hillwood is. You know, the person who'll gain the most once Scheck is taken out of the picture."
Rather enigmatically, Phoebe suggested: "Arnold, aren't you hungry? I think it's time I bought you that terrible meal I promised you in the car." With that said, she stood up to leave the room. "Just give me some time to change into something more suited for our purpose. I'd suggest you attire yourself similarly"
"Attiring!" Arnold mimicked Phoebe's little idiosyncrasy, right down to his take on her high pitch, in a sudden burst of joviality which caught her by surprise before eliciting a titter from her.
"Fuck you, Arnold Shortman! That's my line!"
"Duly noted. Oh, and Phoebe? Can you make a copy of that flash drive? And put scans of the crime scene photos on it as well. The redacted report too."
"Dude, what the fuck, man!" The voice on the other side sounded vexed but mostly confused. "Is this the real Brainy. You know, the guy who picks up the phone on the first ring? Why'd you go to voicemail, man?"
"Busy," answered Brainy tersely. "You got something for me?"
"Yeah, man. Remember asking me about looking out for that red Golf GTI. You're in luck. We got a hit on one of our cameras. Two passengers. One guy with this really wacky dome, and a smokin' hottie driving. I'm talking ROWR!"
What gave Brainy the edge over all other informants – his access to Smith's department notwithstanding – was also his access to various high-level investigative resources. He was speaking to one such resource: a contact within the Hillwood PD Traffic Department. He too had obtained Arnold's details via his own network of sources: a colleague at the DMV and an acquaintance at an insurance brokerage firm.
He knew Arnold's details, so he too had a way of knowing when Arnold would arrive in Hillwood. He was cursing his luck as he processed the news. His 'one more minute' with Sheena became ten before he very reluctantly had to leave and promise to another…date, was it? No, not now! No distractions! There was still work to be done.
"Dude, you still there?" the voice inquired. "You OK? You sound…I don't know…not all there, man."
Brainy quickly settled his thoughts. "I'm here. You have something else to say?"
"Yeah, man. Check it. I got a detective also asking about this car. Same model, same plates, same fucking driver. Only he wants this like hush-hush baby. Won't even tell me the crime he's investigating. I'm like, 'what's the guy committed, man' and he's like, 'None of your fucking business'."
Brainy's interest was stirred: "Named Vasquez, by any chance?"
"Yeah, yeah! Big shot detective. Total douchebag. Treats us techs like shit."
"Think you can delay giving him the info by three hours?"
"I don't know, man. This guy's got a major woody for this car. Been calling like every hour. Don't think I can get you more than two, tops."
"It'll do," Brainy responded. It would have to.
"Hey, man. About my fee for this info."
"Later. I'm in a hurry now," said Brainy before hanging up. Two hours...tops. He'd have to haul ass to make happen what he wanted to happen. He needed to retrieve the items from the safety deposit box and then…
He just hoped the detective could be stalled for as long as possible.
Phoebe wasn't kidding: the food was terrible!
She and Arnold were dining at what purported to be a high-end Italian restaurant. So far the only thing high-end about it had been its prices. Otherwise, it was a matter of stale bread, wilted salads, overcooked pasta and sauces that could only have been made from a premix. Arnold was at least grateful that the medium-rare steak he ordered was served one notch below charcoal; he felt assured that any pathogens in the cow were long obliterated in the cooking process. Dessert fared no better with bland pannacotta and a semifreddo that had been frozen for a few months too long.
Truly, the one saving grace of this evening was Phoebe seated across from him. Or, to be more precise: a stunningly gorgeous Phoebe Heyerdahl dressed to kill in a form-fitting black evening dress. The dress's cut accentuated her body's sleek proportions, from her long, slender legs to her shapely, compact buttocks, all the way to her firm, perky breasts. The dress also sported a plunging V-cut behind which drew attention to her trim back in the same way the narrow straps highlighted the elegance of her shoulders and neck.
These thoughts had been first and foremost on his mind when Phoebe presented herself in her current ensemble an hour prior at the house. When she asked for his comments, what came from his mouth was a string of indecipherable garble.
She, in turn, had been impressed firstly by the suit he was wearing, secondly that he had had the foresight to pack a suit in the first place. His answer to her second point: "It's come in handy more often than you think."
Phoebe nevertheless complimented him on how his suit's "simple lines" and "not-too-relaxed cut" projected an air of "effortless, casual sophistication" which she found "wholly irresistible". If anything, she was more eloquent with her compliments than he had been with his.
Seated in the restaurant, Arnold found the sight of his companion a pleasing distraction from the meal. She did nothing to improve the food quality – nothing short of divine intervention would accomplish that – but she did make the experience that more palatable and for that, he was eternally grateful.
"You know, Arnold, you've been fixated on me throughout our courses," Phoebe pointed out. Then, as she gestured towards her dress: "This old dress? You've seen me wearing much less than this with no adverse effects on your speech patterns."
"Well, I've also seen my share of beautiful things that I never thought I'd live to see, and well, I've also been transfixed on them," Arnold rebutted.
"Oh my! And just when did you become such a smooth operator?" Phoebe was profoundly impressed by his comeback. "But I'm afraid you'll have to curtail the coquetry from this moment onward. Showtime approaches."
With that, she signaled the waiter for the check, which was dutifully delivered. And as she settled the bill, Phoebe set into motion their gambit. "May I state that our meal here was exemplary? We wish to meet with your manager and personally compliment him on this fine establishment."
The waiter eyed the couple warily as if his years of experience had already told him that this woman was either insane or a pathological liar. Still, he obliged and left the dining area. About three minutes later, Arnold and Phoebe were approached by a burly man in a navy blue pinstripe suit. The man must have stood 6"10", all of it solid muscle and short temper.
His gruff, unsophisticated voice confirmed Arnold's initial assessment. His vocabulary didn't. "Good evening. Are you the patrons who wish to converse with the manager?"
A stunned Arnold nodded. A stunned Phoebe nodded.
"Follow me, please."
He led them out of the dining area, up a flight of stairs into an antechamber hosting three armed guards. Once there, Arnold and Phoebe were roughly patted down, much to Phoebe's disapproval. Arnold was made to hand over his Glock and the couple had to surrender their phones. They were then ushered by the pinstriped giant through one of the other doors into an opulent office, the centerpiece of which was an expansive hardwood desk. Scattered throughout the office were three more armed bodyguards whose expressions challenged the couple to do or say something untoward.
Seated at the desk was the diminutive man whom Arnold and Phoebe had come to proffer: Big Gino.
According to what Phoebe had told Arnold, Big Gino was the number two crime boss in Hillwood. Allegedly, of course. The problem was that the gap between Number One and Number Two was a vast one; Big Gino's organization was less than ten percent the size of Santalov's before the latter's death.
As was the case with many long-time Hillwood residents, Gino's dilemma could also be traced to the Sunset Arms incident. At the time, Big Gino was being groomed by his father to take over the family business. However, almost immediately following the devastation, the neighborhood started being aggressively bought up cheaply and developed. Each gentrified block was a loss in power and influence for Gino's father, who eventually found himself at war with Vitaly Santalov. The final act of that war was a car bombing that rendered Gino an orphan without any of his father's key lieutenants.
Phoebe had furthermore detailed how Gino had been kept hidden from Santalov by a priest who was also a family friend. He grew up, effectively off the grid. His education was completed under various pseudonyms and at various institutions across the country, culminating in him earning a college degree in Business Management. Hillwood would forever remain in his blood, so he returned after college to build an organization for himself that would make his father proud. He started from the bottom with a motley band of street-level thugs. Eventually, he had a small local empire comprising head shops, junkyards, underground casinos, bookmaking joints, and restaurants.
The key point Arnold had to remember, however, was that Big Gino was eager to capitalize on the void left behind by Santalov's demise since he wrongly believed that Santalov's organization was dead too.
"Arnold!" Big Gino initiated the conversation. "Arnold fucking Shortman, as I live and breathe! What brings the boy scout back to Hillwood? And wow, is that the genius Asian chick from P.S. 118? Look how hot she's become!"
"Hello, Gino," Arnold acknowledged. Phoebe nodded, coldly.
"So…you two wanna shoot the breeze? Talk about old times?"
"How about the way forward for you?" Phoebe chimed in.
"A business proposition then," remarked Gino, his business acumen stimulated. "And what benefits do you propose bringing my way, Miss High-Profile Crime Reporter?" Phoebe flinched briefly as he revealed his knowledge of her profession. "You thought my men weren't on to you the moment you entered the restaurant? They told me not to see you. But you know what? You bought the boy scout with you, and I'm kinda sentimental over old times. Now say your say and I might hear you out," he concluded to Phoebe's relief.
Arnold then seized his opportunity. "We hear you were making some plans now that Vitaly Santalov is dead. You know, like buy out his businesses and move back in on his territories."
Gino feigned ignorance. "Santalov? Never heard of him."
"Cut the bullshit, Gino!" snapped Arnold. Gino's bodyguards went for their holsters, only for him to motion for them to stop.
"Easy, boys," Gino commanded. "It's nice to sometimes have someone who isn't an ass-kisser like you guys." Then to Arnold: "Yes, Boy Scout, Santalov's officially a stiff, so I'm calling early dibs on his properties."
Phoebe: "We wouldn't advise it. At least not yet."
Arnold stepped in again, not wanting to give Gino a chance to speak. "Your problems aren't over yet. Santalov's organization isn't dead. Just under new management."
Phoebe again: "New management as in 'Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck'."
Big Gino's interest was piqued to the point of discomposure. "Scheck? That greasy Wall Street fuck who wanted to destroy the neighborhood? I thought he was now a legit businessman!"
Arnold and Phoebe spent the next ten minutes telling of Scheck's clandestine involvement, from the bombing to bankrolling Santalov to ultimately gaining control of Santalov's organization.
When they were done, Big Gino ruminated on their words. "So, if I get this right, Scheck has now become the boss of bosses? Plus, he's bent on getting revenge on the only remaining person to ever kick his ass?"
"That's the gist of it," Phoebe confirmed.
"I still don't see why I should get involved. If he's as dangerous as you say, why should I go down for your fight?" Understandably, Gino was playing his cards cautiously.
"Because," countered Arnold as he reached very slowly and very cautiously into his jacket's inner pocket and produced a flash drive, "I have lists here of all the people that Scheck has in his pocket. Politicians and high-ranking city officials that make your guys look like chicken shit. Also, evidence that the Sunset Arms wasn't an accident. Play your cards right, and they could be in your pocket for absolutely nothing."
Gino was again in deep thought, until: "And how do I know that if I lean on them, they won't tell me to go fuck myself?"
The next voice was from the 6'10" man-mountain who had escorted Arnold and Phoebe to Big Gino: "Well, Sir, the bombing can be considered an act of domestic terrorism, so Mister Scheck had in effect been funding a terrorist organization. Under the Patriot Act, he could get a maximum penalty of life imprisonment as well as the forfeiture of all his properties purchased since then which would under the circumstances be considered the proceeds of crime. If we can perhaps convince the people he owns that they've colluded in an act of terrorism, we can undermine his entire operation to obtain his assets at a heavy discount. And if this gentleman," he pointed to Arnold, "were to take Scheck permanently out of the picture, we could use our inside knowledge to fast-track our acquisitions."
Arnold and Phoebe were stunned at what the beast had just said. Gino wasn't. Instead, he chided the man: "Shit, Myron, don't you ever shut up?" He then turned to the duo: "Sorry, but that's what happens when you pick a bodyguard that's also a law graduate."
Arnold and Phoebe chose to mask their incredulity at that revelation.
Big Gino broke the silence. "We'll get to work and if it pans out, you've got our support. If not…" He left that last sentence unfinished as he motioned to Myron. "But you know what? You showed me some good faith; I'll show you some of my own."
With that, he scrawled a note on a piece of paper and gave it to Myron, who brought it over to Arnold. It was a name and an address.
"You say Scheck wants you dead. Sounds like you need some protection. Go to that man any time, day and night. Tell him Big Gino sent you; he'll help you out." Then to Myron: "Myron, escort our guests out and comp them for their meal."
At the door, Arnold turned back to Gino: "You know, Gino? You were a piece of shit back then and you're still a piece of shit now. But if there's going to be a crime boss for Hillwood, I'd rather it was you."
And out he walked.
Phoebe looked back at Gino and simply said: "Same."
Then she followed Arnold on the way out.
Detective Mark Vasquez was agitated.
His contact at Traffic only came through at seven o'clock in the evening. Match on a red 2007 VW Golf GTI, correct license plate number, two occupants. Shit, so Shortman was in Hillwood. And he was with Phoebe! Which meant she'd want them to go straight to work with whatever plan they'd have concocted.
Which meant he had to get to work; the longer he delayed, the more likely that Shortman could become wise to Scheck's plans. Brainy would also be trying to get hold of Shortman. If he hadn't succeeded already.
Somehow he'd have to think of a way to circumvent Phoebe's influence on Arnold, and also Brainy's input to him. He'd have to attack the heart of Arnold Shortman instead of the mind.
Detective Mark Vasquez found himself as the de facto coordinator of the Arnold Shortman task force appointed by Scheck. Only fair, given that the detective was a key factor in their appointment. As such, he was given direct access to their team leader: some ex-Army colonel named Rawlins.
So he called the man, informing him that Shortman had arrived in Hillwood. Rawlins' answer amounted to so fucking what?
"So I want to fucking help you guys even the odds against Shortman."
"How? We already have state-of-the-art weaponry. We got the cemetery under lockdown. He sets foot in it and he's dead."
"And how do you know he's going to visit the cemetery as soon as he gets here?" Detective Mark Vasquez heard the smugness drain from Rawlins from the other side. "You don't, do you? I can deliver him to the kill zone, fucking gift-wrapped. Here's what you need to do."
And he explained, much to Charles Rawlins' consternation: "And just where am I supposed to get one of those at this time."
"I don't care! Just do it. And remember to send me the pictures once you're done."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your lot for this chapter. Thank you so much for your continued patronage and do let me know please if I've maintained the rigorous standards to which I hold myself.
Author's Note: I got the idea for thermite from reading about how the substance is used to weld together railway joints. I'm fully aware that I might have not quite gotten it right, in which case I invoke the principle of Cartoon Chemistry and also the Spirit of MacGyver (The Richard Dean Anderson version, thank you very much).
Author's Note #2: I nevertheless feel compelled to mention that I in no way endorse or approve the use of thermite in anything other than its intended applications. Stay safe, kids.
Auditor's Note #3: I was struggling to find a reference on which I could base my description of Phoebe's evening dress when one fell into my lap. It was from the 05/26 edition of Nick and Zuzu, a satirical comic by Nick Galifianakis (recommended if you like your humor tinder dry). Said edition features a woman in a black evening dress that made me think: "That's how I'd imagine Phoebe!". Arnold in his suit was simpler; I simply remembered him in his suit from 'April Fool's Day'.
Auditor's Note #4: The songs on Spotify that most influenced my writing this chapter:
I'll Remember - Madonna
Wanted Dead Or Alive - Bon Jovi
Broken Silence - Foxy Brown
Up on the Hill - Fun Lovin' Criminals
Take a Picture - Filter
If you'll excuse me now, I'm raring to start with Chapter 12. See you later!