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.
ICMY: Arnold and Phoebe pinpoint the third explosion before staking the only card they have to play against Scheck. Brainy realizes he's now in a race against Vasquez to get to Arnold and Phoebe first.
Onward now to the next chapter!
12. It's That Pivotal Moment
"Arnold, you were brilliant! We have a foot in the door! Hopefully, Big Gino will be able to turn at least some of those officials away from Scheck and complicate his operations!"
Phoebe was unusually ebullient and even in high heels, she had an optimistic bounce in her step as the pair made their way back to the house. Why wouldn't she? They had just confronted Big Gino – while unarmed and facing several armed bodyguards – and now their fight against Scheck had gained some much-needed traction.
Arnold was more subdued over this, their most recent achievement. "It's a good start," he modestly said, "but there's still work to be done."
Phoebe's vivacity quickly deflated into a sulk. "Arnold, can't you just for this one moment show some enthusiasm for this small milestone?"
Arnold looked at her and mustered a deadpan "Yay".
"Arnold, you confuse me sometimes! We just now walked – unarmed! – into a room of armed criminal figures who prior to our meeting saw no reason to let us leave alive. Look at me now! Brimming with nervous energy, elated to still be alive! And you're acting like it's just another day in the office!"
"You don't know the half of it," Arnold answered, still in monotone deadpan. "One day I'll tell you some of my stories from Iraq and Eritrea. Hell, some of my bounty hunting meetings make what we went through look like Sunday School."
But Phoebe was resolute. "Well, it might be true, Arnold. But remember that one of us has not had the luxury of stepping into life-or-death situations as a matter of routine! I'm still new to your world and…HEY!"
She had to stifle a shriek as she felt Arnold veer sharply into an alley, pulling her along with him, bringing her tightly against his body before backing her quickly yet gently against one of the walls. "Arnold!" a confused Phoebe castigated. "What's possessed you all of a sudden?"
Arnold motioned urgently but gently to her for her silence. He then moved his head closer to her and whispered: "Listen. I'm going to kiss you now. Can't explain now; please go along."
"Arno- "
She couldn't even get the first word out because by then his lips were on hers. Her initial moans of confusion quickly became ones of sensual ecstasy. Her ecstasy was aided by her aforementioned nervous energy, which had also heightened her senses. His lips felt more tender; his taste so much sweeter. Her own goosebumps felt noticeably rougher; in fact, her whole body from head to toe was a much better conductor of the electricity that was freely coursing throughout her frame. His scent, his warm breath against her, pricklier: it was too much as she gave in and returned his kiss with equal vigor. She found herself fumbling around for his head, his neck, his shoulders: anywhere her hands could find solid purchase.
She almost – almost – didn't notice that he was maneuvering them further and further down the alley. And when they rounded a corner, out of view from the sidewalk, her sensory stimulation was at odds with the klaxons screaming in her head, warning her of imminent danger and improper advances. She broke their kiss long enough to stare at him through her now fogged up glass lenses for a most indignant query: "No, wait, Arnold! What's the meaning of this?" She kept her voice low as she was still giving him the benefit of the doubt. One wrong answer, however, and she'd shriek to her lungs' full capacity to alert everyone within a hundred yards to her situation.
Arnold moved back closer to her and whispered exigently in her ear: "We're being followed. I need a distraction to get you to safety."
"Huh?" She was dumbstruck, but before she knew it, he was back to kissing her. Between his smacking lips and his delicate nibbles, he continued whispering. "Phoebe, please! I need whoever's following us to be fully distracted. Please, sell it!"
Phoebe at that point realized that even though she and Arnold had been reacquainted for a little over two days, she had come to trust him enough to know that if he said there was an imminent danger, then danger was indeed imminent. She gave in to the waves of exhilaration washing over her and resumed kissing him. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, swirling it around his. She then partially withdrew from his mouth to bite down on his lower lip. From there she moved on to his neck which she nipped once, twice, repeatedly.
"S-…S-…Selling!" she huffed between her labored breaths as she moved back to his mouth with lust aforethought. Before she was aware of it, her one knee was raised against his hip, her thigh pressed against his. She began a slow grinding motion. How? Her brain must have sent the command while completely bypassing her rational thought process. It was thigh against thigh, pelvis against pelvis. Up and down, up and down. Then suddenly it stopped. That's when he pulled away from her and in one fluid motion drew his Glock from within his jacket, then spun to face the alley's entrance from the sidewalk, at which he had the pistol trained.
"Whoever you are, I have you in my sights!" he issued with calm authority. "Step where I can see you!"
Phoebe should have been grateful that Arnold's suspicion of them being tailed was well-founded. She should have been grateful that his motivations in the alleyway were indeed wholly honorable. Instead, she was overcome by frustration as she watched him issue his commands. She barely realized that both her hands were raised to her shoulder height, nor that an indignant look of 'What the fuck, Arnold!' was in danger of being permanently etched on her face. Her frustration, she observed, had everything to do with the rudely interrupted heavy petting session, diversion be damned!
"Don't shoot, Arnold! I'm a friend. I'm on your side!" the voice pleaded.
"Like I've never heard that before! No sudden movements, hands where I can see them! Step into the light and show your face!" Arnold still had his weapon pointed at the stranger. Except, he would have been a stranger had Phoebe not instantly recognized his voice. She peered around the corner and instantly recognized the owner of the wheezing voice, or at least his shadowy outline. In his one hand, an object was distinguishable. A paper bag, maybe? Yes, definitely a paper bag.
"Brainy?" she asked in loud surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," he replied, keeping his hands in the air. Then to Arnold: "Hey Arnold."
If he intended to create a dramatic entrance by stepping into the light, the effect was instantly lost when Phoebe followed up with another question: "Brainy, what happened to your face?"
Olga Pataki-Vasquez.
No matter how many times she ran that name through her head, Olga would always be rendered giddy by its implications.
It meant she had found a husband.
It meant she had found a reason to live.
It meant she had found an elusive ray of light and hope after her life turned to shit seventeen years ago.
Seventeen years ago, Olga Pataki was arrested along with her father following the fracas with several police officials at her baby sister's memorial. She was charged for Obstruction of Justice and Resisting Arrest. Both charges were later dropped based on her mental distress at the time; cold comfort, really, given how her life would unravel shortly afterward.
Before her sister's death, Olga Pataki was staring down a most promising teaching career. Her very public arrest and mental meltdown earned her brief internet notoriety and even generated its share of memes, however, her career prospects in education evaporated overnight. She became toxic in the eyes of the nation's school districts and was plunged further into her mental instability. Her father's brutal trial, with her mother as the star witness, was the final push that sent her into a dark, dark unhappy place. At this point, she was committed to a mental institution where she received intense therapy, and through trial and error was eventually prescribed an effective course of medication comprising Xanax, Zoloft, and Paxil.
Though she was loath to admit it, Olga Pataki could not have survived her mental ordeal without the intervention of one person.
Miriam Pataki.
Mother…
Mommy…
Nevertheless, Olga Pataki hated Miriam.
She hated the fact the Miriam was the only family and support she had left. She hated the fact that she was the only family that Miriam had left. The Pataki clan had abandoned Miriam for her perceived betrayal of Robert. The same clan had written off Olga for her perceived weakness in not defending her father.
Olga Pataki hated the woman. Olga Pataki hated her for being able to put those ugly events behind her. Olga Pataki hated the unconditional love and support the woman showed to her during her mental recovery. Olga Pataki hated the woman's resilience in turning around the beeper emporium's fortunes. Olga Pataki hated that the woman could rise from the ashes while she couldn't.
Olga Pataki-Vasquez was presently seated at the grand piano in the living room of her home, lost in the intricacies of Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca. She was, after all, a classically trained concert-level pianist able to play any given piece through muscle memory alone.
The piano was a birthday gift from Mark, her husband, and anchor in life. They originally met seven years before. Following her release from the mental institution, Olga Pataki was still unable to obtain any teaching jobs; she did, however, obtain a job in a coffee shop slash bookstore. It wasn't much of a living, but her animosity towards Miriam dictated that she refuse any of that woman's offers of assistance. Besides, the job offered a chance for her to indulge in another of her great loves: reading. During her work, she encountered a patrolman who fast became a regular customer, always asking to be served by the 'exquisite blond beauty'. He was a lot of positive adjectives: handsome; charming; intelligent; astute; almost as well-read as she was.
Most importantly, he was interested in her.
Olga Pataki-Vasquez instinctively switched to the delicately intense notes of Claude Debussy's Clair de Lune as she recalled their courtship, how it developed over two years from a mutual trust to love, to their eventual marriage.
Mark was just so good to her. When he made detective, he used some of his clout to get her a better-paying and more fulfilling job as a district librarian. It was he who urged her to reach out to and reconnect with Miriam. Admittedly the mother/daughter relationship was still heavily strained – she doubted that it could be salvaged – but for his sake, she was willing to give it her best shot. The periodic visits to her baby sister's grave seemed as good a starting point as any to find common ground between the two.
Only…
Lately, he was becoming more…was it distant? Secretive? Elusive? He seemed no less devoted to her than on that day five years ago when they exchanged vows. He was always even-tempered, he had never raised his voice to her, much less struck her.
And yet…
She realized that she was now punishing the piano keys as she had now switched to Prokofiev's Piano Sonata No. 7, in particular, the chaotic, almost discordant notes and chords of the third movement that seemed to reflect her confusion over the most recent developments. For the past three months – and particularly since his recent commendation – Mark didn't seem to be getting the same satisfaction out of his work as had previously been the case. In fact, for the past three or so months, he'd been on more stakeouts and had been arranging more and more task forces and operations at the station.
Come to think of it, normally he'd freely – even boastfully – tell her of the outcomes of each of those operations. The last one, however – that double murder suspect in the boonies. He never told her how that one played out. Maybe it was just an oversight on his part. She'd ask him now, but he was back at the station, dealing with the apprehension of yet another suspect.
Olga Pataki-Vasquez wanted to believe in a simple explanation for all these niggling doubts. So she went back to playing, in the hope that Johann Pachelbel's Canon could soothe the unease and the confusion currently occupying her conscious mind.
There had to be an easy explanation.
Brainy was relieved when Arnold finally allowed him to lower his hands. He was even more relieved when he saw Arnold holster his weapon. They and Phoebe had moved further into the alley, further away from Hillwood's surveillance camera network.
"OK, Brainy, you found me. Now what?" Arnold hadn't forgotten that the events that had befallen him over the past two days – meeting Phoebe; the shootout; the road trip; Big Gino – could all be traced back to Brainy's revelation to Phoebe that Arnold was still alive and well.
Brainy, for his part, was aware that being anything less than 100% honest and forthright with the ex-soldier was not going to do either of them any favors.
"Now? You finish what you started!" Blunt, no excuses, no obfuscation.
"Excuse me?"
"Did I stutter?" Sure, he sounded tough now that Arnold wasn't pointing his gun at him. "Your story in Hillwood isn't over yet."
"You mean our battle against Scheck, right?" Phoebe inquired.
"Correction, it's your battle," Brainy stayed on Arnold. "Always has been. Phoebe and I, we've just been carrying the torch for you while you were away. We've always been your support."
At this point, Phoebe fully insinuated herself into the conversation: "Now wait a minute, Brainy! My career was my own choice! I chose to work on this investigation. Arnold had nothing to do with any of my decisions!"
"Are you sure about that?" Brainy turned to address Phoebe. "Would the three of us still be having this conversation if the incident never occurred? You, Phoebe. Would you still have wanted to be a journalist? Probably not. And Arnold," he turned back to the now wary blond man without waiting for a response from Phoebe, "would becoming one of Uncle Sam's finest killing machines have been your first career choice, had the blast never occurred? Be honest."
"So what if it wasn't? What's your point, Brainy?" Arnold fired back. "What would you have been if not for the incident? I mean, what difference is there between you now and that creepy guy you were back in school?"
"If you must know," Brainy wasn't backing down, "I always saw myself as an accountant or a DJ. What about you two? Phoebe, what would you be? Probably the world's greatest scientist, doing something that you actually want to do."
Phoebe's nod conceded that he was at least partway right. But she quickly recomposed herself with: "Are you seriously blaming Arnold for everything that's happened to us and Hillwood? None of what happened was ever his fault!"
"I said it was his fight. Never said it was his fault." Brainy corrected. Then back to Arnold in a more reassuring voice: "Never believed it was your fault. Ever. What happened seventeen years ago is all on Scheck and Santalov. No way you or any of us would have seen it coming."
"That's comforting!" rebuked Arnold. "At least you don't carry the load of rounding all the people you loved and cared about, the people who all meant a damn to you, into a giant fucking kill zone. All I wanted to do was say I'm sorry!"
"So…it's closure you've been chasing all this time, is it?" deduced Brainy.
"Yes," conceded Arnold.
"A chance to show that the whole thing wasn't your fault?"
A deep sigh of reluctance, then, "Y-yes."
"And one last chance to tell a certain someone that you truly loved her?"
Arnold paused at that statement, dumbfounded.
"After all," continued Brainy, "that last one's the very reason you were late to the party." Arnold's pupils instantly became pinpricks.
Hoping that he had earned sufficient trust from Arnold, Brainy then reached inside the paper bag he had brought to their meeting. He produced from it a most tattered-looking gift box. The box had seen better days and parts of it were also caked in specks of dried blood. Regardless, the sight of it had Arnold suddenly choking back what Brainy and Phoebe could only guess was years' worth of repressed emotion.
"It's perfectly understandable, of course," Brainy said. "You wanted it to be just right. The perfect gift for the perfect girl. Too bad it caused you to run late. And when you saved Phoebe," he motioned to Phoebe, whose disbelief had built up to equal Arnold's, "I don't know…flying shrapnel struck you, maybe ripped a hole in your pocket, caused this to fall out when you ran down the alley to get away from the dust cloud. That's where I found it a week later…I mean, the investigators only focussed on the building wreckage, and the whole block was like a ghost town anyway. I kept it safe all these years. I kept it in a safety deposit box ever since I could afford one. Never opened it even once."
He then held out the box for Arnold's acceptance.
Arnold's lips were trembling at the revelation. "It…it was meant to be a surprise. A thank-you." With barely composed hands he accepted the box. He paused as he slowly opened it, fearing for the state of its contents. The box itself may have been badly damaged, but what it contained was still in immaculate condition.
A gold-plated, heart-shaped locket.
"Of course I was happy to have my parents back. I was over the moon with joy. I couldn't spend enough time catching up with them. But I couldn't ignore Helga either." He choked up momentarily but proceeded. "All those chores I did. All those jobs I took…" Arnold sniffled as he lifted the locket out of the box and held it on display to Brainy and Phoebe. "Just to tell her I was sorry and grateful and that I loved her," he continued as he prized open the locket. It yielded a picture of Helga nestled in one half, and one of Arnold in the other.
Printed across both pictures was a message. "A new heart…for the awesome girl who won mine," Arnold read, his sniffling not abating. "So cheesy, isn't it? Like something an eleven-year-old might write."
"She's waiting for you, you know?" Brainy's voice shook Arnold out of his state of mourning. He then gave Arnold directions to Helga's grave. "Whatever you want to say to her, she'll listen. A few words of warning though…"
Phoebe, who had listened to the preceding exchange with rapt concentration, interjected before Brainy could list his warnings. "Brainy, if I may be so bold to enquire…but by any chance did you love Helga too?"
Brainy wavered for a moment, then replied: "As much as she loved Arnold."
Neither Phoebe nor Arnold were prepared for his confession. To be fair, Brainy too was surprised at his candidness in answering Phoebe's question, but now he had no choice but to go all-in. "But she chose Arnold and I respected her decision. One hundred percent."
It made sense now to Arnold and especially to Phoebe. Brainy's answer explained almost everything: his motivations and his reasons to go above and beyond for them.
Almost everything, as Arnold would point out: "One more question, Brainy. How the hell did you survive at ground zero?"
It was almost too much for them to digest.
For all these years, Brainy had been shining a torch for Helga, for Arnold and Phoebe, for Hillwood itself. Phoebe had realized in the alley that as committed as she was to justice, she was but a grain of sand in a vast desert compared to Brainy.
Brainy, as it turned out, didn't work exclusively for her; his services were for all who needed the help, whether or not there was any financial benefit in it for him. In the case of Phoebe and Arnold, the latest help was in the form of new, useful and disturbing intel.
There was Vasquez's link to the remaining Pataki's. "No! Olga?" quoth an astounded Phoebe, who theretofore knew her only as 'the wife'. No name attached, for the sake of indifference, distance, and denial.
There was Olga Pataki-Vasquez, her past and present vulnerabilities and her inadvertent role in this mess and Brainy's wish to get her out as cleanly as possible.
There was Vasquez's role in Scheck's organization and his highly probable knowledge of Arnold's presence in Hillwood.
However, there was no explanation for Brainy's survival seventeen years ago. "Focus on the present!" he urged them, refusing to address the matter any further.
The pair were now approaching the front door of Phoebe's residence, having parted ways with Brainy. Phoebe's gait from the alley was much more subdued than it was from the restaurant. Arnold's too. In fact, their overall mood had become more pensive.
So much more to contemplate.
For Arnold, it was the exact implications of Hillwood PD's finest detective having access to the resources of Scheck, over and above what could reasonably be assumed to be the former's already formidable information network.
Phoebe's contemplation was more personal in nature. Up until half an hour ago, she was aware only that she had cheated with someone: Mark. Half an hour ago she found out who it was they were cheating on.
Olga.
Olga Pataki-Vasquez, née Pataki, sister to the greatest friend Phoebe had ever had. Ever.
The length of the statistical probabilities at work here did little to ease her conscience; in point of fact, she felt downright qualmy at the thought of having – unwittingly, she kept reminding herself as if it would minimize the impact – been made to take advantage of an already emotionally vulnerable woman.
Phoebe needed an outlet for her frustrations. She needed to forget, no matter how temporarily, about that indiscretion. This was why as soon as she unlocked the front door, she stormed to the alarm keypad to enter the security code, leaving Arnold to lock the door. As he did so, she kicked off her heels and removed her jewelry. She then strode purposefully back to Arnold, whom she grabbed by his tie and whispered to him with the same calm urgency he'd displayed in the alley: "Listen, Arnold. I'm going to kiss you now. Can't explain now; please go along."
She made good on her word by bringing her lips to his. Almost instantaneously, she felt her tongue slip into his mouth with his immediate reciprocation. Their tongues wrestled with each other in a most glorious game as they became addicted to each other's taste. She felt Arnold's arms envelop her body. Their kissing intensified as the heat of the moment rose, steadily and inexorably.
When…
"Wait, Phoebe, wait!" Arnold pulled away, his excited tone at odds with his words and action. Phoebe was confused. Not for long; he only needed time and space to remove his jacket, tie, and holster, all of which he placed on the lounge's coffee table. No sooner was that accomplished when Phoebe was back all over him, kissing him and running her hands along his head, hair and neck, unable to get enough of him.
Arnold backed Phoebe towards the couch, where she dropped with a surprised high-pitched whoop to a seated position, with him now kneeling in front of her with his head lowered onto her lap. Slowly he lifted her right leg by the ankle and proceeded to plant soft delicate kisses, working his way higher.
Ankle.
"Higher."
Calf, shin. Kisses for the scar tissue, the symbol of her strength, and reminder of her resolve.
"Mm. More."
Inner thigh. Higher. Higher.
"Don't stop! Please, Arnold, don't stop!"
He placed his hands on either side at the lap of her dress. Slowly he pushed up, watching as the fabric bunched up with the dress riding up past her hips to reveal a pair of silken navy blue panties. He then moved his hands down, catching on to the panties along the way and just as slowly guiding them down her legs and away from her body. Briefly, he marveled at what was revealed. She was pink and fleshy, surrounded by black and fuzzy: all in all, warm and inviting.
He went to work.
He stroked, he nuzzled. He tantalized, he stimulated. He kissed, he lapped. Phoebe's pitch rose in fitful gasps at his efforts, building up to a crackling crescendo that she did her best to muffle for fear of disturbing any neighbors. Before long, she was moist and glistening, ready to receive him.
"Hurry up, Arnold!"
How was it possible for someone to sound so strict and insistent yet so weakly, all at the same time? No time! He stood up and frantically – desperately – kicked off his shoes before undoing and stripping off his pants and boxers as quickly as he could. Free at last!
Phoebe motioned for him to sit beside her, whereupon she swung herself in a wide 180 motion to straddle him on his lap, her arms wrapped around him. A few gentle grinds followed, her pelvis against his. Her seam against his shaft. Seam against shaft. Pressing, grinding, until…
"Oh yes!" She exclaimed as he slipped inside her.
Phoebe paused for her mind and nervous system to process the dizzying sensation of having Arnold inside her again. Already she could feel her breathing quickening. Arnold, meanwhile, focused on her breasts. He gave the occasional pelvic thrust – a warm-up…no, a prelude, to so much more – while his hands cupped, caressed and kneaded her breasts, all to her appreciative and encouraging moans. He moved on to her dress's shoulder straps, easing them down her shoulders. Phoebe helped him out by slipping her arms through the loops, and there they were! Phoebe's breasts, exposed to Arnold's loving admiration. Still maintaining a slow constant pelvic thrusting rhythm, Arnold gave some attention to the newly liberated mammaries: kisses and suckling on the nipples and areolae, again to Phoebe's ever-heightening bliss.
"So…good...Arnold!"
At this point, Arnold's thrusts had become harder and faster. For Phoebe, it was the start of a carnal aria performed in quickening breaths and intermittent gasps of rapture. Her breathing, her gasps…Arnold was addicted to them; he didn't want to stop. Eventually, however, the urgency was there. The urgency for release, at odds with him wanting to continue hearing Phoebe's sonorous moans and gasps. He forced himself to keep going. He didn't mind at all: Phoebe's voice approaching climax was just too addictive.
And then…
He felt how she arched her back violently, holding the position with stiffened, spasming muscles and another muted shriek that badly wanted to proclaim her paroxysmal excitement to all the world. Arnold, satisfied at his accomplishment, followed suit with his long-delayed discharge.
Straight afterward, their lips found each other for a hungry, passionate, lingering kiss. Their tongues were back to wrestling one another. Finally, they broke away long enough for Arnold to ask as he recalled a previous conversation: "So Phoebe, was this sex or was this love?"
Phoebe smiled a smile for him that was both earnest and coquettish. She simply said: "Yes."
Detective Mark Vasquez felt heartened.
Rawlins had come through for him and even provided the requested photographic evidence. The detective liked what he saw. Everything was staged just the way he had requested it.
"Excellent work, Rawlins. These are exactly what I wanted!"
"That's Colonel Rawlins, son!"
"Two words, Rawlins," the detective placed particular emphasis on the surname. "Dishonourable. Discharge. Focus more on earning your fat paycheck. And stay alert. I'm forwarding the pictures, so Shortman will be appearing very soon."
He ended the call and immediately set his plan in motion.
Arnold and Phoebe had sex once more after their initial session. Both found the second session no less spectacular or satisfying than the first.
Intimacy and sartorial dishevelment abounded as they sat in each other's silent embrace. Both were silently contemplating the way forward in terms of a shared future were the Scheck matter to be resolved.
Many thoughts, many possibilities; not a word was spoken. Arnold's ringing phone broke the silence, arguably the intimate mood too.
"Were you expecting anyone?" asked Phoebe.
"Nah," replied a nonchalant Arnold. "Maybe Arnie finally thought of a name for his daughter and wants to share the good news."
Arnold retrieved his phone from his jacket and suddenly stared suspiciously at the 'Number Unknown' displayed. Probably Brainy showing off his prowess at tracing phone numbers.
He answered: "OK, Brainy, I get it! You're the master at gathering intel!"
A male voice on the other side: "Oh Arnold my love! I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else!"
"Who is this?" Arnold demanded in a voice that piqued Phoebe's interest enough to force her off the couch.
"This, Arnoldo, is Detective Vasquez of the Hillwood PD," his voice was oozing with mockery.
"Vasquez!" Arnold hissed bitterly at the revelation.
"Oh! I see Phoebe has told you about me already. A bad case of buyer's remorse, don't you think, Football Head? She fucks me, then talks shit about me when I break it up with her. Bitches be trippin'! What you gonna do, brother?"
Arnold didn't take the bait; he wasn't going to play the detective's game.
"What do you want, Vasquez?"
"Oooooh, tough crowd! Guess I'll get to the point, then. See, Arnold, I feel you ought to know of some isolated instances of vandalism."
"Yeah? And exactly what does any of this have to do with me?"
"I've texted you some pictures. You might find them most interesting indeed."
Arnold let his even temperament slide: "Vasquez, what the fuck are you on about?"
"Temper, Arnoldo, temper! Aren't you supposed to be the level-headed one of the group? Of course, that's the reason a certain blond girl hated your guts and loved you at the same time! I mean, whatever did you see in that batshit crazy weirdo to ever love her?"
Arnold felt his anger build sharply, his calm slip. But before he could lash out at the caller, his text notification sounded, and the detective chimed in: "Aha! Those will be the pictures I alluded to. I leave you to study them. Ciao, you football headed love god!"
He then ended the call.
"Was that Mark?" asked Phoebe who had tidied herself somewhat before joining Arnold. "Oh my god! Is he on to us?"
Arnold gave a vexed nod.
"What did he say?" The anxiety was showing in her voice. "Arnold, what did he say?"
"Something about vandalism," recalled Arnold as he opened the text messages. "Fuck!" he let out in disbelief as he viewed the first picture. His distress only increased as he viewed the subsequent pictures. "That fucking bastard!"
"What, Arnold?" pleaded Phoebe.
He handed his phone to her, and her eyes widened as her disbelief matched his upon viewing the pictures.
Three pictures. Three gravesites, the headstones smashed with a sledgehammer left lying in each foreground. Also in the foreground, a partially reassembled section of the headstone displaying the names of the deceased.
'Phil and Gertie Shortman'
'Miles and Stella Shortman'
'Helga Geraldine Pataki'
"Oh my god, Arnold! What are we going to do now?"
"You will stay here," Arnold's tone suggested no room for argument. "I'll be tending to this matter. They're waiting for me at the cemetery."
"So you can walk into an ambush!" Phoebe wasn't having it. "No, Arnold! You won't be throwing your life away like that! That's what he wants you to do."
She then saw his eyes take on a battle-hardened resolve that she hadn't seen before. "Trust me," he said, "I'm not the one dying tonight."
Ladies and Gentlemen, that will be it for this chapter. Thank you as ever, from the bottom of my heart, for your readership, and do please let me know your thoughts on my little big tale.
Author's Note: I didn't necessarily intend it this way, but I've come to see Detective Mark Vasquez as an (OC) in-universe representation of someone outside of the Hey Arnold fandom who doesn't understand the complex dynamics and idiosyncrasies of the show and its characters. It just made it easier for me to turn him into the unsympathetic character he's always been.
Author's Note #2: My mantra in writing the sex scene remained unchanged from writing the one in Chapter 8. "Vivid, but not graphic."
Author's Note #3: You've noticed that I've started with callbacks and references to previous chapters, both minor and major. This was always part of the plan; after all, I am attempting a mystery subplot.
Author's Note #4: Contrary to what the Author's Notes in Chapter 11 may have led you to believe, I am indeed capable of distinguishing between authors and auditors. The latter people happen to play an inevitable part in my day job.
Author's Note #5: The Spotify list for this chapter was quite an extensive one (not including the classical pieces referenced in the chapter), so please bear with me:
If You Leave - Nada Surf
Mourning - Tantric
Breathing - Watershed
Indigo Girl - Watershed
Brown Eyed Girl - Tevin Campbell
Move Closer - Phyllis Nelson
Independent Love Song - Scarlet
Soldier - Eminem
Mama Said Knock You Out - LL Cool J