Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and 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: At an unknown location, Phoebe explains the aftermath of the harbor shootout to an unconscious Arnold.
Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines!
25. They Say That Time Is A Healer
Half an hour ago, Phoebe Heyerdahl was seated in the office of one Major Jonathan Knowles. Three days before that, she had been discharged from Drymon after a one-week stay became two weeks, during which she was able to pinpoint Arnold's whereabouts thanks to what Sheena could remember about the direction in which the helicopter flew away.
The location was a military base some distance north-east of Hillwood. The base housed Unit 42, Arnold's old unit that was now part of Mister Smith's agency. No doubt the base would offer the medical facilities Arnold required that night, far and away from prying journalists like Phoebe Heyerdahl.
Be that as it may, her press credentials granted her access into the base more easily than she had expected. Too easily, almost. From the gate, she was escorted to the Base Commander's office where she found him seated and flanked by another officer. Major Jonathan Knowles was every bit the man whom Sheena had described, stately and forthright: truly an officer and a gentleman.
"Firstly, Miss Heyerdahl, I feel I need to congratulate you for seeing through our ruse. You know of course that we felt moving Lieutenant Shortman to our medical facility was the most prudent move. Officially…"
"Yes," Phoebe interrupted. "Officially he is recovering at an undisclosed out-of-state facility owing to concerns for his safety and wellbeing."
"Very good, Miss Heyerdahl. Now I must ask what the nature of your visit is." Oh, he was as good as Sheena pointed out. Stern, but non-threatening.
To which Phoebe flashed her press card and proclaimed, "Major, I believe the lieutenant has a story to tell of the recent events that I'm sure will be of great public interest." That was bullshit; she'd say anything to be with Arnold.
"Miss Heyerdahl, I very much doubt the veracity of that statement. Lieutenant Shortman always kept to himself. He never openly boasted about his feats. Despite his achievements in combat, he always felt the successful result was its own reward. You'll have a difficult time getting him to open up, if not an impossible one." Again, dismissive but never disrespectful.
"But consider this, Major. The public may be aware that he was a target of someone who very recently was classified as a domestic terrorist. Certainly, they are already formulating opinions about what he might have done to incur the wrath of such a person. And not all of it may be flattering." She was clutching at straws and she knew it. And the major seemed to see right through her.
"Miss Heyerdahl, let me tell you this. At least twenty men and women stationed on this base owe their lives to Lieutenant Shortman, myself included. And when a fellow soldier rescues you while under machine-gun fire, or carries you through a hot LZ after you've been gut-shot, or even provides covering fire for you to escape an enemy ambush…well, you tend not to care about what the press or the public thinks about him."
This man's oration skills far surpassed hers, but she still had to try…
"Furthermore, Miss Heyerdahl, allow me to be blunt for a moment. I do believe that your press credentials are authentic. I do not, however, believe that you are here in that capacity. I believe you are here under false pretenses and that your motivations are more personal than professional."
Phoebe sighed heavily upon realizing that the game was up. The Major was no fool. He'd seen through her and had been merely playing along. But maybe…
"Major, you are correct. I confess that I have been trying to deceive you. I'm not here, in fact, to visit Lieutenant Shortman."
"Oh?" Major Jonathan Knowles made a show of his interest being piqued.
"I'm here to visit Arnold," Phoebe clarified plainly.
The major showed no emotion as he studied Phoebe and ruminated on her answer. He then turned to the soldier standing beside him. "Corporal Telford. Please escort Miss Heyerdahl to Lieutenant Shortman's ward. Allow her all the time she needs. Understood?"
"Sir, yes Sir!" the corporal replied before escorting Phoebe out of the office, leaving Major Jonathan Knowles to reflect on just how lucky Lieutenant Shortman was to have someone love him enough to go through hell for him.
xxXXXxx
Phoebe was escorted to and left in private in Arnold's ward where she found him asleep, still recovering. His chart showed that he was admitted with a punctured lung, a ruptured spleen, cracked sternum, and severe internal bleeding. Fortunately, his spine had emerged with no permanent damage. He had required multiple operations, all of which had been successful. Right now, he was resting and…aw, he looked so at peace that she didn't have the heart to wake him.
So instead…
"Hello Arnold. It's been two weeks and a bit but here I am. Do you have any idea how difficult a task I had tracking you down?..."
This wasn't his bedroom. This wasn't his bed. Yet here he was. Brainy seated himself to look over the edge and – oh yeah – those were definitely his clothing items strewn across the floor. Yet, instead of fretting over how this situation came to pass, he was more concerned about his future. He'd accomplished his seventeen-year mission. Hopefully, he'd atoned for his greatest ever sin.
So why was he feeling hollow inside?
"Be realistic! There's no going back to normal life after what we've been through! I mean, look at us! Our jobs chose us, not the other way round."
Those words he'd spoken to Arnold were coming back to him. How he sometimes hated being right! He'd served his purpose, now what? Was there a normal life waiting for him? The past two weeks were spent keeping Phoebe in several loops during her hospital stay, so there was that at least. Otherwise, the work didn't feel as fulfilling as it did before and when that bastard Scheck went down. Since then, he'd been merely going through the motions with his tasks without much sense of purpose. The only real joy he'd been experiencing was in getting to know Sheena so much better. He started dating her, which went very well, ultimately leading to—
"Hey, you're awake," greeted Sheena as she entered the room wearing only a well-worn sleepshirt that tilted to one side, in the process exposing a liberal amount of her neck, collar, and shoulder blade. For all that it exposed, it didn't hinder her from bearing two mugs of coffee. "Sleep well?" she asked, knowing full well that sleep was way down on the list of the previous night's activities.
"What little I did get, yeah," Brainy conceded with a sardonic smile. "And by the way, aren't you supposed to be vegan?"
"Oh, Michael!" she threw back in pretend indignation. "It didn't seem to concern you last night. Besides, I didn't swallow, so that doesn't count."
Sheena handed him a mug then seated herself beside him. They sipped to their first night together and to a new day, though Sheena could tell that her man didn't seem to be quite in the moment.
"So what's up? You seem distracted." Sheena asked between sips.
"I don't know. I'm like…it's mission accomplished…so what now?" He owed her the truth about how he was feeling. "A long chapter has ended, and I don't know how to begin the next one."
He turned to Sheena in an unspoken appeal for guidance. Sheena, who by then had drained her mug, placed it on the floor, then fell back onto the bed. "Look, I'm no career advisor," she said with renewed longing in her eyes, "but perhaps I can point you in a possible direction."
More mental playback from Arnold: "Whatever plans you make, you'd do well to include a certain paramedic."
Brainy needed no second reminder or invitation as he too set his mug on the floor before sliding over to her side. He then swung his leg over her body so to straddle her. He drank in her radiance, her afterglow. Though she stood at 6'1", she'd never outgrown her gangly frame. Her curves were slight, her muscles firm yet yielding, as were her A-cups.
But the way all these features came together…she was heart and soul irresistible!
Before Brainy could register it, he was planting kisses on her exposed collarbone, working his way to her neckline. From there, he worked his way up her neck with gentle pecks and nibbles. Her reaction, comprising low sustained murmurs, was music to his ears. They were an addiction, encouraging him – ordering him – not to stop. Before long, they were face to face. Her face reflected a longing against which he was defenseless, as he moved to kiss her. Deeply, sensually. He inserted his tongue, pressing against her teeth. He felt how she opened her mouth to swallow his eagerness, to let his tongue in to engage hers in a glorious wrestling match of twists, swirls, and probes.
Meanwhile, he felt his hand on Sheena's hips. He slipped it under her shirt. He stroked and caressed her bare skin beneath the fabric.
Her buttocks.
The gentle curvature of her hip.
Her breast, which he cupped and squeezed.
With each movement of his hand, the kissing intensified, along with their breathing. As he squeezed the breast, he felt her moaning into his mouth, the pleasure in her breathing mixing with his.
This was his point of no return: nothing less than every possible square inch of her would suffice. With that on his mind, he removed his hand from beneath the shirt and bunched it up on the side as if to tell it its services would no longer be required. Sheena read his intentions, then writhed, wriggled and stretched to help him help her out of the garment, breaking the kiss for precisely as long so as not to hinder the disrobing.
And there was the (hopefully) soon-to-be familiar sight!
Her olive skin, her pale pink areolae, her delicate tufts of light sienna pubic hair. Meanwhile, down below he felt how she parted her legs, signaling another invitation. He heeded the invite – oh, did he heed it! – as he scrambled to insert himself inside her. Finally – "Oh god!" – Sheena squealed with ever-quickening breaths, impatient for him to begin his motions. He was equally as impatient, starting with slow, steady thrusts gradually building in pace and depth. Just as gradually, Sheena's moans increased in pitch and intensity to his motion. He felt her walls tightening around him, the pressure adding to his already overwhelming sensations and making him desire her evermore. Not soon afterward, Sheena's voice cracked.
"Oh, Michael! Yes! Yes! YES!" as she reached her crisis point.
Brainy followed soon with his discharge, and the happy couple found themselves gazing at each other. They stayed connected as they shared another long, passionate kiss as if kissing the one was the other's drug. Eventually, they separated and lay together in glorious contentment.
"Whatever plans you make, you'd do well to include a certain paramedic."
"Sheena," a still-gasping-for-breath Brainy asked, "truth is, I am considering an offer from another county far away from here."
"Yes?" responded Sheena.
"I called to follow up on the offer. We're talking a proper paycheck, regular hours, a chance of actual free time."
"Sounds tempting!" she sounded encouraging.
"Well, here's the thing. Uh…I'm only…y'know…considering it because of one uncertainty."
"And that is?" her tone was rather dubious now.
"Well, you see…depending on how this one…thing…plays out, I could take the job, or I could stay in Hillwood…and be really happy either way."
"Michael, what are you getting at?" her voice conveyed trepidation, maybe because she had misread or misunderstood…
"Actually, you're the thing, the…factor…"
"Michael," the surprise in her voice spiked dramatically. "Are you saying…"
"Yes, yes I am. That I want you to be part of my future plans."
Silence.
"Well, you and…maybe a bigger bed…"
He turned to her and found her moments away from either crying or yelping. Assuming the former and all its negative connotations, he quickly moved to clarify: "Sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like a marriage proposal! What I meant was…uh…wherever you see yourself in the future, I want to be there with you!"
Silence.
Finally, she spoke. "But you have to admit: 'Sheena Bartlett'," she mused while holding up her left hand to appraise an imaginary ring on her finger, "it does have a certain…resonance…to it."
Arnold awoke. He awoke to find Phoebe seated by his bedside, also asleep, head slumped on the bed. He briefly considered letting her continue sleeping while he took in her beauty and dedication. Briefly…as he moved to stroke her hair and cheek delicately, while softly purring: "Hello, Beautiful. It's so great to see you."
Phoebe stirred at his words, opened her eyes to focus on her paramour, then replied with equal parts elation and relief: "Hello, Handsome. Sleep well?"
Before he could begin his answer, she was in his face, planting a kiss on his lips. The kiss was more than that; it was an outlet for the relief she was feeling, the realization that this was the man she had come to love over the past two weeks.
Their lips parted and Arnold spoke: "Anybody tell you that you're the prettiest nurse in the world?"
"Anybody tell you that you can be such a bullshitter?" she teased back.
"Do I at least get points for trying?" he asked in fake desperation.
"Oh, I have your points right here!" she issued as an equally fake warning, as she closed in for another kiss, more loving than the first.
"I meant every word of it, you know?" he pleaded his case. "Your face! Look how well it's healed! The swelling's completely gone! So's the bruising!"
"Such a romantic observation!" Though in truth, Phoebe was glad to be having this conversation at all. The alternative…she didn't even want to consider the alternative. "But that's what happens when Sheena gets a hold of you and practically frogmarches you to the nearest available doctor. Who, by the way, was most impressed by your suturing skills."
"Least I could do," the blonde patient piped in.
"Anyway, Sheena convinces the doctor that I should be held for observation. One week that became two."
"How come?"
"I'll tell you later. Are you not more interested in what happened after that night?"
"Well, I know my old unit is now attached to Mister Smith's division. Major Knowles told me how I was airlifted from the harbor and of all the ops I had to endure. He said he had a record number of volunteers to accompany him to come and help with the extraction. And how I was under for the whole time and only regained consciousness five days ago. But nothing about Hillwood or our friends."
"In that case, strap yourself in…"
Phoebe then repeated what she had told the sleeping Arnold.
The investigation and fallout. ("So Scheck died a terrorist! Good! No-one left to say otherwise.")
FTI. ("Good riddance! Hope they stay down this time!")
Olga's exoneration and freedom. ("Thank god, the plan worked!")
Hillwood PD's damage control over Vasquez. ("They'll bury that one for good. Count on it!")
Big Gino's rumored purchases and plans. ("I told Brainy he wasn't in it just for the money! I knew it!")
Even her malicious online activity. ("I understand. I really do.")
Brainy and Sheena beginning to date. ("Been a long time since my advice paid off like that!")
When Phoebe was done, Arnold launched back into the matter of her hospital stay. "So, what about you?" he asked, treating that particular matter with more concern than all the preceding points combined. "Why two weeks? Did you have a concussion? How bad was it?"
"Well…you see, Arnold…" her tone suggested a reluctance to explain the details fully. It hinted that she was building up the courage, bracing herself, buying time to give the full story. "Actually…"
xxXXXxx
This sucked! This was so objectionable!
Phoebe Heyerdahl was supposed to be narrowing down Arnold's location. But no, instead she was bedridden at Drymon, having failed the concussion test in Doctor Singh's office."
"…And don't even think of leaving!" Sheena had warned. "A concussion's no joke! You'll stay here and recover even if I need to have them cuff you to the bed!"
"URRRGH! Fine!" A pouty Phoebe huffed in defeat. "But can you at least bring me my laptop from Brainy's so I can work here?" She then saw Sheena's disapproval of her behavior. Sheena's look wasn't particularly glaring, but it was enough for Phoebe to realize how bratty she'd been acting. It was also enough for the journalist to issue sheepishly: "Sorry, Sheena. I didn't mean to become snappish with you when you are so concerned about my wellbeing. Sorry?"
So began her visit.
The first blood sample was drawn and three days later, the test results were in. They showed slightly elevated levels of UCH-L1 and GFAP proteins, hinting at a possibility of lesions on the brain. A CT scan was ordered, but due to a lengthy waiting list, Phoebe would have to wait four days for her turn.
She didn't mind the waiting; it meant more time to track the aftermath of the harbor shootout, more time to submit news articles and time to write a heavily sugarcoated obituary for Detective Mark Vasquez so that the public wouldn't see him for the duplicitous rat bastard that he was. The piece was good; so good, in fact, that it was picked up by several local outlets.
Eventually, it was her turn at the CT scan, by which time the swelling and bruising on her face had almost completely subsided. The scan results brought good news: no lesions; no swelling on the brain.
Time to check out then, surely!
"Er, Miss Heyerdahl?" the good doctor asked. "If I may, can we please run another blood test? To make sure that the UCH-L1 and GFAP levels have indeed subsided."
"Fine!" Phoebe was back to being pouty, this time without Sheena to restrain her. "But do I need to stay bedridden while you run the tests?"
"Not a problem! But please take it easy; you're still recovering, remember? And absolutely no…ahem…martial arts practice."
After three days of tracking FTI's demise and leaking evidence on Reddit from the house, she received the phone call.
"Miss Heyerdahl, the test results are back. Could we meet in person to discuss the outcome? Say, within an hour?"
"OK, Doctor," replied Phoebe, forty-five minutes later, seated in his office, accompanied by her parents, "what seems to be the problem?"
"It's not a problem per se. As far as your concussion goes, officially you're in the clear. No swelling, no lesions."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"Well, you see, the lab picked up an anomaly in your second blood sample."
Phoebe had never had reason to consider a word like 'anomaly' to be a good thing in a medical context, so naturally: "What kind of anomaly?"
"Please understand, Miss Heyerdahl, that the lab ran the tests twice with the second sample, and both times the results showed the presence of hCG."
Upon which Phoebe Heyerdahl felt the ground give out from under her feet.
"Doctor, do you mean…" she couldn't finish the question, such was her shock.
"Yes, Miss Heyerdahl…"
xxXXXxx
"I'm pregnant, Arnold."
Arnold felt the moisture drain from his mouth, and it was accompanied by a sensation not dissimilar to a HALO freefall without the parachute.
"It seems we met with us at our most concupiscent and me at my most fecund. And before you ask, yes, it's your child. Your personal effects were still at the house at the time. I obtained some hairs from your hairbrush, and I also got your toothbrush just to be sure. Sheena knew someone at a paternity lab to rush the tests, and the tests all said you are the father."
"But…but…how?" The words were crushing his vocal cords.
"Arnold, I'm not sure. I mean I was always cautious with Mark. I used contraceptives and insisted on prophylactics but there must have been some bizarre convergence of probabilities, as if the contraceptives wore off after my last session with him but before either of our two sessions or maybe it was the second one when it was so spur-of-the-moment and then you had to go to the cemetery and I forgot to…" she continued rambling, being Phoebe Heyerdahl and trying to bring logic, rationale, and advanced vocabulary into the mix. The more she rambled the more emotional and uncertain her voice became. She stopped abruptly when she saw his expression change. Bit by bit, as a hint of a smile first crept up. His smile grew…and grew…until it became that smile she hadn't seen since P.S. 118. That mile-wide, full-face, goofy, toothy grin of his. The smile he smiled only when he was absolutely ecstatic.
And he was smiling it at her. For her! Her!
Suddenly she forgot why she'd been rambling as his smile transfixed her. "Oh, come here, you goof!" she exclaimed as logic gleefully abandoned her and she pulled him closer - Injuries be damned! Recovery be damned! – and peppered him with hugs and passionate kisses.
She was so fully invested in the moment, that it was up to Arnold to ask: "Phoebe, so your parents know that I'm the father?"
Phoebe broke away and her expression revealed absentmindedness giving way to a shocked realization: "Oh my god!"
As much as Arnold did and did not want to meet Phoebe's parents (whom Phoebe told him were waiting for them at his house in the country), he could not shake the feeling that the Sunset Arms bombing wasn't yet fully resolved.
"That's only because our inside man forgot to mention that there'd be bystanders on the day. Tragic, isn't it?"
Scheck's words were still with him. Arnold had no doubt that Scheck's taunt was the truth. If he used inside info to bring an enemy down, he'd want the enemy to know how all-encompassing the reach of Alphonse Scheck was and how no-one was safe from him.
Whoever facilitated this act for Scheck needed to account for the deed. Which was why Arnold checked himself out of the facility and was now being driven back to Hillwood by Phoebe in his Golf. The vehicle had been retrieved after the fated event, processed and declared clean, after which Smith had arranged its return to Phoebe via Brainy.
Leaving the base had been quite an easy affair; given that Arnold was neither in anyone's custody nor was he a suspect in any investigation, he was free to leave at his sole discretion. He was even allowed to reclaim his personal effects and his weapons, which had been delivered to the base after the investigation deemed their owner to have acted in appropriate self-defense.
Word spread of him leaving and before long Phoebe was witness to how loved and respected Arnold was within the unit. Soldiers lined the exit, offering salutes to "The Legend" as he and Phoebe made their way out.
Major Knowles did ask whether he was certain of leaving when his charts showed he wasn't at full recovery yet. Arnold had explained that there was still one person with whom to deal: an as yet unknown someone from the old neighborhood who sold out Arnold, his friends, and the neighborhood itself.
"Lieutenant, this unknown man. How certain are you that he still resides in Hillwood?"
"That's the problem, Major," Arnold replied. "I'm not sure. Hillwood just seems as good a place to start as any."
And the Major, a man of honor, regulation, and procedure, understood by offering his blessings and a final salute.
xxXXXxx
"And you kept all of this a secret from me?" Arnold yelled into his phone.
"I had to, Arnold!" Foutley insisted. "The Sheriff ordered me to!"
"I did," Arnie confirmed with no hint of contrition. "I told Brainy to do the same."
"Brainy, you knew too?" Arnold's rising disbelief was threatening to undo two weeks' worth of recovery.
"I'm afraid so, Arnold."
"Why!?" demanded Arnold.
Why indeed. The four were conducting a conference call, the result of Arnold first calling Foutley to look into what kind of inside help Scheck could have had with the bombing. Foutley paused for a moment, then said he'd get back to Arnold. Ten minutes later, the call was happening, with Arnold on speaker so that Phoebe could participate as well.
"To keep you focussed on Scheck, Coz," Arnie explained. "Eyes on the prize, no distractions. Sort the small fry later."
"Yeah, well fuck small fry! He sold us all out!"
"Arnold, take it easy please!" Phoebe cautioned from the driver's seat. "Losing your faculties will do no-one any good!"
"Arnold, if you won't listen to me then listen to Phoebe!" It was Arnie again, this time in his best take-charge voice. "What do you think would have happened if we told you? You'd waste time looking for him, splitting your time between him and Scheck."
"Yeah, Arnold." It was Brainy. "You needed to concentrate on Scheck more than anything else."
"Which was why the Sheriff had me look into him in detail while you guys handled that Scheck character," Foutley chimed in. "Which I have. I figured he was paid in cash for his services, so there wasn't a money trail to follow. But the mails did mention him being also rewarded with a place to live, rent-free. For life. So then I followed up on property and rental records before—"
"Foutley," Phoebe again was skirting the line between courtesy and urgency. "I'm sure your efforts must have involved some dramatic flair, but perhaps it would be best to be more to the point with your disclosure."
"Very well, Mademoiselle," sighed Foutley, disappointed before nonetheless disclosing the location.
Arnold's and Phoebe's shock at the disclosure lasted for the remainder of their drive to Hillwood.
A bit later that afternoon, Gino Giovinazzo received a phone call, and the following conversation transpired.
"Yeah?"
"Big Gino, I need a favor on behalf of a friend.'
"Who is this?"
"Not important. But we both have a common acquaintance: Arnold Shortman."
"The Boy Scout? What about him?"
"He wants to pay someone a visit tonight."
"And how the fuck do I come to into play in any of this?"
"Well, you'll certainly want to help him out."
"Fuck you! The Boy Scout and me, we're all square as far as I'm concerned. He got me the neighborhood back, I keep the authorities off his ass till the end of fucking time."
"Oh Gino, how I wish that was true. But there's still one loose end."
"So? Let the Feds handle it! They're doing a good job wrapping up the case. I read how they froze FTI's assets and bank accounts. Then they went after the estate of the late, lamented Alphonse Scheck. Now I'm getting word the State Attorney's gonna file a class action against the estate and—"
"Yes, I heard that too. They're still tracing survivors and next-of-kin."
"Oh, so we do have some common interests I see. Tell me, are we on the same side, you and me?"
"Only in that we both have the neighborhood's best interests at heart."
"OK, so how does the Boy Scout's mystery man figure in all of this?"
"Scheck had an inside man. Someone from the neighborhood who helped him with The Sunset Arms. Someone who sold out the neighborhood."
"OK, I'm interested. What do you know about the mystery man?"
"He's holed up in a suite at 4040 Vine Street. A reward apparently for his loyalty to Santalov and Scheck."
"Wait a minute! 4040 Vine Street? I just bought that place. That's the luxury condo block—"
"Where once stood The Sunset Arms. And how excellent it is indeed that you've acquired that bit of real estate."
"And you say he's been living here all this time? Under our fucking noses?"
"I'm afraid so. Thankfully, he's useless to the Bureau right now. What he knows about the matter won't help them at all. A prime candidate for a disappearance, wouldn't you say?"
"I would say!"
"So here's my proposal. I have it on excellent authority that Arnold Shortman will be visiting our friend at his residence within the next four hours. He is to be left alone throughout his endeavor. Once Arnold Shortman is done, once he walks out the front door, could you have a cleaning crew ready and waiting? I have a feeling that the reception will be a hot one."
"Four hours? That's…about nine pm. What sort of cleaning will you be requiring that late?"
"Very deep, and very thorough."
"The works, then. No trace left of grime and dirt. Sir, thank you for your concern. I'll have someone accommodate your needs in time. Now we get back to my first question. Who is this?"
"I'd rather my name remain undisclosed so that we can stay on friendly terms. I'll be sure to inform my guy of your assistance. Thank you."
With that, the caller ended the call, leaving Big Gino scratching his head for a while before yelling: "Myron, get our best cleaners together! There's a job coming up later tonight!"
Phoebe parked the Golf in a parking garage two blocks away from 4040 Vine Street; she and Arnold would have to walk the rest of the way. Arnold was not yet fully recovered from his injuries, but the prospect of coming face to face with his betrayer was impetus enough to defer further rest and recovery.
Phoebe noticed as much and asked: "Arnold, are you sure you're still fine?"
Through gritted teeth, he replied: "Better than I was two weeks ago."
This was his military conditioning at work again, causing his mind to overrule his body's distress: his mind was set on seeing this matter to its conclusion. Onward they walked, in the unfamiliar area both had called home a lifetime ago. The neighborhood was much more opulent and attracted a better-heeled market, but both Arnold and Phoebe saw the evil black heart that lurked beneath the opulent artifice. And it sickened them: Big Gino's alleged plans could not come to fruition quickly enough.
They reached the building and Arnold stopped to take in the monstrosity that confronted him. The building was several stories higher, brick-and-mortar, steel-and-glass. Completely devoid of emotion and personality, a fitting symbol of how a generation of community and innocence was irrevocably lost.
Arnold allowed his emotions to settle as he and Phoebe entered into the luxurious foyer and headed for the elevator. They rode it to their destination floor, during which Phoebe issued one last caution: "Arnold, just promise me you won't do anything reckless. For our sake and for that of our baby." She emphasized the latter point by taking his hand and resting it on her belly. "This especially."
She could see in his eyes that he was struggling to reconcile acting on his revenge instincts with the reality that he was to become a father. In the end, all he offered was: "I'll try my best."
The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and the couple walked the final stretch of passageway to their destination door. Phoebe watched uneasily as Arnold drew his Glock and stood to one side of the door, allowing her to ring the intercom.
A pause, then the speaker came to life. "What?"
Phoebe glanced over to Arnold, who nodded in bitter recognition of the voice. She began her deception. "Good evening, Sir," she began in her sweetest, sexiest voice possible. "I'm your nine o'clock appointment, come to take good care of you."
"This is a mistake," the voice said from inside. "I don't have any appointments for nine o'clock."
Phoebe was prepared for this answer. "But Sir, this is the time and address for the appointment. And besides, the caller already paid upfront for the session. If you're saying this is a mistake, I'll just have to head back to the office and—"
"Wait! Wait! Did you say paid for upfront?"
"I'm afraid so, Sir. Oh well, I suppose I'll be paid tonight just to sit idly at the office."
No sooner had the words left her mouth when they heard sounds of the door being frantically unbolted and unlocked. During that time, Phoebe and Arnold exchanged places so that when the door swung open, Arnold was perfectly positioned to slam the side of his pistol flush in the face of his target. The man was staggered and stunned long enough for Arnold to force him back into his lounge, onto a leather couch where he came to a seated, groaning halt. Phoebe, meanwhile, hastened to enter the apartment and shut the door, thus granting them the soundproofing they'd – maybe? – be requiring.
She then joined Arnold, who was holding the man at gunpoint, offering a greeting: "Mister Kokoshka, Oskar! It's been a while, hasn't it?"
xxXXXxx
Oskar Kokoshka was fifty-six, but his physical features added at least ten years to that number. He was a wizened, pathetic figure. His hair was thinning into oblivion, though his faded copper beard was still as prominent as ever. He was also reluctant to answer questions regarding The Sunset Arms. At least, he used to be, before Arnold broke his left pinkie, to Phoebe's shock and horror. After the howls of pain, Oskar promised repeatedly to be more accommodating.
"So how come you're not dead?" Arnold began his questioning. "You were listed as one of the deceased. I even mourned you at your memorial for god's sake."
"Eh heh heh heh," he began with that fucking grating laugh of his. "It's divine intervention, no?"
Arnold reached for the left ring finger, which changed Oskar's tone dramatically. "OK OK! I didn't want to help them! They forced me! It wasn't my fault!"
"OK, then whose fault was it?" asked Arnold, pretending to humor the old man.
"Your grandfather, Arnold! And Suzie." Arnold felt his hand tighten around the Glock's grip at the mention of his grandfather. He resisted the urge to act any further, knowing that dead men tell no truths."
"Suzie left me, you see. Divorced me. Then there was no-one to take care of me! What woman just stops looking after her man, Arnold? And then just walks out on him? That's not right! That's just not right!"
"Oskar, you were a shitty husband. Suzie had all the patience for you, and you treated her like shit. You're lucky the marriage lasted as long as it did!"
"But it's still her fault! Where was I supposed to stay? She was supposed to take care of me! Instead. I'm at the mercy of your grandfather! And what does he do? He kicks me out after you leave on your little jungle adventure because I can't pay the rent. Kicks me out! I thought we were all supposed to be family! Family is supposed to help out one who can't make his rent!"
"Even family has its limits," countered an impatient Arnold. "Oskar, where is this going?"
"Anyway, I'm out on my ass, nowhere to go. So I start with the poker games again to make money. Only, the bastards keep cheating and next thing I know I'm five thousand in hock to one of Vitaly Santalov's loan sharks. These guys don't fuck around, Arnold! Miss a payment and it's a kneecap! What was I supposed to do?"
Arnold's expression suggested that he had stopped caring.
"Then one day the guy says his boss will erase my debt if I do his boss a personal favor. His boss wants to buy The Sunset Arms, but the old man kept telling him to go fuck himself. Maybe I can talk sense into the old man. Trouble is…the old man and grandma are now in the jungle to rescue you guys. Then they ask for a layout of the building. And I mean, it's easy work. Just tell them where the safety hazards are."
"Like the gas main?" growled Arnold. "And Mister Potts's dynamite stash?" His anger was rising.
"Easiest five grand I made. Just for some useless info. They make me stay in a safe house for a while. It's great, Arnold. Best sandwiches, best booze, hot bitches. Who needs Suzie anymore?" I'm like that for six months, then boss man Santalov personally comes to thank me. He's bought The Sunset Arms and built a luxury condo in its place. Fifty grand bonus for my info, plus the key to my own apartment!"
"You didn't even ask how this new building was built?" Arnold's anger was now a rage that had metastasized throughout his body.
"Tragic accident they said," Oskar explained. "They said I died in the explosion. They had a dead body hidden in the basement and an ME who'd say it was me. Plus, a new identity. I still had to lie low. No problem, if it means a life of gambling and bitches!"
"But what about the people you helped kill? The lives you destroyed? The community you ruined?"
"What about them?" Oskar callously commented. "They treated me like shit all my life, they got what they had coming! And why are you so upset anyway? The way I heard it, your friends at school were still giving you hell for your trip. Especially that bitchy blonde girl in the pink dress. She hated you anyway, didn't she? I did you a fucking favor!"
Arnold felt himself lifting his Glock towards Oskar as the latter began another laugh: Eh heh heh heh heh…"
Oskar was still laughing when the first gunshot rang, and the first bullet struck him in the chest. Then the second in rapid succession. Then the third. After the fourth, he stopped laughing and remained smiling as he stupidly peered down to see the bloodstains spreading across his shirt, mingling and becoming one. He looked back up with disbelief in his smile, as bullets five, six, seven and eight struck him as well. He died where he sat, not having had the time to change his smile to an expression of shock or fear.
Arnold was surprised; he hadn't fired a single shot. He turned to Phoebe, to find her pointing a subcompact 9mm pistol towards the late Oskar Kokoshka. Her eyes reflected hate and horror, shock and surprise, held together by uncertainty.
"Phoebe..?" he asked hesitantly.
"It's funny, Arnold," she began, calmly. "Even after you killed Scheck, I wasn't convinced that I was fully safe. So I paid Bridget another visit with my concerns and she set me up with this…I believe it's called a Walther CCP. I was hoping I'd never have to use it, just as I was hoping to prevent you from acting irrationally over here. Well..," her initially stoic voice was starting to crack, "fifty percent is still a passing grade, isn't it?"
Tears were welling, but she continued. "I'm sorry, Arnold, but I couldn't listen to his sociopathic rationalizing anymore! I killed before in self-defense. This one was different. This one was malice, this was hatred. I wanted to kill him. He sold you out, he sold me out, he sold us all out." Her voice weakened as her emotions rose. "Then he had the nerve to live comfortably as a result. He killed them, Arnold. Helga, Gerald, your family, everyone!"
Her voice became lost between sobs that were becoming louder and more frequent. "He made it happen! He's no better than whoever made the bomb and detonated it! He killed them all, Arnold. He killed them all!" Her sobs had become wails as she focussed again on Oskar's lifeless body. "HELGA! GERALD! GIVE THEM BACK! GIVE THEM BACK, YOU SON OF A BITCH! GIVE THEM ALL BACK!"
The emotion was now too much for her as she dropped her weapon and launched herself at Arnold, to clasp him and cry loudly and unencumbered into his chest. "That's it, Phoebe," Arnold softly consoled as he holstered his weapon, the better to return her embrace. "Just let it out. It's alright. It's over now. It's all over," he continued, realizing that this was probably the first time ever that Phoebe had properly mourned her deceased friends, now that her goals for truth and justice were finally accomplished. Into his chest, she wailed and whimpered and mewled, until the tears ran dry. When she could cry no more tears, she remained in his comforting grasp.
"Arnold," she finally spoke, "am I a horrible person? Am I destined to be a horrible mother?"
Arnold didn't answer immediately. He pulled away to look at her. He then lightly kissed her on her forehead and replied: "Come, Phoebe. Let's go home."
And that's it for this chapter. If you're still here, thank you so, so much for sticking around! By my estimate, one chapter remains, plus perhaps an epilogue.
Author's Note: Phoebe's pregnancy was intended from the beginning, but it would have to be, in her words, 'a bizarre convergence of probabilities'. The trick with making it plausible was to keep her long enough in the hospital so that a blood test would be able to detect a pregnancy. The earliest possible time for that to happen is 6 days after ovulation. Plus, I read in a medical journal about a newly discovered blood test for concussions (current, circa 2019) so I incorporated that too into the story as a sleight of hand. So basically, I got the facts first and built the story around them. Also, I was trying to avoid the standard pregnancy giveaway of morning sickness and constant nausea. I'm sure Phoebe would appreciate the more scientific, medical approach.
Author's Note #2: I want to talk about two particular music tracks that influenced this chapter. Though the Spotify list is fairly comprehensive, this chapter was built mostly around two of those tracks. Jan Hammer's 'Payback' was what I had playing in my mind as Arnold and Phoebe made their way to Oskar's apartment. Then Phil Colins's 'Do You Know, Do You Care?' guided me for Arnold's interrogation of Oskar. Listen to that second song especially; the anger and emotion are so raw, and to paraphrase a YouTube commenter, there's nothing better than a pissed-off Phil Colins.
Author's Note #3: So even Brainy needs some loving! I originally wanted a third sex scene with Arnold and Phoebe before the harbor showdown, but I couldn't fit one in and have it make sense within their time constraints and Phoebe's injuries. Then it hit me: why not have one with Brainy and Sheena instead? They've known each other for years and both wanted more from their relationship. Plus, you get to read my guess for Brainy's name.
Author's Note #4: I initially wanted to include a dream sequence in here for Arnold, but the more I wrote that sequence, the more I realized that it was slowing the pace of this chapter. It's been moved to the next chapter and as a result, chapter 26 is a third of the way complete.
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And here's this chapter's Spotify list:
Janie's Got A Gun - Aerosmith
Lay Down My Life - Carole King
Imperfections - Céline Dion
Throwing It All Away - Genesis
Payback - Jan Hammer
Broken Wings - Mr. Mister
Kiss Me Slowly - Parachute
The Tower That Ate People - Peter Gabriel
Do You Know, Do You Care? - Phil Colins
High Hopes - Pink Floyd
The Fletcher Memorial Home - Pink Floyd
Down That Road - Shara Nelson
Love On A Real Train - Tangerine Dream
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And that concludes the (hopefully, probably) penultimate chapter. See you next time!t time!