Apollo is lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. I'm screaming at him to move, to get up, until my throat is raw. Bob Anderson runs into the room.
Then I'm in an ambulance between two gurneys. There's plastic tubes and wires everywhere. I hear my mother's ribs crack as the EMT gives her CPR. Apollo isn't moving.
It's like five minutes has passed, but hours have gone missing. I'm sitting on a bench outside an operating room. It's built into the wall, in front of a window, facing the door. It's not like a TV operating room door, the swingy kind with the round porthole windows. It's unusually wide but it's just a door. Charity has her arms around my shoulders, and I can't stop crying into her. At least not for the first few hours. Then I just sit there, shell-shocked, staring at nothing.
Please. Please. Please.
It takes fourteen hours before the doctor comes out. He's not covered in blood but he does have a doctor's mask hanging around his neck like a weird bleached necktie. His hands are very clean.
"Diana?"
"Yeah," I croak.
"Your mother is going to make it."
I nod. My chin trembles and Charity's grip tightens.
"The bullet went through her side, but it broke one of her ribs and collapsed her left lung. She's going to be out for a few days. It will be a long recovery, but she should be back to a hundred percent eventually."
I nod again.
"We'll page you when she's been moved to her room, okay? There's no need to sit out here for hours. It's going to be a while before we move her. She's stable. She's safe."
He stands there for a minute like he's trying to figure out something to add, something comforting to say. You'd think after enough practice it would come naturally. It probably doesn't.
Time to go.
The last time I saw Apollo he was unconscious. His surgery was simpler, he was moved to the intensive care ward faster. A puncture wound to his right side and a stab wound through his leg. It was a miracle that the blade didn't hit any major arteries, or he'd have bled out before the ambulance arrived no matter what I did. I can still feel myself freezing as he laid there and I thought Mom was dying in my arms. When people say they freeze up it's like the mean they go still. I felt frozen, like all the blood drained out of me, too, and ice replaced it and I just couldn't move.
It takes work to steel myself to see him again. The last I was up here was lying in the hospital bed with all the machines beeping around him and blood in plastic bags leaking back into his body to replace what he'd lost. He looked so
small
. When we met one of the first things I noticed was how he towered over me. I stop in the corridor and take a deep breath, and slowly remove Charity's hand from my arm. No words are exchanged. She leans on the wall and looks down at the floor, her expression dark.
I walk into the room, over to the bed, and my blood freezes again. Then I start screaming.
A nurse comes running in and grabs me and before the first word is out of her mouth I grab her back and shake her.
"
Where is he?"
She looks at the bed, at me, at the bed.
"I…"
She shakes loose and runs out of the room. I follow right on her heels as she runs behind the nurse's station to the computer.
"He… we didn't move him, I…"
All the color is draining from her face. I run back into the room. I touch
the bed, feeling the impression where his body lay before I went down to wait for Mom to come out. The sheets are still warm. The IV lines are dangling unhooked from the pole. The muted TV is tuned to
Maury
. He was just here. Back out into the hallway, running so fast I skid on the slick tiles. She runs to me, her face a mask of shock.
"What-"
"It doesn't matter, he's still here somewhere. Find him."
"What? How-"
"
Look,"
I scream, and run away from her. Over my shoulder I see her mouth snap closed and she runs off. Down the hall, she grabs a security guard, yelling at him.
I run. I run through wards, I run through doors that read EMPLOYEES ONLY, I run past security guards that turn on their heels to follow me. I smash through the doors into a stairwell and run down two at a time, so fast that later I'll wonder how I didn't break my neck. Think, Diana. Find him.
On the first floor I stop, look around.
Doctors. Doctors everywhere and…
…one of them is limping, leaning on the wall. Favoring his right leg.
I run up. Grab his arm.
Apollo turns.
"What the
fuck
are you doing?" I hiss. "Get back in bed. Now."
"I can't, Diana."
I start to say something but it dies in my throat, just rattles away to nothing.
He grabs my arms. His hands are cold. Oh my God, he's still bleeding. Apollo you idiot, what are you doing?
"Listen to me," he rasps, his voice breathy and weak. "I have to go."
"What? Why?"
"If I stay they'll start asking questions. Then they'll arrest me. I can't let that happen."
I wriggle loose from his grip and he leans on the wall. He's so pale. When I get him back in the bed and safe I'm going to kill him.
"So this is about you?"
"No, it's about
you.
Your safety," he gasps. "Had to think it was real. Weren't supposed to find me. Needed you to think… I was dead…"
He winces when he sees the look on my face as my expression crumples, my lips tremble, and hot tears cut lines down my cheeks. "You're just going to leave me? After all this? You bastard."
"No," he shakes his head. "Never. Danger. You, your mom. Have to think I'm dead. Wait a while. Have things to fix. Things to put right. Have to. Trust me. I'll be back."
"Apollo-"
"Diana," he says, a renewed strength filling his voice even as his body shakes. "I have to do this. I will come back. Please. I love you."
I grab the collar of his scrubs and kiss him, hard. He kisses me back, slipping his arms around me, leaning on me, breathing against me. He's so weak. I could just drag him back upstairs.
"Go back," he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine. His soft rasping voice is the only thing in the world. "Go back and tell them you couldn't find me. Make it look real."
That won't be too hard.
"Come back to me."
"I will."
"Promise."
"I promise," he says, and kisses me again.
I let him go.
I can't watch. He has to be okay. He has to make it. I run back up the stairs. I'm heading for the ICU but I stop, run through some other places first, let the guards catch me. The words are lies but the emotions are real, I don't have to make myself cry until I can't breathe and Charity has to stop them from dragging me off and sedating me or something. She takes me back to Mom's room. They've moved her now. I can't tell either of them.
Eventually there are no more tears left to shed. I stare at the wall.
Charity falls asleep. Chunks of time bite themselves out of my memory. The next five days are a blur. On the sixth day Mom wakes up, on the seventh she's eating Jell-O and orders me to go home and sleep in a real bed. Charity spends that night with me, and a few more off and on until we bring my mother home.
She makes me fill out my responses to my acceptance letters.
She never says one word about Apollo.
In July I receive my confirmation package, invitation to orientation, tour dates, the works. I'm going to college.
About a week after that, I realize that it's been way too long since I had a period.
Chapter 15: Apollo
I fly coach to Zurich.
It took me three weeks to recover. I'm probably going to be walking with a cane longer than that. The pain in my leg is nothing. It feels like my heart has been ripped out and every time I breathe I can feel the air sucking through the hole it left, ripping me up even more. I can't go back yet, I can't.
God damn, this is a long flight. My leg is driving me insane. It's like there's a knot in it that will never go away, and I can't put any weight on it yet. I think my sword fighting days are over. I'm almost thankful for the distraction. It's like I live in a bland world of paper, all the color drained out of everything. I don't bother with the in-flight movie or the stupid pretzels, I just sit there until finally the plane begins to descend and my leg starts screaming.
With my luck, it was all a lie. Dad told me what to do if something ever happened to him. He made me memorize the account number and access code. There's no other way to get into the account, no name, nothing like that. A death certificate or probate court order won't get me in here, not into this bank. I booked a hotel to rest up before going but I end up heading straight to the bank anyway. In the lobby I'm greeted by a narrow faced man who looks like a butler and speaks perfect English without the slightest hint of the stereotypical German accent. He isn't wearing a monocle but he looks like he should be. I tersely give him the account number and write down the code for him, and mill around in the lobby until he walks out and matter-of-factly instructs me to follow him into an elevator.
It goes up to the second floor and he is noticeably annoyed when I hobble out after him, slowing his pace. Two more bank employees join us and walk into one of the vaults. Plural.
A distant part of me wonders how hard it would be to steal something from this place. The rest of me wants to throw up because I still think like that.
Inside there's a work table, heavily built. One at a time, they lay out ten safe deposit boxes on the table and unlock them. I move to open one and the Swiss Bank Butler lightly grasps my wrist.
"After we leave," he says, calmly. "Before we do, is there anything I can assist you with?"
"I need something to carry stuff out of here."
He nods, and they bring me a big canvas bag, like a gym bag. I'm not sure how I'm going to carry that, until they roll in a cart. It looks like the big flat shopping cart you'd use at a hardware store to move an air conditioner.
Then they finally leave, and lock me in. It's weirdly cold in here, the air dry enough to irritate my nostrils when I breathe. There's no security cameras in here. None of the employees know what's in the boxes, and I don't think they care. I'm not completely sure what to expect either.
There is nothing left of me. I don't know what to make of my father. What was a lie, and what wasn't? Were there any terrorists at all? Was the whole thing made up to string me along?
Why do I have a feeling that there would have been another job, and another and another until he died and left
me a bitter shell?
Not that I'm much more than a bitter shell now. Without Diana I'm a dead man walking.
Let's open these fuckers.
The first one is full of bearer bonds. Funny thing about those, they don't make them anymore. It must be from an old score. I don't remember it. My heart races as I look them over. If they're genuine, there's over fifteen million dollars in this box alone. This is a lot of bearer bonds, but then again, I'm in a bank. I can make it work.
The next box is full of diamonds. Just diamonds, no jewelry, no settings, just the rocks. The box after that, actual jewelry. Gold and emeralds, rubies and star sapphires. It looks like a treasure chest in a movie. I sigh as I realized it's going to take several days to move all this, even with the free duffel bag. That's how you know you've arrived: Your bank account includes free luggage. I open more boxes, find more treasures. Nothing identifiable, nothing that I could return after tracking down the owner. In the next to last box, I find much less, at least by volume. There's a stack of passports, all kinds of identity papers and notebooks.
I flip through them, finding the ones with my picture, until I spot one I like. Then I make up my mind.
Apollo
Temple is dead. He bled to death in a hospital in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I'm David McCay now. I slip the papers in my pockets, and fill the bag with the bearer bonds. After I close the boxes and knock on the door, the bank men come back and put it all away, under my supervision.
Dealing with the bonds takes the rest of the day and I spend it on edge, my heart racing as I think about what could happen to me if they decide they were stolen. At the end of it, I use the money to open a new account. I would say in my own name but no, it's just another number.
After a fitful sleep in the hotel fighting my achy leg, I make another trip to the bank. I spend the next day making three trips back and forth, and then the next, and then the next, until I'm sitting in the hotel room with about fifty million dollars worth of stolen goods and a thousand dollars worth of packing supplies. The diamonds and such I'll move myself. The identifiable items, ranging from watches to necklaces to what I'm pretty sure is something that's supposed to go in a girl's belly button.
Tempted to keep that one.
I take every precaution. I'm going to ship from the bank, I'm handling everything with gloves, and I bought everything I'm using from the computer I will type the letters on to the printer to the paper and envelopes with cold hard cash, using every trick I know to avoid being noticed. The damn boxes are heavy, the shipping is going to be expensive, but I don't care.
The diamonds might have come from someone shady. The rest… I don't know if the police will be able to identify the owners of all these things. Hopefully if they can't they'll auction them off and put the money to good use.
On my last day at the bank I ship boxes full of treasure to various police agencies. Interpol, the FBI. I'm tempted to send one to the FDA in Diana's honor but I don't think they'd get the joke. I drain all of my father's accounts and wire the money to a list of charities. The bank employees carry out these requests with all the interest they might show filling out a crossword puzzle. I keep expecting to be jumped by a SWAT team any minute, but I walk out of the bank with a slightly clearer conscience a free man named David.
Everything after that is a blur, a warped mixture of apprehension and impatience. I tap my good foot in the airport as if I could will the plane to pull into the gate faster, hobble down the jetway with my cane with a purpose and settle into my coach seat and try to sleep, but end up giving up after an hour with my eyes closed. By the time I land in Baltimore, I'm exhausted. I feel like I've spent the last twelve hours lying in a cold bath.