I WOKE UP a little while later, but I was groggy as hell. Reminded me of my college days. My arm had been set and wrapped in a temporary cast, and my cuts and bruises were all taped up. They may have also shot me full of painkillers, since everything was a little blurry, and I had an intense urge to sing Come On Eileen.
Sarah’s cheerful face was the first thing I saw. She gave me a big hug.
“Hey Virtue! Looks like you made it.”
“Hey, Sarah. You could have just called.” She hit me square in the arm, but it didn’t hurt much. I played it up a little.
“I finally got the police interested!” she said.
“How?”
“I told them there was a bomb in the building.”
“There was,” I said.
“I know. They didn’t seem too interested, but then I called the RCMP Counterterrorism Division, and that really got things moving.”
“You have them on speed dial?”
“They were here in fifteen minutes, and they brought everyone with them.”
From the back of the ambulance, I looked around at all the flashing red and blue lights. “I can see. Good job.”
“Sounds like you’ve got to answer a few questions from the police, but it looks good all around. You caught the thieves, prevented a huge bomb from going off, and you didn’t kill anyone.”
“Really? That’s a relief. And yet …”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Obviously, I didn’t want anyone to die.”
“Don’t worry. You messed them all up. Pretty badly, too.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“But after you talk to the cops, I get to interview you.”
“Of course.”
I stood up and shrugged off the mylar emergency blanket. There were about a dozen cars and trucks in the parking lot. There were a lot of stretchers coming out of the building. A cool, moist wind was blowing in from the lake. Finally, a break from the heat.
“I’m worried you’ll lose your job over this.”
“Really? I’m not. It was a dull job, anyway.”
“Sounds like the bank was into some shady business practices. You may have uncovered some things they didn’t want uncovered.”
“You should report on that,” I said. “Bring them down, or whatever it is you journalists do.”
“Oh, I will. Next stop, Globe and Mail! And it’s all thanks to you, Virtue! You should almost get killed more often.”
“I don’t think I can manage more than once a month.”
“But it probably means the end of your paycheck.”
“Ah well, maybe my art sales will go up again after the publicity from your news article. I could bleed on a few more paintings.”
“You shouldn’t bleed on your paintings.”
“Or,” I said, pulling the crumpled paper from my pocket, “maybe this will help.”
“What is it?” she asked, flattening out the sheet and looking at it.
“Twelve recovery words.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said as I took the paper, folded it up, and pocketed it again. “Probably not worth anything.”