by Teddy Hester
“Moon.” His voice is weak, breathy. “Need to find Moon.”
There is no moon. It’s still day. This man needs a doctor. “Let me get you to safety first.”
“Another pilot. Moon. I need to find him.” He tries to turn toward the other wreck.
Ah, not the Earth’s satellite, after all. He doesn’t need to hear about the other pilot yet, the one I don’t even want to think about. I'm so afraid there will be another explosion, and we'll be caught. It's a miracle he was able to survive the crash. I can't lose him now. Not again. Not like my parents. We wrestle for direction. “I can only handle one of you at a time. We need to distance ourselves from the fire.”
The man nods a little and seems to marshal some control over his limbs, though he still mutters about the other pilot. Half-crushed under my burden and half-dragging him with me, we head for the car. I throw open the back hatch of the Mercedes wagon and let him slip off my shoulder, thankful I brought the work car instead of my sports coupe. He collapses onto the carpeted platform, out cold. It’s a struggle, but I manage to roll his large body the rest of the way in so I can slam down the upraised door.
Hurrying to the driver’s side as quickly as my wobbling legs will allow, I climb in and bolt down the lane, getting back on the road to Trier and the hospital. As I phone authorities, I glance in the rearview mirror at my passenger and hope he can make the journey.
Suddenly aware of the violent, rubbery shaking of my own arms and legs, I hope I can make the journey.
CHAPTER 3
Menuett
Trier has several hospitals. I drive to one that’s near the Mosel, just off the highway. In an ancient city full of Roman ruins, the modern medical facility looks like stacked sugar cubes with windows for crystals.
The Emergency Room drive is crowded, with an ambulance discharging a gurney surrounded by a triage team, and a pregnant woman being walked into the hospital by an anxious male. Dodging these perils, I pull over to a quieter spot and hop out of the car to rush and open the back. My reflection in the pilot’s visor stares back at me. It’s still an eerie sight, right out of the worst of my scary dream. With shaking hands, I reach out for the helmet. It’s cold and lifeless to my touch. A strap under the chin is easily unfastened, and I tug at the headgear.
It’s a snug fit. For a hideous moment, I think my first impression is correct and this globe is, in fact, the creature’s head. But another frightened yank separates the helmet from the man’s head, and I toss the offensive plastic shell to the side, where it rolls and then bounces with a dull clatter to the concrete.
Cradled in the cargo bay is no alien, but a kind of apparition just the same. No one on Earth looks like this. He hasn’t merely fallen from the sky in a modern-day jet; he’s fallen directly out of a museum display. Here is marble turned flesh, taking its rest in the back of my car.
Before I can process what I’m seeing, I’m gently pushed aside by the medical staff whose quick efficiency lifts the man onto a gurney. “He has a head wound,” one of them says, beginning to clean the patient’s forehead.
He survives an impossible accident, with only a cut on his head? How?
This is a strong man in his prime, with dark, short, sweat-and-blood-spiked hair, heavy black brows, and a smudge of thick black lashes fanned across chiseled bronze cheeks. A shadow of a beard stubbles the handsome square jaw. What color might his eyes be, when he awakens? If he awakens.
He must awaken. I have to know who he is and why he’s been haunting me for so long…
“Are you hurt, too, miss?” a nurse asks as we trail inside behind the gurney.
I feel like I’ve been wounded, like I’ll never be all right again, after witnessing what I did and ending up with this beautiful, marvelous treasure of a man in place of the disturbing creature from The Dream.
Time to deal with that later. “I’m fine. Will he be all right?”
Charred and tattered blue cloth covers his body. It’s a jumpsuit of medium-weight fabric, crisscrossed by zippers of varying sizes. Most appear to close pockets, but the longest divides his body in half lengthwise, obviously allowing him to get the suit on and off. There are two pulls to that zipper—one at the top, under his chin, and one at the bottom, over his…I avert my gaze as I realize what that one’s for.
“We’re checking him for injuries now. I need some information from you, please.”
I nod and watch as they cut the uniform away from his body, revealing bronze shoulders and a crisp carpet of black curls covering the better part of his muscular torso. It forms a wide inverted triangle across his chest, tapering to point significantly at what resides inside the burgundy boxer briefs clinging to the man’s narrow hips. This isn’t the first man I’ve seen nearly naked, but he’s definitely the first to make me so vitally aware of my own femininity. I’m not sure I like the feeling.
With a deep inhalation, I drag my attention back to the nurse. “I don’t know much.”
“What happened to him?”
“His plane crashed, and he staggered out of the fire.”
Her eyes widen, and she gives him a quick glance. “A plane crashed? Where?”
“About a half-hour southwest of here.”
“My God. And you witnessed it?”
All I can do is nod. They’ve taken him to an examination bay and drawn a curtain for privacy.
“Your name?” the nurse asks.
“Menuett von Sternau.”
One brow raises slightly. “Ah, from Star Meadow. I thought you looked familiar. And this man—may I have his name? Address? Next of kin?”
“I don’t know him. I was driving and saw the crash. There were two planes.”
She glances up from her hand-held. “Two? You witnessed a crash of two planes?”
“The other one crashed first. That pilot—” I bury my face in my hands as if to shield myself from again seeing the carnage.
The nurse places a steadying hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. You should be checked, too. You may need a sedative.”
Pulling myself together, I shake my head. “No. I’ll be all right. What more do you need from me? Can I wait and see if he’s going to survive?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure the police will want to talk to you, too.” Her eyes are soft and understanding.
It makes me tear up, though I’m hardly a victim in this scenario. “Thank you. Do you have a tissue?”
“Yes, of course.” She reaches into a cabinet hidden in the wall of an unoccupied bay and grabs a small, flat pack of tissues for me. “Come. Let me show you where you can get some coffee or cocoa. I’m Anna, and we’ll pass the information desk where you’ll be able to ask more questions as they arise.”
*****
Seated at the pilot’s bedside, I survey the hospital room. Alfred’s snoring softly in a chair, and Birgitte’s whistling breath comes from the second bed. When I called to tell them why I’d be late and probably staying overnight in Trier, Alfred wouldn’t hear of my being alone. And wherever Alfred is, Birgitte is.
I’m glad they came. They arrived about the same time as the police and a man in an expensive suit claiming he was the production executive for the film the pilots were flying for, so that meant I only had to go through the crash details once. Birgitte’s hand gripped mine through the retelling, and I clutched hers with equal emotion.
The film executive gave us more information about our pilot. His name is Mick DePaul, he was twenty-nine on his last birthday, he has an impeccable flying record. Mr. Stambaugh told us the dead pilot was Greg Mooney, which explains why Mick keeps calling for Moon.
Every time Mick rouses, he becomes very agitated, reliving Moon’s last minutes. The hospital staff has kept Mick heavily sedated, giving him time to recover from the horrible event. He hasn’t been lucid enough yet to be told of Moon’s fate or even about his own. As horrible as it was for me to witness the crash, I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be the surviving pilot. I’m sure
I’d wake up screaming, too.
He stirs, tossing his head back and forth on the pillow and moaning softly. If he gets too worked up, the nurse will come back and sedate him again. If it’s necessary, then I want him to have the medication. But I’d like to see if all he needs is reassurance and human contact. I reach for his hand. He stiffens, then latches onto my hand in a kind of death grip.
“I’ve gotcha, Moon! Hold on! I’ve gotcha!”
The man is strong. He drags me out of my seat and onto the bed with him before I can pull back. I glance over my shoulder at my retainers, hoping my gasp didn’t wake them. They haven’t moved.
Unlike the man, who’s thrashing about. “We’ve got to get out of this plane. It’s going to blow. Come on.”
I run my free hand through his thick, wavy brown hair and stroke gently, repetitively. “Shh…shh…you’re out. You’re safe. We’re safe. Be calm.”
His arms crush me against his chest. One hand cups the back of my head, my cheek pressed against his rock-hard chest. His heartbeat is fast, but steady. It’s not like hugging Alfred. I have to stop and remind myself who’s supposed to be comforting whom.
“Who are you?” he whispers, letting me sit up on the edge of his bed.
I raise the bed’s head, then grab a plastic cup fitted with its own plastic straw and hold it to his mouth. He takes a few sips of water, his hazel eyes following my every move. “My name is Menuett von Sternau. You’re in a hospital. Are you in pain? Shall I call the nurse?”
He shakes his head. “I thought you were an angel.”
My gaze snaps back to his face. “What?”
“In the fire.” He reaches up and fingers wayward curls around my face. “You saved me. Did you save the other pilot, too?”
Mein Gott. Should I tell him? How can I tell him?
I hold his hand against my cheek and say nothing.
It’s enough. He searches my face, then grips my hand and breaks down, weeping. I’ve never seen a grown man cry. It’s heartbreaking.
I rock his shuddering frame in my arms until he falls back to sleep.
When I release him to lie against the upraised bed, I catch Birgitte’s silent stare. She nods once. “Rest, liebchen. He’s going to need you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 4
Mick
Every bone in my body aches. Was I in a bar fight?
I glance around in the predawn light seeping through the window blinds. I’m in a hospital. And someone is holding my hand. Asleep, with her head on the edge of my bed.
A woman.
An angel.
Memory floods my aching head, drowning me in its murky depths.
Moon. Moon’s dead.
It doesn’t feel real. I don’t want it to be real. I’m going to turn my head, and he’s going to be sleeping peacefully in the next bed.
But instead of my burly friend, an old woman is lying fully clothed on that bed. And an elderly man sleeps in a chair near her. Who the hell are all these people?
I clamp my eyes shut. The pounding in my head also bangs in my chest. It hurts.
Am I having a heart attack? I groan and rub a fist over my heart, trying to ease the pain.
The angel stirs and lifts her head. “What is it?”
“My chest.” I rub harder. I think I could massage away the pain if I rub hard enough.
She jumps up. “I’ll get a doctor.”
Her movement out the door wakes the couple. Their quick patter is in German. I don’t know much of that language, just enough to get around places, curse, order beer, and flirt or pick up a girl, so I don’t catch anything their quiet tones communicate to each other.
The door opens, and a middle-aged man in blue scrubs and a white lab coat crosses to my bedside, the girl in tow. “Good morning, I’m Doctor Fischer,” he announces in fluent English. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been in a plane crash.”
He smiles with a nod and reaches for the stethoscope around his neck. “Ms. von Sternau tells me your chest hurts.” Fixing the instrument in his ears, he moves it a couple of places on my chest, listening.
“Everything sounds fine, Mr. DePaul. What were you doing when you felt the pain in your heart?”
The vise around my torso is easing. “Nothing. Waking up.”
Sharp eyes study me. “Thinking of yesterday?”
I nod, and the pain seeps back into my chest. “My friend…” It’s suddenly impossible to breathe.
The diaphragm of his stethoscope is instantly against my chest again, listening. “Calm breaths, Mr. DePaul. Take your time. It’s anxiety, and it will pass. Focus on breathing in and out, slowly, evenly.”
His voice mesmerizes me, and I can feel my body relax. The breathing does get easier.
“Tell me how this feels.” He pushes on my upper abdomen, on the left side.
“It’s tender.”
“And this?” He pushes lower on my abdomen.
“Also tender, but not as much.”
“Good. Now if you’ll sit up for me, please?”
It hurts to sit up, even with his help, so I have to use my arms to push my torso from lying down.
He’s doing the doctorly thing, observing while not being overt about it. “Abdominal muscles sore?”
“Yes. Why is that?”
The doctor doesn’t answer immediately, listening to things on my back through his stethoscope again. “Your body’s been through trauma. If you’ve ever been in a car accident, multiply that by a factor of ten. You’ll be sore for a week or so. Some of your internal organs have been bruised as well. Your spleen is enlarged. So far, I’ve seen nothing too worrisome, but I want to monitor you today and take another body scan tomorrow to make sure there’s no bleeding.”
“So, my heart?”
He smiles kindly. “The grief counselor coming later this morning will be able to help with that.”
Grief. I never knew it felt like a heart attack, but that makes sense. Grief means your heart is broken. Nothing can relieve how that feels. “Can I see Moon?” I can barely get his name past my lips.
“The other pilot?”
I nod.
“Mr. Mooney’s remains are being prepared for transport back to the States.”
His remains. The thought makes me nauseous. “Has his family been notified?” I should be the one to call. My phone is in my suitcase, back with the film crew. There’s too much for me to do to be lying here. Before anyone can stop me, I swing my legs over the side of the bed to stand.
And promptly collapse on the floor.
The elderly man is by my side in a flash. He and the doctor help get me back in bed.
“I guess that answers any questions we might have about when you can go home,” Dr. Fischer says with deadpan delivery as he adjusts the stethoscope so it’s in its proper place around his neck again. “Any new pains as a result of this latest trauma?”
I shake my head. “No, Doctor. I’m as useless today to help my friend as I was yesterday.”
He lays a hand on my shoulder, and when he speaks, his voice is low and calming, eyes penetrating. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mr. DePaul. It’s amazing you survived at all, and even more that you stayed conscious long enough to get out of your plane and away from the wreckage before it burst into flames. Give your body and your mind time to come to terms with yesterday’s events.”
“I need to be on that plane with Moon.”
“That’s unadvisable until we make certain your injuries are not indicative of more serious problems. How’s your head today, by the way?”
My hand flies to where he’s gazing and encounters a bandage I didn’t know was there. “It aches, like the rest of me.”
“I’m ordering breakfast for you—something gentle for your system—and a nurse will bring you some pain medicine.” He goes to the door. “Take it easy, and later today we’ll see if you’re strong enough for a shower.”
I lie back down, frustra
ted. “Thanks.”
The angel—Ms. von Sternau—steps closer to the bed again, flanked by the elderly couple. “Now that we know you’re going to be all right, we’re going to leave now, too.”
For some reason, that sends a chill of panic down my spine. I don’t even know these people, yet I don’t want them to go. “You saved my life, and now you’re running out on me? I’m Mick DePaul, by the way. You?” Her cheeks flush a pleasant rose, the escaped tendrils of her hair giving her the ethereal quality that made me think she was an angel when I first saw her.
Her smile is warm, and her big eyes are soft green. “I’m Menuett von Sternau, and these are my guardians, Birgitte and Alfred Kroth.”
I smile at the couple standing side-by-side close behind Menuett. Guardians. Is that the same as parents? They don’t share a surname. Is Menuett married? She’s not wearing a ring.
The woman’s eyes sparkle at me, while the man stands silently assessing me. Judging by the waves of strength cascading off him, he obviously considers these women his charges to protect, and I bet he does a fine job of it. “Thank you all for your help. I’m indebted to you,” I say with sincerity. Enthusiasm is beyond me today.
The woman opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the door flying open. Paul has found me at last. Good. As a film exec, he’ll have info on Moon, and maybe the pull to get me out of here and on Moon’s plane so I can be with Nina and the kids in their time of need. Fuck the grief counselor. Moon’s family and I will grieve together.
“Ms. von Sternau! Very nice to see you again,” Paul says in his loud, matter-of-fact way. He takes her hand in his large paw and pats it. It’s like watching Beauty and the Beast in person. “How are you holding up?”
I missed something between yesterday and today. “You two know each other?”
Paul turns his head, but doesn’t let go of Menuett’s hand. I notice that Alfred, already standing straight and tall, stiffens. Very protective. “Didn’t anyone tell you? She’s the one who brought you here. We met yesterday. And, again, how are you today, Ms. von Sternau?”
