What Grows in Your Garden

by Carolyn P Schriber

  “No, I don’t much like it, but it’s necessary. Now quit giving me trouble and head for home.”

  At the garage, he offered his hand to help her from the car, and they started toward the apartments. Close to the door, a small shadow erupted from the bushes and ran across the sidewalk in front of them.

  “That was Elijah! How did he get out of the apartment? He’s never allowed outside.” Sarah struggled to pull her hand free and follow the cat.

  “It was a cat, but it’s too dark for you to see that it was Elijah. There are cats all over this neighborhood.”

  “It was Elijah! I know what he looks like in the dark. Let go. You’re being silly and over-protective.”

  “No, Sarah! Stop! Get behind me. Your back door is standing open.”

  Now Sarah saw it, too—a sliver of light where there should be nothing but a dark doorframe. “How . . .?”

  “Sh-h-h-h. Did you notice a truck parked in front of the apartment building when we pulled in?” He was whispering in her ear.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Well, it was there—a red Dodge Ram pickup. Sound familiar?”

  “You think she’s . . .?”

  “I think it’s possible. Stand behind me and don’t make a sound. I don’t want her to hear your voice.” He pulled his revolver from its holster and steadied it with both hands. “Birch Falls Police. Is anyone there? Come out with your hands where I can see them.”

  No response.

  “Police. We have surrounded the building. Come out now and we won’t have further trouble.”

  “That’s a lie!” Sarah whispered.

  “Sh-h-h-h.”

  “Last chance,” he called. Someone opened the door a little wider and a flash of light followed. The sound of a single gunshot echoed against the surrounding buildings, and David flexed his right arm. “Oof! Nicked me.”

  “David! Are you hit?”

  “Just grazed my arm. It’s OK.” He steadied the gun again and shouted. “Enough is enough. Cassie? I know you’re in there. Throw that gun down and come out before someone gets hurt.”

  The sliver of light widened again as if in response. Then gunfire erupted with several shots in a cluster. David reeled, his revolver falling from his useless hand. Blood sprayed over Sarah’s face and clothes as she reached for him.

  David was still on his feet, his left hand clutching his right arm as his shattered shoulder bubbled with blood. In the following silence, they heard running footsteps and then the sound of a truck engine starting up.

  “She’s getting away!” David pressed his microphone button with his left hand. “Officer shot. Riverside Gardens Apartments, 300-block Main. Suspect departing scene in red Dodge Ram.”

  He stopped for breath. “Suspect is 20-ish female, blonde, going north on Main Street, heading toward interstate—uh, eastbound I-40. Consider her armed and dangerous.”

  “Roger. Sending APB now. Officer Cohen? Do you need medical transport?” The voice sounded tinny and far away.

  “No.”

  “Yes!” Sarah shouted over the mike, but David clicked it off—then back on.

  “That’s a negative. We’re close to a hospital. I can get there faster than you can get someone to me. Keep all units working on intercepting that truck.”

  Sarah pulled off her suit jacket, balled it up, and pressed it under his armpit and against his shoulder to stop the bleeding. “Don’t die on me, David.”

  “I won’t, but you will need to help me into the car.”

  Sarah grasped his left arm and took as much of his weight as she could as they back tracked to the vehicles.

  “My car is blocking yours. Have you ever driven a police cruiser?”

  “No, but I’m a quick study.”

  “You can do it. It’s just a car if you ignore the bells and whistles.”

  She tugged the passenger door open and pushed him into the seat. Trying not to lean on him, she reached for the seatbelt.

  “Don’t bother with that.”

  “Yes. The strap will help hold this padding in place, and I don’t want you flopping over on me if you pass out.”

  “Joke, joke, joke. Just drive. The steering wheel and gas pedal work just like a regular car. Key’s in the dash. Turn left and head down Main about five blocks. Hospital’s on the right. I will turn on the lights and siren to keep other drivers out of your way and to alert the hospital when we approach.”

  Later, Sarah would not remember any part of that drive until she saw the ‘Emergency’ sign and pulled up under the canopied entrance. Swinging doors flew outward as gowned medical personnel swarmed toward the police car. Two of them opened the passenger door, lifted David onto a gurney, and rushed him inside.

  Sarah sat frozen, hands still gripping the steering wheel, eyes closed, tears streaming down her face. A nurse tapped at the window and then opened the door and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Where are you wounded?”

  Sarah shook herself into awareness. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re covered in blood, ma’am.”

  “His blood . . . David’s . . . Where . . .?”

  “He’s on his way to help. My guess is they’ve headed straight to Surgery. Come. Let me help you inside.”

  Sarah started to say, “I don’t need . . .” but her knees buckled under her. The nurse gestured toward the swinging doors and someone came running with a wheelchair. They took her into a private cubicle where another pair of gentle hands used a warm wet towel to wipe the blood from her face and hands. She shivered and looked down at her bare arms.

  “You must be cold.”

  “My jacket,” she said. “I used it to stop the bleeding.”

  “It’s a mess. Let me get you a blanket.”

  She accepted the warm blanket and the bottle of water someone handed her, but she struggled to sit forward. “David? Where is he? I need to see him.”

  The restraint was gentle but firm. “He’s in good hands. They’ve already moved him into the O.R. to stop the bleeding. Then they’ll be able to do the x-rays and identify the broken bones. He’ll be there for hours, but the doctor will come out and talk to you as soon as they know how he is doing. The police will want to talk to you, too, I imagine. Until then, you can rest here. Someone will stay with you, and we’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.”

  The efficient head nurse departed and a younger girl took her place. “Is that policeman your husband, ma’am?”

  “Not yet,” she answered. “Uh, no. I don’t know why I said that. We’re just friends.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Help Arrives

  May 2, 2009

  An hour later, Chief of Police Hiram Durrell tapped at the door. “Are you the young woman who brought Lieutenant Cohen to the hospital?”

  “Yes, sir. Am I in trouble for stealing a police vehicle?”

  “Well, I understand you were driving a police car without authority, but given the circumstances, I don’t think we’ll charge you. I would, however, like to introduce myself and hear your story.”

  Sarah clutched her blanket around her shoulders and stood up, extending her hand. “You're a familiar figure, Chief Durrell. I’m Sarah Chomsky—Doctor Chomsky—an assistant professor at Smoky Mountain.”

  “And your relationship with David Cohen?”

  “We’re friends. Sometimes involved in a relationship, I guess, but for the most part, just friends.”

  “From what I understand, he’s involved enough to have stepped in front of you and taken several bullets to protect you.”

  “He did, but I suspect he would do that for anyone.”

  “Perhaps. And I didn’t mean to pry. But if it were not for you . . . Oh, never mind. What can the police department do to help you? I can’t send you home because we will have blocked off your apartment as a crime scene for a while. Is there someone I can call for you—family, maybe, or a friend? Somewhere you can stay until we finish dusting for fingerprint
s and looking for shell casings?”

  “No. I’m fine. I need to wait for the doctor’s report.”

  “That may take quite a while.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m staying here.”

  “Well, let me see what I can find out.”

  He headed for the nurses’ station and flashed his badge. Within a few minutes, he returned with a doctor in tow. “Now, tell us what is being done for Lieutenant Cohen, please.”

  “Sir, I can’t reveal private information to anyone without family connections.”

  “This is the woman who saved his life. That’s qualification enough for me. And I’m asking as a police matter.”

  The doctor flinched and then plunged ahead. “All right. The officer was bleeding out when he arrived, and we discovered a nick in his axillary artery. If it had been a severed artery, he would have bled out earlier, but this injury caused a slower blood leak. Also, someone put pressure on the wound and padded it with soft fabric, which helped slow the blood flow. That was our priority, and we rushed him to the operating room to repair that damage. He lost a lot of blood, but he’s receiving transfusions, and he will survive.

  “His other injuries may be more problematic because there are so many of them. He has a shattered scapula—that’s his shoulder blade and the foundation for the free movement of the arm. Another bullet broke his clavicle—the collarbone. There are three separate breaks in his humerus or upper arm. In effect, the only thing keeping his arm attached to his body is the skin they share. The skeletal structure of his shoulder and his rotator cuff disintegrated under the hail of bullets.”

  “Will he lose the arm?”

  “No, ma’am. We’ll take every precaution not to let that happen, but the healing process will limit his use of the arm for some time. That’s the most I can tell you. Now I need to get back to the patient.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to ask the police chief more questions, but a young patrolman burst into the room at that moment. “Chief? How’s the lieutenant? Oh, pardon me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to interrupt . . . Uh, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  Sarah dredged up a memory. “You were working as David’s partner the night all those car doors got keyed in the faculty parking lot at Smoky Mountain. Officer . . . Martin, is it?”

  “Marzetti, ma’am. Sergeant Marzetti, now that David moved into administration. And I remember you, too. You were a victim, and the sergeant wouldn’t let anyone talk to you but himself.”

  Sarah couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

  The chief interrupted. “The lieutenant will be fine, sergeant, but I want to hear about the shooter. Aren’t you supposed to be out with your men, hunting down that fleeing truck?”

  “The chase is over, sir. The suspect hit the Main Street bridge abutment at the viaduct. Flipped that Dodge Ram right up, back to front, and it went over the edge into the ravine. The truck ended upside down on the rocks under the falls.”

  “What about the driver?”

  “Oh, she didn’t survive the crash, sir. They’re still out there trying to extricate the body from the wreckage, but I suspect they will wait for daylight in case they need the jaws of life to cut her out. I came on ahead to check on Lieutenant Cohen.

  “Oh, no! Cassie!” Sarah’s voice tangled with a sob. Her body felt empty, as it might feel at the first drop of a roller-coaster. The walls started to spin, the room went dark, and she spiraled downward into nothingness.

  Both men reached for her as she fell, and a nurse came running with a bottle of smelling salts. “There, there, Doctor Chomsky. Don’t faint on us. Sit back into the wheelchair and put your head down toward your knees. A sip of water will help, too.”

  As Sarah regained her equilibrium, she realized the chief was staring at her.

  “You knew the suspect, Doctor Chomsky?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard. “She is . . . was . . . one of my students.”

  “Had you been having problems with her?”

  “Well, the thing is . . . I guess confidentiality doesn’t matter much now that she’s dead . . . She suffered from a bipolar disorder. She was fine as long as she took her meds.

  “She went off them?”

  “She seemed to understand how necessary they were when she experienced one of those dark plunges. She was more than willing to treat her depression. But during the manic phase . . . honestly? I think she enjoyed her power trips. She would fixate on some wild scheme to rule the world . . . or at least part of the campus . . . and . . . is any of this making sense or am I just rambling?”

  “It’s a difficult condition to understand. Go on.”

  “It becomes worse when you know about her background. She grew up back in the mountains in one of those fundamentalist enclaves. They didn’t send any of their kids to school. Cassie taught herself to read from an old primer she found in the attic, and from there she tried to educate herself. When she turned eighteen, she escaped from the family and came to Birch Falls . . . turned up on campus and registered for classes. The college has been trying to help her ever since, but she was so unstable . . .”

  “So, there’s been trouble all along?”

  “More so this year when she started graduate work. She’s failing, and our department planned to drop her from the program at the end of this term. She blamed all of us for her missteps, and in this latest manic phase, she became convinced that she is . . . was . . . a witch. A good one, she insisted, sent by God to do his will on campus. That’s when she started messing around with spells and poisonous plants . . . She was trying to stop us from kicking her out.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yes, I knew as much about her as anyone did, and David has been worried that she was targeting me. But I never thought she would . . .”

  Sarah stopped and buried her face in her hands.

  Chief Durrell shook his head. “Excuse us for a few minutes while we check on some details. Marzetti, you come with me. You rest now, my dear. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  Twenty minutes later, he returned, bringing Martha Wright with him. “You know the dean’s secretary, I presume.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I remembered another crisis when Martha came to the rescue of someone associated with the college. I called her, and she dashed right down. I’m leaving you in her good hands. She’ll take you home with her and see to it you get food and rest.”

  “But David . . . He’s still in surgery . . . The doctor assured me he would let me know when . . . I promised to wait for him . . .”

  “I checked with the doctors again. The surgery is going well, but it’s complicated and will take several more hours. Then he’ll be in recovery through most of the morning. They tell me they will allow no one to see him until tomorrow. And you’ll be in better condition to comfort him once Martha has given you a little care tonight. Take yourself off, now, and do as she tells you.”

  Martha led Sarah to her car. “Here you go, now. Put your head back and relax. I’ll have you settled in my guest room in no time.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Hush. This is part of my college responsibility. I play housemother for many folks in the course of a year—stranded salesmen, guest speakers, worried parents, and homesick kids. And to tell the truth, I enjoy it. It gets lonely after a while—living alone all these years since my husband passed. My guest room fills me with both purpose and company.”

  “Did they tell you . . .?”

  “About Cassie? Yes. It’s tragic, and I feel some guilt, too, that we didn’t do enough to save her from herself. We’ll all mourn for her.”

  “I’m shattered from all that’s happened.”

  “You will feel lots better once we get your shattered pieces put back together. Here we are. This is home for the next day or so. Come on in and don’t mind the animals. They’re used to company.”

  “You have a cat? So do I, or at least I did before tonight. I don’t know what happene
d to him, either.” Sarah’s voice quivered again as she tried to keep from crying.

  “Well, this is Jingle, who would be the first to tell you that your cat will be fine. Cats are clever about avoiding trouble. And Jingle the Cat has other friends here—you’ll meet Crocker the cocker spaniel, Grumpy the guinea pig, and Elvis the cockatoo. We maintain a peaceable kingdom in which they all respect one another’s territory. They serve as a good reminder for me sometimes.”

  “Elvis is a bird?”

  “Yes, I just called him Tweety until one of my guests taught him to say ‘Thank you verruh much’ and ‘Left the building.’ Then we decided his white feathers and yellow plume did look like an Elvis jumpsuit.”

  Sarah laughed and then realized she was relaxing at last.

  “Now then. Your first job is to get out of those blood-stained clothes and soak yourself in a nice warm bath. You’ll find a laundry basket in your room. Put everything in there—even your underwear—and I’ll get a load of laundry started so you have clean clothes for morning. You’ll find an oversize sleep shirt, a wraparound robe, and some disposable slippers on your bed. When you’re ready, come down to the kitchen and I’ll have something for you to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry. You don’t need to . . .”

  “Nonsense. You may not know you’re hungry, but you need all the nourishment you can get to give you strength for the next few days. Besides, the soup is already hot. Now, off you go.”

  The scented bath water, the hot soup, some crisp sheets, and a soft blanket conspired to put Sarah to sleep for hours. When she woke, the sun was streaming in the window, and Jingle the cat lay purring on the pillow next to her face. Crocker the cocker snored on the floor next to the bed. She pulled the robe on again and padded down to the kitchen, with the animals trailing behind.

  Martha turned from the stove with a pot in her hand. “Good morning, love. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  “There’s oatmeal, too, although I can cook you some eggs if you would . . .”