Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

Michael opened the door, slid out. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the figures in the car behind him. No one moved.

“Something wrong?” the cop asked.

Michael threw his hands up. “Stalled.”

“Try it again.”

Michael gestured to Charlotte. She slid across the front seat, took his hand. “I’m afraid the battery’s dead. I had to jump it just a few minutes ago. It’s not going to start. I’m going to have to push it.”

The cop shook his head. He glanced up the street at the other officer directing traffic. By the time he turned back they were joined by someone.

It was Aleks. He was standing right next to them.

“Need a hand?” Aleks asked.

The cop turned, sized the big man up. For police officers, whenever citizens get out of their vehicles, in the middle of the street, without being asked, it was a red flag. Now this cop had two citizens in the middle of the street. He looked over Aleks’s shoulder, at the woman and the little girl in the driverless SUV. “No,” the cop said. “We’ve got it under control, sir.”

At this close range, Michael could see that Aleks was about his age. His eyes were a pale blue; he had a scar on his left cheek. They stood, wordlessly assessing each other. Between them stood the police officer. The armed police officer.

Would Aleks take this chance? Michael wondered. He gripped Charlotte’s hand tightly, eased a step backward.

“I really don’t mind,” Aleks said. As he took a step forward, Michael and Charlotte retreated yet another step, angling themselves behind the police officer.

“Sir, please return to your vehicle,” the officer said. “We can handle this.”

Michael and Charlotte edged toward the curb and the sidewalk. Aleks did not move. Michael saw Aleks’s right hand descend, saw his forefinger touch the hem of his coat. The moment drew out. The officer stiffened, nearing a state of heightened alert. He turned fully to Aleks. “Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. Please get back in your vehicle.”

Aleks put his hands out, palms up, as if to say: Sorry, I was just trying to help.

As Aleks did this, the right side of his coat fell open. Michael – and the police officer – both saw the large knife on Aleks’s hip.

The officer put a hand on his weapon. “Sir, please turn around and put your hands on the car. Do it now!”

Aleks glanced at the gun, at Michael, at the officer. He backed up a foot. The cop spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. A few anxious seconds later he received a reply. Michael knew all the codes. There were other officers on the way.

In this moment Michael and Charlotte stepped onto the sidewalk. Michael glanced at the SUV, at Emily, saw her lift her hands, bunch her sweater at her neck, shiver, as if she was freezing. It was a funny gesture, an inside joke between Michael and his daughter.

When Michael was small, he used to stand for minutes on end in front of the refrigerator, door open, never being able to make up his mind about what he wanted. His mother, ever trying to save a few pennies here and there on electricity, would always say to him: “Would you like me to get you a sweater?”

The routine continued with Michael and Emily, who was the same way Michael was as a child.

But why is she doing that now? Michael wondered.

Before he could think about it further, hell came to the street. It all happened at once. A woman on the sidewalk screamed as the officer unsnapped his holster. Before the cop could clear his weapon, Aleks had the knife off his hip. In a blur he slashed the police officer, the long blade catching the cop on the right side of his neck. Bright red blood fountained high into the blue sky. The officer staggered back against the car, his eyes wide with surprise and horror. Aleks cut him again, this time from shoulder to shoulder. The cop slid to the ground, slicking the car behind him.

For Michael, everything slowed. He heard another woman on the other side of the street start screaming. In the distance he heard car horns blow. Someone, hanging out of one the windows above, yelled “Hey!”

The other officer arrived on the scene, and seemed to take a moment to realize what he was looking at. He started to draw his weapon, but it was too late. Aleks pivoted, and kicked the man just below his jaw, splintering the young officers’ teeth. The officer crashed back into the Ford. As he was falling to the ground, Aleks slashed him with the knife. It opened a large wound in the man’s chest. In seconds his blue shirt was black with blood.

Michael and Charlotte backed quickly away from the scene on the street, working their way through the gathering crowd.

Sirens blared in the near distance. The older officer, now on the pavement, his face and hands covered in blood, raised his weapon and fired at Aleks, but the shot went wide, smashing into the side of his sector car. More screams as Aleks came in low and kicked the weapon from the man’s hand. It skittered beneath a parked car.

Aleks, clearly disoriented, spun in place, the huge knife in front. He backed toward the SUV. On the sidewalks people were running, scattering. Aleks spun 360, looking for Michael in the hysterical crowd. He found him nearly fifty feet away, separated by scores of people.

Aleks and Michael looked at each other. A pair of sector cars were now just a half-block away. They would be on the scene in seconds, weapons drawn.

Aleks jumped back in the SUV. He put it in reverse, floored it, burned white smoke from the tires. He backed up all the way to 94th Street, and spun out, nearly causing an accident. Seconds later the SUV was gone.

Michael turned, continued up the avenue, as quickly as he could without running. Charlotte did her best to keep up. When they got to the alley, he scooped Charlotte into his arms.

They ran down Roosevelt Avenue – Michael all the while waiting to hear footsteps behind him. Moments later they came to the Junction Avenue subway stop, and boarded a train.

She was handcuffed to the inside of the car door. She held Emily’s hand, tried to focus. There had been many times in her career when chaos ruled the ER, when the waiting room was full, as were the four bays. Blood, bedlam, misery, pain. Dealing with it was a matter of triage, a process of prioritizing the injured for treatment according to the seriousness of their condition.

That’s what she had to do right now. She knew what she wanted – for all of this to be over, for she and the girls and Michael to be safe – but that was the end of things. She had to figure a way to get there.

She had to prioritize.

The horrors were compounding. First Kolya, then Detective Powell. Then the police officers on the street. She had heard the sirens before they had gone a block. She envisioned the next few minutes, the image of the police surrounding them, guns drawn. There was the possibility that none of them – Aleks, Emily or herself – were going to survive.

Barreling down the street, running both stop signs and red lights, sending cars careening, Abby could smell the brute rage coming off Aleks. The steering wheel was sticky with drying blood. He drove quickly but expertly through traffic on 94th Street toward Lamont Avenue.

Abby heard the sirens closing in. Just a few blocks away. When they reached Lamont Avenue Aleks pulled the SUV down an alley, behind a four-story apartment building. He cut the engine.

The police cars passed the alley, the sound reverberating between the brick walls. Aleks got out of the SUV, left the door open, began to pace. His eyes were manic, crazed.

“Where is he going?” he screamed.

Emily started at the sound. Abby put her arm around her daughter. “I don’t know,” Abby said.