The Sinners' Garden

by William Sirls

  “Isn’t Mr. Hart nice?” Chelsea said.

  Andy didn’t say anything. He just glanced at Uncle Rip, who winked at him.

  Uncle Rip stood and went to help Mr. Hart collect the prayer request cards, but between Uncle Rip still not wanting anybody to know he was sick yet, and his refusal to make the jump to the garden, Andy felt like he had to do something. He pulled a card out of the back of the pew and grabbed one of the little pencils.

  God . . . Thank You for everything You’ve ever given me. It’s all I need. But if things aren’t what I think and I’m wrong about the garden, can You please make sure Uncle Rip doesn’t suffer before he goes?

  Andy folded the card and when Mr. Hart came by, he put it in the basket. Then he pulled the iPod out of his pocket like a talisman and ran his thumb over the smooth surface. “Please, God,” he whispered. “It’s all I ask.”

  “Are you praying?” Chelsea asked, hope in her eyes. But the hope died when she saw the iPod in his hands.

  “Yeah,” Andy said, stuffing it in his back pocket. He didn’t care what she thought about how he prayed. He was ready to pull out all the stops, whatever it took, to see Uncle Rip get better.

  Uncle Rip returned and kissed Andy on the top of his head. And today it didn’t totally embarrass him like usual. Today he was glad.

  “I think they are ready for us to collect the offering,” Chelsea said.

  Andy looked at Uncle Rip, who nodded, indicating that Chelsea was right.

  It was Uncle Rip’s idea that he and Chelsea collect the offering that day, and that made him glad too. He wouldn’t be seeing much of her for a couple weeks because she and her brother were going to be staying at their aunt’s until Marjo’s surgery was over and her parents were back home on a regular basis.

  Andy and Chelsea walked up the aisle and took the two baskets from Pastor Welsh. When they turned around, he could see Uncle Rip smiling at him and he smiled back, suddenly feeling more sure than ever that God was going to make Uncle Rip better. If he’d just get to the garden . . .

  And that’s when Andy saw him.

  As he waited for one of the baskets to come back up the first row, he glanced back at the last pew on the other side of the church and smiled again.

  Eric Bower was sitting back there.

  Rip and Andy were sitting with their legs dangling over the edge of the ramp, staring at what was left of the wildflowers. What started out as four evenly divided plots was now just one section of flowers, neatly outlined in that beautiful black soil.

  Rip also noticed that the cracked mud of the last section Andy had seen disappear was already thick with grass. But Rip wasn’t focusing on the grass. He focused on Him.

  Because Rip could finally see Him. That faceless being who was over in the garden.

  That’s God, Rip thought, grinning. And in seeing God, he inherently understood that what was left of the garden wasn’t meant for him. He didn’t want to tell Andy that, though, because the kid had still been right. Regardless of whom it was meant for, Rip knew that he was now welcome to enter it, and when he did . . . he wouldn’t be sick anymore.

  But why do I have to do it on the bike?

  “You gonna jump it today?” Andy asked.

  Rip smiled and kept looking at the garden, basking in that faceless fountain of love that had him completely forgetting he was sick. All that remained was to make a few minor tweaks to the bike, and he’d pretty much be ready to go. He guessed on the ride out he had her going easily over ninety, more than enough speed to get him to the other side. Then an odd little thought skipped in and out of his mind.

  “What if I don’t make it?” Rip said, pointing down into the canal. “What if the bike hiccups and I land right there in the drink or face-first in the other bank?”

  Andy lifted his helmet up and gave it a peculiar look. “I noticed something’s rattling around in here on the ride out, Uncle Rip. Can you put it on and move your head from side to side to see if you can hear it?”

  Rip took the helmet and pulled it down over his head. Andy smacked him hard on the side of the helmet and it startled Rip.

  “I don’t care what you have going through your head,” Andy said. “You’re going to jump it and land right in that garden. And you will be healed.”

  Rip laughed. “A little dose of my own medicine, eh? Nice whap, bro.”

  “I also knew from my dream that Pastor Welsh would be the one to tell you when you were ready. And he’s told you, right? That you’re ready?”

  “How did you know that?”

  Andy shrugged. “I just knew.”

  “I see,” Rip said, thinking, Welsh didn’t tell me I was ready to go in the flowers, he told me I was ready to die.

  “So I don’t see what the big deal is,” Andy said. “Go for it. Jump it right now.”

  Rip took the helmet off and ran his hand across the top of Andy’s head.

  “Tonight or tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Carrie Hart pointed at her feet. She had a different shoe on each foot. “Which one of these do you think looks best?”

  It didn’t matter which one he picked. She’d go with the other one.

  “I like the one on your left foot,” Hart said.

  “I’m still not sure what type of turnout we are going to have tonight,” Carrie said. “You should have told the church you were going to be late to the fund-raiser.”

  “What difference does it make?” Hart said, sitting at his desk in the far corner of the bedroom. “You and I both know we’re going to end up carrying the majority of Marjo’s surgery anyhow.” He sighed. “Besides, I won’t be down in Tecumseh that long. I just need to drive by and check something out on the grounds at Phillips before the deal closes.”

  “Just hurry and get back,” Carrie said. “I refuse to look like a fool sitting at the head table by myself.”

  “I said I’d be there,” he said.

  He would be there all right. But first the Summer Santa had a little bit of work to do at the Cochrans’ place.

  Because like Heather said, doing a whole lot of good made up for a whole lot of bad. But lately, the Summer Santa has been a little too good.

  Judi was sitting next to Pastor Welsh at the Benning Country Club when Teddy Cochran approached their table. Teddy looked like he’d aged in the last few months, but made the effort to walk around and thank everyone for attending the fund-raiser.

  “I’m sorry your brother and Andy couldn’t make it,” he said.

  “Rip’s feeling a little under the weather,” Judi said.

  “Andy home with him or is he not feeling well either?” Teddy asked. “Chelsea mentioned he didn’t seem much like himself today.”

  Judi didn’t answer. She glanced over at Chelsea, who was sitting as one of the guests of honor with Carrie Hart, who was dressed like she should be at the Oscars. They were at elevated tables that looked as if they were prepared for members of a wedding party or a celebrity roast. Chelsea glanced over and realized Judi was looking at her. She smiled and lipped, Is Andy coming? Judi shook her head and Chelsea’s smile disappeared.

  It seemed like it had been a night of apologies.

  Carrie Hart apologized for Kevin’s temporary absence but assured everyone he would be along soon. Teddy Cochran apologized for his wife and Marjo not being there, as the hospital was still keeping Marjo overnight.

  Judi wondered where Heather was. She had to work but mentioned she was going to stop by. Judi grabbed her purse and took out her cell phone. She’d missed two calls from Rip.

  She called him back and he answered after one ring.

  “Heather there?” he asked.

  “Not yet. Where’s Andy?”

  “He’s right here,” Rip said. “Can you tell Teddy and Cierra I’m sorry I couldn’t make it?”

  “I just talked to Teddy and told him you weren’t feeling well. Cierra isn’t here.”

  “Where is she? It’s her daughter’s
fund-raiser.”

  “They’re at the hospital, Rip.”

  “Chelsea there?”

  “Why all the questions?”

  “Just curious,” Rip said. There was a pause. “Andy just wanted me to tell her hello for him.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Kevin Hart had already driven by the hospital to confirm that nobody would be at the Cochrans’ house that night. It was truly unfortunate that things had come down to this. Carrie had already gone to the fund-raiser and he’d quickly changed into the black pants and shirt, while making sure the ski mask and gloves were tucked away in the duffel bag with the gun.

  He pulled the gun out of the bag for a second and admired its beautiful orange grip, and as he held it, he could feel that extra sense of power it gave him. It was the gun that had put him in charge, and the thought of getting rid of it could never come to pass. He aimed out in front of him and smiled. He hadn’t fired it since he’d taken out Heather’s old man, and he thought it was rather ironic that Heather would be going bye-bye as a result of the same gun.

  The plan was quite simple. He already knew she was the only cop working. He’d be at the Cochran house, then he’d disguise his voice and call in from the prepaid and untraceable cell phone he’d bought earlier.

  I just saw someone break into the Cochrans’ house at 303 Bayview. It looked like that Summer Santa that was described in the newspaper . . .

  He’d be there waiting for her. No one expected the Summer Santa to be violent, so killing her would be quick and painless. He laughed out loud and checked his watch. It was just about time.

  Then he smiled again and couldn’t help the thought from dancing around in his mind.

  Man, I’m good.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Heather was parked on the dark side of St. Paul’s, still trying to think of the best plan to present her case against Kevin Hart to Chief Reynolds. In hindsight, she guessed she probably should have listened to Rip and Pastor Welsh and not gone to see Hart. Surely there was no way in the world that gun would still be around Hart Industries, or anywhere, for that matter. Regardless, the truth was the truth and she wondered, at the very least, what they could do to spark a legitimate investigation.

  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard of the cruiser and yawned. The fund-raiser wouldn’t be over for another couple of hours. She was exhausted and the thought of a little shut-eye for half an hour or so sounded great, but she knew there was no way in the world she’d be able to sleep.

  Rip.

  Judi said he was most likely going to forgo chemo and radiation and just stick it out as long as he could. He said he was all about the fight, but if there was no way the fight could be won, he wasn’t going to spend his last couple months getting blown up by chemicals.

  “Where are you, Heather?” It was Natalie, from dispatch.

  “Chilling out near St. Paul’s, as usual,” Heather answered. “Probably gonna swing by the fund-raiser for a few minutes and then go park over near the elementary school.”

  The radio chirped and crackled.

  “Sounds like we have an intruder over at 303 Bayview, dressed in black. May be our Summer Santa.”

  “Did you say 303 Bayview?” Heather asked, turning the key in the ignition. “Isn’t that the Cochrans’ house?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I’m on it,” Heather said, turning the car around and pulling out onto West Jefferson.

  “Be careful.”

  “Will do,” she said.

  Heather flipped the roof lights on and sped up. Before she knew it, she was going over a hundred along the lake, closing in on the Cochrans’ place. She thought about the last time she’d gone this fast on this road. It was the night of her first encounter with the Summer Santa. The night he left the gift cards and cash for the poor woman from church.

  But the Cochrans?

  What are you going to do, Kevin? Leave little Marjo a new kidney in the fridge?

  And then she thought about her father’s gun, and by the time she reached Bayview Drive, a little part of her was actually hoping that Hart was armed this time and that she would be given the chance to serve up a little payback.

  And then something else crossed her mind.

  What if Kevin didn’t kill them?

  She slowed the car and flicked off the roof lights before parking a few houses down from the Cochran residence. She got out of the car and unbuttoned her holster. It wasn’t until her hand was on her gun that her mouth went dry. She battled for air and glanced around at the five or six ranch houses that made up the very end of Bayview Drive. Naturally, they all had a light or two on inside with the exception of one. The Cochrans’ house.

  Heather started walking toward it and glanced up at the dark sky. She realized she was walking into a no-win situation.

  What if he’s leaving the money the Cochrans need for the surgery? Am I supposed to arrest him? Scare him away?

  She was walking along the edge of the street, right in front of the Cochrans’ neighbors’, and she could see a young couple through the front window, sitting on their couch and watching television. They had no clue what was going on right next door to them.

  Heather reached the edge of the Cochrans’ yard. She started walking slowly, pistol in hand, to the right side of the driveway until she reached the attached garage and stopped.

  Arrest him. That’s what I’m going to do. Then I’ll tell Chief Reynolds everything.

  She could feel the tiny pool of sweat that separated her hand from the gun as she made her way closer to the backyard. She came to a fence and noticed that the gate was open. She stopped again and could barely make out a small, aboveground pool, a swing set, and a toolshed toward the rear of the backyard.

  She walked through the gate and turned left, staying as close to the house as she could. She hadn’t taken three steps when she saw someone. She quickly ducked.

  He was standing at the back door, holding it open. Black shirt and pants. He was also wearing a mask and holding what looked like a duffel bag in one of his hands.

  It was him.

  She raised her gun and slowly stood, just as he dipped into the house.

  She lowered her gun and waited, trying to make sense of what she had just seen.

  Why would he be going back in? The call came five minutes ago.

  Her own question frightened her. Her gut told her something was wrong here. Nobody breaks in, leaves, then goes back in. Nobody.

  She walked quickly, still hugging the side of the house, and instinctively stopped before reaching what she guessed was a kitchen window. She would have given anything for a quick peek through the window, but it wasn’t worth the risk. She ducked as she went by it, staying low until she made it to the door. She stopped and listened.

  Nothing.

  She stared at the screen door handle, which was on the far side of the door, and a sickening sense of trepidation filled her gut again.

  Why did he go back inside?

  She moved quickly to the other side of the door and leaned back against the house. The main door was wide open, so she only had to get through the screen door.

  She peeked around the corner and made out what seemed to be the kitchen. She grabbed the screen door handle with her left hand and pressed the button at the top. It didn’t make any noise, so she pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  That’s when she heard the shot.

  Instinctively she let go of the door and ducked. Her ears rang and her heart began hammering in her chest as the echo from the shot filtered throughout the house.

  Somebody just shot him. It was just a matter of time before it happened . . .

  Adrenaline shot through her. Get out of here, Heather, she told herself. You are quitting soon anyhow! Get the heck out of here!

  But she knew she couldn’t. She had to see this through. Had to find out, once and for all, if Hart was the Summer Santa. She slowly stood and held her gun out in front of her with both hands, not surprised
to see them tremble. She took a few steps across the kitchen and stopped. She knew the drill.

  It is time to be quiet. It is time to be still.

  She heard nothing and took a few more steps across the kitchen, the smell of peppermint filling her nostrils. She stopped just short of what she guessed was the family room.

  Heather peeked around the corner and could see someone. He was standing in a hallway that led back to what were probably the bedrooms. He was facing the other way and appeared to be holding a gun. She aimed her gun at him.

  Did he shoot somebody? This doesn’t make any sense . . .

  Her throat became even drier and her heart slowed into a series of hollow thuds that practically paralyzed her. Still, she kept a steady aim on his back.

  She then took a deep breath and lowered herself to one knee. She let her thumb pull back the hammer of her pistol and the click made the Summer Santa spin around.

  “Drop it,” she said.

  He didn’t. He stared at her and Heather thought she saw him begin to raise his gun.

  “Drop it, Kevin!” she shouted.

  He jerked his arm upward and Heather pulled the trigger. Her mind struggled to register the sound of another shot. Her shot. It rang in her head as a little plume of smoke drifted slowly toward the ceiling.

  The Summer Santa was down.

  Heather struggled again to control her breathing, the gun still pointing to where he had been standing. Slowly she stood and adjusted her aim to where he lay on the floor. With her other hand, she reached back and flicked a light switch that offered just enough illumination to let her see the pool of blood forming in front of him. He was curled up and perfectly still.

  On legs that barely supported her, she approached him and then crouched down, her gun still on him. She nudged him with her other hand, and when he didn’t move, she gripped the mask. She peeled it upward, then paused to feel for a pulse. Nothing. She pulled the mask all the way off, and then slowly stood and stared at his face for a long moment.