Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  “The sergeant needs help. She’s losing blood.”

  Again there was no answer. Sally Husmann’s eyes were fixed on the departing hoodlums. She retreated another step and then turned as if about to flee in the opposite direction.

  “Husmann, listen to me!”

  The name drew a response. Husmann glanced back at Ellen, and then to the exit her assailants had left by, although they were no longer in sight. Her eyes returned to the blood-covered officer on the ground and she froze as if noticing Sanchez’s condition for the first time. For the space of five heartbeats she simply stared, wide-eyed.

  “Don’t just stand there. Go and get help.” Ellen heard her voice breaking in panic.

  Husmann’s expression cleared and she nodded. “I’ll be back. I promise, I’ll get someone.” She turned and stumbled away.

  Ellen heard Husmann’s uneven footsteps fade down the passageway. The light in the courtyard was going, thickening the shadows. Something wet soaked into the knees of Ellen’s trousers and she knew it was blood. Sanchez’s eyes were open and her lips moved, trying to speak.

  “Knew it...the Mad Butcher...you’ve—” Then all movement ceased except for a trickle of blood from Sanchez’s mouth.

  Tears of desperation stung Ellen’s eyes. She felt so useless. Anger flared, aimed at herself and her complete lack of the healer sense. Tests during childhood had shown that she was as devoid of the psychic ability as it was possible for any woman to be.

  She pressed around the knife hilt, trying to block the outpouring of life. Her hands were sticky with congealing blood. Was she helping? Ellen did not know what else she could do. She was alone and out of her depth. Sanchez’s face was drained white against the black of her uniform. Black and white—and it was not simple at all.

  “Hang on, Sarge. Just hang on.”

  *

  The main room of the Roadsend infirmary was silent. Ellen stood with her back braced against the wall, staring rigidly at the ceiling. She dared not lower her eyes. There were too many things in the room she did not want to look at. In the corner, one of the healers was tending to Sally Husmann. Not only would it be rude to watch, but the raging purple bruises and raw cuts on Husmann’s body were appalling. Ellen felt nauseous enough without unsettling her stomach further.

  The door straight ahead was another thing Ellen did not want to stare at. On the other side was the room where Sanchez was lying. She had still been breathing when Ellen had helped carry her in, but would she keep doing it for much longer?

  Dr. Miller was the most senior healer in Roadsend, responsible not only for running the infirmary, but also for overseeing all the healers and medics in town. That she had elected to treat Sanchez personally ought to have been reassuring—the town Doctor was blessed with the psychic healer sense to a high degree and very experienced in its use. However, it implied that Dr. Miller thought the injury beyond her assistants’ abilities. When she had seen the stab wound and the blood bubbling between Sanchez’s lips, her face had set in a grim expression that gave little grounds for confidence.

  Most of all, Ellen did not want to look at her own hands. She had rinsed them, but she knew blood was still encrusted under her nails. She felt as if it had sunk into her skin, marking her like a tattoo, a visible sign of her shortcoming. What should she have done? If she had been less inexperienced and more alert, reacted faster, moved quicker—would she have been able to prevent the knife attack?

  The sound of the street door made Ellen flinch. Corporal Terrie Rasheed and Patrolwoman Jude McCray bustled in and then stopped uncertainly, peering around until their eyes fixed on Ellen. They hurried over. Both were officially off duty and in civilian clothes.

  “We heard Chris has been hurt. Where is she?” Corporal Rasheed asked.

  Ellen pointed to the door. “In there.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know. It was bad. Dr. Miller didn’t say anything, but...” Ellen bit her lip. “We’ve just got to pray.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were on patrol. We came across a gang beating up Sally Husmann. I thought they’d run when they saw us, but they didn’t. We ended up in a fight and one of them stabbed Sarge.”

  This was the point that Ellen could not come to terms with, making her doubt her own memory. Criminals ran from the Militia. It was the way things were. In order for a law-breaker to fight back, she had to be blind drunk, or panicked, or out of her head in some way—but not with this gang. They had coolly and purposefully taken on the Militia, and had been ready to kill. The thrust of the knife might not have been entirely in cold blood, but the initial decision to fight had been.

  “Who were they?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve never seen them before, except for Ade Eriksen, who was with them, acting as lookout.”

  “Eriksen? I thought she’d gone to Eastford.”

  “She’s come back.”

  Jude McCray sighed. “That’s all we need.”

  “How about Sally Husmann? Does she know who they were?” Rasheed continued her questions.

  “We haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet.” Ellen nodded toward the corner where Husmann was being treated. “Lieutenant Cohen was here a few minutes ago. She’s in the Militia station now, but she left me to escort Husmann over as soon as the healers let her go.”

  Again the street door opened. The new arrival was yet another distressing sight. Sanchez’s partner, Rhonda Tomczyk, slipped in and stood defensively, as if expecting bad news to fly at her in a physical attack. Her face was twisted in dread and confusion. She showed no sign of recognizing anyone until Corporal Rasheed scuttled to her side and put a hand on her arm.

  Tomczyk turned to Rasheed. “Is Chris…” Her words ended in tears.

  Rasheed shifted her hand to put a supportive arm around Tomczyk and started speaking in a voice too low for Ellen to make out. Jude McCray shuffled over, clearly ready to also offer what comfort she could. The three huddled in a knot, heads together.

  Ellen rubbed her palms on her legs. Both her hands and the black trousers were stained. She felt awkward. Should she go over? Would Rhonda Tomczyk want to talk to her? Would the sight of Sanchez’s blood be unbearably distressing? Ellen clenched her jaw. And was her dithering due to a fear that Tomczyk would hold her responsible? Yet Ellen knew she had to say something. She was present at the attack and the last person to talk with Sanchez. She was not the one in the most pain, either physical or emotional. Hanging back was pure cowardice on her part.

  However, before Ellen could summon her resolve, another sound claimed her attention. In the corner, Sally Husmann had stood, all her clothing back in place and a trace of normal color to her cheeks. She was exchanging a few words with the healer, but then glanced nervously in Ellen’s direction. Her expression wavered and her eyes flitted between the three Militiawomen present, as if she were estimating her chances of running away. Yet even had Ellen been alone, fleeing would be pointless. They all knew where she lived, as well as her place of business.

  Husmann plodded across to Ellen. “Lieutenant Cohen wants to talk to me?”

  “Yes. I’ll escort you.”

  “There’s no point. I don’t know anything.”

  “You still know more than us. She wants to talk to you.”

  Husmann’s expression crumpled in panic. Clearly she did know something. Had it been a random attack or robbery there would be no reason for her reaction or her unwillingness to talk to the Militia. Ellen took a firm grip on Husmann’s arm and coaxed her forward.

  As they passed the huddle at the door, Ellen was caught by the anguish in Rhonda Tomczyk’s eyes, and her footsteps faltered. She could not walk by without speaking.

  “I’m really sorry. I did what I could. It was all so quick, but I’m sure Sarge is going to be fine. She’s in—” Ellen bit back the words that were perilously close to lying. She was not sure at all, and she knew it showed on her face. Ellen turned to Corporal Rasheed. “As
soon as you hear anything, can you send a message over to the station?”

  Rasheed nodded sharply.

  Outside, night had fallen. The stars over Roadsend were in the same constellations as ever, but Ellen could not get over the feeling that the world they shone down on had changed.

  The Militia station was only a few dozen meters away, on the opposite side of the main town square from the infirmary. Word had gone out and the remaining three patrolwomen of the Roadsend Militia were gathered in the briefing room. The faces turned anxiously to Ellen when she entered, although nobody spoke. Voicing the question aloud was unnecessary.

  Ellen shook her head. “Dr. Miller is still tending to her.” She indicated the door of the lieutenant’s office. “Is Cohen in there?”

  “Yup,” Penny Rambaldi answered. She raised her hand over her shoulder and rapped her knuckles on the door behind her. “Ma’am. Mittal is here with Husmann.”

  “Send them in.”

  Lieutenant Cohen was seated at her desk in the small office. The leader of the Roadsend Militia was in her mid fifties, fit and strong for her age, with a decisive manner. During her first year in the Militia, Ellen had respected Cohen and been pleased to serve under such an experienced officer. However, as the months passed, Ellen had come to realize that although Cohen’s manner might appear decisive, it was due solely to her habit of barking orders, regardless of her mood. Decisions were not something that came easily to her, and once she had set her mind, changing it was impossible, regardless of what fresh information might turn up.

  Cohen waved Husmann to the seat opposite. Ellen took up position in the corner. Cohen had not told her to go and she wanted to hear what Husmann had to say.

  The lieutenant pushed aside the papers on her desk and then looked up. “Thank you for coming. Do you feel all right?”

  Husmann gave a sharp nod in reply.

  “I won’t keep you long.” Cohen leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “Do you know the women who attacked you?”

  “No.”

  “They hadn’t been hanging around your warehouse?”

  “No.”

  “So you’d never seen any of them before?”

  “No.”

  Clearly Husmann was going to deny knowledge of everything, and Cohen was showing no sign of challenging her. Ellen knew she ought to keep quiet. The lieutenant was the one conducting the interview, and a rookie should not butt in without invitation, but after the trauma of the evening, she could not stop herself.

  “You must have recognized Ade Eriksen.”

  Husmann swiveled in her chair and looked back, eyes wide in alarm. “Well, yes, her of course, but none of the rest.”

  Cohen glared at Ellen and raised her voice a notch. “But as I understand it, she was just keeping watch and wasn’t one of the people who assaulted you.”

  Husmann turned back to the desk. “No...no, she wasn’t. That’s why I didn’t mention her before.”

  Ellen tried to conceal her frustration. Husmann was lying, but rather than exploit her lapse to get to the truth, Cohen was giving her a hand in covering up.

  The lieutenant continued. “So, can you tell us what happened?”

  “I was on my way home, and I was going through the courtyard when they jumped me.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “No.”

  “Did they try to steal anything?”

  “No...I don’t think so.”

  “They were waiting for you in the courtyard?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, they hadn’t followed you?”

  “Oh, no.” Husmann’s voice was firmer. It was, Ellen judged, the first totally honest answer she had given.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “No.”

  Ellen could keep silent no longer. “You said you were on your way home.”

  Again Husmann glanced around. “Yes.”

  “Surely it’s off your route.”

  “I was...ah...on my way to buy something,”

  “What?”

  Cohen slapped her hand angrily on her desk, reclaiming Husmann’s attention. “That is hardly important. I don’t think—” A knock on the door interrupted her. “What is it?”

  “Ma’am, there’s a messenger from the infirmary,” Penny Rambaldi called from the briefing room.

  “I’ll see her in a second.” Cohen looked at Husmann. “You can go. If you think of anything else, let us know.”

  Husmann scooted from her seat and was through the door almost before the lieutenant had finished speaking. Ellen was about to follow, but Cohen called her back.

  “Mittal.”

  Ellen shut the door and stood at attention. The lieutenant’s tone had been decidedly officious. “Ma’am.”

  “When I am interviewing someone, I do not appreciate interruptions.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But Husmann was lying.”

  “In your opinion.” Cohen’s tone made her words a challenge and a criticism.

  “Ma’am, every trader in town knows all about Adeola Eriksen—she’s stolen from half of them. If Husmann was genuinely trying to help us, she’d have volunteered her name straight off. She wouldn’t have needed me to prompt her for it.”

  Cohen looked unconvinced. “You seriously think that Husmann is trying to protect the people who attacked her?”

  “I think she’s so frightened of them, she won’t risk upsetting them more.” Ellen took a deep breath. “Before she passed out, the last thing Sergeant Sanchez said was that she thinks it’s the big Eastford gang, spreading into our area. I’ve heard they—”

  “No!” Once more, Cohen slammed her fist on her desk. “That’s ridiculous. And I don’t want you spreading those sort of wild rumors.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. It’s an order. You’re not to say anything like that again.” Cohen sucked in a deep breath through flared nostrils. “Okay. Maybe Husmann is lying. In that case, I can tell you what the truth is. Husmann is in on some illegal deal. She tried to out-cheat her associates and they took their revenge. That’s why she’s covering. She’s as guilty as they are.”

  Ellen stared at Cohen in bewilderment. Husmann was an established merchant, with no criminal record, and the scenario painted did not begin to explain the hoodlums’ willingness to fight and their ready use of lethal weapons. Yet a rookie could not argue with a lieutenant.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Send in Dr. Miller’s messenger.” Cohen nodded. “And I mean it about spreading rumors. At times like this, we need to keep calm heads.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ellen slipped from the room. One of the healers was waiting to go in. At the sight of her, any concerns over Husmann and the Eastford gang were blown away. Ellen felt her stomach knot. What did the messenger have to report? The healer’s face was professionally somber, but an instant later, the smiles from the others in the briefing room registered. Clearly, they had already heard the news, and it was good.

  Ellen waited until the door had shut and then turned to a beaming Penny Rambaldi. “Sarge is going to be okay?”

  “Yes. Dr. Miller is sure she’s going to be fine.”

  Ellen found herself laughing in relief. The agony of the previous hour dispersed, like mist burned off by the rising sun.

  Terrie Rasheed and Jude McCray arrived soon after to join the happy gathering and give a fuller report. Sanchez’s injuries included a collapsed lung. She would not be back on duty that month, but a complete recovery was promised. Ellen was called on to describe the incident again and then the informal meeting broke up.

  The healer was still in with Cohen, and Ellen did not want to interrupt them, especially after already angering the lieutenant that evening. She sidled over to Corporal Rasheed. “What should I do now? There’s still half an hour of my shift to go.”

  Rasheed ran her hands through her hair, looking unsure, but then sighed. “There ain’t much patrolling go
ing to get done tonight, and you’ve had a tough time too. Go on. Clear off early. If your parents have heard the news, they’ll be worrying about you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ellen stopped by her locker to drop in her equipment belt with its baton and whistle, and also her heavy leather jerkin. She paused a moment over this last item. The leather was thick, intended to offer protection in a fight. A normal penknife would not have pierced it. The hoodlum’s blade must have been heavy and sharp. A weapon, not a tool—as if any more proof were needed that the gang had set out prepared and ready to commit murder.

  Ellen pushed the thought away and glanced at Penny Rambaldi, who was standing nearby, also sorting through her belongings. “Corporal Rasheed told me I can go home early.”

  “Now there’s a surprise.”

  The dry, sarcastic tone surprised Ellen. “Why?”

  “Because you can’t send a rookie out on her own. Terrie would have had to give up her own free time to puppy walk you.”

  “Oh.” That had not occurred to Ellen, but regardless of Rasheed’s reason, she was not about to complain.

  The town square was now in darkness, except for moonlight splashed across the cobbles and strips of thin yellow lamplight escaping between window shutters. Ellen’s family lived on the north end of town, on the far side of Newbridge Road—the wrong side of Newbridge Road in the eyes of many. Ellen had grown up with the disdain, and daydreamed of the day when promotion would give her the salary to move her family to a better part of town. For now, though, it was home, and she set off eagerly.

  However, before she had gone a dozen steps, a whisper hailed her from a darkened alleyway. “Officer.”

  She stopped. “Who’s there?”

  Sally Husmann stepped from the shadows. “It’s me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “How is Sergeant Sanchez?”

  “She’s going to be okay.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I’m so pleased.”

  Ellen folded her arms and considered the warehouse owner. “You weren’t telling the whole truth to the lieutenant, were you?”