The rider of the rampaging horse was thrown from the saddle when the horse went up. He had a tomahawk in his hand and—in some sort of death throw—swung the tomahawk at Garison as he fell. The tomahawk blade caught Garison a wicked blow on his right shoulder and he went down under it and the man's weight.
The man was dead by the time they hit the ground and Garison, barely noticing the flames of pain in his shoulder, crawled out from under the man and dodged the hooves of the other horses. He dragged himself across the yard and to the back porch as other gunshots sounded around him, growing fainter as he neared the porch.
It surprised him as he crawled for his life what registered most on his brain. Not the Indians or even the pain he was feeling but that the snow had a cooling effect on his skin and, somehow, carried a scent of coming rain. He noticed the cool of the snow and the briskness of the air mainly because the right side of his body was warm from the flow of blood oozing out of his shoulder. With a last effort before he passed out, he looked back across his yard and saw . . . just a plain old back yard with no Indians, horses, guns or tomahawks.
Heather, wondering what was keeping Garison, went to the back door to look out. She wasn't at all worried as he was always getting distracted by something. She opened it and gasped as she saw him laying there, a trail of blood across the yard and a horrible gash in his shoulder. Completely disregarding any danger, she quickly knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. It was fine, but she knew it wouldn't remain so long with the blood he was losing.
She pulled him quickly inside with his good arm and the jostling awakened him. "Heather?" he asked, his voice groggy and confused.
She was putting a towel over the wound and put his left hand on it to hold it in place. "Shh," she instructed with a whisper. "Don't say anything. I'm going to call an ambulance." He nodded and tried his best to remain conscious enough to hold the towel in place. Fortunately, when he passed out his left hand still held the cloth over the wound long enough for Heather to get there and hold it tightly in place herself.
"What's the verdict, Doc?" Garison asked.
Doctor Megan Bleethe shook her head and said, "I can't believe you're conscious after all the blood you lost."
"Is that good or bad?" Garison asked. The pain killers had temporarily reduced the flame in his shoulder to a smouldering ember, but he was lucid enough to talk. Or so he thought.
"Very good, Mister Fitch." She was new to the Durango area and didn't know the former J.P. A young woman just out of a prestigious medical school in California, she hoped to establish a name for herself in this small hospital and eventually move to a bigger one in Denver or somewhere. "You have a broken collar bone, you lost almost two pints of blood, and I had to give you more stitches than the average throw pillow. All things considered, though, you're doing very well. You owe a big dept to the EMTs that got to you first."
La Plata County Deputy Sheriff Horace Greeley (no relation to the famous writer and politician) stood in the background with a pencil and notepad handy. As the doctor told Garison and Heather how long he would have to stay in the hospital, and how to take care of himself after he got out, Horace prepared to ask a couple questions. Unlike the doctor, he had been in La Plata County a long time and knew that weird things seemed to follow Garison Fitch wherever he went. In fact, Horace had established that opinion when he and Garison were children. They had started first grade on the same day, but Garison graduated from high school when Horace was finishing fifth. Greeley had always considered the "scientist" somewhat of an odd duck, but likeable for all that.
Doctor Bleethe finally turned to Deputy Greeley and said, "He's all yours. But don't stay long. He needs to rest."
Greeley nodded and watched the doctor leave. She was attractive for a red head, he thought. Normally, he preferred brunettes, but he'd heard she was single and gave a thought or two to asking her out. Maybe he'd have a chance to talk to her after he'd interviewed Fitch.
After shaking Garison's left hand, he asked, "Just how did this happen, Garison?"
Garison tried to shrug, then winced from the pain. He finally managed, in a scratchy voice, "I have an ax hanging by the door to my woodshop. It's hung there forever without a problem. But today, I guess when I slammed the door, it made the ax fall. Next thing I knew, it hit me in the shoulder and I staggered over to the house." He summed up, "Not much to tell, really. Freak occurrence." That much, he thought, was true enough.
Greeley took it all down and thanked Garison for his help. He turned to Heather and asked, "Did you see any of this?"
She shook her head and tried not to look at Garison. She knew there wasn't an axe hanging anywhere near the door to his shop but didn't want her face to give that knowledge away.
He said good bye to Heather, thinking about how she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen and should have married someone other than the nutty professor there. That thought made him want to get to know Doctor Bleethe before the woman could make a similar mistake. Without knowing it, Heather had done a lot for romance all over the county.
Out in the hall, Greeley found the Doctor signing some sort of form. When she was done, he opened, "Doctor Bleethe? Can I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, Deputy."
She didn't seem overly impressed by his uniform, but that only happened on TV, anyway. He shrugged the thought off and got down to business, "What can you tell me about Mister Fitch's wounds?"
"I thought you were in there when I told him about them." She was putting on a show of being completely business, it appeared to Horace.
Greeley nodded, "I was. What I want to know is if his injuries could have happened like he said? An ax falling on him and all? Could that really do that?"
Doctor Bleethe hesitated for a moment, then leaned closer and said in a voice near a whisper, "This is off the record, right?"
"Sure," he shrugged. A part of his mind liked the feel of her breath on his ear, but he tried to ignore it.
"Well, I can't be one hundred percent sure—so don't quote me—but I don't think he's telling the truth."
"Really?"
"For an ax to break his collar bone like that—shatter it really—even a large ax would have had to fall much further than what he says. Even if it had fallen from over the door, I don't see how it could have done that much damage. I guess it is possible that it COULD, but I rather doubt it."
"What are you saying?" He knew what she was implying, but policemen couldn't always go on implications. They needed hard facts—or as hard as could be arrived at given the circumstances.
Bleethe told him, "I think a wound like that would have to be inflicted. By some person, I mean. If he really was hit with an ax—and the medical evidence gives nothing to contradict that part of the story—I think there was someone behind it. Someone with some driving force. You understand what I mean?"
"I think so. You're saying that blow was delivered with more force than just gravity." He cast a glance back towards the recovery room the Fitchs were in and asked softly, "I wonder what really happened to Garison Fitch?"
When the doctor and deputy had gone out of the room, Heather took her husband's left hand and asked, "What really happened out there, Garison?"
He started to shrug again and quickly realized he was going to have to stop trying to do that. He finally replied, "Wait until they put me into a room. I don't want anyone to hear."
She nodded and, as if on cue, the orderlies came in to move him. Neither of them were as big as Garison, but they were experienced and moved him as efficiently and painlessly as his condition allowed.
Heather gripped his hand tighter and looked around the single bed room for a moment. With obvious fear in her voice, she told him, "I'm really scared, Garison. Those other times stuff happened, they were just weird. A little creepy maybe, but that was all. Today though, you came very close to being killed! As it is, you've got a broken collar bone and thirty something stitches inside and out. This has moved beyond creepy."
&n
bsp; He nodded and tried hard to keep his eyes open. He had just received his second dose of pain killers and they were just about to put him to sleep. Once asleep, he knew a nurse would awaken him to ask if he wanted a sleeping pill. Still, he was determined to stay awake long enough to tell the story, but now his eyelids felt like they had weights taped to them. He opened his eyes half way and asked, "Where's Sarah?"
"She's staying with the Begays. I called Mari and told her we would most likely be home by tomorrow afternoon and she said that would be all right." She had already explained this to Garison once, but he had been about half drugged then, too—and in greater pain. She imagined she would have to explain it again before the day was through. "I think Charlie especially likes having a little one around again. Now that their youngest is in junior high."
"What are you going to do?" he asked, though his eyelids were now closed and he was barely cognizant of his own question.
"I'm staying right here. In town, anyway."
He forced his lids up a crack and asked, "All night?"
"Thinking of putting a move on that new doctor?" Heather chided.
He smiled slightly, "I think Horace has already beaten me to that idea."
She patted his hand and scolded playfully, "Your current injuries wouldn't even compare to what I'd do to you if you cheated on me."
He quickly assured her, "You know I'd never—"
"I know," she nodded. They had long before established trust and neither intended to break it. "I may go get a few hours sleep over at Helen's place later. I called her to put you on the prayer list at her church and she said I could crash at her place if I needed to. She said she'd call our church, too, and let them know."
He didn't reply and she wasn't sure how much of the last bit he had heard. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, then sat back in her chair. She thought she might try to find something to read after a while, but, for now, she was content to watch a game show on TV.
As the day drifted by, Garison occasionally woke up, talked for a while, then fell back asleep. He had completely lost track of time and seemed surprised every time he woke up that it wasn't evening yet. Heather would calmly explain that it was only about an hour since the last time they had talked. After about four of these sessions, evening did finally come. Even then, he asked many of the same questions each time he awoke.
Helen Thompson had come by to see Garison, and had brought Heather a book on quilting to read and another on old cars. She stayed for a while, visiting with Heather while Garison was sleeping, then left. She reiterated her offer for Heather to stay the night and the younger woman thanked her again. The chair wasn't as comfortable as a bed—or even a couch—but she couldn't see her leaving Garison's side. After all, he had stayed by her side all the way through labor, hadn't he?
Doctor Megan Bleethe came into the room just as Garison was getting ready to leave. She smiled and asked, "And how do we feel today?"
"I don't fell too good, but I imagine you're feeling all right," Garison replied.
The doctor merely smiled and said, "I want to see you again in three days—just for a quick check up. And I don't want you driving or lifting anything over fifteen pounds for at least one week—and maybe two."
Garison objected, "But my daughter weighs more than that!"
"I'm sorry, Mister Fitch, but those are my orders. The closer you follow them, the sooner this will all be over." She handed them a sheet with a prescription for pain medication and said, "After the two weeks, I don't want you driving a standard automobile for another four weeks after that. You might could manage an automatic, but be careful. Not only could you tear your shoulder open again, you're going to find that your stamina has lessened considerably from the loss of blood."
"Six weeks?" Garison asked dejectedly.
"Six weeks," the doctor affirmed. "For the next month and a half, you're just going to have to let your wife do all the work."
"Sounds like fun," Heather quipped. At a surprised look from the doctor and a sharp glance from Garison, she blushed and asked, "Was that out loud?"
The doctor graciously ignored her comment and told Garison, "If you take good care of yourself, you should get completely back to normal—in time. In a couple weeks, after we've seen how you're healing up, we'll talk about some exercises you can do to start strengthening your shoulder and arm."
"Why not now?"
"Because the temptation would be too great for you to start exercising too soon," Doctor Bleethe replied. "If you do what I say, though, you should be as good as new in two to three months."
"Two to three?" Garison groaned.
"These things take time, Mister Fitch."
Heather patted the doctor on the shoulder and told her, "Thank you. I'll make sure he takes care of himself."
The doctor glanced at the books under Heather's arm and asked, "You into quilting?"
Heather looked down, then back up with a smile and said, "Yeah. You?"
"A little," the doctor shrugged. "I haven't been able to do much of it since moving here. Been way too busy. The only stitching I've done has been on people like your husband."
Heather offered, "How about I get in touch with you one day and I'll show you what I'm working on. You could probably use a break from the hospital."
"That would be nice," Doctor Bleethe nodded. They then began setting a date and Garison looked at his watch, wondering if this would somehow appear on his hospital bill.
The hardest part of the doctor's orders appeared as soon he saw Sarah. The flaxen haired little girl just couldn't understand why her daddy couldn't pick her up like he usually did. She was also tremendously fascinated by the harness he wore, but had to be told (often) not to tug on it. Once he sat down, though, she was at least able to climb up into his lap.
The day after he came home, Garison went out in the yard to see if he could find any evidence of what had happened. All he could find was a trail of his own blood that started about ten feet from the back door and ended in a puddle on the stoop. There were no marks of hooves, feet, or gunshots. Certainly there was no sign of a recent Indian raid.
"Heather, come here," he suddenly called.
Afraid something new and terrible was happening, she rushed outside. What she found was Garison pointing at the ground and saying, "Look, here's where the blood starts, right?"
She looked down and almost got sick at the sight. It wasn't that blood bothered her—it never really had—it was just knowing it was Garison's blood that turned her stomach. Even though this blood had turned brown and "dirt like" already, it made her slightly nauseous. Still, she looked where he was pointing and nodded.
He continued, "See, it starts here and goes on up to the porch. But the thing is, the guy with the tomahawk hit me a good ten feet over this way." He stepped towards his woodshop and stopped on the approximate spot where the melee had taken place. He walked the yard enough times to have a good sense of reckoning in it.
"So?" Heather asked. She knew it was their back yard, and that she had been out there thousands of times before, but this day it gave her the willies. She kept turning her head to watch for another Indian attack. She also kept glancing back at the house, wondering about Sarah.
"So where's the trail of blood? I know I was dripping blood from the point where the guy hit me until I got to the stoop. Heck, I had lost so much of it I could barely crawl. And it took me a moment to get untangled from him. So why is there no blood on the ground until way over there?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"I'm thinking it's the same reason there are no hoofprints or battle scars on the ground. Or the body of the Indian that took that swipe at me."
After a bit of silence, Heather prodded, "And that reason is?"
"I went backwards in time."
"Come again?"
"Remember the night of the scream? The next morning I found tracks in the front yard, but they just disappeared after a little distance. This time, there are no tracks where they sho
uld be, then the trail of blood just appears. You see?"
She looked at the ground, saw the trail and the "non trail", but shrugged, "See what? What are you saying?" It always drove her crazy when Garison did this. It was like coming in half way through a conversation even though she had been there the whole time.
He thought a moment, trying to figure out how to explain what he was saying. He finally said, "It's like there was just a pocket of time and, somehow, I stepped through it. For one brief moment, I went backwards in time and landed in the middle of an Indian fight. Then, when I crawled away from the fight I crawled out of the pocket."
"OK," she nodded slowly. "So what's that got to do with the scream in the night?"
"What if someone else—someone from the past—stepped into a pocket and it brought them forward? They were right here, in this time, so they left footprints here. Then, they stepped out of the pocket and stopped making footprints here. Follow me?"
"That's really hard to say, Garison," she quipped, trying to lighten the moment a bit. The truth was, she was beginning to understand where he was going and it frightened her somehow. Frightened her more than she had been before, and she wasn't sure why.
"When I was in the pocket," he said, talking off the top of his head, "I'm trying to remember if I could see the house. Or was it only visible when I left the pocket?" He shook his head and told her, "Truth is, I really don't know. From the moment those Indians appeared, everything was just a flurry of movement. All I was thinking about was getting away from them. I don't remember at what point I saw the house. And then my vision blurred and I passed out."
It was a cold day even though snow wasn't currently falling and Heather hadn't worn a coat when she came outside. Heather's teeth began to chatter and her goose bumps got goose bumps. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans, but even she knew the chill she was experiencing wasn't solely from the weather.
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 9
