Chapter 4–Sunday, 4:45PM

Woodstalk, and Herb headed north on Highway 83. They’d turn west on Buffalo Jones at the fork in the road and angle for the town’s outskirts.

“Do you think we’ll find them, Chief?” Woodstalk pried.

“We’ve got to, son,” the chief said. “We’ve got to.”

The streets were mostly deserted as they drove. Herb knew the fine folks who called Garden City home were battening down the hatches, loading their potato guns, peering out into the darkness. Fear gripped the hearts of even the strongest among them. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was a happy town, a place where vegetables of every variety greeted each other as they shopped and played and worked. Now it was a place where good people hid and monsters stalked.

The radio crackled. Marge, GCPD’s dispatcher, a dark purple eggplant of greater-than-average girth, spoke in clipped half-sentences. “487 in progress. Robbery. Butter Bean Bank.”

Herb seized the mic. “Ignore it. All cars continue stalking.”

“What?!” came a single response. It was Jasper in car 17. The cucumber was incredulous. “Come again!” he insisted.

“You heard me,” the chief bellowed. “Ignore it! We’re in a pickle. Pressed for time. We’ll check on the bank in the morning.”

Silence. Herb knew he’d just earned his dismissal. Herb knew it and he swore. Why’d these guys have to appear on my watch? He’d asked himself that same question every day for the past six weeks. In the singular of course. It had only been guys since late this afternoon.

The brakes squeaked just a bit as the chief’s car pulled up at Sleazy Pawn. Woodstalk was out and to the door before Herb had unbuckled his seat belt. Crazy kid! he thought as he jogged to catch up.

When he walked through the door of the dimly lit store, the rookie was showing the owner, a scallion, the sketch.

“Can I interest you in a picture of Osama bin Salad?” The voice came from behind him.

“What?” he said turning to face his questioner. “Oh, no thanks,” he said to the smallish leek who held a shoddily framed portrait of the notorious terrorist. “I’m not interested.” Then just for fun, he lied. “I’ve already got one. Hangs over my fireplace at home.”

“Oh, okay,” the man said turning to walk away.

“It’d be in my fireplace if I had one,” Herb muttered as he turned back to the counter. He almost bumped into Woodstalk.

“He doesn’t know anything, boss,” the celery said shakily, “Let’s go.”

The rookie hurried out the door. The chief shrugged his shoulders and followed.

“What was that all about?” Herb asked as, back in the car, he turned the key in the ignition.

“What?” said Woodstalk, pleading ignorance.

“You seemed a bit frightened in there. You rushed out like you’d seen a ghost or something.”

“I did?” the rookie’s roots were shaking.

“Yes, you did,” Herb affirmed.

“It was nothing, Chief. Really.” Woodstalk spoke hesitantly. “I’m just a bit freaked out by this whole deal. It’s not everyday you meet up with the monsters you dreamed of as a celery seed.”

Herb let it rest as he pulled away from the curb. He had bigger potatoes to peel.

The rest of the night was spent driving from one compost pile to another. The duo showed the sketch at the few businesses that were open – potato bars, peel clubs, cuke joints. No one had seen anyone like that except in the movies. Laughter erupted as they left one or two places. Herb knew the joke was on him.

By 1:00 in the morning he was ready to call it quits. He radioed all cars and sent everyone on overtime home. Only the night shift remained on the streets.

After dropping Woodstalk off at the station, the chief drove back to his place. Eleven minutes. Just like it was supposed to be. Herb fell into bed exhausted, but could not sleep. His nerves were on edge. He puzzled over the evidence. He tried to figure out where the picture had been taken, but there were no trees or landmarks to identify the spot. He drifted off wondering again about Woodstalk’s strange exit from Sleazy Pawn.