NAUGHTY

Nine Tales of Christmas Crime

by Steve Hockensmith

NAUGHTY: NINE TALES OF CHRISTMAS CRIME © 2010 by Steve Hockensmith

Introduction and About the Author © by Steve Hockensmith

These copyright notices © by Steve Hockensmith

Steve Hockensmith © by Steve Hockensmith (though my parents might dispute that)

Don't use any of this stuff without my permission, please.

Oh, and I made up everything. It's all fictitious, even the parts that are true. So don't try to sue me because your life bears an eerie resemblance to one of my stories. I've never heard of you, I swear. It's just a coincidence. Get over it. Like I'm rich anyway. If only!

Cover by Brian Trost

Ebook conversion: Steven W. Booth, GOS Multimedia (www.gosmultimedia.com/ebooks.html)

"I Killed Santa Claus" © 2001 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

"Special Delivery" © 2002 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

"Fruitcake" © 2003 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

"Secret Santa" © 2004 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

"Naughty" © 2005 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

"Red Christmas" © 2005 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.

"Naiveté" © 2006 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

"Humbug" © 2007 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.

"Hidden Gifts" © 2008 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

The Da Vinci Code © 2003 by Dan Brown. The lucky bastard. Now there's a guy worth suing! Get a lawyer and go after him, if you're so hot to get litigious. Just don't tell him it was my idea.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Fruitcake

I Killed Santa Claus

Secret Santa

Humbug

Naughty

Hidden Gifts

Red Christmas

Naiveté

Special Delivery

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

Reading this collection, you might get the impression that I don't like Christmas. Murder, robbery, drugs, desperation—it's not very holly jolly, is it? But the truth is I love Christmas! It's my favorite time of year. That's why I keep dragging it through the mud of human degradation. There's no season I'd rather write about.

Well, that's not the only reason I've written about Christmas so often. To be honest, if Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine had annual Arbor Day issues, you might be reading The Roots of All Evil: Nine Tales of Woodland Crime. Once upon a time, you see, I wrote quite a bit for EQMM and AHMM, and I learned something useful: Come May or June, when they're starting to put together their holiday issues, it's not a bad idea to shoot a Christmas story their way. Not a bad idea at all.

Every tale in this collection originally appeared in either Ellery Queen or Alfred Hitchcock, in fact. The first to be published was "I Killed Santa Claus," which popped up in EQMM 10 years ago. (I'm going out of my way to mention that to establish that the story predates both the current ubiquity of cell phones and the film Bad Santa. So there. No sniping on those fronts, if you please.) The latest (and best, in my opinion) is "Hidden Gifts," which appeared in EQMM in late 2007. I haven't written a Christmas story since then. I simply haven't had time.

The desire, though—that I've had. I still dearly love the sound of jingle bells and Christmas carols and snow crunching underfoot. Yet whenever I hear them now, I want to mix in distant sirens and screams and gunfire.

And laughter. Yours, I hope. The characters you're about to encounter might not be having happy holidays themselves, but I certainly hope yours are a little merrier for having met them.

Steve Hockensmith
Alameda, Calif.
November 2010

FRUITCAKE

Ethel Queenan decided on murder when she saw Connie Sandrelli sitting on Santa's lap.

Connie was an attractive woman, if you were one of those wolves who goes in for loose blouses and tight slacks and lots of hair. And she was a young woman—just sixty-five. Ever since she moved into the Always Sunny Trailer Park in Clearwater, Florida, the men there had been falling all over each other to drive her to the grocery store, show her how to play shuffleboard, mow the lawn around her mobile home, whatever she wanted whenever she snapped her relatively wrinkle-free, non-arthritic fingers.

The problem was, there weren't enough men to go around. Each year, five or six Always Sunny wives became Always Sunny widows, while the husband-to-widower conversion rate was much slower. As a result, the competition for available men was fierce. And Santa belonged to Ethel—whether he liked it or not.

Ethel's husband Ralph had passed two years before. He died the way he'd lived—cursing and drunk. Enraged by a fourth-quarter fumble during an Indiana University football game, he threw his beer at the television, then kicked in the screen when a Kentucky linebacker ran the ball in for a touchdown. A lightning bolt of electricity ran up his Reebok and flash-fried Ralph Queenan where he stood.

Ethel considered her husband a martyr to Indiana collegiate athletics and even wrote the president of the university asking him to name a hall or a scholarship after Ralph. She never received a response. That made her so mad she threw every one of their Indiana University sweatshirts and jackets and baseball caps and plastic cups and commemorative coins and Christmas tree ornaments into Ralph's Weber grill, doused the mound with an entire can of lighter fluid and tossed in a lit match.

The resulting burst of flame singed off her eyebrows and set her neighbor's lemon tree on fire. The trailer park smelled like scorched lemon meringue pie for a month.

Despite her devotion to Ralph's memory, Ethel had been not-so-patiently waiting to replace her husband from the moment the paramedics carted away his charbroiled carcass. She'd watched with growing fury as other widows—hussies, all of them, even the ones she'd once considered friends—snatched up each new widower as soon as he came on the market.

Ethel was at a temporary disadvantage, having no eyebrows and all. But even after they grew back bushier than ever, romance continued to bloom for others, not for her. She finally took a stand, rising up at a Fourth of July barbecue to declare, "I've waited long enough! The next single man in this park is mine! Mine!"

"The next single man" turned out to be Bud Schmidt, a retired postal worker from Duluth, Minnesota. He wasn't Ethel's type. With his pale skin and concave chest and bulbous gut balanced on spindly little legs, he looked nothing whatsoever like her dream man, Ricardo Montalban. But he fit her number-one requirement well enough: He was still breathing.

There are many unwritten laws in Florida's retiree-packed trailer parks and condo associations, and one of them is the four-week rule—a month-long moratorium on courting a widow or widower after the Dearly Departed has been laid to rest. Ethel made her move on Bud the day after his wife died.

First, she brought him a cake. The next day, she brought him Jell-O salad. The day after that, it was tuna casserole. And on the fourth day, she pulled out the big guns, making her intentions clear to one and all: She brought Bud Schmidt a baked ham.

All of Always Sunny was soon abuzz about Ethel's scandalous behavior. Whenever she walked by, the men cracked wise, shouting out things like "Hey, Ethel—just so's you know, I'm a meatloaf man myself!" The women, on the other hand, would stop talking altogether, letting her pass by as silently as a snake slithering across the road.

It bothered Ethel, but it didn't stop her. Only one person's opinion mattered. And when she dropped by Bud's mobile home with a new dish every day, he seemed . . . well, not exactly pleased, but not displeased, either. He would just smile, thank her politely and shut his door without saying the words Ethel longed to hear: "Why don't you come on in and help me eat this?" The only thing that ever changed was the size of Bud's gut, which was slowly growing from a cute little pot into a fifty-gallon tub, and Ethel's every outing ended the same way: with her shuffling back to her trailer to leaf through her Betty Crocker cookbook in search of the magic recipe that would convince The Chosen One's stomach to say "open sesame" to his heart.

Ethel had worked all the way through the Meats and Poultry sections and was just making her first cautious foray into the hitherto uncharted realm of Fish & Shellfish when Connie Sandrelli came on the scene. She was a widow from Rhode Island. She was alone. She was pretty. And, much worse, she could cook.

Chicken cacciatore. Eggplant pasta torte. Risotto. Gnocchi. Ravioli. It was a far cry from the fried chicken and chili mac and pigs in blankets that had, till then, been the backbone of Always Sunny's weekly pot-luck dinners.

Ethel found Connie's strange, gloppy-looking contributions pretentious, disquieting, unwholesome. Yet everyone else oohed and ahhed and asked for more. Especially the men. Especially the man. Bud.

"Mighty good," he said to Connie as he scooped up his third helping of lasagna in Always Sunny's "recreation hall." "My. Teee. Good."

"Why, thank you, Bud," Connie said. "I've got a whole other pan back in my trailer. I'll bring you over a plate tomorrow, if you like."

"Dandy. Dannn. Dee."

Ethel overheard it all, thanks to a hearing aid turned up so high she could make out the wet, slobbery mastication of baked beans and cole slaw twenty feet off. She'd been lingering at the food table, hovering over the untouched salmon loaf she'd brought to the pot-luck. It hadn't turned out at all like the picture in the cookbook, that loaf. It looked like a roll of fiberglass insulation coated in gravel.

Betty Crocker had let her down. Life was letting her down.

And Connie Sandrelli—she'd crossed her.

The woman should've done some research, asked around, respected seniority. But no. Connie had jumped Ethel's claim. Soon she was bringing Bud new food nearly every day: cioppino and baked ziti and all kinds of supposedly Italian food that Ethel had never seen in a Chef Boyardee can.

Ethel retaliated by upgrading to a more expensive cookbook.

Bud's bulging stomach went from tub to barrel.

The culinary brawl raged for weeks with no clear victor. Always Sunny's oddsmakers pegged the outcome as even money: Connie had youth and looks on her side, Ethel had raw determination.

The Christmas party changed everything. As always, it was the highlight of the trailer park's social calendar. Everyone gathered in the rec hall for caroling and eggnog and presents. And Santa Claus, of course.

It was obvious who should suit up as St. Nick. There was only one man in the park whose belly really did shake like jelly when he laughed.

So an hour into the party, Bud Schmidt ho-ho-hoed his way through the door in the park's ancient red suit and cotton ball beard. And he wasn't alone. Santa Claus had a helper this year. Connie Sandrelli.

She was wearing a Santa hat and black boots and a red frock that didn't quite reach her knees. Ethel thought she looked like an elf hooker. She was helping Bud hand out all the dime store gifts in his sack. She even brought one to a fuming Ethel.

Connie smiled as she handed Ethel the little brightly wrapped package, but all Ethel saw were fangs. She didn't bother to open the gift. She wrapped it in her paper napkin and left it sitting next to her plate like something unpleasant she'd picked out of her food.

And then, the presents distributed, Santa took his place on his "throne"—a metal folding chair at the front of the hall.

"Ho ho ho! Who wants to come and sit on Santa's knee?" He turned to Connie. "How about my little elf first?"

Connie hesitated, blushing.

"Come on!" Bud patted his lap. "Come here and tell old Santa what you want for Christmas!"

There were shouts from the audience—"Yeah!" and "Go, Connie!" and "Ignore that dirty old man!" Ethel barely fought back the urge to screech "Don't you dare, you cheap floozy!"

Connie grinned at the crowd for a moment before taking her place on Santa's lap. There were a few cheers.

"So what can Santa Claus pull out of his sack for you, little girl?" Bud boomed.

Connie whispered in his ear.

Bud waggled his eyebrows and gave out a hearty "Ho ho hoooo!" And then he kissed her.

Some people laughed. Some people applauded. And one person walked out of the room, went to her trailer and began plotting Connie Sandrelli's demise.

Ethel scoured her trailer for instruments of death. Soon she had assembled on her kitchen table a pistol (for shooting), a steak knife and knitting needles (for stabbing), a hammer and a scorched bust of former Indiana University basketball coach Bobby Knight (for bludgeoning), a pillow and a plastic Winn-Dixie bag (for smothering), a toaster (for dropping into a water-filled bathtub) and a fruitcake (for eating—Ethel was hungry).

The pistol wouldn't work because Ethel couldn't find any bullets: Ralph had hidden them somewhere, though he refused to explain why. He just said it was "a precaution." The steak knife, knitting needles, hammer, bust, pillow and bag were out due to Ethel's arthritis. Some nights, she could barely get her dentures out. A life-or-death struggle with a woman five years her junior definitely seemed like a bad idea.

That left the toaster. Ethel sat at the table for fifteen minutes, chewing on her fruitcake, running various scenarios through her mind. But no matter how she imagined it, she couldn't quite see a toaster attack panning out. She'd have to wait until Connie was taking a bath, break into her trailer, creep into the bathroom and plug the toaster in without being noticed—and then hope that the electrical cord was long enough to reach the tub.

No, she needed something easier. Something less risky. More sneaky.

She took another bite of fruitcake. Her false teeth clamped down hard on something brittle. It crunched. She cursed.

The cake had come from the grocery store, that was the problem. Those big chains put all kinds of crazy things in their fruitcakes—candy and cherries and whatnot. You never knew what you were going to bite into.

Ethel stopped chewing.

Her chief weapon in the war for Bud Schmidt had been food. Why change strategy now?

The next day, she baked a fruitcake.

* * *

Ethel Queenan's Christmas Surprise Fruitcake
1 cup diced candied orange peel
1 cup diced candied lemon peel
2 cups diced citron
3 cups raisins, chopped
1/2 cup two-year-old leftover red wine from back of fridge
1/2 cup amaretto (because brandy is too expensive and what's the difference, really?)
1/2 cup peppermint schnapps (because it's been sitting around forever so why not use it?)
3 cups flour
3 teaspoons cinnamon
6 teaspoons nutmeg
2 teaspoons cloves, ground
2 teaspoons allspice
1 cup rat poison
1/2 cup Ajax
6 teaspoons dead husband's heart pills, ground
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter
2 cups brown sugar
4 eggs
1/2 cup molasses
1 teaspoon spittle

Mix fruit in a large bowl; pour in wine and brandy substitute. Stir and set aside. Start sipping leftover schnapps.

Sift flour with spices, Ajax, rat poison and pills. Add baking powder and salt and sift again. Start second glass of schnapps. Throw in more spices just to be safe. Then more poison. Then more spices.

Cream butter, add sugar and eggs, mix thoroughly. Add molasses and stir. Spit in batter. Sprinkle with more rat poison. Start third glass of schnapps.

Heat oven to 300 degrees. Feel queasy. Pour remaining schnapps down drain. Lie on couch for twenty minutes.

When head stops swimming, get up and put cake batter in oven. Bake for three hours. Lie down on couch again. Vow never to touch another drop of schnapps. Imagine painful, pleasing death of husband-snatching Jezebel wench.

* * *

It baked up quite nicely. Ethel thought it was the most beautiful fruitcake she'd ever seen. She was almost sorry she couldn't try a slice.

Her alarm clock beeped her awake at four a.m. the next morning. She rolled out of bed, put on her darkest outfit (a navy blue polyester pantsuit she'd purchased in 1979) and walked to Connie Sandrelli's trailer. She left the fruitcake on the doorstep. It was covered in wrapping paper with a red bow on top. Attached to the bow was a note.

Merry Christmas, beautiful!

—Your Secret Admirer

Ethel walked away humming "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen." When she got home, she climbed back in bed expecting to be awakened soon by the sweet sound of sirens.

* * *

When Connie Sandrelli found the fruitcake next to her morning paper, she knew immediately who it was from.

Bud Schmidt.

A week before, Bud got it into his head that it would be cute if he started cooking for her for a change. The first dish he brought her was something called "cheeseburger Italiana"—or, as Bud called it, "cheeseburger Eye-talian." It was a casserole. He'd found the recipe on a box of Bisquick.

As a serious, marinara-in-her-veins Italian-American, Connie had to try very hard not to be offended. She had to try even harder when she tasted it.

Bud, it appeared, hadn't done much cooking in his life. He didn't seem to know the difference between garlic powder and cumin, for instance. And ketchup and tomato sauce were considered interchangeable. Somehow, Connie kept a smile on her face even as she choked down the man's blasphemous culinary abomination.

When Bud came by a few days later with something he called a "Velveeta sausage log," Connie let him know she wasn't hungry just then but she sure was looking forward to a heaping plate later on. Over the next week, she transferred one hearty slice a day from the refrigerator to the bottom of the garbage can.

Given her earlier encounters with Bud's kitchen experiments, Connie was in no hurry to chomp into the man's first stab at cake baking. She'd always found the pleasures of fruitcake to be fickle and fleeting under the best of circumstances. A Bud Schmidt fruitcake could be dangerous.

So Connie gave the cake a place of honor amongst the cookies and biscotti and chocolate balls sent down by her relatives up north, but she never took a bite. She only mentioned the fruitcake to Bud once, fearful that he would suggest brewing up some coffee and tucking in.

"Thanks for your little surprise," she told him. "It's lovely."

Bud smiled and gave her an "Awww shucks, it was nothing" shrug. He thought she was talking about the Velveeta sausage log. Or maybe something else he'd done. His memory wasn't what it used to be. And anyway, forty-three years of marriage had taught him not to question a woman's gratitude. If it's something you earned, great. If it's not something you earned, even better.

Over the next week, the mountain of holiday treats in Connie's kitchen was gradually worn away by the erosion of near-constant snacking. Yet the fruitcake remained, inviolate, untouchable, like some moist and mysterious monolith.

It had to go.

Connie couldn't just throw it away, though. It was a symbol of Bud's devotion . . . though, in all likelihood, a spectacularly nasty one.

So instead of tossing it out, she dressed it up. She plated it with candy armor— gumdrops and Skittles along the sides, peppermints and candy canes on top. When she was done, the fruitcake was unrecognizable.

She covered it in Saran Wrap and walked it to the trailer of Always Sunny's most hated resident: George "Bones" Heaton, the manager. She felt a little guilty about pawning off someone else's gift as one of her own. But wasn't there an old legend that there's really only one fruitcake in the world—it just keeps getting passed around? Who was she to stand in the way of tradition?

* * *

Bones (short for "Skin and . . .") was a small, grizzled man with a large, fleshy mouth that spewed ill will like a smokestack. Always Sunny's residents were not, on the whole, a rowdy or unreliable bunch. So Bones spent very little of his time breaking up wild parties or overseeing evictions. Instead, his duties as manager leaned heavily toward maintenance work and general handymanery.

As undemanding as these chores generally were, however, Bones seemed bound by holy oath to make them as unpleasant as possible for all concerned. His rote response to any complaint, large or small, were the words "Whadaya want me to do about it?"

Even if you told him exactly what you wanted him to do, the odds weren't good that Bones would actually do it. Your chances for success worsened considerably if you got on his bad side somehow—which was easy to do, since his "bad side" comprised the majority of his being.

In December, there were two sure-fire ways to inspire his wrathful sloth: (A) coming to his door singing Christmas carols or (B) not coming to his door with a present. Bones had been known to chase away suddenly-not-so-merry carolers with a garden hose. Gifts, on the other hand, he accepted greedily, if not graciously.

Her new neighbors had let Connie know that a Christmas offering to Bones was mandatory. Connie was, of course, outraged and offended. But she also had cracks in her driveway and a box elder that was growing perilously close to her telephone line. So she brought Bones a gift.

"Huh," the little man grunted when he saw it. "You say there's a cake under all that candy?"

Connie came as close as she could to a good-natured laugh. "Oh, yes. It should be a tasty one, too. I had my niece Gina make it for me. She's a pastry chef up in New York. A real wiz kid with the baking. Sometimes she gets kind of fancy with the ingredients . . . you know, experimental. But she—"

"Yeah, okay, thanks," Bones said, signaling that Connie's audience with him was at an end. The door to his trailer was closed before she could finish her farewell "Merry Christmas!"

Later that day, Bones's wife Virgie found the fruitcake on the kitchen table when she returned from the latest meeting of her divorce support group. She'd never been divorced before. She was just trying it on for size. After four weeks with the group, she still couldn't figure out what everyone was complaining about.

"What's this?" she called out.

Bones was in the living room, approximately twelve feet away, watching Judge Judy dole out justice reality-TV style.

"What's what?" he hollered back.

"This thing with all the crap on it!"

"What?"

"This hunk of crud in the kitchen!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"This weird-lookin' blob on the counter!"

"That's a fruitcake!"

"A what?"

"A frrrrruitcaaaake!"

A fruitcake? Virgie thought it looked more like a candy-encrusted brick.

"Where'd it come from?"

It took five more minutes of yelling to work out the details. Virgie never left the kitchen, and Bones never left his seat.

When it was all over, Virgie took the fruitcake to its new home. She thought the cake looked more decorative than edible, so she placed it amongst the snow globes, nutcrackers and miniature angels on the mantelpiece of the double-wide trailer's faux fireplace. There it stayed for the next twelve months.

Virgie and Bones usually packed up their Christmas decorations around Valentine's Day or, at the very latest, Easter. But this year it became a one-man job—and the man in question was reluctant to commit to any project that required him to put down the remote control.

When Virgie left Bones, she chose the timing carefully. She didn't want a big fuss. So she started packing her bags five seconds after the kick-off of the Super Bowl. She was out of the trailer by half-time. Bones tracked her down the next day to attempt a reconciliation—over the phone.

"Awww, you don't care if I'm there or not, George," Virgie told him. "I bet you didn't even stop watching the game after I left last night."

"Well, yeah," Bones admitted sheepishly. On the widescreen TV a few feet before him, Judge Judy was scolding a man for selling his best friend a sickly parrot. "But I didn't enjoy it."

The reconciliation did not take root, and Bones found himself single for the first time in fifteen years. It didn't really affect his life much, except that there was a lot less shouting around the trailer and no more bickering about what to watch on TV.

* * *

The following November, Bones's bachelorhood produced an unexpected dividend. Through no effort of his own, the man suddenly found himself with an admirer.

Ethel Queenan began dropping by every day with food.

"That wife of yours never fed you right," she'd say as she handed him the latest creation from the pages of her new cookbook: Bake Until Bubbly!. "And now that she's gone, you're just wasting away to nothing."

In attempting to seduce Bones Heaton with fiesta chicken and tuna noodle strudel, Ethel knew she'd scraped all the way through the bottom of the barrel deep into the dirt beneath. She was desperate.

Whether Connie Sandrelli didn't care for fruitcake or simply had a cast-iron stomach, Ethel would never know. But the man-stealing hussy not only survived the holiday season, she married Bud Schmidt just a few months later. To show that there were no hard feelings, Ethel baked them a chocolate cake—or, to be more precise, a chocolate, Clorox, Cascade, Tide and lemon-fresh Pledge cake. The resulting black sludge was so noxious with chemicals Ethel had to throw it out, pan and all. She nearly passed out from the fumes.

Only two more Always Sunny men came on the market after that. One died three weeks after his wife's funeral. The other moved to San Francisco with his wife's brother, something he'd apparently been waiting forty years to do.

That made Bones Heaton the only unattached male in the trailer park. He was a little too young and a lot too lazy, but he was eligible, and Ethel needed a husband. For her, being single was simply not an option. Take the "man" out of "woman" and all you've got's a "wo," her mother used to say. Ethel always assumed this was a firm endorsement of matrimony. She had no intention of being a "wo" the rest of her life.

Bones accepted her attentions with uncharacteristic patience, largely because he'd grown sick of frozen pizza and fish sticks. Like Bud Schmidt before him, he never invited Ethel inside or dropped by her trailer in return. But he never chased her away with the garden hose, either. In fact, as Christmas drew closer, he began to worry that she'd give up on him before his refrigerator was fully stocked. Given the trailer park's demographics, it was only a matter of time before another Always Sunny widower stepped onto the auction block. And Bones was realistic enough about his personal charms to know what would happen if he faced competition.

What was called for was a Christmas gift. But Bones being Bones, it would have to entail minimum effort to procure. Ideally, it would be something he could find within ten steps of his La-Z-Boy.

Which is how it came to be that one warm December evening Bones Heaton presented to Ethel Queenan a beautifully decorated, twelve-month-old fruitcake. Ethel cooed and made a fuss over it, though it actually looked far too gussied up for her tastes. But the man had made an effort on her behalf, and that boded well.

And anyway, Ethel thought as she walked back to her trailer, peel off the peppermints and the thing was probably perfectly fine.

She'd been cooking all afternoon, and she was hungry.

I KILLED SANTA CLAUS

After Christmas break, everyone in the dorm was talking about what they did over the holidays. People were like, "I watched 22 movies" and "I went to Cancun" and "I smoked a lot of pot, man."

When I got asked what I did, I'd say, "I killed Santa Claus." Which would get a polite ha ha. And then I'd say, "No, really. I'm not kidding." And then I'd tell the story.

Before long, people were coming up to me all over campus saying, "Are you that Santa-killing chick?" I was famous. Or maybe infamous. It was pretty cool—for, like, a week. Then I got sick of telling people about it over and over again. I mean, it's a pretty long story. So after a while when people came up and said, "Did you kill Santa Claus?" I'd say, "Sorry, you've got me confused with someone else. I killed the Easter Bunny."

But I guess I could tell the story one more time. After that, I'm going to retire it. I won't tell it again till I've got kids I need to scare into line. "Don't mess with your mother, Timmy. She offed St. Nick."

My own mom, she believes in the importance of work. For everybody. All the time. So one of the joys of coming home from school is finding out what sucky job she's got lined up for me. During my first summer break, I worked for the dog census. You walk around to people's houses—or, in some of the neighborhoods I went to, trailers—and ask if they have a dog and, if so, does Fido have a license? Tons of fun, let me tell you. There's no better use for a cheery summer afternoon than asking Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel if his mutt is registered with the county. And all for minimum wage. Thanks, Mom!

Christmas two years ago, I wrapped presents at J.C. Penney until my fingers bled. The summer after that, I went back to the dogs. Come the next Christmas, I was a squirter, chasing people around Dillard's with a perfume bottle. Then, for the summer, I worked a cash register at Chuck E. Cheese...an experience I plan to talk to a therapist about, as soon as I can afford one. Hell isn't other people. It's hearing an animatronic ostrich sing "Wind Beneath My Wings" 50 times a day.

So finally I reach the Christmas break of my senior year—my last chance to kick back and truly chill without worrying about finding a job or a place to live or any of that "real world" stuff I'm looking forward to soooooooo much. But does my mom give me a break and let me spend my vacation doing what I want to do—suck candy canes and watch TV? Of course not. Instead, I get The Speech.

"When your father ran off with that woman," it begins, "he left us to fend for ourselves. We don't have it easy. We can't sit around eating bonbons. We've got to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty. That's exactly what I've done. I have worked hard—very hard—to keep this house and put food on the table and send you to college. But I can't do it alone. You've got to take some responsibility and chip in and — "

Yada yada yada, as they say.

After a few minutes of this lecture, all of which I know by heart, I said the only thing that can bring it to an end, which is, "You're absolutely right, Mother. How could I be so selfish? Please tell me what [mind-numbingly tedious minimum wage] job you've found for me."

My mom smiled and said, "This one's going to be fun, Hannah," which sent a chill down my spine. If my mother thinks it's "fun," I figured, it's got to suck big-time.

And I was right.

"You remember Missy Widgitz, Mark Widgitz's mother," Mom said, referring to two people I have absolutely never heard of. "She just became the promotions director over at Olde Towne Mall. She's got a holiday position that would be perfect for you."

I sighed and said, "Great. Gift wrapping. I'll go get the Band-Aids."

Mom laughed—another ominous sign. "No, it's a lot better than that. They lost one of their elves."

There was a long pause, during which my mother stared at me with this big, goofy grin, waiting for me to say something upbeat like, "Wow! Really? What great news, Mom!" But I was confused.

"Lost...an elf?" I said. "What? They want me to help find it?"

Mom laughed again. it's nice to know I can provide her with so much cheap amusement.

"No, no. They need an elf for Santa's Workshop."

I was still thinking I was supposed to be an Elf Wrangler, which doesn't make any sense, when it dawned on me.

You're the elf.

My blood ran cold.

"You start tomorrow," my mother said.

I slit my wrists and threw myself off the roof.

O.K., I didn't. But maybe I should have. Instead, I showed up at Olde Towne Mall the next day and reported for elf duty.

Here's what you need to know about Olde Towne Mall: When they say "Olde," they're not kidding. In fact, "Ye Olde Crappie Mall" would be a better name for the place. It's what used to pass for a shopping mall back in the seventies, before River City got a real mall. It's all gray tile and florescent lighting and fake plants and rednecks. The nicest store they've got is Sears.

At the exact center of this dump was the horrifying torture chamber otherwise known as Santa's Workshop. You know the drill: plywood house, plastic candy canes, mechanical reindeer, fake snow, fake everything. And the biggest fake of all sat on a throne lording over it all. Santa Claus. Or, as I came to know him, Big Buck.

Big Buck was not one of those professional Santa types you read about who grow their own beards and love children and act like playing St. Nick is a role worthy of De Niro. Big Buck wore a phony white beard that was always a little bit crooked from being yanked by the screaming kids he obviously loathed. And he didn't smell like peppermint and warm cookies, the way you think Santa should. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. And his deep-fried drawl was all wrong, too: Last time I checked, the North Pole is not south of the Mason-Dixon.

But at least his belly was real. And he laughed really loud. And he liked to sneak into people's homes at night. I didn't learn that last bit till later, though.

Big Buck had a love-hate thing going with me at first. Or I should say a lust-hate thing. I was the only female elf, which would've been bad enough without the costume I had to wear: red tights, a green felt smock and a red stocking cap, all about two sizes too small. I could barely squeeze into any of it. I was like a felt-wrapped sausage.

This led to a lot of ogling from both Big Buck and a disgustingly high percentage of the dads I had to deal with. I was the greeter elf, the one in charge of maintaining order in the line of supplicants to King Claus. When Junior's time came, I'd walk him up the path to the stairs in front of Santa's throne. Then I'd go back to the head of the line to make sure mom and dad didn't spoil this special moment by getting too close. Another elf—Arlo Hettle, a slumming college kid like me—would step up and take a picture of Junior and Big Buck with an instant camera. Then the third and final elf, a rat-faced little troll named Kev Kane, would hustle Junior away while I brought up the next kid. I found it deeply depressing that Kev was as old as me and Arlo put together. If I was still elfing when I hit 40, I'd hang myself with a string of garland.

Still, I've got to say it: I was a natural . . . at the kid-herding part, if not being holly-jolly. Within an hour, I had the moves down so pat—collect child, step step step, leave child, step step step, repeat—I could've done them with my eyes closed. Which left me free to notice things like the come-hither looks Big Buck kept giving me. The really creepy thing, though, was the way he'd spaz out if I came too hither at the wrong moment.

"Y'see that gingerbread man there?" he snapped at me after I brought up Kid #48 of the day while Kid #47 was still on his lap. "I don't ever wanna see you or anybody else on my side of that while I'm talkin' to a youngster."

"O.K.," I said, thinking, "Youngster"? You look at them like they're cockroaches.

"It throws off my concentration."

"O.K."

"If anyone so much as sets a toe beyond that gingerbread man, there's gonna be trouble."

"O.K."

"I need to give the little ones my full attention. I don't want any distractions."

"O.K. I understand."

He smiled at that. "Good. Now tell me. You a naughty girl or a nice one?"

As you can imagine, keeping my distance from Big Buck was not an issue for me. If that gingerbread man had been in the next county, it still would've been too close.

At the end of my first day, I asked Arlo, the camera kid, about Jolly Old St. Dick as we got ready to bolt for home. Arlo shrugged.

"He's been like that since day one, man." He pushed a big pile of long, wavy hair out of his face—a gesture he had to repeat about once every three seconds. "He's like all, 'Back off or I'll kick your ass.' And that Kev guy is like, 'Don't crowd Big Buck, dude.' And I'm like, 'Oooooooo.K. Whatever. I'm just here to take the pictures, bro.'"

"Big Buck?"

"That's what Kev calls him. I don't call him anything cuz I don't talk to the man, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"So Kev and 'Big Buck' are friends?"

"Sure. Kev got him into the suit after Mr. Haney and Becky got hurt."

I sighed. Arlo was nice but not great with explanations. "Becky and Mr. Haney?"

Arlo nodded. "Yeah."

I sighed again. "And they are . . .?"

Arlo laughed that zonked, stoner-guy, donkey-bray laugh.

"Oh, right. You didn't know them. Mr. Haney, he was the first Santa—the one before Big Buck. He was pretty nice, except he always used to say things to me like, 'Just say no' and 'Users are losers.' Weird, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Go figure."

"Becky was a greeter elf. They both lived on the East Side, so they'd, like, carpool. But one night some drunk ran 'em off the road. They ended up in the hospital."

"So Big Buck replaced Mr. Haney and I replaced Becky."

"No, you replaced Cheryl. She quit two days ago. She replaced . . . man, what was her name? Michelle. Yeah. Michelle replaced Becky."

"So why did Cheryl and Michelle quit?"

"Man, you're like Oprah or something. What's up with all the questions?"

"I want to know what I'm getting into, alright? Things around here just seem a little . . . I don't know . . . off."

"You got that right. I'd quit except my gig is just too easy. Point and click, point and click, all day. I show up stoned half the time and nobody notices."

Sure they don't, I thought.

"So Cheryl and Michelle . . .?"

"Oh, I think it was a Big Buck thing, y'know what I mean? He's hot for elfettes."

I thanked Arlo for the four-one-one. Perhaps thinking this had been some kind of relational breakthrough, he asked me if I wanted to go "get baked." I politely declined, went home and told my mom about the freaks I had to work with. Her response: "A job's a job." She said it in that Conversation Closed tone of voice that told me she thought I was just looking for an excuse to quit.

And I was. And I kept right at it.

By the end of my first week, I was convinced Kev and Big Buck were pervs. You know—molesters. It fit the facts. You've got these two nasty-looking old lowlifes insisting on complete privacy while they talk to little kids all day? It seemed so obvious. I couldn't understand how those parents could just stand there while their pride and joy sat helpless on Big Buck's nasty old lap. Half these people looked like they'd been on The Jerry Springer Show back in the day, probably throwing chairs at each other during an episode called "My Mom Married a Satan-Worshipping Transsexual!" Yet the idea that something sleazy was going on right under their noses seemed completely beyond them.

Something had to be done, and it looked like I had to do it. I'd either get Big Buck fired or get myself fired in the process. It was a win-win.

Three times a day, we got to put up a sign that said, "FEEDING THE REINDEER—BACK IN 15 MINUTES." Arlo would spend his break getting toasted in his Hyundai. Kev and Big Buck always went off together for "a little pick-me-up" somewhere . . . or so they said. Sometimes Big Buck would invite me along, but I had better things to do—like find an empty stall in the women's bathroom and read cheesy thrillers, which was my usual routine. But one day while Santa and his other elves were off replenishing their Christmas spirit with various controlled substances, I went to see the woman responsible for the mess at the North Pole—Missy Widgitz, Olde Towne Mall's promotions director.

A quick introduction to Missy: Imagine, if you will, a six-foot two-inch Amazon with kabuki makeup, five-inch stiletto heels and hair teased up so high the Swiss Family Robinson could build a tree house in it. Now imagine that said Amazon fancies herself to be quite the on-the-go career woman. Now imagine me puking every time I had to deal with her.

I poked my head into Missy's office, and of course she was barking into the phone, deep in wheeler-dealer mode.

"Have you been over to River Valley Mall, Charlie? They've got real elves over there! Real elves! Oh, you know what I mean—midgets, dwarves, hobbits, 'wee people,' whatever they're called."

Her mascara-encrusted raccoon eyes caught sight of me in the doorway and went all squinty. She flapped one of her big hands at me, shooing me away.

"How am I supposed to compete with real elves?" she said, still glaring at me and flailing her hand. "Tell me. Huh? How?"

I put up a finger. My index finger, meaning I just needed one minute of her time.

"Hold on, Charlie," Missy growled. She cupped a hand over the receiver. "Are you quitting?"

"No."

"Has somebody been hurt?"

"No."

"Somebody feel you up?"

"Uhhh, no. But I am concerned about something."

Missy pointed at a black plastic tray on her desk. It was overflowing with memos and Post-Its and old newspaper ads.

"Put it in writing."

Then she spun her chair around so she faced the wall.

"Why should people come here when they can go to River Valley and see real elves? I'm telling you, Charlie, I need more money."

End of conversation, obviously. I couldn't count on Missy Widgitz for squat. So I found an empty stall and began plotting.

Now, it just so happens that my roommate's boyfriend is a kleptomaniac. He's in a band, so I think she just sees it as one of the cute little character flaws she has to put up with in order to date a guitar player. I just see it as pathetic. Anyway, whenever I come home from school, I play it safe and pack up everything of value I own. So stashed away in the back of my '84 VW Rabbit was a toaster, a CD player, an almost-empty jewelry box, an Aran sweater, a little TV and the old voice-activated tape recorder I use to record lectures.

Obviously, the toaster wasn't going to do me much good in this situation. Same with the CD player, the jewelry, the TV and the sweater. But the tape recorder—that I could use.

The next morning, I did the unthinkable: I showed up for work early. I needed time to find the best place in Santa's Workshop to hide a tape recorder. It had to be close enough to Santa's throne to pick up what Big Buck was saying, but not so close that Big Buck or Kev would see it or hear it when it clicked off. I thought about hiding it with the fake presents under a Christmas tree, but that was too far away. Same with the fake stockings hung over the fake fireplace and the fake toys on the fake worktable.

Fake fake fake. Which made me think. What about Santa's "throne"? It looked big and boxy and, you know, solid. But if it was as bogus as everything else in the Workshop, wouldn't it be hollow?

I tipped the throne over—it was surprisingly light—and found that I was right. So I reached under and left the tape recorder there with the voice-activation thingy turned on. I'd be pulling a Patriot Act on Big Buck right under his nose . . . or butt, to be more accurate.

The rest of the day passed like every other work day—slowly. Two things broke the monotony: my fear that Kev or Big Buck would find the tape recorder and put two and two together (though, knowing them, they might get five) and a surprise visitor.

Right before our first break, I noticed that someone had parked a mummy in a wheelchair not far from Santa's Workshop. Though its entire body was covered in bandages and plaster, it had a human head—one belonging to a girl about my age. She was watching us with a strange, blank expression on her face, almost like she'd been hypnotized. When it was finally time to "feed the reindeer," Arlo went up and started talking to her. I wasn't going to enjoy my serial killer thriller that day—I was too nervous about Big Buck to worry about fictional psychos—so I decided to introduce myself to the human statue.

"So what are you on? Codeine?" Arlo was saying as I walked up.

"Nuh. Vicodin . . . and thome other thtuff," Mummy Girl mumbled. She looked even more glassy-eyed close up. "It helpth."

"Got some you could spare?"

Mummy Girl stared at him a moment, then turned her hollow eyes toward me.

"Oh, hey, Hannah," Arlo said. "Becky, this is Hannah, the new elf."

"Hi, Becky."

"Huh," Becky said. I think that was as close as she could get to "Hi."

"Becky just got out of the hospital," Arlo said.

No duh, I thought. I figured she just came from the gym.

What I said was, "Really?"

"Yeah. She was in a really bad car wreck. Some nut cut her off and forced her into a telephone pole. Right, Becky?"

Becky tried to nod, but ended up just wincing.

"Umm-hmmm," she hummed.

And finally, it dawned on me. This was the Becky—the first greeter elf of the year, the one who'd been in an accident with Santa Claus. Arlo had probably forgotten he'd already told me about her. (His long-term memory, like his short-term memory and his everything-in-between-memory, wasn't too good.) So I played dumb.

"Was there anybody else in the car with you?" I asked.

"Umm-hmmm." Becky moved her dazed eyes to Arlo again. "That'th why I'm heah. I wanted to tell you in perthon, Ahlo. Mistah Haney ith dead. He nevah came ou' of hith coma."

"No way," Arlo said.

"Yeth. I'm thorry. I know you two wuh clothe."

"We were what?"

"Clothe."

"Huh?"

"Close," I snapped at Arlo, barely resisting the urge to smack him upside the back of the head. Sure, Becky sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger on 'ludes, but still—context, dude! "You two were close."

"Oh. Right. Sure." Arlo frowned. "We were?"

"Mr. Haney cahed about you, Ahlo," Becky spoke-moaned. "He wuh even planning an intuhven- — "

"Well, ho ho ho!" someone bellowed.

We all jumped—even Becky, who paid for it with another wince.

Big Buck came swaggering up with Kev not far behind.

"If it isn't my favorite little elf!" Big Buck boomed.

"You two know each other?" I asked Becky.

"Oh, we're old friends," Big Buck answered for her. "I dropped by to see Kev a couple times before they asked me to strap on the beard myself. I had to see the elf princess my buddy here kept jabberin' about. Man, he made Santa's Workshop sound better'n Hooters!" He leered at Becky as if her bandages were something from Victoria's Secret. "So . . . how ya' doin', Betty?"

Becky looked as though she wanted to shrink into her body cast like a turtle into its shell.

"Fine," she whispered.

Big Buck leaned over and stroked her leg cast.

"Good. You just keep healin' up, Betty. Then come see ol' St. Nick again when you're feelin' more limber." He winked at her, then turned and gave me a wink, too. "Maybe we'll make us a Santa sandwich with two slices of elf!"

He let out a wheezy laugh—a hoarse, course, phlegmy sound that made me want to rip off his beard and stuff it down his fat throat.

"Mr. Haney's dead," I said instead. I guess I was trying to embarrass him. I should've known that was impossible. You have to be capable of shame to be embarrassed.

He stopped laughing, but his eyes still twinkled with cruel glee.

"Oh, that's too bad. You hear that, Kev?"

Big Buck's little sidekick nodded silently, suddenly looking shifty and nervous. The news actually seemed to shake him, which surprised me. Before that, I'd never seen anything on his ferret face but sneers and leers.

"Well, this Santa's gonna be a lot more careful who he hitches a ride from," Big Buck said, giving Becky one last pat. "Bye now. Break-time's over."

He walked away singing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," Kev trailing him like a broken-spirited dog.

Something about the conversation bothered me—something beyond the fact that Big Buck was a repulsive old letch. It wasn't a suspicion, really. Just an uneasy tingle, like the vague feeling of dread I get when I'm taking a test and I know I just wrote down the wrong answer . . . without knowing what the right answer is. The clue phone's ringing, but I can't find the phone, let alone pick it up.

"So, Becky," I said, "did they ever catch the guy who ran you off the road?"

"Nuh. The copth think it wath thome joy-riding kidth. They found the car not far from where we crashed. It had been thtolen."

I put in a little more strained chit-chat out of the spirit of Christmas charity, then said goodbye to Becky and let Arlo get back to wheedling for prescription medication. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman appeared carrying a bunch of boxes and bags. She piled them up on top of Becky and wheeled her away.

"That Becky's mom?" I asked Arlo as he trudged back towards Santa's Workshop, obviously unsuccessful in his mission and not too happy about it.

"Yeah. I was this close to scoring some Demerol and then whoosh, here comes momma."

"Demerol? Geez, Arlo, can't you just say no?"

"Man, I can't even say 'maybe.'"

A goofy grin creased his droopy-eyed face, and my heart sank. I'd been thinking about telling him what I was up to, trying to enlist him as a partner, a sidekick. But could a guy like Arlo be trusted? He'd be like Tonto with a bong, a brain-damaged Dr. Watson, Robin the Boy Wonder with Attention Deficit Disorder.

No thanks. This elf was on her own.

The last seconds of our break melted away, and the usual assortment of squirmy, mouthy kids and testy parents lined up again. Big Buck assumed the throne and gave me a nod—and another disgusting wink—and I began leading the little lambs to the slaughter.

"Just go up the stairs and tell Santa what you want," I told the first victim when we reached the gingerbread man. She stumbled up the steps shyly. As I turned to go, I heard Big Buck let out a "Ho ho ho" and ask, "What's your name, little girl?"

And then brrrrrring, there it was again—the clue phone. And this time I actually picked up.

Names. A few minutes before, Big Buck couldn't get poor Becky's name right, and her he'd met. But when I had told him "Mr. Haney's dead," he didn't bat an eye. He knew exactly who I was talking about. Why should he remember the name—or even know it in the first place? All his pal Kev had to tell him was the last Santa got hurt and he'd better get his résumé ready stat . . . assuming Missy Widgitz would have even bothered with résumés when she had a red suit to fill fast. I'm guessing all you'd have needed to land the job would be a big gut and low standards.

Sure, the "Mr. Haney" thing was pretty thin, I knew that. There's Becky/Betty in a wheelchair, and we tell Big Buck somebody's died—who else would we be talking about? Context, right? But, still, it ate at me.

I couldn't wait to get my hands on that tape.

But I had to wait. Hours and hours, each one crawling by like the week before spring break. Finally we roped off the entrance, hustled the last few kids through and called it quits for the day.

Usually, Kev and Big Buck would blast out of there so fast you'd think they'd been shot out of a cannon. Not tonight, of course. They were hanging out next to the throne—next to the tape recorder—talking and throwing ominous looks my way. It was like they weren't just ogling me anymore. They were sizing me up. I killed a little time chatting with Arlo, but he had a big Christmas party to go to and couldn't stay long. It was actually sort of a relief when he left: Keeping a conversation going with Arlo's kind of like trying to play chess with a cat. You end up getting a lot of blank stares.

Once Arlo took off, I didn't have any excuse to hang around, so I went to the restroom and used my regular stall—I felt like I could start having mail delivered there—and changed out of my elfwear. I tried to polish off another chapter of my book, but Big Buck's evil grin kept muscling the words out of my head. After rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time, I threw the paperback into my shoulder bag and stood up. It was Mission: Impossible time.

When I got back to Santa's Workshop, Kev and Big Buck were finally gone. There were still plenty of shoppers around—the mall would be open for another hour—so I did a slow circuit around the Workshop, pretending to window shop at some of the crapeterias nearby: Big Lots and Lady Bug and Monkeyberry Toys. Once I was sure no one was watching me, I hopped over the faux-velvet rope, hurried up the path to Santa's throne and fished around underneath for the tape recorder.

It was still there. I quickly stuffed it in my bag and motored, congratulating myself on my nerve as I scurried to the nearest exit and headed out to the parking lot.

But then I heard something that knocked the nerve (and scared the bejesus) right out of me.

"Well, hello there."

Yeah, I know. It's not exactly "Caught you, you sneaky bitch" or "Die! Die! Die!" followed by the sound of gunfire. But hey—it was Big Buck's voice, and that was bloodcurdling enough.

I turned to find a burly, fifty-ish man in a green parka lurking in the shadows just beyond the doors. His beard was gone, replaced by a stubby cigarette that jutted from his curled lips, and he wasn't wearing his red and white suit. But there was no mistaking that smarmy voice and those bright, smirking eyes.

I stopped and caught my breath. The cold air stung my lungs.

"Geez, Buck. You scared me."

"Scared you?" He seemed to like that. "You ain't frightened of ol' Buck, are you?"

I chirped out a little chuckle as fake as a plastic snowman.

"No, no, of course not. But, you know, some guy's behind you in the dark . . .? It's creepy."

Big Buck nodded.

"Sure, I understand. That's why I'm here, actually. I thought somebody oughta walk you to your car."

I tried to do a quick look around without being too obvious about it. It was late, but there were still shoppers coming and going. Big Buck wouldn't try something in public . . . would he?

"Oh, you don't have to worry about me," I said. "I know ka-rah-tay."

I put up my hands and did a little hiii-yah!.

Big Buck laughed and copied the gesture.

"Really? That's great. Cuz I know karate, too. Maybe you and I should go at it sometime."

Forget scary. Now things were getting gross.

I couldn't handle it anymore. I turned and stalked off.

"Yeah, well, gotta go, bye."

"Hey, hold on!" Big Buck called after me. He sounded genuinely surprised.

I didn't stop.

"Hold on!"

Chubby, clutching fingers grabbed hold of my upper arm.

I whirled around, tearing myself out of Big Buck's grip.

"Do you want me to scream? Cuz I will, I swear to God!"

Big Buck took a step back, hands up.

"O.K., O.K., don't touch the merchandise. I get it."

His thick lips bent into a sneering grin that pushed his cigarette up so high I almost thought it was going to set his nose hair on fire.

"I won't follow you if you don't want my protection. I'll just watch you from right here."

"Fine," I said, though of course, it wasn't. It was really, really freaky.

I looked back once when I was half-way to my car, and Big Buck was still there, watching me. I checked again in the rear-view mirror as I drove away, and there he was. Waving. I was a couple blocks away when it hit me.

Now he knows what my car looks like.

Or maybe he'd known already. He'd been waiting for me at the right exit. Had he been spying on me? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe he was having a smoke and out I came and he decided to have a little fun.

Or maybe the fun was going to come later . . . .

I watched the cars behind me, wondering if I was being followed. I didn't see anything suspicious, but then again, how would I know what "suspicious" driving looks like? Who am I, Jane Bond?

I started to feel silly, stupid, nuts. Could be I'd gone crazy from boredom. Could be I was imagining everything. Most definitely I needed to stop reading books with names like Malicious Intent and Evil Is as Evil Does.

And then I remembered the tape. That would settle everything.

Yeah. Right.

The second I got home, I rushed upstairs to my room, ignoring Mom's "Dinner's in the fridge!" from the living room. When I pulled the tape recorder out of my bag, I could see that the tape had stopped about a quarter of the way through the first side. It had recorded something!

I pushed the rewind button. The tape started to wind back just fine, but the little wheels quickly slowed to a lurchy crawl, and the red power light began to flicker and fade.

Great. The batteries were dying.

I pushed play and heard what sounded like the moans of a depressed cow.

" . . . mmmmmmmmeeeeelllllllllllooooooooooodeeee . . . ."

I took the tape out and put it in the cassette deck of the old stereo I'd appropriated from my parents when I was in fifth grade. When I pushed play, ear-piercing squeaks and squonks blasted from the speakers. It was like Alvin and the Chipmunks after they've sucked in a tank of helium. The tape had recorded so slowly, the voices were being sped up and distorted when played back at normal speed.

I rewound the tape to the beginning, hoping the recorder had captured something incriminating before it ran out of juice.

I pushed play.

"Your elf is lookin' nice today," someone said with a nasal, whiny twang. It sounded like Kev.

"She looks nice every day. Heh heh."

Big Buck.

"I don't know how she squeezes into those tights."

"I'm gonna squeeze in there with her onea these days."

Laughter.

I wanted to barf.

Kev: "That's what you say about all of 'em. Alright, here come the brats. Whadaya think of these first two?"

Big Buck: "Ahhhhh, I don't know. Look kinda trailer trash to me."

Kev: "Some of those trailer trash types don't believe in banks, if you know what I mean."

Big Buck: "Yeah, but a lot of them believe in shotguns, if you know what I mean. O.K. Here we go. Excuse me while I get into character."

A fart erupted from my speakers. In stereo.

The urge to hurl got worse.

Then another voice could be heard, very quiet, saying, " . . . up and tell Santa what you want." It was a quavering yet still oddly flat and toneless and insincere sort of voice. A voice I really hated.

My own.

Big Buck: "Ho ho ho! And how are you doin', little fella?"

The words were starting to sound sped-up, distorted. The tape recorder hadn't made it far before it started slowing down.

Little Boy: "O.K."

Big Buck: "Why don't you come up here and sit on Santa's lap?"

Little Boy: "O.K."

Big Buck: "Therethat'sbetternowwhy don'tyoutellSantayourname?"

The distortion was getting worse and worse.

Little Boy: "Paul."

Big Buck: "What'syourlastname,Paul? There'salotofPaulsonmylist."

Little Boy: "Rodes."

Big Buck: "Andwheredoyoulive,PaulRodes?"

Little Boy: "Melodyhills."

Big Buck: "Andareyougonnabehomefor Christmassqueaksqueaksqueak...?"

The squeaking went on for another 15 seconds or so, then click. I was listening to an Introduction to Medieval Narrative lecture from three weeks before.

So that was all I got on tape—a vaguely sinister exchange about "trailer trash," a few comments about my booty and the sound of Big Buck cutting the cheese.

As the testy bureaucrat always says to the unorthodox-but-brilliant profiler in my favorite paperbacks (no matter who wrote them): "It wouldn't stand up in a court of law." It wouldn't even stand up in the food court at the mall. It wouldn't do anything. It was useless.

So I did the only thing I could, being kind of stubborn and kind of mad and kind of bored and maybe a little bit insane. I bought new batteries on my way to work the next morning. The tape recorder went back under Santa's throne.

The rest of the day passed even more slowly than the day before. It was indescribably creepy seeing Big Buck and Kev up there eyeing me and knowing that, no, I wasn't being paranoid—they were talking about me. And looking at my butt. Eww!

I tried to put all that out of my mind by focusing on my elfing, making sure the "youngsters" had a good time while they were with me, anyway. You know. Doing a good job.

That lasted about a ten minutes. Then an eight-year-old called me a "biyatch" because I wouldn't let him and his buddy have a lightsaber duel with our plastic candy canes. After that, I was back to not giving a crap.

The only thing that broke the day's routine for a few seconds, other than the Biyatch Incident, was a surprise visit from our beloved employer just as our first break was coming to an end.

"Gather 'round, troops! Chop chop!" Missy Widgitz commanded, snapping her fingers.

The four of us sauntered over slowly, Arlo and Kev and Big Buck exchanging surly, silent glances. For just a moment, they were united in their contempt for the She-Hulk. I kept my eyes down.

"I'm going to need all of you to come in an hour early tomorrow. We've finally got a way to top River Valley Mall."

Missy flashed me a happy smirk as she announced this, maybe thinking, in her deluded, self-absorbed way, that I gave a rat's ass about topping River Valley Mall.

Arlo took the bait.

"What is it?" he asked.

Missy placed a long, enamel-encrusted fingernail to her lips.

"Shhh. Top secret."

"That's gonna count as over-time, ain't it?" Big Buck asked.

Missy looked down at him (he was "Big" Buck to the rest of us, but she had three inches on him, at least) and pretended to mull it over.

"We'll see about that." Then she dismissed us with two claps of her big paws. "O.K., that's all. Let's see some smiles and Christmas cheer, huh?"

We marched away looking very uncheery.

"All I want for Christmas are her two front teeth," I mumbled to Arlo.

Big Buck guffawed and turned to face me, and I suddenly wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

"Are you sure that's all you want? Cuz ol' Santa would love to fill your stockin', if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean," I snapped back, so disgusted I finally forgot to be scared. "Why don't you explain yourself?"

Big Buck waggled his bushy eyebrows. "I mean I'd like to come down your chimney some night."

Kev snickered.

I shook my head.

"I still don't follow you, Buck. Be more clear."

"I'm sayin' I'd like to . . . ."

Big Buck furrowed his furry, Neanderthal brow. He'd already run out of metaphors.

" . . . uhhhhh . . . jingle your bells."

That actually made me laugh.

"You want to 'jingle my bells'? Chuh? Please, try to choose your words carefully and speak slowly, Buck, because I am not following this at all."

Big Buck's face turned as red as his Santa suit.

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you, college girl? Well, you ain't. You're just a dumb bitch. And one day soon you're gonna learn just how dumb you are. I guarantee it." He turned away, stomped off toward his throne. "Come on, Kev."

"Nope, still don't get you, Buck!" I called after him. "Maybe you oughta try writing it down!"

Kev lingered a moment, a scowl twisting his small, sharp face. He reminded me of a little, snarling Schnauzer. The image helped me keep a smile on my face until he turned to follow his master.

The second he was gone, my smile melted. I felt like I was going to melt with it.

"Oh, God . . .why do I do these things?"

"Don't ask me," Arlo said with a shrug.

"I wasn't asking you, I was asking God. But as long as you're butting in, I should thank you for standing up for me. You're a real hero, Arlo. My knight in hemp armor."

Sarcasm doesn't work too well on stoners, so all I got was a puzzled "Huh?" I gave up and went back to work.

I endured hours of stares and glares from Kev and Big Buck before it was finally quitting time. The last thing I wanted was another after-work encounter with either of them, so I retired to my home away from home—my stall in the women's room—and spent the next hour plugging away at Run for Your Life or whatever it was I was reading.

When I finally emerged, it was closing time. The shoppers had scurried home—or over to River Valley Mall—and the stores were locked up for the night. They'd even pulled the plug on Santa's Workshop. The lights were off and the robotic reindeer were frozen in mid-prance.

I moved slowly up the path toward the Workshop, afraid I'd trip over an electrical cord or papier-mâché caroler in the dim light. When I reached Santa's throne, I lifted up one side, reached under . . . and found nothing.

Big Buck and Kev stepped out from behind the Christmas tree at the back of Santa's Workshop.

"See. I told ya it wasn't that doper kid," Big Buck said.

"Umm hmm," Kev replied.

They were both still wearing their costumes—and Big Buck had something in his hand.

"You lookin' for this?"

He held up my tape recorder.

"No. I left my keys around here somewhere," I said, thinking, Jeez, I sound scared. "Could you guys help me look for 'em?"

"You're lookin' for your keys . . . under my chair?" Big Buck shook his head. "Ho ho ho. Come on, college girl. You can think up something better than that."

They were still moving slowly toward me, choosing their steps carefully, like you'd creep up on an animal you're trying not to spook. An animal you're trying to catch.

I started backing down the stairs, matching them step for step.

"There's still a ton people around," I said, not even convincing myself. There were maybe six cleaning ladies and two rent-a-cops for the whole place, and who knew where they were just then? Olde Towne Mall may be Olde, but it's also Bigge. "I could start screaming."

Big Buck smiled, but he stopped moving forward. Kev stopped, too.

"Why would you go and do that?" Big Buck said. "We're just a couple co-workers having an innocent after-work chat." He waved the tape recorder. "I want to know what this is all about, that's all. We heard it this morning. It makes a real loud click when it reaches the end of a side, y'know. Kev here thought it was Arlo up to something, but I knew better. I'd just like you to tell me why you'd do a thing like this."

"Well, Buck, you see . . . ."

I stopped there. I couldn't think of anything else to say. My mouth's good at getting me into trouble, but out? Not so much.

"Come on, now. You can be honest. Have I done something to offend you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," I blurted out, grateful for the suggestion. "Those things you say to me—that's sexual harassment. I was going to take that tape to Missy Widgitz."

Big Buck nodded. "Sure, that makes sense. Except . . . hmmmm." He stroked his beard and rolled his eyes. "If that's what you were doin', why would you put the tape recorder under my chair? You're not supposed to come up close while we're working, remember? It'd make a lot more sense if you'd squeezed the tape recorder into those little tights of yours and tried to record me that way."

"I guess I didn't have a very good plan," I admitted.

Big Buck and Kev each took a step forward.

I took another step back.

"Now, guys...," I said, unsure what was going to come out of my mouth next.

It turned out to be a stunned grunt. As I stepped back again, the world suddenly dipped and turned sideways, and a second later I found myself lying beside something large and prickly.

Fortunately, it wasn't Big Buck. I'd caught my heel on the last step and stumbled backwards into one of the smaller trees lining the path to Santa's Workshop.

"Get her," Big Buck said.

I rolled up onto my feet just in time to face Kev no more than four feet from me. He was rushing at me crouched down with his arms stretched out, like a mime imitating a crab. As he moved in, I stepped to the side, grabbed one of his spindly little arms and swung with all my might.

To my utter shock, it worked. Kev went flying into yet another tree, rolling to the ground in a tangle of lights and tinsel.

I swung around to see Big Buck lumbering down the steps toward me.

"See! I wasn't lying about knowing karate!" I lied.

He didn't even slow down. It was time to run, run, Rudolph.

I turned and sprinted to the nearest exit, too afraid to look back until I was outside in the cold December air and the door was closing behind me with a reassuring clack.

I peered back into the dim shadows of the mall and saw . . . dim shadows of the mall. Big Buck and Kev hadn't followed me. They were letting me go!

I turned, ready to dash the last thirty yards to my Rabbit. And that's when I realized what a huge freaking idiot I am.

I hadn't parked in my usual spot that morning. I didn't want Big Buck waiting for me outside when I left that night. So I'd parked down by Value City, on the other side of the mall.

I was going to have to walk all the way around the parking lot, alone, in the dark, to get to my car.

Oh, did I say walk? Try sprint.

I didn't see anyone outside as I raced around the darkened mall. There were still a few cars in the parking lot, but the people they belonged to were inside somewhere, sweeping floors or counting money or molesting mannequins or God knows what. I could see more cars moving way over on Diamond Avenue, but I knew I was nothing to them—just a speck in the dark almost a half-mile away.

As I ran, I noticed two strange things. There was a big trailer parked by the side of the mall, the kind you see on the highway loaded with cows on their way to Hamburger Heaven. And the trailer stank. Like cattle, but even worse somehow—cattle eating rotting moss while wearing wet wool sweaters.

Of course, I didn't stop to ponder these mysteries. I had things to do, people to escape from.

I came flying around the corner of the mall just a couple dozen yards from where I was parked. And then I went flying right back the way I'd come.

Something red and white and big was coming out of the nearest exit. A second later, I heard someone yell, "Hey!"

They knew where I'd parked.

I had three options: (A) just keep running running running and hope that I ran into somebody before Big Buck and Kev ran into me, (B) hide or (C) pray for divine intervention.

I was already pretty winded (too many cigarettes and late-night pizzas at school) and I'm not the religious type. So I went for option B. And, hey, I could still do plenty of praying once I was hidden.

Of course, the secret to proper hiding is finding what hiding professionals call a "Hiding Place," and I figured I had about twelve seconds to do it.

Behind the bushes?

Too obvious.

Under a car?

Too exposed.

In the stinky truck?

Too . . . .

Alright. Why not?

I darted around to the back of the trailer. It wasn't the kind that opened by rolling up, like a garage door. It had doors that swung open on hinges. And there was no lock, just a couple metal bolts. I undid them as quickly as I could, cracked open a door, climbed through and pulled the door closed.

Once I was inside the trailer, there was no way to bolt the door again or even keep it completely shut. Which made me realize this wasn't exactly the best Hiding Place. There was no escape route. If Kev and Big Buck figured out where I was, there was no way to get out except the way I came in.

This is why I'm not a hiding professional.

I was panicking about this, completely forgetting to do my praying, when things got worse. Something behind me moved.

There was a grunt, then heavy footsteps, then more grunting. I turned around slowly—and couldn't see a thing. It was pitch black in there. But it was obvious I wasn't alone.

The grunts and clattering footsteps spread all around me, and the smell I'd noticed before got so bad I almost gagged. It was like a petting zoo multiplied by two pig farms and the breath of a thousand dogs.

And I wasn't the only one who noticed it. There were narrow slots in the side of the trailer, and through them I could see Big Buck and Kev stalking past.

"You hear that?" Kev asked.

"You smell that?" Big Buck said. He walked up and stuck his fat face against one of the slots. I was tempted to run over and poke his beady eyes, but almost immediately he stepped back waving a hand in front of his nose. "Whooooeeee. And I thought you smelled bad."

"Oh, ho ho," Kev growled.

He and Big Buck walked around to the back of the trailer.

"Well, lookee here," I heard Big Buck say.

He was noticing, I could only assume, that the doors were unbolted.

I wasn't happy about it, but what choice did I have? I started creeping away from the doors . . . and toward my stinky trailer-mates. Whatever they were—cows, sheep, llamas, unicorns—I figured they couldn't be too dangerous. Someone's going to leave a truckload of bears at the mall?

I shuffled through the blackness blindly, my arms stretched out in front of me like a zombie. The snorting and stamping around me got louder, which actually helped.

Clop clop, wheeze.

Excuse me. I'll move over this way.

Stomp stomp, grunt.

Alright, alright. I'll move a little more that way.

I'd been doing my Helen Keller imitation maybe half a minute when Big Buck opened the door. Just enough light streamed in for me to see him and for him to see me—and both of us to see what was in the trailer.

Reindeer. Nine of them. Big ones.

Big Buck and I were both dumbstruck. Reindeer? Really?

And then I remembered Missy Widgitz's big surprise. This was how she was going to get a leg up on River Valley Mall. Screw the "real elves." We'd have the real Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen and . . . uhhhh . . . Rudolph and . . . uhhhh, Snowball and . . . you know. All of them.

I don't know if Big Buck figured it out or not. Once he'd accepted the reindeer's presence, he didn't seem to care. The look of surprise faded from his face, and he smiled at me.

"You better come out of there, Shannon."

That made it even worse, somehow. Here I was about to be killed, and the jerk couldn't even get my name right.

"I don't think so," I said.

"You better come out, or we're comin' in."

Kev pushed in behind him.

"Buck . . . I don't think we oughta go in there," he said in a hoarse whisper.

Big Buck shot him a glare. "You're afraid of Bambi?"

Kev peered into the trailer. The reindeer were spread out all around me, their breath coming out in long puffs of steam.

"Bambi never got as big as that," he said. "And it's so dark in there."

"Yeah, sure, I get it," Big Buck sighed in a strangely resigned, Here we go again kind of way. "Guess I'll just have to take care of the bitch myself, then."

And he started to haul himself up into the trailer.

Now, this is where my story's going to diverge a bit from the official account. I told the police that when I saw Big Buck coming at me, I screamed. Which is kind of true. I did scream.

I screamed, "Yah! Yah!"

And I stamped my feet.

And I slapped the nearest reindeer on the ass.

Donder and Blitzen jumped, bumping into Comet and Cupid, who got spooked and bolted. And when a couple of reindeer bolt, the others tend to follow.

Big Buck didn't scream. He didn't have time. He just fell back out of the truck and let out one loud "Ow!" All I could hear after that was the sound of big hooves hitting something soft and wet.

When I finally worked up the nerve to peek outside, there were nine reindeer spread out all over the Olde Towne Mall parking lot—and one Santa Claus spread out all over the pavement behind the truck. Kev was long gone.

It took about five minutes for the cops to show up. The TV news vans were there in ten. I think I was still in shock at that point. I caught a glimpse of myself on TV the next day, and it wasn't pretty. I was being put in a police car (my mom practically fainted when she saw that on the news) with this stunned, stupid expression on my face. I looked like I'd been partying with Arlo.

It took a while for me to pull my words together, but I finally got out the whole story about Big Buck and Kev and the tape. The police were pretty nice, but they just sort of nodded their heads and looked concerned and asked me if I wanted to speak with a counselor. After a couple hours, my mom came and took me home.

Despite my babblings about a pervmo conspiracy, I think the cops assumed it was really an attempted rape, nothing more. The newspaper and TV stations didn't come right out and say it, but they hinted the same thing. At first. But then a day later, there it was on the front page of the Herald-Times: "Police Uncover Santa Burglary Ring."

The first part of the story went something like, "River City law enforcement officials have revealed that the man smooshed by reindeer earlier this week at Olde Towne Mall was William 'Big Buck' Thomerson, a.k.a. William Thompson, a.k.a. Thomas Williams, a.k.a. William Williamson, a.k.a. Vincente Benito de la Rosa III, a career criminal with multiple convictions for home invasion, burglary and theft stretching back to the early eighties. Police suspect that Thomerson was attempting to use his position as Olde Towne's resident Santa Claus to identify families that would be on vacation over the holidays, making their homes targets for break-ins. Sources also reveal that Thomerson might have secured his position through foul play: Yesterday afternoon, police found his fingerprints in a car that was involved in an accident that cost the mall's previous Santa his life. Thomerson's suspected accomplice, Kevin 'The Elf' Kane, was apprehended in Indianapolis yesterday attempting to hotwire a golf cart after his car ran out of gas near the city's Broadmoor Country Club. Authorities expect Kane to be back in River City for questioning tomorrow."

I've got to say—at first, I was pretty impressed by River City's finest. It took some real brains to connect all the dots.

But then I thought, "Did it really?" Maybe it didn't take brains at all. Maybe all it took was a tape—a tape that could have been found in Big Buck's pocket, untrampled, by cops checking out my story.

Of course, the article didn't have a sentence like, "Detectives gratefully acknowledge the assistance of Hannah Fox, whose paranoia and insane life choices made these breakthroughs possible." But that was O.K. There was an even better bit towards the end of the story.

"Thomerson's position at Olde Towne has raised disturbing questions about the mall's hiring practices. 'I assure you, we're going to be investigating this thoroughly and taking steps to ensure that it never happens again,' said Patti Cheney, Olde Towne's new promotions director. According to Cheney, the mall will discontinue its 'Santa's Workshop' operation for the rest of the holiday season."

Which meant I was unemployed, and there was nothing my mom could say about it. I'd been attacked, traumatized by vile criminals. It would take me weeks to recover—weeks I would spend sucking candy canes and watching TV.

It was going to be a merry Christmas after all.

SECRET SANTA

Monday, December 15, 2003

In his own way, Erik Bigelow was a stickler for punctuality. According to the employee manual, everyone who worked for Now! Publishing was supposed to arrive no later than 8:30 a.m. So when Bigelow came in at his usual time—9:20—he had his eyes peeled for anyone as lax and late as he was. Those he caught he lectured on the importance of team spirit and playing by the rules and giving one's all. He gave the same speech to any Now! employees he saw trying to sneak out earlier than his usual departure time, which was 4:50.

Bigelow would have no time for lectures this particular morning, though, as he was exceptionally late, even by the standards he set for himself. A new batch of screener DVDs had arrived at the office on Friday, and Bigelow had snagged them all before they could make their way to their intended destination—the cubicle belonging to Chris McCoy, editor of DVD Now! magazine. Bigelow wasn't exactly McCoy's boss. He was director of circulation and production, and technically none of the editors worked for him. But Bigelow made a lot more money than McCoy, and that counted for something. And since management gets to allocate resources and such, Bigelow had allocated the DVDs straight into his vast private collection. As a result, he'd stayed up extra late Sunday night, unable to turn off the commentary track to the Star Trek V Director's Edition until he'd heard every last thing William Shatner had to say.

So Bigelow woke up late and tired, much to the consternation of his Rottweiler, Bantha. He couldn't leave for work without taking Bantha around the block, letting the dog leave behind evidence of her presence so large and hard to ignore it could easily convince experienced animal trackers that a herd of buffalo had recently moved through the area. And he couldn't pass the neighborhood Starbucks without stopping in for a vente mocha latte. And he couldn't have a vente mocha latte without having two Krispy Kreme doughnuts to go with it. And he couldn't very well have two old Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which might have been sitting in the display case for as long as twenty minutes. So he had to kill time letting Bantha terrorize squirrels in the park across the street until the sign lit up announcing that the fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts were ready.

All of which meant he walked into the office nearly an hour and a half later than the Now! employee manual mandated. No one said anything to him about playing by the rules or giving one's all, however. The only person higher than Bigelow in the Now! food chain was the publisher, Dave Crowley, and he almost never showed up before noon. And Bigelow's only equal/potential rival—the company's editorial director, Alex Sandberg—was too busy actually working to notice Bigelow's comings and goings, not to mention too wimpy to say anything even if he did. (Sandberg was the company's resident Mr. Nice Guy, which was one more reason Bigelow hated him.)

But Bigelow didn't make it to his desk without any censure whatsoever. It just didn't come from his boss, and it had nothing to do with his tardiness.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Marcy Albright asked as Bigelow hustled past her cubicle.

Bigelow skidded to a stop.

"Forgot what?" he said, which answered his secretary's question.

(Officially, Marcy wasn't his secretary. He just liked to think of her that way. She was actually an executive assistant/office manager. The fact that he had to share her with Crowley was fine, a necessary bit of economizing. That he had to share her with Sandberg was a galling injustice he would rectify one day.)

"The 'Secret Santa' thing. It starts today," Marcy said. "Don't tell me you're giving somebody a cup of coffee."

The only thing Bigelow held in his hands was his Starbucks cup. All that remained of the doughnuts was a sugary film that coated his fingers and lips.

"Oh, that," Bigelow said. "Hold on."

He set his coffee down on Marcy's desk, pulled out his wallet and removed a wrinkled five-dollar bill.

"Run across the street and buy me . . . oh, I don't know. A sandwich or something."

"You're gonna give somebody a sandwich for Christmas?"

"The sandwich is for me. I didn't have time to grab anything for lunch this morning. I'll take care of the present later."

"What kind of sandwich do you want?"

"Oh, whatever. You know me."

Bigelow leaned in to get his coffee, taking the opportunity as he did so to try for a peek down Marcy's blouse.

"I'm easy to please," he said.

Marcy stood and wrapped a coat around herself, and Bigelow headed into his office whistling "Sleigh Ride." His in-box was overflowing and the message light on his phone was blinking, but first things first. There were goodies to unwrap.

Power was always sweet, but in December it had the especially satisfying flavor of chocolate. Now! published three magazines, which meant come the holidays three different sets of vendors and publicists and freelancers tried to curry favor by showering the office with edible bribes. Bigelow saw to it that the cornucopia spilled out in his direction, giving Marcy standing orders that all large packages should be delivered to his office first. The truly choice gifts went home with him. The second tier he passed along to Crowley as part of his ongoing efforts to keep his lips locked to the publisher's posterior. The dregs—tins of stale popcorn, tacky ornaments that had shattered in transit, etc.—ended up in the staff lunchroom with a Post-It note attached.

Merry Christmas, gang! Help yourselves!

—Erik Bigelow

Today's haul seemed to be shaping up nicely. Several big boxes had already arrived via Fed Ex and UPS, and the regular mail would undoubtedly bring more. Bigelow was about to tear into the most promising package—a small but satisfyingly heavy box with the unmistakable rattle of gourmet nuts—when a brightly wrapped package caught his eye. There was a tag attached.

"For Erik," it read. "From your Secret Santa."

Bigelow rolled his eyes. Giving anonymous gifts to a randomly chosen coworker was bad enough. Why should he waste his time and money on somebody he didn't even need to kiss up to? But to make the whole thing even more aggravating, when Marcy had come by with the little red Santa hat full of names, he'd drawn out the one he wanted to see least of all: Alex Sandberg. So now he had to find cutesy presents for the man he considered the only real threat he faced at Now!.

He leaned over and looked in his trashcan. The picture he'd dumped there Friday hadn't been cleared out yet. It was a small, tacky, plastic-framed painting of cats caroling outside a snow-covered home while a Scrooge-ish basset hound glowered at them from an upstairs window. It had been a gift from the printer who handled Antiques Now!, Bigelow's least-favorite publication in the Now! stable (mostly because it drew such feeble freebies). Bigelow had been so disgusted with the lame painting, he hadn't even bothered walking it to the staff lunchroom.

But now it had its uses. Bigelow pulled the picture from the garbage can just as Marcy stepped into his office holding a brown paper bag.

"Clean this up and throw it on Sandberg's desk when he's not looking," Bigelow said.

"Hey! You're not supposed to let anybody know who you're—"

Bigelow was already rooting around in the paper bag, which he'd snatched from Marcy when she'd reached out to take the cat painting.

"What's this? Pastrami?" he asked.

"Corned beef."

He handed the bag back to her. "You know what would really be good? Roast beef. With horseradish. Ooooh, and a pickle."

Marcy opened her mouth to say something, but Bigelow managed to close it with the droopy-eyed, tight-lipped, It-Won't-Make-Any-Difference-What-You-Say-So-Why-Bother? boss look he'd mastered since his latest promotion. She turned and left without saying a thing, and Bigelow got back to the business at hand: opening presents.

He saved the one from his Secret Santa for last. The wrapping paper covering it was red with the word "HO!" in chunky white letters repeated over and over again. The gift beneath was flat and rectangular and stiff—obviously a book. Not being edible or formatted for a DVD player, it was of little interest to him. Still, free was free.

Once he'd ripped the wrapping away, he sat for a long moment, blinking down at his present, confused.

It was DON'T Steal This Book! Controlling Your Kleptomania by Dr. Avi Birnbaum.

Tuesday, December 16

Bigelow had almost forgotten about his Secret Santa when he came to work the next morning. He'd spent a few minutes wondering about the "gift"—what did it mean and who could have sent it and was it someone he could fire? But he'd had a good day after that. Crowley hadn't bothered showing up at all, which meant Bigelow didn't even have to pretend to work. Instead he'd surfed the 'net, done some Christmas shopping, caught a matinee showing of The Matrix Revolutions, hovered around the cubes cute girls worked in. Then he'd called it a day early, leaving the office with two shopping bags stuffed with plundered goodies.

Once again, Bigelow's desk was piled high with boxes when he arrived. And once again, one of them was red with "HO! HO! HO!" in white letters and a little card from his Secret Santa. This time, Bigelow opened that package first. It was another book.

Dirty Work: How White-Collar Criminals Are Destroying Corporate America.

Bigelow's balding head went instantly slick with sweat.

Was this some kind of accusation? Maybe even a blackmail attempt? All over a few measly DVDs?

Well, a few hundred DVDs, when you added up all the screeners he had piled in his bedroom closet at home. And then there were all the Christmas presents he'd appropriated.

Oh, and those little liberties he sometimes took with his expense reports. And he'd stolen someone's leftover pizza out of the fridge one day. It was covered with pepperoni and mushrooms and he just couldn't resist . . . .

No, he was being silly. Bigelow shook these disturbing thoughts out of his head as effectively as he shook off his conscience. Someone was turning this "Secret Santa" thing into a sick joke, that was all. And it was time he found out who. He walked out to Marcy's cube.

"Did you see someone sneak into my office this morning?"

Marcy smiled and shrugged. "Maybe."

"Who was it?"

Marcy shook her head. "Secret Santas are supposed to stay secret. What'd he give you, anyway?"

"Well," Bigelow said, about to spew some bile about the immature jerks they had to work with.

He stopped himself just in time. The situation was humiliating enough without having the whole office know about it.

"Just some knickknacks," he said.

"So did you have time yesterday to perform your Secret Santa duties?" Marcy asked, arching an eyebrow.

It took Bigelow a few seconds to get what she meant.

"Oh, sure," he said.

He went back to his office and came back a minute later holding a chipped mug with the words "Merlin Distribution Services—Working Newsstand Magic" printed on the side. It came from a gift set of gourmet coffee beans and chocolate-coated stir-spoons. Bigelow liked gourmet coffee beans and chocolate-coated stir spoons. Chipped mugs he could do without.

"Throw that in Sandberg's office when you get a chance."

Bigelow took a slow tour around the office after that, making note of who was in, who was out and who shot him nervous or resentful glances, which was just about everyone. The Muscles Now! staff had wrapped up a tight deadline the previous Friday, so they'd already begun their Christmas vacations. But Antiques Now! and DVD Now! had issues to get to the printer by the end of the week, so both magazines' editors and designers were showing up early, leaving late and doing lots of frantic keyboard pounding in between.

Bigelow ambled from cubicle to cubicle, dribbling "constructive criticism" behind him like stale bread crumbs.

"Is that the best picture you've got?"

"Why is that blue?"

"That font's too disco. Try something techno."

"You're putting what on the cover?"

"Crowley's gonna hate that."

"That sucks."

Anytime he saw what looked like a Secret Santa gift on someone's desk, he'd snatch it up and say, "Heeeey! Cool! Where'd this come from?" But these questions didn't get him far. Like his advice, his conversational gambits were usually ignored.

Even Sandberg brushed him off. Most days, he was all smiles for everyone, even Bigelow. But now he was hunched over his desk sifting through piles of proofs, "just pitching in" to "help out the troops." The Pollyanna show-off. Bigelow smiled and wished him good luck and silently prayed for God to smite him with a bolt of lightning.

So the only staff member to give Bigelow more than a one-word response was Joyce Starr, the editor of Antiques Now!. And even then she wasn't saying anything he wanted to hear, which was typical for her.

"Hey, Erik!" she called out when she noticed him being an especially persistent pest around her associate editor, who just happened to be 23, female and cute as a button. "Next year instead of scheduling two deadlines the week before Christmas, why not go for all three? Or better yet, how about if we all have to go to the printer on Christmas Eve? Wouldn't that look neater on your little calendar?"

Starr immediately became his number-one suspect. But then Bigelow remembered Marcy's comment that morning about the Secret Santa.

"What'd he give you, anyway?"

He.

Damn.

Starr was the only staff member who consistently criticized him to his face. It would be just like her to slip these nasty little digs onto his desk, as well. Finding a way to get her fired (for he couldn't admit the real reason lest it raise uncomfortable questions) would've been a pleasurable challenge.

And now the challenge he faced was no pleasure at all. Eliminate the women, eliminate the staff of Muscles Now! and he was still left with . . . .

Bigelow couldn't quite get the figure worked out in his head, so he retreated to his office and hunkered down over the staff telephone list.

Seven men. Seven potential enemies.

He would narrow them down to one, and then he would strike.

Starting tomorrow. He was feeling a bit depressed, so he went to a matinee to cheer himself up.

Wednesday, December 17

Bigelow meant to get to work early. He had his alarm set for the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., and he'd turned off his Two Towers Special Edition DVD at 11 on the dot. He should've arisen at 7 rested and ready for action—the "action" being getting to the office before his Secret Santa.

But he'd been fidgety the night before, and he'd tried to calm himself with a box of chocolate-covered pretzels sent to DVD Now! by the flacks at Warner Home Video. The pretzels knotted his stomach and twisted his dreams, and all night long he heard the same faint echo.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

When the alarm went off, he smacked the snooze button. Ten minutes later, he smacked it again. Ten minutes later, again.

He ended up "snoozing" a dozen times. By the time he finally got up not only was he late but Bantha, annoyed by all the false alarms, had left a large, unwrapped gift under the Christmas tree.

When Bigelow finally got to work, that knot in his stomach pulled even tighter.

"You must've been a good boy this year," Marcy said as he rushed by her cube.

Bigelow whipped around to face her. "What do you mean?"

Marcy blinked at him a moment, looking surprised by the heat in his voice. "I mean Santa's been in to see you, that's all. Just a joke."

"Oh."

"You might want to lighten up on the Starbucks, Erik," Marcy said as he stomped off to his office.

He slammed the door. Now even Marcy was giving him a hard time. Sweet, loyal Marcy. Sweet, loyal, shapely Marcy. What was she wearing today, anyway? He was so worked up he hadn't even noticed.

This insanity had to end!

The package was waiting for him on his desk. It had the same note, the same mocking gift wrap. But it wasn't a book this time. It was square, and it rattled when he shook it. He attacked the box like Bantha attacking a Nike, sending scraps of wrapping paper flying up over his head.

Inside the package he found a small bottle of mouthwash, a tin of Altoids, a tube of "extra-strength super-mint" toothpaste and a brochure entitled "Overcoming Halitosis: Five Steps to a Fresher You."

Bigelow brought his hand up to his mouth, puffed into it, then sucked in deeply through his nose. Yes, O.K., maybe there was a little staleness there. But he'd had another vente latte on his way to work that morning. Surely his breath would freshen itself up over time. He didn't have halitosis—did he?

No! He wasn't going to let some anonymous peon psych him out. He was going to march out of his office and lay a serious smackdown on . . . whoever.

He started for the door, hoping a brilliant plan would form in his mind before he reached the other side. Instead, the door opened and Marcy leaned in.

"Crowley's here," she said.

Bigelow froze. "So early?"

"Well, it is after 11."

Bigelow swiveled around and hurried back to his desk. He snatched up the phone and started making calls he'd been putting off for days. When Crowley dropped by a few minutes later, Bigelow was on the line with a printer's rep.

Bigelow held up a "just-a-sec" finger as Crowley took a seat.

"Don't give me that!" Bigelow barked, even though he and the rep had been having a perfectly pleasant conversation about the weather just a moment before. "That last cover looked like mud!"

"What?" the rep said, perplexed by the sudden abuse.

"Alright then! That's better!" Bigelow slammed the phone down and shook his head. "Those Lantern Graphics guys—you have to ride their asses every step of the way. So what can I do you for, boss?"

Crowley kicked his tiny feet up on the edge of Bigelow's desk and shrugged his muscle-bound shoulders. "What's goin' on?"

Bigelow passed a hand over the clutter on his desk like one of those models on The Price Is Right who specialize in gesturing seductively over cars and boxes of Turtle Wax.

"Same ol' same ol," he said. "How 'bout with you?"

"I caught the new Matrix flick Saturday."

"Oh yeah? What did you think?"

And they were off.

This was how Bigelow really earned his salary—yakking with Crowley. Sometimes he thought it was much, much harder than a real job.

He'd known Crowley since high school, when his now-pumped up boss had been a 101 pound pipsqueak with braces and thick glasses and bad hair. The hair had never improved, but the braces and the glasses eventually went away, as did Crowley's pipsqueak status. During his college years, Crowley had discovered competition bodybuilding, and he eventually dropped out to devote himself to the "sport" full-time. He didn't get far, his crowning glory being fourth place in the Tri-State Mr. Olympus Muscle Show. But he didn't retire from competition with nothing to show for it. For one thing, he now had a body that would do Vin Diesel proud, even if his face would still send Howdy Doody running for plastic surgery. More importantly, he'd laid the foundation for his future empire by publishing a monthly newsletter called Muscle Men.

The newsletter's circulation grew and grew, making a particularly large jump after a marketing consultant convinced Crowley to change the name to something that didn't sound like a guide to local leather bars. So Muscle Men became Muscles Now!. It also became a magazine. And it made Crowley rich enough to start magazines devoted to the two other great loves of his life: movies and antique Mason jars. (Jars Now! became Antiques Now! after one disastrous issue.)

When Crowley's company grew large enough to require an office manager, he'd hired his old high school buddy Bigelow, who'd been handing out pictures from behind the desk at a Wal-Mart Photo Developing Center. Through a tenacious campaign of butt-kissing and back-stabbing, Bigelow had risen to circulation assistant, then circulation manager, then director of circulation and finally, after one more carefully orchestrated character assassination, director of circulation and production.

Of course, he wasn't through rising yet, as there was one more director-level position that naturally belonged on his résumé. But for every chance he got to slag off Sandberg, he had to endure 20 minutes of talk about weightlifting and a brutal 30 minutes about Mason jars. The only relief came when he and Crowley talked about movies, but even then he was hemmed in and frustrated. Once upon a time he could—and would—tell Crowley he was an idiot to think that Return of the Jedi was the best Star Wars movie and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was better than Raiders of the Lost Ark. But that had been in high school. These days, Crowley could say Attack of the Clones was better than Citizen Kane and Bigelow would have to nod thoughtfully and say, "Yeah. That lightsaber duel with Count Dooku was sweet."

And even that simple, if irritating, act of yes-man boot-licking seemed to be beyond Bigelow just now. As Crowley droned on and on about how many "reps" he'd managed in the gym that morning, Bigelow's mind wandered the hallways of the Now! office, stopping at the desks of his seven suspects. Five of them would be easy to deal with. They were designers and editors, mere bugs to be squashed beneath his managerial boot heel. But what if his Secret Santa was Peter Jarry, the comptroller? Maybe Jarry had noticed the charges for pay-per-view porn and room-service filet mignon that always piled up on Bigelow's bill when he went on company trips. Maybe he even knew those company trips were completely bogus, as Bigelow only insisted on doing personal press checks for Antiques Now!, which was printed at a plant 25 miles from Disney World.

Or perhaps it was Sandberg. He couldn't be as innocent as he appeared. His image was squeaky clean—never gossiped, worked hard, took care of his staff, blah blah blah, exactly the kind of goody two-shoes b.s. that reminded Bigelow what a fraud he himself truly was.

It had to be an act. Or maybe Sandberg had simply seen the writing on the wall, toughened up and launched a pre-emptive strike. He could be trying to throw Bigelow off, psych him out.

Well, if that was his plan, he . . . .

"Bro, are you even listening to me?"

Bigelow blinked away the pleasing vision of Sandberg roasting over a barbecue pit.

"Of course," he said. "And I couldn't agree more."

What he'd agree with, he soon found out, was that Atlas Strong Shoulder Jars might indeed replace Ball Perfect Mason Jars as the most popular fruit jar collectibles in their class. Seemingly satisfied that Bigelow would back him up on this controversial assertion, Crowley plowed on. But Bigelow had the uncomfortable feeling that the publisher was watching him closely now, looking for signs that he wasn't paying attention. Bigelow overcompensated by laughing a little too uproariously at Crowley's strained pun on the phrase "Ball Perfect" and becoming a little too incensed when his boss described attempts to pass off irradiated selenium jars as amber.

Mercifully, Crowley eventually drifted off jars and onto business. That gave Bigelow the opportunity to insert not one, not two, but three separate digs at Sandberg into the conversation before Crowley finally arose—nearly two hours after he sat down—and went off to his own office to look over dummy covers and sign checks.

Bigelow felt drained by the meeting, but he had no choice. With Crowley hanging around the rest of the day, he actually had to stay in his office and at least keep up the appearance of diligence. He made half-hearted progress on his in-box (which was more progress than he usually made), all the while trying to figure out how to strip Santa of his secret.

In the end, he could only come up with one solution. He'd always hated logic puzzles and guessing games. No one was going to tell him, and he didn't want to ask. He didn't have a spycam or a fingerprinting kit. He didn't know how to rig a grenade with a trip-wire and he wasn't sure where to get a grenade or a trip-wire even if he did.

He would have to rely on simple snooping. And with nearly everyone working extra late to hit their deadlines, that wouldn't be an option today.

So Bigelow somehow stuck it out to five o'clock, and then he went home. He took Bantha for her pre-bedtime walk at 8:30, when he was usually popping in his second DVD of the evening. He was under the covers by 9.

But though he fell asleep quickly, that horrible Ho! Ho! Ho! haunted his dreams, as did a giant bottle of Scope that lumbered after him like Frankenstein's monster, chasing him through one Starbucks after another.

When the alarm went off at 5 a.m., he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

Thursday, December 18

It was a new experience for Bigelow—being the first one at work. He didn't like it. The office was quiet and dark, not the bright, bustling place where people other than himself were always hustling to and fro accomplishing things. The stillness was something he couldn't quite accept, and he moved through the hallways half-expecting someone to pop out of the shadows and shout, "Bigelow! What the hell are you doing here?"

But he managed a smile when he stepped into his office. There was no gift on his desk. He was the one Ho! Ho! Ho!-ing now. Whoever his Secret Santa was, he'd beat him in that morning. And now Santa was about to see who had the real claws.

Jarry's office was the closest, so Bigelow started there. It took him 10 minutes to go through every desk drawer and filing cabinet. He found nothing more incriminating than a shot glass and a bottle of Jim Beam. They wouldn't help him solve his mystery, but they were illuminating discoveries nonetheless. Bigelow began to wonder why he'd never done this before.

Chris McCoy, the editor of DVD Now!, was next. His cubicle posed more of a challenge, as it was overflowing with proofs and plastic sleeves stuffed with slides. Bigelow was careful not to get anything out of order, for though McCoy's work area looked like utter chaos, his magazine never missed a deadline, and Bigelow had to assume there was some kind of system involved even if it escaped his powers of detection.

He found a stash of snacks in one drawer, and he reached in and pulled out a variety pack of Quaker Oats granola bars. He'd been so anxious to get to the office, he hadn't stopped off for coffee and doughnuts that morning, and all this sneaking around was making him hungry. He sorted through the granola bars until he found what he was looking for—a S'mores bar. He took one and then, after a moment's reflection, a Chocolate Chip and a Cookies'n'Cream for later. Then he started to put the box back.

He stopped, suddenly gripping the box so hard one corner caved in. In the drawer was a small, folded slip of white paper that had been buried underneath the granola bars. It looked just like the one he'd pulled out of Marcy's Santa hat the week before. Bigelow picked it up and unfolded it. Written on it were two words.

"JOYCE STARR."

Bigelow grinned. He was down to six suspects now. And he knew exactly which one he wanted to focus on next. He put the slip of paper and the granola bars back in place, then he headed to the office of Alex Sandberg.

Which was locked. It was such a shock to Bigelow he stood there jiggling the door handle for half a minute before he finally accepted the infuriating fact of it. He stood there a while longer, staring through the glass at Sandberg's desk like a Victorian waif pressing his soot-covered nose against a pastry shop window.

What kind of paranoid jerk locks his office door? What did Sandberg have to be worried about? What did he have to hide?

Bigelow gave the door a kick before moving on to the cubicle of DVD Now!'s art director, Tom or Tim Somebody. Bigelow barely knew the guy, usually thinking of him only as "the designer with the pierced nose" . . . when he thought of him at all. He couldn't imagine Tom or Tim hating him as much as his Secret Santa obviously did, and he stopped his snooping mid-drawer to return to Sandberg's office and squander a few more seconds struggling with the door-handle. When he went back to Tom/Tim's desk, he resumed his searching without enthusiasm, certain now that the answers he sought were on the other side of that locked door.

Pierced Nose Guy's cube yielded nothing of use, though Bigelow had been reminded of his name, having seen it on a credit card bill he'd come across: Todd Hubble. He also discovered that Todd owed MasterCard $539.32, and that $142 of it was going to "The Hottie Hook-Up Hotline." That discovery should've brought Bigelow some kind of twisted chuckle, but it didn't. He couldn't stop thinking about what he might find in Sandberg's desk, and everything else now seemed like a waste of time.

He was able to eliminate another suspect when he moved on to the next cubicle, this one belonging to DVD Now!'s associate editor, whom Bigelow knew as Curt the Kid with Freckles. Tucked away behind a stack of reference books was a bar of pink soap-on-a-rope shaped like a Teletubby. A red ribbon had been taped to the package.

It was a lame gift, but not an evil one. And there was no HO! HO! HO! wrapping paper in sight.

So Freckled Curt was off the hook, and there were still two more cubes to go. Bigelow began putting the soap and books back in place.

"Yo, Curt!" a voice called out. "You made it in pretty . . . oh."

Bigelow spun around to find Chris McCoy standing behind him, a look of embarrassed shock on his face.

"I came in early and I wanted to take a look at the proof of your masthead but I couldn't find it so I went looking for it but I still don't know where it is so maybe you'll go get it for me because there's just one little thing I need to check," Bigelow said, the syllables coming out so fast and choked-throat-guttural they almost sounded like one impossibly long German word.

Bigelow watched McCoy's gaze move from his face to the mess on Freckle Boy's desk to the granola bars bulging out of his pocket and finally to something just below his mouth. Bigelow reached up and felt a smudge of half-melted S'more chocolate on his lower lip.

"Sure," McCoy said, using the slow, soothing tone most people reserve for speaking to over-excitable children and the criminally insane. He began backing away. "I'll be right back."

By the time McCoy returned with the proof, Bigelow had finished cleaning up Curt's cube (and his own chin) and had scurried back to his office. Bigelow had time to affix a look of bland, businesslike calm on his face, yet McCoy still seemed unnerved. He came at Bigelow with his arm stretched out and the proof page extended before him like a sword. When Bigelow took hold of the heavy paper, McCoy stutter-stepped away quickly, not turning his back.

"Let me know if you need anything else!" McCoy said as he moonwalked out the door.

Bigelow knew what was coming next. Other staffers would begin drifting in, both alone and in carpool bunches, and McCoy would greet them all the same way: "Guess who I caught going through our stuff this morning!"

Bigelow had been staring at them all with suspicion the last few days. Now they'd be staring at him the same way. He didn't think he could face it.

And then he realized he didn't have to. He had an office with a door, not an open-air cubicle. He could stay right here at his desk all day. And instead of going out to hunt for his Secret Santa, he could just sit and wait for the S.O.B. to come to him.

Like Sandberg's office, his had a glass wall running along the hallway. It had vertical blinds that hung from ceiling to floor, and Bigelow got up and closed them. Then he went back to his desk, sat facing the doorway and began to wait. Sooner or later, he hoped, he'd see a face peeking around the door or someone casually moseying past his office with an innocent-looking bag in his hand. That would be Santa, scouting for an opportunity to drop off his latest slap in the face. And Bigelow would have him. All he had to do was wait and watch.

He lasted 51 minutes. The only cube he could see from his desk was Marcy's, and she arrived half an hour after he began his vigil. She gave him a wave when she first showed up, then shot increasingly quizzical glances his way as he continued staring in her direction.

"Do you need something, Erik?" she called out to him.

"No!" he shouted back. "I'm fine!"

A couple minutes later, she turned to look at him again. "Are you sure you don't need something?"

"I'm fine!"

He wasn't fine. His bladder had been tormenting him for nearly 40 minutes. He'd toyed with the idea of moving his garbage can under his desk and attempting a clandestine potty break, but the risks were too great. Finally, he had to jump up and make a dash for the men's room, every step sending searing spasms across his groin.

When he got back to his desk, there was a package sitting on it.

"HO! HO! HO!" it said.

Bigelow rushed up the hallway and around the corner. The door to Sandberg's office was open, and the light inside was on.

Bigelow cursed, and a few heads popped up over cubicle walls to goggle at him. He turned, hurried back to his office and slammed the door shut behind him.

In seconds, the wrapping paper was shredded and the box ripped open to reveal a bottle of Oxy 10, a tube of Clearasil and a booklet touting the benefits of membership in the Hair Club for Men. Bigelow howled and sent the box and its contents flying across the room to crash into the glass wall.

He should've toughed it out. Or at least locked the door behind him so Santa couldn't get in and . . . .

Wait. Yes. His door had a lock. Just like Sandberg's.

A new plan took shape in Bigelow's mind. He headed out to Marcy's cube.

"You know what?" he said. "There is something I need. I lost the key to my office the other day and I have to go make a copy. Could you loan me the masters?"

"Sure," Marcy said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a key ring with five keys on it. "Here you go. I'm not sure which one's for your door."

"Don't worry," Bigelow said, smiling. "I'll figure it out."

He was so eager to set his plan into motion, he didn't even bother going back to his office to grab his hat and coat before dashing for the elevator. An hour later he was back from the locksmith's shop, feeling chilled but brilliant. When he gave the keys back to Marcy, he had copies of all five tucked away in his pocket.

Waiting to try them out proved to be almost as painful as resisting the urge to pee had earlier. His patience frayed further with each passing hour, and he found it more and more difficult to keep up the pretense that he was working. Crowley was around again, so he had to try. But Bigelow spent most of his day just sitting at his desk watching the clock tick off a countdown to revenge. When Crowley stopped in to blather about steroids and the Federation of Historical Jar Collectors, Bigelow couldn't even work up the energy to look interested, and the excuses he found to throw jabs at Sandberg lacked their usual slick subtlety.

He watched the time crawl by with agonizing slowness until 5 o'clock. Then he went home and watched it crawl even slower until 9. Then he went back.

He looked for lights or signs of movement before going into the building. The third floor—Now!'s floor—was dark. Both DVD Now! and Antiques Now! had been close to wrapping up a day early. It looked like they'd made it. If they hadn't, a few designers and editors would still be up there racing toward the finish line.

Well, hooray for you, McCoy, Bigelow thought. Hooray for you, Starr. Hooray for you, Sandberg.

You bastard.

It didn't take him long to find it once he got up to the office. Sandberg, thinking his treachery safe behind a locked door, hadn't even bothered to hide it.

Sitting under Sandberg's desk was a cardboard box. In it were scissors, Scotch tape and a roll of HO! HO! HO! wrapping paper.

And a bar of Irish Spring soap.

And a stick of extra-strength Right Guard deodorant.

And a catalog of Russian mail-order brides.

A shudder of rage passed over Bigelow, but it faded quickly. Justice was at hand. Vengeance was his.

He'd brought a box with him from home. It wasn't large, having originally contained a small bust of Jean-Luc Picard that was now hanging from Bigelow's Christmas tree. But it was heavy.

He wrapped it with the HO!-covered paper and left it on Sandberg's chair with a note taped to the top.

"For Alex," the note read, "from your Secret Santa."

Bigelow locked Sandberg's office again on his way out. Then he went home and got the first decent night's sleep he'd had in days.

Friday, December 19

There was no gift waiting on Bigelow's desk when he moseyed in at 9:30 the next morning. At first that puzzled him, but then he understood.

Sandberg knew he'd been busted. Why bother with the final insults if Bigelow had already seen them the night before?

It had been a war of nerve and intellect, and Bigelow had won. Sandberg had conceded.

Or maybe not, Bigelow thought a moment later. Maybe Sandberg was out right now dredging up some fresh mud to hurl his way. Maybe the gift Bigelow had left had inspired him to cook up something truly demented—or even dangerous.

Bigelow felt a twinge of the old anxiety, a tightening of the knot in his stomach. He stood and stalked up the hallway past Sandberg's office.

Sandberg was in, of course. Mr. Dependable.

But there was no sign of the package Bigelow had left for him twelve hours earlier. He walked past the office again just to be sure. And then again two more times, in case Sandberg wanted to say something to him—preferably something that would bring things to a definitive conclusion, like "Curse you and your wily ways, Bigelow! That's the last time I tangle with the likes of you!"

Sandberg either didn't notice him or chose to ignore him. The same couldn't be said of the DVD Now! staff. Bigelow had been pacing back and forth in front of their cubicles without even realizing it, and now they were watching him bounce this way and that like the crowd following the ball at Wimbledon.

"Is there something I can do for you, Erik?" McCoy asked him.

"No, I'm just . . . you know."

Bigelow began beating a retreat up the hall. Freckled Curt said something as he left. Bigelow couldn't quite make out what it was, though he was certain he heard the phrase "granola bars." And laughter.

He closed the door when he got back to his office, and the door stayed closed for the next two hours. Bigelow spent that time frozen at his desk imagining the million humiliating ways Sandberg could one-up him. He was fixating on the nasty things Sandberg could do to the Hot Pockets he sometimes kept in the refrigerator in the staff lunchroom when there was a knock on his door.

"Who is it?" Bigelow screeched. He hardly recognized his own voice, it was pitched so high.

The door opened and Marcy leaned in. Marcy leaning into a room was one of Bigelow's favorite sights, especially if she happened to be wearing a loose-fitting blouse. Today she had on a bulky turtleneck sweater with Santa's face crocheted across the front, but Bigelow was so agitated the obstructed view didn't even bother him.

"Why aren't you down in the conference room?" Marcy asked.

"Why should I be in the conference room?"

"Didn't you read the memo?"

"What memo?"

Marcy rolled her large, brown eyes. "The memo that said we're having the Christmas party today instead of Monday if DVD Now! and Antiques Now! get done early."

"Oh. The staff party." Thoughts of cardboard cookies, alcohol-free "punch" and awkward small-talk with the little people danced in Bigelow's head. "Well, I don't think I can—"

"Crowley's there."

"—be there for more than a minute or two with everything I've got going on but of course I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good. See ya' there."

Bigelow felt the sudden urge to burst into Peter Jarry's office and demand a shot of Jim Beam. He settled for a few fistfuls of freebie fancy nuts instead. He hoped the weight of the cashews and almonds would settle his stomach, help him feel less like a Macy's parade float on a particularly windy Thanksgiving morning. It didn't work, though, and he set off for the conference room feeling queasy and over-salted.

Did he imagine that a hush fell over the room when he entered? Was it just paranoia that told him everyone was watching him as he walked to the snack table and loaded a plate with cookies and Hershey's Kisses? Bigelow wasn't sure. But when he took a bite of a star-shaped cookie, the crunch seemed to echo through the room like thunder. The silence that followed was so profound he was almost afraid to chew.

He'd spotted Crowley and Jarry huddled together in a corner, and he was heading for that oasis of management-level camaraderie when Marcy walked to the center of the room with two large shopping bags.

"Well," she said, "now that everyone's here, we may as well let the fun and games begin. So . . . we're all just dying to find out who our Secret Santas are, right?"

There was a smattering of applause and one half-hearted "woo-woo," but Bigelow could barely hear it over the high-revving thump-thump of his heart.

"Great," Marcy said. "Because today's the day all is revealed. I took the liberty of collecting the last Secret Santa gifts this morning." She raised up the bags in her hand, then set them on the floor. "I'll just pick one out at random, and we'll see who it's for."

Bigelow's blood pressure shot so high he felt like his head would explode like those screaming bastards he'd just seen in the Scanners Anniversary Edition DVD.

Marcy pulled out the box he'd left on Sandberg's desk the night before.

This can't be happening, Bigelow thought. This can't be happening!

By the time he'd accepted that it was happening, right in front of him, Marcy was reading the note attached to the box out loud—"For Alex, from your Secret Santa"—and walking the present to the other side of the room, where Sandberg had been chatting with McCoy and Starr.

"Wait," Bigelow tried to say, but his mouth was still full of cookie, and all that came out was a spray of moist crumbs.

He started to move toward Sandberg, but it was too late. By the time he got there, Marcy, McCoy and Starr were all staring in horror at the open box in Sandberg's hands.

"'This is what people get when they mess with me,'" Sandberg said, reading out the note taped to the inside lid of the box. "'Erik Bigelow.'"

Other staff members crowded around, all of them quickly backing off with a loud "Ewwwww!" when they saw what Bigelow had stuffed into the package. The "Ewwww!"-ing grew even louder when the stench began to waft into the room.

Bantha was a very large dog, and the contents of the box were still reasonably fresh.

"That is sick, Bigelow," Starr said.

"What is it?" Crowley asked.

Starr told him in a single, blunt word. It hit Crowley like a slap, and his muscular neck tensed up tight.

"What is wrong with you, man?" he snapped at Bigelow.

"Wait," Bigelow said. "You don't understand. Look at this."

He ran to the shopping bags in the middle of the room and began pulling out presents, tossing the ones he didn't want over his shoulder. Some of the boxes made hard, ugly, shattering sounds when they landed, and voices were calling for Bigelow to stop, but he knew he had to act fast. He found what he was looking for at the very bottom of one of the bags.

"You think that was bad?" Bigelow grabbed the package with the HO! HO! HO! wrapping paper and held it aloft. "Well, look at this!"

He tore off the wrapping and clawed open the box underneath.

A Snickers bar fell out.

And a bag of Peanut M&Ms.

And a ten dollar Red Lobster gift card.

"What?" Bigelow screamed. "What is this crap?"

"Well, Erik . . . ," replied a quiet, trembly female voice.

Bigelow turned to find a teary-eyed, frightened-looking Marcy huddling behind Sandberg.

"You're always forgetting your lunch," she said.

And at last Bigelow knew who his Secret Santa really was. It was the person who could monitor his comings and goings better than anyone because her cubicle was right outside his office. The person who'd watched as his insecurities had pushed him to destroy anyone he thought could be a rival. The person who sat near his door and heard him tell Crowley what a waste Sandberg was. The person who'd heard him say the same things about everyone else he'd managed to get fired. The person who knew he stole people's mail, because she was the one who brought it to his desk. The person who already had her own key to Sandberg's office. The person who knew his neuroses well enough to find a way to exploit them. The person who had walked into his office with a hatful of paper slips that all had the same name written on them.

The person who had set him up.

He saw the hint of a smile behind the mask of fear she was wearing now, and he knew everything. But it was all too much to explain, so he didn't try. Instead, he just howled like an angry monkey and lunged at Marcy.

He knew he wouldn't make it, and he didn't. Sandberg and Starr and McCoy stopped him. He flailed at them, spitting obscenities, until Crowley stepped up and ended the fight with one powerful punch from his little child-like fist.

Words and phrases floated in and out of Bigelow's consciousness as he lay there amidst the gifts he'd scattered across the floor. "911." "Police." "Weird." "Klepto." "Grudge." "Obsession." "Sandberg." "Granola bars."

There were other things he didn't hear, things no one was saying, though they bounced around inside his skull nonetheless. "Freak." "Fired." "Wal-Mart." And the sound of Marcy's voice as she looked up into Sandberg's eyes later that day, after Bigelow had been carted away.

"Merry Christmas, boss," she would say.

HUMBUG

Scrooge was dead. There was no doubt whatever about that. Compared to his battered, shattered body, a doornail would have seemed positively rambunctious.

A doornail, after all, might be run over by a team of horses pulling a wagonload of fresh-cut Christmas trees and come away none the worse for wear. Put a frail old man to the same test, however, and he not only finds himself the worse for it, he finds himself extremely, irrefutably, irreversibly dead.

Or, to be more precise, he is found thus, as the only thing such an individual would be capable of finding himself is his eternal reward—and perhaps, as in the case of Ebenezer Scrooge, his lack of same.

Scrooge had not been a very good man. But he was, as has been so firmly established, a very dead man. And that made Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police a very curious man.

A few minutes before Scrooge was juiced beneath the wagon wheels like a shriveled grape, the detective had been heading home for his Christmas Eve supper, having just dropped off a matching pair of handcuffed jewelry thieves at E Division headquarters. He was debating whether or not to surprise the wife with a pre-Christmas present—the new collection of stories by the American master of the macabre Edgar Allan Poe—when he'd encountered Scrooge capering up and down the sidewalk talking to himself.

It was immediately apparent that this was no ordinary lunatic. Though out-of-doors in the chilly damp, the old man wore no topcoat, hat, gloves or scarf, appearing perfectly happy to cavort in the slush in a simple black business suit. His clothes were well-tailored and neat but years out of date, suggesting an owner with full pockets he was nevertheless reluctant to reach into to accommodate such a fickle thing as fashion. He also appeared to be a man of some renown, for people were stopping to stare in wide-eyed amazement and say, "Look at the old pinchpenny! Do you think his conscience has driven him mad at last?"

Bucket had just noticed the sign over a nearby warehouse door—"SCROOGE & MARLEY," it read—when the old man came scurrying up to him.

"My dear sir!" he bellowed, spewing frothy spittle that fell as softly as snow on the detective's greatcoat. "How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!"

"M-M-Mr. Scrooge?" Bucket stammered, unnerved that the old bedlamite thought him an acquaintance.

Bucket had never met the man, but he knew him by (foul) reputation. Scrooge was a usurer, a lender of money at such fantastic rates that the interest compounded not so much annually, monthly or even weekly but by the second. The almshouses were packed wall-to-fetid-wall with his former clients ("prey," some called them), and many a London child would spend Christmas shivering on the street instead of nestled before the family fireplace because a penniless father had defaulted to the pitiless Scrooge.

"Yes!" Scrooge crowed. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness—" The old man pulled the detective closer and whispered in his ear. "—to accept a donation of two hundred pounds toward your most excellent charity."

Bucket realized then that Scrooge's strange behavior wasn't born of natural dementia, but arose instead from the vapors of a Chinaman's pipe: The bitter smell of opium clung to the old man's clothes.

"My dear sir, I don't know what to say to such munificence," Bucket said, peeling Scrooge's gnarled hand from his arm and giving it a hearty shake. Best to just placate the man and let him go his mad, merry way, the detective had decided. There was, after all, no law against putting poppy seed to whatever use one wished. And what's more, Bucket wanted to go home.

"Don't say anything, please," Scrooge replied, delighted. "Come and see me. Will you come and see me?"

"I will."

"Thank you." Scrooge reached up to tip his top hat to Bucket. There was no such hat upon his head, but he tipped it all the same. "I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!"

And with that Scrooge turned, took a few zigzagging steps away, and stopped before a stray cat that stared at him from the front steps of a poulterer's shop.

"Is your master at home, my dear?" Scrooge asked the cat.

"Meow."

"Where is he, my love?"

"Meow meow."

"Thank you."

And so on. There followed a brief conversation with a heap of dirty snow Scrooge addressed as "Fred" and a cart of roasted chestnuts he called "Bob," after which he christened a discarded sack of rotten potatoes "Tim" and proceeded to give it a piggy-back ride.

When the old man dropped the potatoes and darted into the street to wish a very merry Christmas to a steaming pile of horse dung, Bucket finally decided to restrain the old man for his own good. But before the detective could take a step, the tree-wagon came rolling along—and Scrooge was rolled out as flat as a Christmas cookie.

Scrooge's passing produced nary a tear from those who witnessed it. What it did yield—from Inspector Bucket, anyway—was a mixture of curiosity and guilt. The detective regretted not moving more quickly to restrain the old man, and he resolved to make amends for it by gathering up both Scrooge's body and the information needed for the inquest with as much alacrity and discretion as possible.

A half-penny secured the services of a gawking street urchin as his runner, and Bucket dispatched the lad on two errands, both of vital importance: firstly, to take news of Scrooge's death to the nearest station house; secondly, to take Bucket's wife the news that he would be late for supper. He then recruited as navvies a group of laborers repairing gas pipes nearby, directing them to move Scrooge's freshly pulped body to the curb. The driver of the tree wagon hopped down and followed them, pleading his case to Bucket.

"He ran right in front of me, he did! How was I to see him coming in this fog? It ain't my fault what happened!"

"Now, now, my friend—calm down. It's plain you're not to blame," Bucket said soothingly. A pear-shaped man of five-and-forty years, he had a softness about him that usually put others at ease—when he wanted it to. "Nevertheless, I'll need to know your name."

"My name? What for?"

"For the inquest, of course."

"Inquest? It was an accident, I tell you!"

"That is for the inquest to determine," Bucket snapped, narrowing his eyes. Suddenly, he wasn't portly. He was imposing. "Your name."

"Percy Thimblewitt, sir," the wagon driver mumbled, cringing.

Bucket smiled, and once again he seemed about as threatening as a well-stuffed pillow. "Thank you, Mr. Thimblewitt. Now . . . did you know the deceased?"

Thimblewitt said he did not, and once Bucket finished questioning the man (who had little to add beyond further proclamations of his freedom from fault), the detective moved on to the witnesses lingering nearby.

"Came skipping out a few minutes before you happened along, Scrooge did," said a chestnut vendor who parked his cart near Scrooge's office each evening. "Had a 'merry Christmas' for everyone in sight. Every thing, too."

"The gentleman was eccentric then?" Bucket said with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows that was meant to whisper, "An opium-eater, eh?"

"Eccentric? No, sir. Sour as spoilt milk, he was, but he weren't balmy. Not until tonight."

The other witnesses who knew Scrooge said the same: While the moneylender was notoriously understocked on scruples, there had been no indication that he was similarly short on marbles. No one picked up on Bucket's hints about a penchant for the pipe, either.

Eventually, the clatter of hooves and the steadily growing growl of wagon wheels on stone announced the approach of a police ambulance. When the driver pulled the small, boxy vehicle to a stop before Bucket, the back doors swung open and two men clambered out.

"Police Constable Thicke! Dr. Charhart!" Bucket said. "So good of you to join me tonight!"

"Sir," Thicke said, putting on his regulation stovepipe hat and straightening his blue uniform jacket as best he could over a belly twice as prodigious as Bucket's (which was hardly insubstantial in its own right). He jerked his head at the doctor and waggled his eyebrows—a warning to Bucket to brace himself.

"Good of me?" Charhart sneered. "For it to be 'good of me,' coming here would have to be voluntary!"

Dr. Crispus Charhart was a tall, lanky man with a face so overgrown with gray whiskers it would be impossible to say whether he was smiling or frowning were it not a commonly known fact that he never smiled. Despite his wild beard and fiery eyes, however, the doctor had the regal, rigid bearing of a gentleman of property and position—though perhaps one for whom both were now but a memory.

"As it so happens," he snarled, "I was dragged from my dinner simply so a man of medicine can affirm that the miserable old sod who was run over by a wagon before a dozen witnesses was killed by—gasp, shock, alarum!—being run over by a wagon. As long as I'm out here in the freezing cold, shall I write out certificates for everyone else present testifying to the fact that they are indeed still alive? It would be a task just as worthy of my time and talents, I tell you."

"It would be a fine thing, I agree, if more people would schedule their dying with our convenience in mind," Bucket replied cheerfully. "Alas, we must accommodate those rude souls who allow themselves to be shepherded from this earth at the time of Another's choosing. Such is one's lot when one signs on with Scotland Yard—or accepts a coroner's warrant, Dr. Charhart."

The doctor's eyes blazed as bright as the fire he no doubt longed to be warming himself by.

"Fine—step aside and let me at the old villain!" he snapped, pushing past Bucket before the inspector had time to move. The old man's body was lying in the gutter nearby, and Charhart stomped over and knelt down beside it.

"Do I take it that you knew the gentleman?" Bucket asked.

"Scrooge was no gentleman," the doctor muttered, seeming to take bitter pleasure from turning the corpse over so it was face-down in grimy, soupy slush. "He was a vulture, a scavenger, a carrion-eater. And if you're wondering why a true gentleman like myself would need the piddling extra pounds per annum a coroner's warrant offers, then look no further. Scrooge was nearly the ruin of me, and it is a fine Christmas gift indeed to find his ruin before me now. If I could take him home and hang him upon my tree, I tell you I would."

Charhart roughly rolled the body in the icy sludge again, as if it were a cut of meat he was breading with flour. He stared down at Scrooge's dead face for a moment, not so much examining the body, it seemed, as pausing to appreciate it. Then he stood and began wiping his hands with a hankie he produced from his pocket.

"I've seen enough," he announced. "I'm going home."

"Surely you're not done already?" Bucket protested.

"Most assuredly I am. Ebenezer Scrooge was trampled to death, and I intend to file a certificate to that effect the day after tomorrow. There remains nothing further to occupy me here."

"Oh, but questions remain, Dr. Charhart, questions remain," Bucket clucked. "Mr. Scrooge was acting in a most peculiar manner before he was killed. He was euphoric—hysterically so. I spoke with him myself, and were there mistletoe about, I do believe he would have kissed me. I wonder if you detected anything that might account for such uncharacteristic jollity?"

Charhart straightened to his full height, straining for the maximum altitude from which to peer down disdainfully upon the detective. "Exactly what sort of something are you suggesting?"

"Well," Bucket said, and he cleared his throat and leaned in closer, continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. "When I talked to Mr. Scrooge, I noticed upon him the scent of opium smoke."

Charhart responded with a mocking guffaw that he cast down upon Bucket like Zeus hurling a lightning bolt from Olympus.

"You did not!" the doctor cried.

"I did," Bucket responded calmly.

"Stuff and nonsense!"

"No, Dr. Charhart."

"Rubbish!"

"I don't believe so, Dr. Charhart."

"Poppycock! Tommyrot! Fiddle-faddle! Flapdoodle!"

Bucket waited patiently for Charhart to finish.

"If you hadn't been so eager to dunk the body in gutter-wash like a scone in tea, you might have smelled it yourself," the detective said mildly.

"Ebenezer Scrooge took but one pleasure from life, Bucket—the continual accumulation of wealth. To suggest anything to the contrary is purest humbug! Now if you are through insulting me, I will be on my way."

Bucket held up a fat forefinger and pushed it out before him like a candle to light his way. "One final question, Dr. Charhart: As you knew Mr. Scrooge, perhaps you could tell me where I might find his family. After all, we can't leave his body here in the street."

"You can throw it in the Thames for all I care!" Charhart thundered. "As for Scrooge's family, he never spoke of any save a single nephew—Fred Merriweather. A merchant of some sort. Resides in Pimlico, I believe. And that's the last thing I have to say upon the subject of Ebenezer Scrooge. I would wish you a good night, Bucket, except I don't see why I should wish for you what you've denied me."

Charhart spun on his heel and began striding quickly into the fog.

"Thank you, Dr. Charhart!" Bucket called after him. "A very happy Christmas to you and yours!"

Charhart didn't look back.

"Police Constable Dimm," Bucket said, turning to peer up at the ambulance driver. "Why don't you come down and help Police Constable Thicke get Mr. Scrooge stowed away? It seems you'll be paying a call in Pimlico!"

Dimm, a congenitally lethargic man who could barely muster the necessary vigor needed to continue breathing, began climbing down with such painstaking sluggishness an observer would have been forced to watch him for quite some time to be certain he was moving at all. This suited Bucket just fine, actually, for he had other business to attend to while Dimm and Thicke tidied up the gutter.

The detective walked towards the sign reading "SCROOGE & MARLEY" and made use of the doorway beneath it. The door was open wide, and gray tendrils of icy fog had swept into the office to curl themselves around desks and chairs like the clutching fingers of some colossal shade.

Bucket sniffed at the air, hoping to reassure himself that the scent he'd caught on the old man's clothes had been no pipe-dream of his own. But it wouldn't have mattered now had Scrooge been smoking two opium pipes while burning incense and boiling cabbage. The odors would have been long dissipated by the flow of air from outside. Indeed, Scrooge's office now smelled like the nearby London streets—which is to say, like factory smoke, horses and the unwholesome effluvia of a million souls living in close quarter.

His nose finding little to investigate, Bucket turned the job over to his eyes. After giving the rooms before them a thorough examination, they reported back thusly:

—Scrooge employed a solitary clerk, and the old man made no exception from his stinginess to accommodate this underling's comfort. (An empty coal scuttle, overflowing work desk and high, rickety stool were shoved into one, cell-like corner.)

—Scrooge was as parsimonious with his trust as he was with his coal. (The ledger books arrayed upon a shelf at the back of the office were shut tight with leather clasps and padlocks.)

—Scrooge's tight fist squeezed its owner nearly as hard as it squeezed the rest of humanity. (Scrooge's own work area was only slightly less dismal than the clerk's, and the old man had conducted his affairs by candle light rather than part with the extra coins necessary for the purchase of lamp oil.)

—Scrooge had been "burning the candle at both ends" at the very moment his sanity flickered out. (His aforementioned desk candles had melted completely, leaving tracks of yellow and brown wax slithering across the wood to pool around the edges of an open ledger.)

—And finally, Scrooge had most definitely not been smoking opium on the premises. (There was no pipe in sight.)

Aside from the streams of wax flowing across the desktop, Scrooge's office was a perfectly orderly (if exceptionally dark and dingy) place of business, and there was nothing to suggest it doubled as an opium den. Yet, while Bucket could be labeled agnostic on many another matter, his faith in his own senses never wavered. He was one of a new breed: a "detective." One who detects. And he had smelled opium on the old man.

So when Dimm stepped inside to glumly announce that the body was ready for "home delivery," Bucket had an announcement of his own to make: He would be accompanying Dimm to the residence of Scrooge's nephew, Fred Merriweather.

"A happy Christmas to you, Police Constable Thicke!" Bucket called out as the ambulance rolled away.

"And to you and the missus, Inspector Bucket!" Thicke replied with a hearty wave. "And to you, too, Dimm!"

"Oh, yes," Dimm grumbled. "What could be merrier than spending Christmas Eve playing hansom cab for a corpse?"

"Cheer up, Police Constable Dimm! At least you won't spend the night walking a beat like poor Police Constable Thicke back there."

Dimm would have rolled his eyes had he the energy to do so.

"Sure you wouldn't rather ride inside, sir?" he muttered instead. "Warmer."

Bucket shook his head. "From what I understand, the old gentleman would make more congenial company now than ever he did in life. Nevertheless, I prefer to surround myself with more, shall we say, animated companions." The detective paused to glance at Dimm, who sat beside him as hunched and still as a gargoyle, his only movement an occasional flick of the reins he held loosely in his limply hanging hands. "Not that I'm entirely certain you qualify as such, Police Constable Dimm. You seem so uncommonly torpid, even by your own languorous standards, I almost wonder if this ambulance carries two cadavers this evening."

Astronomers training their telescopes upon the blue wool of Dimm's uniform tailcoat might have detected, had they been squinting fiercely enough, a slight tremor about the shoulders that would have entirely evaded the detection of the unaided human eye. This was a shrug.

"Just . . . thinking," Dimm mumbled.

"Ah-ha! There's your problem! Constables aren't paid to think—that's what inspectors are for. Just let your mind go blank and you'll feel better in no time, there's a good fellow."

He gave Dimm a jovial swat on the back, certain he'd solved the younger man's problems—whatever they were. Yet something about Dimm's lugubrious manner made Bucket's forefinger twitch, as it did whenever there was an itch the detective felt compelled to scratch.

After a moment of silence, Bucket scratched it.

"Besides, what have you to think about, Police Constable Dimm?"

Dimm finally showed signs of life, actually cringing when he heard Bucket's question. "No use hiding it, I suppose. It's common enough knowledge amongst the other P.C.s. The old man had me on the hook for a dozen guineas."

"You owed money to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge?"

Dimm's chin moved an infinitesimal fraction of an inch closer to his chest—for Dimm, a vigorous nod. "It started out as just a trifle. I got into . . . well, a tight spot with a woman, and I needed a few extra bob to put things right."

Bucket turned to stare at the ambulance driver, unable to disguise his astonishment. Not that Dimm had become entangled in a usurer's web, mind you. Bucket simply couldn't believe the man was capable of the exertion usually required to put oneself in "a tight spot with a woman."

"I couldn't pay it all back on time—and once you fall behind with Scrooge, there's no hope of catching up again," Dimm continued miserably. "Now that the old blighter's dead, I'm at the mercy of whichever creditor takes over his business. Might be someone even worse than Scrooge himself."

"Ho ho! That hardly seems possible," Bucket said, his voice more blithesome than his thoughts.

Whoever took on the accounts of Scrooge & Marley would be within his rights to call in the firm's chits forthwith. Anyone unable to meet their obligations would land in the workhouse.

"Take heart, Police Constable Dimm."

Bucket clapped his companion on the back again, intending to cheer up his brother officer by pointing out the shining silver lining in the dark cloud above. After a moment's searching, however, Bucket realized there was no such lining to point to: The P.C. was buggered.

"I'll stand you to a drink sometime," the detective said with a sigh, offering a small lining of his own that was, if not silver, worth at least three pence.

After a quick stop at B Division headquarters to inquire as to the residence of one Fred Merriweather of Pimlico, Bucket and Dimm arrived at the home of Scrooge's nephew. It was a pretty if somewhat stucco-heavy townhouse in a long row of pretty if somewhat stucco-heavy townhouses, all of them radiating an aura of respectable bourgeois coziness. The Merriweather home, however, was set apart from its neighbors by the light and laughter that spilled forth from inside—the Merriweathers weren't waiting for Christmas to begin their revelries.

Bucket shook his head sadly. He was a man with a heartfelt appreciation for laughter and high spirits, and he hated to spoil anyone's sport. Yet he had no choice.

The law plainly stated that a body removed from a public street was to be, if possible, transported with all due haste to the family home, where convention dictated that it lie in state until burial. Which made Bucket feel like Father Christmas in reverse: He was bringing a "gift" that would ruin a family's holiday. After all, it's hard to make merry with a cadaver in the corner.

"I tell you, Police Constable Dimm, I wish it were a plump goose and not a flattened uncle we were here to hand over," Bucket said as he climbed down from the ambulance.

"You never know," Dimm murmured. "Scrooge's nephew might welcome the latter more warmly than the former."

Bucket lingered a moment, his forefinger tingling for reasons he couldn't fathom, before turning toward the house.

"Is this the home of Mr. Fred Merriweather?" he asked the girl who answered upon his knocking.

"Yes, sir," the servant replied, casting a nervous glance over Bucket's shoulder at the police ambulance.

"Would you be so kind as to fetch your master? I have news he may wish to hear away from his guests."

The girl gave a quick nod and disappeared inside. A minute later, the door was opened again, this time by a huffing, puffing young man in rumpled clothes. His round, ruddy face was half-grin, half frown.

"You must excuse me, sir. We were indulging in a bit of blind-man's bluff," the man panted. "Now, what's this about news for me?"

"Mr. Merriweather, I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police, and it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge was this evening killed."

For the first time, Bucket saw someone react to Scrooge's demise with what appeared to be actual sadness.

"My uncle? Dead?" Merriweather swayed so severely he had to clutch the door to steady himself. "How?"

"Run over in the street, Mr. Merriweather. By a wagon. I am sorry."

Merriweather gave a nod almost as weak as one of Dimm's, then slowly pulled himself up straight.

"You've brought the body, then?" he said, managing a stronger nod at the ambulance.

"That's right."

Merriweather smiled grimly.

"And it was such a lovely party, too," he said. "I'll send someone out to help your man move the b-body . . . ."

The last word seemed to catch in Merriweather's throat, and he had to hack out a cough before he could continue.

"...move my uncle into the house. In the meantime, why don't you come in and warm yourself, Inspector?"

Bucket offered his thanks, stepping inside and watching from the foyer while Merriweather went to break the news to the dozen or so guests filling his parlor. There were sympathetic groans and somber condolences from all around, yet it seemed to Bucket as if Merriweather's friends were grieving less for old Scrooge than they were for a splendid party cut down in the prime of life. In fact, one young lady wasn't shy about saying as much.

"That's just like your uncle, isn't it? He had to find one last way to spoil your Christmas cheer."

Of course, Bucket knew only one person who could take the liberty of speaking so bluntly: The lady had to be Merriweather's wife. She was gaunt and sunken-eyed, yet exceptionally pretty all the same, with long blonde hair pinned up with a square-ish, gold brooch.

"Margaret, please," Merriweather said with reluctant reproach.

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Merriweather replied. "We must show respect for the dead . . . though why the act of dying suddenly makes one respectable is beyond me."

The once-gay revelers took to staring down mutely, as if admiring each other's shoes or searching for a lost earring.

"In Scrooge's case, however, perhaps I can understand it," Mrs. Merriweather continued. "Death could only be an improvement to him."

"Margaret, please," Merriweather said again. "Let us see to our guests—" His gaze darted in Bucket's direction. "—before we discuss this further."

Mrs. Merriweather glanced at Bucket, then smiled stiffly.

"Of course, you're right, Fred." She turned to address her friends, who were still busying themselves with silent inspections of the carpet. "I'm sorry our evening must end on such a note. I hope we haven't robbed you all of a very merry Christmas."

The parlor emptied quickly, with an almost frenzied hurry to don overcoats and hats before the guest of dishonor could be brought inside. Dimm and a servant appeared bearing a lumpy load on a blanket-covered stretcher just as the last guest made his escape.

"Must you bring that in here?" Merriweather's wife snapped.

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Merriweather," Bucket said. "Your husband is the only relation the gentleman had in town, I gather."

"Or in all the world," Merriweather said with a sigh. "Well . . . wherever shall we put him?"

"The dust bin, perhaps?" Mrs. Merriweather suggested.

Merriweather ignored her.

"There's room in the nursery," he mused. "Perhaps we should leave him there until we can arrange for the undertaker to—"

Mrs. Merriweather took a step toward her husband, her eyes suddenly alight with white-hot fury.

"How dare you?" she spat. She whirled to face Dimm and her servant. "You will take the body to the parlor. Have Lucy clear off the table and . . . and . . . ."

Mrs. Merriweather spun again and fled down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, the dainty hands pressed over her face unable to smother the sound of her crying. A door slammed, swallowing her sobs.

"Do as she asks," Merriweather said quietly.

Dimm and the servant trudged away, leaving Bucket and Merriweather alone in the foyer.

"I see that your wife is not immune to grief, after all," Bucket said.

Merriweather gaped at him, looking confused.

"She is still wearing a mourning brooch . . . and the nursery is empty," the detective explained. "You have my condolences."

"Thank you. And you're right. The wound runs deep in her," Merriweather replied with a weary nod. "And my uncle . . . well, if you know much of him, you know that he would not be a pillar of strength for us in our time of loss. In fact, he didn't even attend the funeral. Tonight was the first time in ages I've seen Margaret smile without a bottle of laudanum to thank for it. She finally seemed free of her sorrow, if only for a moment. For you to arrive at just that moment with . . . ." Merriweather glanced into the parlor, where his young maid was pushing aside a punchbowl and plates of sweets and nuts so Scrooge's wool-draped carcass could be positioned atop the table like the centerpiece of a holiday feast. "Is he . . . presentable?"

"You will have need of all the undertaker's expertise if there is to be a viewing," Bucket answered gently.

Merriweather winced. "And to think I saw him just this afternoon as fit and full of vinegar as ever."

"You saw your uncle today?" Bucket asked, surprised.

"Yes. I visited him at his counting-house."

"For what purpose?"

"For the purpose of wishing him a happy Christmas, of course. And to invite him here tonight."

"Really? I'm surprised Mrs. Merriweather would approve."

"Too often we forget that Christmas is the time of redemption, Inspector. I offered just that to my uncle today, in the spirit of Christian forgiveness the season requires. He refused it, of course—called Christmas 'humbug' and sent me on my way. And I'll admit, I was secretly glad he did so, for Margaret's sake. As it is, I didn't even have to tell her I'd been to see him."

Bucket's forefinger began to itch, and he rubbed it absentmindedly across his chin as he spoke. "Was your uncle alone when you saw him?"

What Bucket really meant was "Were you alone with your uncle?" Yet he didn't wish to cause offense by giving the impression he had suspicions—which by this time he certainly did.

"His clerk Cratchit was slaving away at his desk, as usual, poor soul," Merriweather replied. "I've often wondered why he would remain in my uncle's employ for so long. He seems a fine enough fellow, and it's hard to imagine a more miserly master than Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Would you happen to know where this Mr. Cratchit lives? I should like to speak with him. A mere formality, you understand. The coroner is a terrible fussbudget. If I don't have each 'i' dotted and every 't' crossed—twice, mind you, to be doubly certain the job gets done—old Inspector Bucket will be back in constable's blue in a trice."

"We can't have that," Merriweather said with a small smile. "I recall Cratchit mentioning once that he'd taken his children sledding on Primrose Hill. So were I 'old Inspector Bucket,' I suppose I'd start looking for him in Camden Town."

"You have the makings of a fine detective, Mr. Merriweather," Bucket replied, nodding his approval. "Thank you for your assistance—and from here on may the season bring you and your wife only the rewards you so richly deserve."

After collecting Dimm from the parlor (where the constable had somehow marshaled the energy to pocket large quantities of sweetmeats while wooing the maid with a steady stream of mumbled blandishments), Bucket took his leave of the Merriweather residence.

"Why don't you stretch yourself out down below and have a rest now that there's no company to crowd you?" Dimm suggested as he slowly hoisted himself back into the driver's seat. "I can drop you at your house on my way back to E Division."

"Most thoughtful of you," Bucket said, hauling himself up next to the constable. "Only you're not headed back to E Division yet. You're taking me to Y Division."

"Y Division, sir?" Dimm blurted, suddenly looking very much awake.

"That's right, Police Constable Dimm. Y Division. I intend to find Mr. Bob Cratchit of Camden Town—and I intend to find him tonight."

And find him he did, thanks to two sleepy station house sergeants who, between them, knew every man, woman, child, cat and cockroach in North London.

"Cricket?" mused the first sergeant.

"Cratchit," said the second sergeant. "Bill."

"Bob," the first corrected.

"Bob," the second conceded. "Tall bloke."

First shook his head. "Short."

Second waggled his hand. "More . . . medium."

"Very medium, he is," First agreed. "Lives on Jamestown Road."

"Noooo," Second yawned. "Bayham Street."

"Bayham Street it is," First seconded. "Big flat, lots of kids."

"Medium flat . . . big kids?" Second said, sounding uncertain.

First: "Hold on. Small flat, no kids."

Second: "Now you've got it. Small flat, no kids."

Third: "Wait!"

"Third" was, in fact, Inspector Bucket.

"Mr. Cratchit has no children?" he said, his bushy brows knit together so firmly they looked like a pair of amorous caterpillars stealing a kiss.

The two sergeants nodded, finally in complete agreement.

Bucket's forefinger began itching like a fleabite on a boil on a rash on a bum in woolen underpants two sizes too small. It itched very badly indeed.

Twenty minutes later, said finger was curled into a fist knocking on the rather shabby-looking door of Bob Cratchit's flat. The "very medium" man who answered was rather shabby-looking himself, being attired in an unraveling sweater and tattered, fingerless gloves.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Bob Cratchit?"

"Yes?"

"I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police. I need to have a word with you about Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge."

Cratchit flinched at the very mention of his employer. "Scrooge? What of him?"

"He is dead."

Cratchit's lips began to tremble, and his eyes took on the shimmery shine of tears barely kept in check. "No. Surely not."

"I'm afraid so. May I come inside, Mr. Cratchit?"

Cratchit nodded mutely, backing away from the door to let the detective into his dark, dingy, drafty room.

"You were fond of the old gentleman?" Bucket asked as Cratchit dropped into a rickety chair that barely looked like it could support its own weight let alone that of a man, "very medium" or otherwise.

"Fond? You . . . you think I'm . . .? Oh." The clerk took in a deep breath, then shook his head sadly. "You give me too much credit, Inspector. I feel no sorrow for Scrooge. I feel sorry for myself."

"For yourself? Why?"

Cratchit ran his fingers through his fair, thinning hair. "Because I'm headed to the poorhouse, that's why. How long will it take a man like me to find a new position? A week? Two weeks? A month? Yet I don't have enough in my pocket to last till New Year's." He stared down at the stained, scuffed floorboards. "Oh, what a merry Christmas this is!"

"There, there, Mr. Cratchit. I'm sure it's not as bad as all that," Bucket said. "A man with the pertinacity to work for the infamous Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge should find a new—and infinitely more agreeable—master soon enough. 'Why, here comes Bob Cratchit!' men will say. 'If he can last all those years with old Scrooge, surely he can do anything!'" Bucket brought up his forefinger and tapped it against his full lips. "By the by, how long did you work for Mr. Scrooge?"

Cratchit said simply, "Four years." His bitter tone added a bit more color, however. "Four sodding miserable bloody years," it said.

"And what were your duties, Mr. Cratchit?"

"Filing, double-checking sums, copying letters. The usual for a clerk. Though I didn't receive the usual clerk's wages, I can assure you."

Bucket glanced around at Cratchit's squalid flat, with its ramshackle furnishings, peeling wallpaper and trails of multicolored wax drippings criss-crossing the floor.

"Apparently not," he said. "Which leads me to wonder why you didn't seek greener pastures, if Mr. Scrooge's were so barren."

Cratchit looked aghast, as if Bucket had spoken some heresy. "Oh, but I couldn't! Scrooge was horribly vindictive! If he'd learned I was inquiring about employment elsewhere, he would've sacked me on the spot!"

"I see. Tell me, Mr. Cratchit—what sort of mood was your vindictive master in today?"

"A most peculiar one, now that you mention it. He actually wished me a merry Christmas and let me go early!"

"And you noticed nothing else unusual?"

Cratchit chewed his lower lip and rolled his eyes, looking like a schoolboy called upon to recite the alphabet who loses his way after "j." "No. Nothing else."

"Did you ever know Mr. Scrooge to partake of strong drink or . . . other indulgences?"

"Scrooge indulged in nothing save merciless shylocking and the occasional butter crumpet. Why do you ask?"

Bucket described the daft antics that had climaxed in the old man's death. Cratchit listened with a dismay that slowly grew into open-mouthed horror.

"I . . . I can't believe it."

"I ask again, Mr. Cratchit—you're certain you noticed nothing else out of the ordinary?"

"Well, I did hear Scrooge muttering to himself all afternoon. More than usual, I mean. He often mumbled when he was going over the books. But today, his conversations with himself were a touch more spirited than most days."

"Was this before or after Scrooge's nephew paid him a call?"

"Scrooge's nephew?" Cratchit's eyes popped wide then narrowed quickly, and the clerk took a moment to gnaw on a fingernail before giving a single, firm nod. "After. Yes. Definitely after."

"Did they meet in Mr. Scrooge's office? Out of your sight?"

"Indeed, they did."

"And how long were Mr. Merriweather and his uncle alone?"

"A few minutes, I suppose."

"Ah. Tell me, Mr. Cratchit—"

Cratchit had not yet done Bucket the courtesy of offering him a seat, and the detective finally decided to take matters into his own hands (or, to be more exact, onto his own posterior). He stepped to a nearby chair and lowered himself down upon it—then immediately hopped back up when the wood beneath him groaned alarmingly.

"Tell me, Mr. Cratchit," Bucket began again, "what is your opinion of Mr. Merriweather?"

Cratchit shrugged. "He seems nice enough . . . maybe a little too nice. Has a tinge of brown about the nose, if you know what I mean, sir. Always wearing a smile. Wearing it like a mask, I sometimes think. Just look at him and his uncle. He put up with all sorts of humbuggery from the man. And for what? So he could come around the next holiday and collect more? I think not."

"You suspect a hidden motive?"

Cratchit winked and pressed a finger against his nose. "How hidden is it when you're an old, rich man's only living relation? He wanted to stay in Scrooge's good graces . . . as much as anyone could stay in what little grace Scrooge possessed. And the two of them would quarrel."

"Over what, pray?"

"Well, for one thing, Scrooge wasn't keen on Merriweather's chosen trade: some kind of imports from the East, I gathered. 'One sunk ship and your ship is sunk,' I heard the old man say. 'Lending, on the other hand, will keep a smart businessman afloat for life.'"

"Imports from the East, eh?" Bucket mused, so lost in thought he began to settle onto the flimsy wooden chair again. Its squeak of warning sent him hopping back onto his feet. "One final question, Mr. Cratchit: Do you have any children?"

Cratchit blinked at the detective, looking almost dazed. After a moment, his lips took to quivering and his eyes to misting.

"I don't know why you ask, sir . . . but . . . I do have children, yes. And prettier little angels you've never seen. But their mother . . . she up and took 'em to her father's in Brixton. 'I love you, Bob Cratchit,' she said, 'but love won't feed our children.'"

"I see," Bucket said with gentle sympathy. "Well. I'm sure I've taken up enough of your time this evening. I'll bid you a merry Christmas and be on my way."

"If by some miracle this is a merry Christmas, it will be my last," Cratchit moaned, wringing his hands. "I can't imagine much merriness in debtor's prison."

"Now, now, Mr. Cratchit—" Bucket began, sidling toward the door.

"The carolers may be singing of glad tidings for man, but the tidings for this man couldn't be more woeful," Cratchit continued, staring up at Bucket with wide, round, red eyes. "I hear no Christmas carols, sir. I hear dirges."

"Now, n- —," Bucket tried again.

"Alas," Cratchit broke in, "it is a blessing after all that there will be no loving family gathered 'round me come Christmas morning. For how could I keep them from starving when I can't even keep my own stomach full? Why, I haven't even the money to buy a single hot cross bun!"

And at last Bucket understood: He could not exit Cratchit's chambers without first paying the toll.

"You've been very helpful, Mr. Cratchit." Bucket scooped a few pennies, farthings and half-farthings from his vest pocket and handed them to the clerk. "Please, allow me. In the spirit of the holiday."

"Thank you, Inspector." Cratchit eyed the small bulge that remained in Bucket's pocket, his hand still outstretched. "This should stave off starvation till Boxing Day, at least. As for my little ones . . . well, I still can't so much as send them a lump of coal, but perhaps the warmth of their poor mother's love will be enough to keep them from freezing."

Bucket sighed, dug in his finger again and produced a sixpence. It landed atop the other coins in Cratchit's palm with a hard, cold clink.

"Bless you," Cratchit said, pocketing the coins with a nod that let Bucket know he'd finally been dismissed.

The detective scurried out the door before Cratchit could change his mind and begin wheedling again. The man was so good at it, Bucket was afraid he'd leave the flat with nothing but the clothes on his back, if that.

"Where to now, Inspector?" Dimm grumbled as Bucket climbed back atop the ambulance with him.

A light snow had been falling, yet the constable was too lethargic to brush any of the accumulation from his coat, and he was dusted in white from top to bottom. It looked as if pranksters had left the wagon-reins in the hands of a snowman.

"One last stop, then you're through playing hansom driver, Police Constable Dimm."

"And where might we be going now? Z Division? Or do you need to interview someone in Aberdeen, perhaps?"

"Not nearly so far," Bucket replied cheerfully. Though he'd be leaving Camden Town more than half a shilling lighter than he'd entered it, he was in far too good a mood to let Dimm's insolence provoke him. "Bloomsbury will do. 126 Southhampton Row. The Bucket residence."

It was a long, cold ride south to Bloomsbury, but Bucket barely felt the chill. He was warmed by thoughts of the pipe, slippers, sherry, poultry and pudding that awaited him—not to mention the genial Mrs. Bucket. He was warmed, too, by the glow of self satisfaction.

The Mystery of Ebenezer Scrooge had proved to be no mystery at all.

After sending Dimm on his way with spirited holiday well wishes (which the constable acknowledged with but a grunt), Bucket stepped inside his cramped-yet-comfortable home to find his usually imperturbable wife flushed and panting.

"Oh, William!" Mrs. Bucket exclaimed, throwing her plump arms around him. "When I saw that ambulance out front, I didn't know what to think!"

"There, there, my pet," Bucket said, comforting her with a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. "I'm sorry for the fright. I should've had Police Constable Dimm drop me at the corner. As you can see, there's nothing wrong with me a hot supper and a cuddle by the fire won't cure."

Though the Buckets occasionally took in lodgers, they had none now, so the mister felt free to give the missus a playful swat on the behind as he disentangled himself from her arms and headed for the kitchen.

"If you think you're getting out of trouble that easily after coming home three hours late on Christmas Eve . . .," Mrs. Bucket mock-scolded, her fists perched on her wide hips.

"Late?" Bucket dipped his forefinger into a pot of thick, brown gravy. "Oh, no! I'm early! Just look on the mantelpiece if you don't believe me."

While the inspector loaded a plate with the roast duck, stuffing and pudding he found warming in the oven, his wife went to the drawing room and searched the mantel. Tucked away behind a portrait of Sir Robert Peel she found a small black book bound with red ribbon: Tales, by Edgar Allan Poe. Eyes gleaming, Mrs. Bucket ripped the ribbon free and practically hurled herself into the nearest chair. By the time her husband joined her in the drawing room, his round belly all the rounder for the two heaping plates of food he'd just consumed, she'd already raced through "The Gold-Bug" and "The Fall of the House of Usher" and was plunging headlong into "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." Bucket knew it was useless to attempt to engage her in conversation until she'd finished, so he settled back into a chair of his own, propped his feet up before the fireplace, lit his pipe and waited.

A few minutes later, his wife heaved a contented sigh, closed her book, and looked up at Bucket with a smile.

"Thank you, William," she said. "So . . . now you can tell me your mystery story."

Bucket grinned back at her. There'd been no need to tell her what had kept him late. It had to be a case, and a particularly interesting one to boot. And, as with all such cases, Mrs. Bucket would want a full accounting from her husband—as well as the opportunity to test her own observations and inferences against his. And Bucket was happy to oblige her, for he'd found that his wife's conjectures stocked a far greater store of logic and insight than those of his colleagues.

So he told her the tale. Mrs. Bucket sat rapt throughout, not speaking a word for nearly a quarter of an hour. She merely cocked an eyebrow or murmured the occasional "hmmm" until Bucket clapped his hands together and said, "And then I came home to find my dear wife on the verge of fainting! So? What do you make of it all?"

Something about the quizzical look in his wife's eyes tickled Bucket's forefinger like a feather.

"Why do I get the feeling, William, that you are on the verge of making an arrest?"

"Because you're a deucedly clever woman—and because I am on the verge of making an arrest!"

"But who will you arrest?"

"Why, the nephew, of course!"

"Mr. Merriweather?" Mrs. Bucket shook her head. "He sounds like such a nice, jovial man."

"So he seems," Bucket said, the tickle in his finger deepening into a disconcerting prickling. "But consider this, my plum: Mr. Fred Merriweather is the only person in the world who stands to gain by the death of Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge. The old man was hostile to the very notion of altruism . . . except when under the influence of opium. So it's unlikely that Mr. Scrooge would bequeath his holdings to the church or some charitable society. And those who had cause to hate Mr. Scrooge the most—the many men in his debt—had the most to lose from his death, since their chits might simply be handed over to an even more rapacious creditor."

Bucket paused to gauge how his reasoning was being received. His forefinger didn't like what his eyes reported: Mrs. Bucket's mouth had developed an infinitesimal tilt, one corner of her full lips curling ever-so-slightly upward.

It didn't bode well. Yet Bucket forged on.

"Second, consider the death of Mr. Merriweather's child. Not only would this deepen Mr. Merriweather's antipathy for his uncle—Mr. Scrooge didn't attend the funeral, you'll recall—but it could have created another motive for murder, as well. Even after the spirit departs, the bills remain. A long illness, a burial, a year in mourning dress. It all costs money. In fact, death is such an expensive proposition these days, I daresay most of us can't afford it! Yet when it comes time to pay the ferryman, we can't refuse, and those we leave behind must settle the tab. It's made paupers of more than one prosperous family. Perhaps Mr. Merriweather found it necessary to, shall we say, accelerate the scheduling of his inheritance."

Bucket's forefinger was itching and sweating now, for Mrs. Bucket's smile had grown wider. But the finger had one more card up its sleeve, so to speak.

"Third, consider the smell of opium smoke I detected upon Mr. Scrooge—and remember that Mr. Merriweather specializes in 'imports from the East.' Surely, a businessman with dealings in the Orient might easily develop connections with the China opium trade or the poppy fields of Afghanistan. And for what purpose did Mr. Merriweather visit his uncle's offices today? To offer 'Christian forgiveness' by inviting Mr. Scrooge to a holiday party hosted by a grief-stricken woman who openly loathes him? That's offering an olive branch with a wasp nest attached, wouldn't you say? Yet it gave Mr. Merriweather an excuse to be alone with his uncle for a few minutes . . . and that was all the time he needed to set his fiendish plot into motion."

Bucket leaned back in his chair and put his pipe to his lips for a triumphant puff—and only noticed then that there was no puff to be had, the tobacco's low flicker of fire having long since snuffed out.

Mrs. Bucket's smile, on the other hand, had been kindled into full flame.

"I'm curious, William," Mrs. Bucket said. "By what means did Mr. Merriweather 'set his fiendish plot into motion'?"

Bucket's forefinger rubbed the cold curve of his pipe-bowl, as if it might relight the tobacco within through sheer friction. Blast her (and bless her) his wife had found the hole in his case, as she always did when there was a hole to be found.

"You mean how did he administer the opium to his uncle? That I shall discover when I return to Mr. Merriweather's home after Christmas. With a search warrant."

"I see," Mrs. Bucket said in a way that suggested she saw much more than her husband.

"You have another question for me, Mrs. Bucket?"

"I do," Mrs. Bucket said. "I wonder why you assign such importance to Merriweather's access to opium via trade connections when it's so readily available through alternate means. Might a doctor not have a sample amongst his supplies? Wouldn't someone who had access to, let's say, the medical kit in a police ambulance be able to make off with some variant, such as morphine? And, my goodness—you won't find a more popular bottled remedy than laudanum, and it's little more than opium sweetened with sugar."

For the full length of a minute, Bucket made no reply. His wife hadn't just pointed out a hole. She'd pointed out that his theory about Merriweather was nothing but hole.

"What you say is true," he finally admitted. "But even if this hypothetical doctor or ambulance driver or laudanum user had equal access to opium, you must admit that none would have as potent a motivation for using it."

"Well," Mrs. Bucket said, shrugging in a way that indicated she would admit no such thing, "I find it rather hard to understand why anyone would want to use it on Scrooge."

"What? Ebenezer Scrooge was one of the most hated men in London!"

Mrs. Bucket nodded calmly. "Yes, he was. So if he had been murdered, I should think you would have a city full of suspects to sort through. But, William—Scrooge wasn't murdered, was he? He ran into the street and was trampled by a passing wagon. His death was an accident."

"How can you say that? The opium—!"

"Would have made a poor murder weapon. If Scrooge's death had been the objective, surely arsenic would have made a better choice. Or any of a hundred other poisons."

"But . . .!" Bucket began, his forefinger poised to give his arguments renewed life through vigorous pointing and waggling. The finger quickly went limp, however, and the rest of the detective followed suit, settling back into his chair with a defeated sigh.

"You're right," he said. "I'm a fool."

Mrs. Bucket reached over and gave her brooding husband a brisk (but not too forceful) swat on the arm.

"What a thing for Inspector William Bucket to say! The man who unmasked the killer of Theopholus Tulkinghorn and rescued Edwin Drood from the clutches of the devious Canon Crisparkle? The man who engineered the capture of Reginald Compeyson and Tom Gradgrind? The man who pulled the secret strings that sent the fiends Orlick and Fagin to the gallows? The man who married me? A fool? I think not! You've simply been asking yourself the wrong questions tonight. Set your mind to the right ones, and we'll soon see who's a fool!"

"Well . . . perhaps." Bucket pushed himself deeper into the cushions enveloping his broad undercarriage and tried to revive his fatigued and dejected forefinger by rubbing it across his chin(s). "So 'the right questions' would be . . . ."

"Who would have preferred to see old Scrooge drugged rather than dead, and why?" his wife finished for him.

"Ahhhh . . . ."

The detective bolted to his feet with his arm upraised and his forefinger pointed skyward, as if he were a puppet hoisted aloft by a string tied to his finger.

"A-ha!"

"A-ha?" Mrs. Bucket asked innocently.

The inspector dashed to the coat rack in the foyer and began pulling on his overcoat and boots. "I've no time to explain—and no need, I'll warrant! By Jove, if Scotland Yard knew about you, half the force would be in blue skirts and bonnets inside a week. You ladies might not be as swift with a truncheon as us brutes, but you can be just as swift with a deduction, if given half a chance." Bucket affixed his hat upon his head and threw open the door. "But enough of my babblings! If there ever was any time to lose, I've misplaced it already!"

"Be careful, William!" Mrs. Bucket called as her husband rushed outside in such a hurry he didn't even close the door behind him.

"If duty permits, my pet!" he shouted without looking back. "If duty permits!"

Bucket spent the next seven minutes hustling up and down the streets of Bloomsbury looking for a hansom, all the while mumbling self-recriminations so acidic they could have melted the snow beneath his flying feet. Even after he finally found a free cab, Bucket's anxious, murmured curses continued throughout his ride, only coming to an end when he hopped out, collared a shivering street waif and sent the lad running to the Bow Street station house with a shiny new three-penny in his pocket. (Scrooge's clerk Cratchit had confiscated all the detective's smaller coins.)

The urchin had already dashed off, disappearing into the fog and snow swirling around the gaslights, when Bucket realized exactly how much rested on his messenger's honesty and speed. Looking across the street at his destination—the offices of Scrooge & Marley—Bucket beheld a dim light flickering behind the thin curtains in the window.

The inspector had arrived just in time to confront the culprit. But he would have to do so alone.

The hustle and bustle of the neighborhood had long given way to the eerie stillness of a late winter's night. Nevertheless, Bucket paused to look both ways before hurrying across the street. He was, after all, at the very spot where Scrooge had been crushed like a pea in a nutcracker hours before.

When he reached the office door, Bucket opened it slowly, dreading the shrieking squeak of rusty hinges that would alert his quarry. But the squeak never came, and Bucket crept inside. He took ginger, hesitant steps, mindful of the floorboards and the not-insubstantial strain his bulk placed upon them. He turned, closed the door, then pushed on into the darkness.

A low, fluttering glow spilled out from a room at the back of the office. As Bucket inched toward the source of the light—candles atop Scrooge's own desk, he was certain—he passed Cratchit's cramped work nook. Resting on the clerk's precarious perch of a desk were an unused candle and a box of lucifer matches. The detective picked them up and brought them to the ready as he crept forward.

He paused just outside Scrooge's sanctum, listening to a low, scratchy noise from around the corner: a pen moving across paper. Then he struck the match, lit the candle and stepped into the room.

"Working late, are we?"

The detective's theatrical entrance had the desired effect. The man seated at Scrooge's desk jumped to his feet popeyed with fright.

"Oh . . . it's you, Inspector," Bob Cratchit said. He eased himself back down into Scrooge's seat with a smile that looked as out of place on his sallow face as jingle bells on a crocodile. "You gave me quite a scare! Yes . . . yes, I am working late. There were a few things that needed to be put in order before Scrooge's accounts are handed over to whoever—"

"What sort of things?" Bucket cut in. He nodded at the ledger spread out before Cratchit. It was the same wax-splattered account book the detective had seen there when he'd made his search of the office hours before. "From the lock on that ledger book, I'd guess Mr. Scrooge intended that only he should make changes to the balances inside."

"Well, yes . . . you're right." Cratchit's grin began to flicker like the candlelight that barely illuminated the room. "But Scrooge fell behind on the bookkeeping. There were changes he never got around to writing down."

"Payments, I assume?"

Cratchit's smile finally snuffed out completely.

"Yes . . . payments," the clerk said, his gaze dropping to the fresh ink that still glistened on the ledger book's pages. When he looked back up again, his eyes were wild with fear and remorse. "You must believe me, Inspector, I—!"

Bucket silenced him with a clucked tut-tut and a waggle of his upraised forefinger. "You don't have to explain. I know you didn't mean to harm Mr. Scrooge—at least not in the physical sense. You merely hoped to inflict a few small wounds upon his pocketbook through some surreptitious . . . editing, shall we say? Your duties have included copying Mr. Scrooge's letters, so you've had ample opportunity to master the forging of his handwriting. But getting access to his ledgers proved a thornier problem. Mr. Scrooge kept them under lock and key. So you planned to make the changes while he was in an opium-induced stupor. You could tell him afterwards that he suffered from some kind of episode—an excuse you could also use if he ever questioned your changes. 'Don't you remember, sir? Mr. Smith paid us in full the day you had your spell. Mr. Jones, as well.' And so on. I assume you were to be rewarded for your trouble. A percentage of the debts you erased, perhaps?"

As he unspooled his deductions, Bucket was overcome by a growing sense of triumph that flew past smugness all the way to ecstasy. Not only did his forefinger tingle with a barely contained elation, his entire body seemed to throb with pleasure. The feeling grew so powerful, in fact, that the detective found it difficult to continue speaking.

"But something went wrong . . . didn't it, Mr. Scratchit? I don't know how you madministered the yummyop . . . administered the opium, but it didn't effect Mr. Plan as you'd scrooged. Mr. Spoon as you'd praged. Memar Scroo ash oo glanged."

Bucket put his free hand to his forehead and took a deep breath. Three separate sensations were trying to crowd their way into his brain all at once, and the only way he could accommodate them was to have them form a line and enter one at a time.

The first came by way of his ears, which sent word that a sound not unlike giggling was escaping from his own lips.

The second had been sent by his nose, which wished to inform him that an overpowering odor of opium smoke had been detected very close nearby.

The third came from his eyes.

"Master Bucket," they were trying to tell him. "Please note that Mr. Cratchit is grinning again—and a most malevolent grin it is."

By the time this last report reached his consciousness, however, Bucket found that Cratchit had disappeared entirely, replaced somehow by a remarkably large and malicious-looking gingerbread man.

"You're right, Inspector," the menacing pastry said. "I'd assumed the opium would render Scrooge unconscious, or at least malleable. Instead, he became agitated, convinced ghosts were tormenting him, and he ran babbling out of the office. With the old man causing a commotion out front, I could hardly take the time to sit here altering the books as I pleased. So I slipped away, planning to return the next work day and act as though nothing had happened. You can imagine my surprise—if not sorrow—when you showed up to inform me that Scrooge had gotten himself killed. Fortunately, you graced me with enough coin to pay for a quick cab back here so I could finish my work tonight."

As he spoke, the gingerbread man turned black around the edges, as if left in the oven too long. The scorched dough grew fuzzy, then became fur, and Cratchit was again transformed, this time into a deer. But no ordinary deer—a reindeer with blood-stained antlers and a nose that blazed as red as the unholy fires of Hell.

"As for the how of it, you hold the answer in your hand," the reindeer said. "Candles with opium suffused into the wick and wax, placed on Scrooge's desk. I got the idea from an Edgar Allan Poe story—'The Imp of the Perverse.' I was actually rather surprised to find that it worked. How fortunate for me that a moment ago you should pick up and light one of my spares."

The deer rose from his seat and started around the desk. The walls behind him writhed and shifted, coalescing into a sinister tableau of glowering, green-haired ogres with termites in their smiles, and the detective barely even noticed the object—long, shiny and sharp—clutched somehow in the reindeer's hooves.

"Quite effective up close, isn't it?" the reindeer said. "And quite pleasurable, if you give yourself over to it. Which I do frequently, being an opium-eater myself. That's how I originally fell into Scrooge's debt—and his servitude. I've been the man's slave for four years. I begged him to release me from my debt, or at least pay me a fair wage so I could have some hope of paying the debt down. I even filled his ears with heart-breaking tales of a desperate wife, a starving family, a crippled son. All rubbish, by the way. My wife ran off years ago, and I've never been cursed with a brat that can prove its right to call me 'father.' But even if Scrooge believed my lies—and I've no idea if he did or didn't—it wouldn't have mattered to him. As long as he owned my debt, he owned me."

The deer drew ever closer, but Bucket was finding it harder and harder to glean meaning from the animal's words.

"The only way for me to free myself was to free some of Scrooge's other victims . . . for a fee," the reindeer said. "I had to flu-fluba my life back. And now that I've tartinka gardinka death on my head, I have no reason not to bells bailey drummer-boy petals. I'm sorry, Inspector. I find I must bing bumble zuzu dentist. Dolly Madison? Mommy's little piggy."

The reindeer said more, but the words weren't even sounds to Bucket any longer. They were globules of mulled cider, dark and steaming hot, that hovered in the air before Bucket's eyes. Bucket giggled again and brought his forefinger up to touch one of the quivering brown spheres.

"Curious," the forefinger said. "There's nothing there."

The reindeer came to a stop before Bucket and raised one of its hooves—the one holding the shiny object.

A candy cane shimmering with sugar.

No, a beautiful crystalline icicle.

"No, no!" Bucket's forefinger screamed. "That's a letter opener! Sharp! Pointy! Bloody hell!"

As the rest of the detective was still far too woozy to react, the finger had to take matters in hand itself.

It shot out and jabbed the reindeer in the eye.

"Argh! Kissed by a dog!" the reindeer yelped (or seemed to in Bucket's still-scrambled mind). Except it wasn't a reindeer anymore. It had turned back into Cratchit, and he was bringing up the letter opener again with a roar of rage, ready to plunge the sharp metal into the detective's throat.

Even with a brain broiled in opium, Bucket knew a poke in the eye wouldn't be enough to save him now. So he used the only weapon he had: the candle he still clutched in his left hand.

He rammed it as hard as he could into Cratchit's face. He was in no condition to aim his thrust, so it was pure accident that most of the candle ended up in the clerk's mouth.

Bucket couldn't be sure if he actually heard the sizzling of hot wax at the back of Cratchit's throat or if the sound was merely another product of his overstoked imagination. The man's scream, on the other hand, was indisputably real. Cratchit flailed out with the letter opener, catching Bucket on the side of the head with more fist than metal, and ran gurgling from the room.

One of the few benefits of being dosed with opium without one's knowledge is the pleasant glow it can impart to the unpleasant consequences. Which is why, when Bucket toppled to the floor, he flattened his nose with a smile, for he dreamed he was being gathered into the warm folds of Mrs. Bucket's ample bosom.

When he awoke a short time later, he was disappointed to find himself not nestled between pillows of soft flesh but staring into the bearded face of a bitterly scowling man.

"What is my name?" the man snapped.

"You . . . are . . . Dr. Charhart," Bucket answered, the words coming with difficulty. "Have you forgotten?"

"Just checking to see if the blow you took knocked any sense into you. It didn't."

The doctor stood and stalked away, and it slowly dawned on Bucket where he was: flat on his back outside the offices of Scrooge & Marley.

"Don't mind him. He got dragged out of his bed this time, and he ain't happy about it." The large, lumpy form of Constable Thicke loomed over Bucket. "Need a hand up, sir?"

"Yes, that would . . . gad!" Bucket sat bolt upright—and grew so dizzy he nearly passed out again. "Cratchit! He's gotten away!"

Thicke steadied the inspector with a hand on his shoulder. "Not to worry, sir. If you mean the gent with the candle in his mouth, we got him. Went tearing down the street just as we arrived, and I didn't have to be a detective like yourself to figure out we should give chase. Fast on his feet, he was, and I reckon he would've gotten away if he hadn't gone all queer all of sudden. Stopped dead in his tracks in front of a snowman and started screaming that the thing was alive. Had on a magic hat, he said. Or at least that's what it sounded like. It's hard to understand him. His mouth's still all waxy-like." Thicke shook his head in weary wonderment. "You do see some interesting things when you put on the blue, don't you, sir? Anyway, we found you inside looking 'bout ready to give up the ghost, so I sent one of the lads off to fetch Dr. Charhart, and there you have it."

"Well, as you can see I have my ghost fully in check, Police Constable Thicke." Bucket drew in a deep lungful of air. It was cold and rank with the smells of the city, but it swept through his brain like a broom clearing out cobwebs. "Not that I believe in ghosts, of course."

"His eyes!" a hoarse, tortured voice shrieked.

Bucket and Thicke turned to see Constable Dimm and another officer dragging Cratchit to the police ambulance.

"His horrible, horrible eyes!" Cratchit sobbed, struggling feebly as the constables shoved him in the back and padlocked the door. "Eyes made out of coal!"

"I must admit," Thicke said to Bucket, "I'm looking forward to reading your report."

"I daresay it will make even the works of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem positively mundane." Bucket slowly drew himself to his feet and began dusting himself off. "But it's a story you'll have to wait for, as will everyone at E Division. Only the good Mrs. Bucket will be graced with my tale tonight. She won't let me sleep till it's all told—and what's more, she's earned the right to hear it first. They can hold Mr. Cratchit for assaulting an officer for now. I'll write up the rest tomorrow." The detective popped his top hat onto his head. "I'm going home."

"Are you sure you're up for that, sir?"

"I'll be fine."

Bucket turned toward the ambulance. Dimm was watching him sullenly, awaiting the fate he knew he couldn't escape.

"Police Constable Dimm won't mind making a little side trip to Bloomsbury on his way to headquarters. Isn't that right, Police Constable Dimm?"

Dimm didn't say whether he minded or not (though his growl might have been considered an answer by some).

Once again, Bucket rode up top with the constable. He found the frigid slap of the wind against his face refreshing, and the opium fog that had nearly smothered his mind dispersed more with each passing gaslight. His head ached, his nose was tender and bruised, his forefinger throbbed from overuse, and he'd been subjected to fantastical, horrific visions that might scar the psyche of another man.

And Bucket was cheerful.

He knew his head would clear, his nose would heal, his forefinger would be rested and ready for the chase soon enough. He put no stock in phantasms, and the disturbing visions he'd seen held no power over him now.

His good spirits came from what he knew to be real: a bottle of sherry, a bowl of nuts, a pipe, a most excellent partner, all waiting just for him. He would stay up enjoying them until the clock struck twelve. And beyond.

NAUGHTY

If you think about it, Santa Claus is a little like Batman. He's a vigilante. He decides who's good and who's bad and he does something about it on his own terms. Goody-goody kids get toys. Brats get squat—or lumps of coal, though I think that got dropped in, like, the 1950s.

When I was a little girl, I'd start worrying about whether I'd been good enough that year sometime around Thanksgiving, and for the next month I was a little angel. It was scary to think I might not get any toys . . . but it was sort of reassuring, too. If Santa was really out there rewarding the nice and punishing the naughty, it meant things were fair. There was some kind of justice in the universe.

Well, that didn't last long. I mean, you try to get through elementary school believing life's fair. It can't be done. I stayed nice, though. Maybe it was just a habit by then.

I finally broke the habit this December. Life just pushed me too far, and I decided I was done with nice. Nice sucked. Santa wasn't watching, so what was the point?

It was time to give naughty a try.

I graduated from IU in the spring, so this was supposed to be my first Christmas as a bona fide, official, independent adult. A year ago, I would've pictured myself flying home for the holidays from New York or Chicago or wherever it was I'd have my cool gig and my funky bachelorette pad. But when the holidays rolled around, I didn't have to fly back to Indiana—I was still there. I hadn't found a gig, cool or uncool, and my mom's apartment hardly counts as a "funky bachelorette pad," even if she is a bachelorette again thanks to That Man.

"That Man" is what my mom calls my dad. He was spending Christmas in his new house in Atlanta with "That Woman," a.k.a. "That Girl," a.k.a. "That Blonde Slut," a.k.a. "That Little Bitch." I got a Christmas card from That Man with a check for fifty bucks in it. Mom didn't get a card or a check, which was typical. That Man owed my mom a lot of checks, which is why she'd gone from living in a big house on Knob Hill to a not-so-big house in town to a dinky apartment building between an auto parts store and a porn shop.

I was in that dinky apartment building with her because New York and Chicago aren't exactly clamoring for recently graduated liberal arts majors. In fact, nobody's clamoring for recently graduated liberal arts majors. When I was at IU, I thought I'd end up in publishing, communications or journalism, but it didn't take long in "the real world" to figure out that my only prospects were in food service, retail or prostitution. I told my mom once that I'd pick that last option over the first two in a heartbeat, and she just gave me this sad look that said, "Oh, honey—all those years, all that money . . . for an English degree?"

Fortunately for us, one of our old neighbors, Dr. Roth, had taken mercy on Mom and given her a job as a receptionist. That covered the rent. Barely. So there was big-time pressure for me to "pull my own weight." I kept hoping to see an ad in the classifieds that suited me. You know. "Over-Educated Smart-Ass Wanted to Talk About Books and Movies and Stuff." But of course that never happened.

So half a year after graduating from college, I gave up and took a job I knew I'd hate. I gave myself a built-in out, though: The job would only last one month. After four brutal, mind-numbing weeks wrapping Christmas presents at Fendler's department store, I'd escape minimum wage Hell and return to the relative bliss of unemployment.

I knew it would be bad, but I had no idea how bad. I'd been a wrapper at J.C. Penney a few Christmases before, so I was prepared for the tedium. But it wasn't boredom that tortured me. It was embarrassment.

At least twice a day, I saw someone I knew—a kid from my high school, somebody's mom or dad, a teacher, people like that. Sometimes I even had to wrap their presents, which was when things got really painful. The chitchat was always like, "Courtney gets back from San Francisco tomorrow. You know she moved there after finishing up at Princeton, don't you? She's an assistant editor at Chronicle Books, and she just loves it. So . . . ummmm . . . what have you been doing? Oh, and could you wrap the bathrobe and the slippers in the same box?"

Did I mention that I was Dreiser High valedictorian?

In the afternoon, another wrapper came in to help me—a chatty old woman named Mavis who highjacked every conversation within earshot with anecdotes about her son's adopted Guatemalan children. I had to hear about how little Tomás wet his pants on a mall Santa's knee about a thousand times a day. But that was fine so long as it switched the topic to something other than me.

Before Mavis came in, though, there was no buffer. I was all alone at my little "gift wrap station" near the jewelry department. So of course that's when he came up.

He was good looking, in a middle-aged TV anchorman kind of way. Tall, full-bodied but not fat, with a jutting jaw and perfect white teeth and thick hair that was just starting to go gray. He was a slick dresser, too, wearing a fleece-lined suede jacket over a black turtleneck and snug black jeans. My mom would've thought he was a total hottie.

It wasn't his looks that caught my attention, though. It was how familiar he seemed. And the way he was looking at me.

"Hi," he said in that creepy, "Hel-lo, beautiful" voice some men use when they think they're being suave.

"Hi."

It was the same word he'd used, but it sounded a lot different coming from me. His "hi" had been two syllables, two notes: hiii-eee. Mine was like the sound a dictionary makes when you drop it on a desk: thud. I gazed at him with the blank, unseeing eyes of a dead-souled retail zombie.

He either didn't get the message or took it as a challenge.

"Looks like you could use some excitement," he said with a smile. He swung a Fendler's bag up onto the counter between us. "I guess I arrived just in the nick of time."

"Uh-huh. Receipt, please."

That's the drill. No receipt, no gift wrap. Fendler's makes you drop at least fifty bucks on merchandise before they'll favor you with twenty two cents worth of "complimentary" wrapping paper. Otherwise it costs four bucks a box.

"It's in the bag," the guy said, still smiling.

I pulled out the slip of paper and gave it a quick glance to make sure Don Juan had spent enough money. That quick glance immediately turned into a pop-eyed stare.

Mr. Smoothie had obviously been waiting for just that reaction.

"My credit card's still smoking," he joked.

The guy had blown three thousand dollars in the store that morning. And everything he'd bought fit into one not-particularly large paper bag.

"It's all for the ball and chain," he said. "I have a lot to make up for." His grin grew wider, and he waggled his bushy eyebrows at me. "I've been a naaaaauuuughty boy this year."

"Yeah, well, I guess so," I mumbled, unsure what kind of response he was looking for. I mean, I know a thing or two about come-ons. I've been fending them off since I put on my first training bra. But this was one of the weirdest ones yet . . . if it even was a come-on.

His smirky leer answered my question.

"How about you?" he asked. "Have you been naughty this year?"

It was a toss-up for a second there: Should I slap his handsome face or spit in his twinkling eye? But then I remembered that I actually needed this stinking job, and I smiled instead. Not a friendly smile, mind you. A tight, prim, "I'll just ignore that remark" smile.

"It's going to take a few minutes to wrap your gifts," I said.

"Fine. Can I watch?"

I fought back a shiver. I was beginning to wonder if this guy was capable of saying anything that didn't sound like a creepy innuendo. Maybe it was a rare medical condition and he just couldn't help himself, like Tourette's but sexual. Pervmo Syndrome.

"Suit yourself," I said, working hard to keep my voice neutral.

I began emptying out his bag. It didn't take long. There were only four things in it: a pearl necklace, a diamond-studded ring, a wristwatch coated with even more diamonds and a long fur coat that must have wiped out an entire family of minks, including nieces, nephews and cousins twice removed. It made me nervous, having three thousand bucks worth of merchandise spread out on my work table, and normally I would've taken extra special care wrapping it up. But Casanova gave me a good reason to work fast.

"We're neighbors, you know," he said. "I've seen you."

Ew, I thought.

"Oh?" I said.

Cut-cut-fold-tape-fold-tape-tape. I finished the necklace and moved on to the watch. If gift wrapping were an Olympic sport, I'd have been on my way to the gold.

"Yeah. You live on Knob Hill, right? I'm right around the corner on Knopfler Drive."

Well, that was a relief, at least. He was talking about the old neighborhood, the nice one, the one we'd had to leave after That Man ran off with That Woman. Which meant he didn't know where I lived now. That dialed the Yuck Factor from a ten down to a seven.

"Oh, sure," I said, not looking up from the watch. I was cutting and taping so fast I could've lopped off a finger and wrapped it with the guy's gifts before I noticed the first drop of blood. "I thought you looked familiar."

"I can remember seeing you riding your bike, washing cars in the driveway. You even came to my house once or twice when you were out caroling with people from the neighborhood."

"Oh, really?"

"Really," the man said. My back was to him, but somehow I could sense that he was leaning in closer when he spoke next. "You've changed."

Oh, god. Yuck Factor: Eight.

I knew what he was going to say next before the words even left his nasty lips.

"You were a girl then—"

"And I'm a woman now?"

"Oh, yeah."

Nine.

"You know, my wife's out of town until tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to be all alone tonight."

Here it came.

"Maybe you could drop by for some . . . eggnog . . . or something."

Ding-ding-ding! Ten!

I don't know how I could work so fast when I was practically choking on bile, but somehow I did it. The creep's presents were wrapped and back in his shopping bag. I turned and shoved the bag at him.

"ThereyougohaveaniceChristmasgoodbye."

He brought a hand up slowly to take the bag, flashing me a lazy, unoffended smile. I saw now exactly what he was: the kind of guy who hits on everything with breasts simply as a way of playing the odds. You know the type. If he's shot down ninety nine times a day, that's O.K. His feelings aren't hurt—because number one hundred makes it all worthwhile.

"Thanks," he said. "Merry Christmas."

Even those innocent words came out icky and lewd, somehow. I almost expected the guy to leave a glistening trail of slime behind him as he oozed away.

And in a way, he did. Not on the store's floor, though. In my head.

I couldn't stop thinking about Viagra Man's offer. Not the way he wanted me to think about it. I wasn't tempted. Bleah.

No, I was mad.

What had he meant when he said he had "a lot to make up for"? Or that he'd been "a naaaauuughty boy" this year? He'd been cheating on his wife? He'd been caught? And now he was going to buy his way back into the poor woman's heart with some expensive baubles . . . while still chasing tail on the side?

He was a scumbag. A sleaze. A gonad-brained son of a bitch.

And he was going to get away with it. I just knew it.

He deserved more than a lump of coal in his stocking. He deserved a loogie in his eggnog. Or, better yet, a good, hard kick in the jingle bells.

But there was no Santa Claus to leave the coal or hock the loogie or put a boot to the guy's crotch. The universe didn't care about good or bad. Naughty Boy would go unpunished.

Unless . . . if only . . . .

Wouldn't it be great if someone pulled a Grinch on the guy? You know, stole his Christmas? It would be like the whole Robin Hood thing, only more festive and seasonal. Rob gifts from the rich, give gifts to the poor. Or, if you happen to be poor yourself . . . well, why not cut out the middle man and just keep the booty? I mean, what's the difference? Poor is poor, right? It would be the next best thing to a victimless crime, because the only "victim" would be a selfish turd who really, really deserved it.

I spent the rest of my shift obsessing about Naughty Boy. In a weird way, it turned out to be the best day I ever had as a Fendler's Gift Presentation Specialist. Paper cuts, pushy customers, the one hundredth repetition of the Tomás wee-wee story, the one thousandth repetition of "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas" from the loudspeakers directly above my head—I didn't notice any of it. I was too busy daydreaming, picturing myself as a sort of Dark Knightress doling out harsh yuletide justice.

And at some point, I realized I wasn't just daydreaming. I was considering. Seriously thinking about tracking the guy down and giving him a good Scrooging.

Now, like I said before, I'm nice. This was, like, an actual robbery I was thinking about. A heist. What would someone like me know about something like that? The last time I'd stolen anything had been when I was five years old and I grabbed a 3 Musketeers bar off the candy rack at the Kroger. My mom saw it when we got outside and made me take it back and give it to the manager. I cried for an hour. I'm not exactly a hardened criminal. I don't even know any hardened criminals.

But I realized that I do know a guy who's kind of a softened criminal. When my shift was over, I went looking for him.

I'd met Arlo Hettle the year before when I was suffering through my Christmas break trapped in a job so crappy it actually made my gig at Fendler's look pretty sweet. Wrapping other people's presents all day isn't any fun, but it's a week in the Bahamas compared to elfing.

Yeah, that's right, elfing. Arlo and I were mall elves together. We worked in "Santa's Workshop" over at Olde Towne Mall. I'd lead a little rugrat up to Santa's lap, Santa would ho ho ho, the kid would start bawling, Arlo took a picture, I'd whisk the kid away and then we'd start the whole hellish cycle all over again. It was like being that Greek guy Sisyphus except with screaming toddlers instead of a boulder and a hill. To make it even worse, not only did Santa have a fetish for girls in green tights and red felt hats, he . . . ugh, forget it. I swore off that story a long time ago.

Anyway, I had a feeling Arlo would be back at Old Towne again this Christmas. The guy's not exactly a go-getter. The only thing he goes and gets is pot. Lots and lots of it. He's so mellow, half the time it's hard to tell whether he's even awake. He wouldn't be all that dependable as an accomplice, but I figured he'd know more than me about breaking the law, since he does it about a dozen times a day. If I was looking for a bad influence, Arlo was the logical place to start.

I was right about where to find him. Olde Towne's Santa was new and his she-elf was new, but the he-elf was still Arlo Hettle. And it was obvious he hadn't given up his favorite pastime. He was shuffling around like an old man in slippers, his mouth hanging open and his eyelids drooping low over glassy, red-streaked eyes. He was like a "Just Say No" poster come to life.

His lips slowly curled into a dreamy, vacuous smile when he saw me, and not long after that he put up the "FEEDING THE REINDEER" sign we used whenever Santa needed to go sit on a different throne. I met up with him by the unmarked door that led to the employee break room, and he greeted me with the same words he'd spoken to me most often the year before.

"Hey, Hannah! Wanna go get baked?"

"Gee, Arlo, it's nice to see you, too."

The first thing stoners lose after their short-term memory is the ability to recognize sarcasm, so Arlo just gave me a dopey grin.

"Yeah," he said. "So, really . . . you wanna get stoned? I've got some grrrrreat weed in my car."

This was my criminal mastermind? I almost abandoned the whole stupid scheme right then and there. But I could still feel the hot, angry fire of righteous indignation burning in the pit of my stomach, and I forged ahead.

"Alright, let's go," I said. "I've got something private I want to talk to you about, anyway."

Climbing inside Arlo's Hyundai was like rolling myself up in a giant doobie. I cracked a window, letting in a swirl of fresh, cold winter air, but I didn't think it would do much good. So much pot had been smoked inside that car you could get a contact high from checking the oil. Arlo lit up and offered me a hit, and I shook my head.

"Cool . . . more for me," he said with a lopsided grin.

I talked while Arlo toked. I told him about Naughty Boy—the sleazy come-on, the expensive gifts, the out-of-town wife. I told him I knew where the guy lived, sorta kinda. And I told him my plan: Arlo distracts Naughty Boy at the front door while I slip in the back, find the Christmas tree and yoink—nab the presents.

"Distract him how?" Arlo asked between puffs.

"I don't know. Maybe you could pretend your car broke down or something. I think he'd believe you."

Arlo's Hyundai is the Frankenstein's monster of the automotive world: It looks like it was sewed together from the dead parts of six other cars.

"Why couldn't you distract him?" Arlo wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Sounds like he'd like that a lot better."

"He knows where I work, Arlo. He could track me down. It has to be someone he's never seen before. Plus, I'm the one who wrapped the presents. I know what the boxes look like. We wouldn't want to go to all this trouble just to steal the wrong gifts, right?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. So what do we do with the stuff once we have it?" Arlo coughed out a smoky chuckle. "Like, I don't think I'd look good in a fur coat."

"We sell everything, Arlo. To, you know, a whatever. A guy who handles stolen merchandise. A . . . a . . . ."

My mind went blank. It must've been the fumes.

"I know what you mean," Arlo said helpfully. "A fender."

"A fence," I said. "Do you know one?"

"Me? Why would I know somebody like that? I'm, like, a normal, law-abiding citizen."

Since this was being said by a joint-sucking dude in an elf suit, I had my doubts.

"Come on. You deal with shady types all the time. I mean, you don't buy your pot from the Salvation Army, right? You must know somebody who could help us sell the stuff on the sly."

Arlo furrowed his brow and frowned. He was trying to think. Obviously, it was hard work. After a long, quiet moment, he nodded.

"You're right. There's a guy who could tell me what to do."

"Good. So what do you think? Should we do it?"

I know, I know. That was a cop-out question. I was going to make poor, dope-addled Arlo make the call—because I was afraid to. I mean, daydreaming about a crime is one thing. But actually trying to pull it off . . . well, that's something else. A part of me was already backing out.

I'd been serious about striking back at Naughty Boy and all the other naughty boys of the world. But I couldn't do it alone, could I? If Arlo said no, then I wouldn't have to feel like I was the one who didn't have the nerve.

In other words, I was counting on Arlo Hettle to bring me to my senses.

Dumb, huh?

"Sure," Arlo said. "Let's go for it."

The fifteen minutes he had for his doobie break were almost up, so we rushed through our planning—where to meet, what to bring—and said goodbye. In two-and-a-half hours, we'd see each other again . . . and my days as a nice girl would be over. By the end of the night, I'd be a thief. A crook. A skank.

I hadn't even done anything yet, and already I felt guilty. Back home at the apartment, my dinner went down untasted—which wasn't a big change of pace, really, since dinners at home never have much taste to begin with. Our finances being what they are, Mom and I have to rely on recipes in which the primary ingredients are canned tuna, macaroni and either mayonnaise or Velveeta processed cheese product. If we want to add a little zip, we garnish our tuna casserole du jour with ketchup from the little packets Mom stuffs into her purse every time she's in McDonald's.

This particular night, we were feasting on something called "tuna noodle strudel." It wasn't as bad as it sounds. It was worse. Tuna and cinnamon don't belong on the same shelf, let alone in the same recipe. Still, I managed to choke it down. My taste buds were probably screaming in agony, but I was too distracted to hear them.

Mom noticed how far away I was . . . and totally misinterpreted what it meant. She's pretty touchy about a lot of stuff these days. The apartment, clothes, my car, her car, electricity. Anything to do with money. Including food.

"You don't like it?" she asked, nodding at the still-steaming pan of mushy brown tuna-goo on the table between us.

"No, it's fine."

The words came out sounding flat and tired, like a lie you can't stand to tell even one more time. Which is exactly what it was.

Mom got a hurt look on her face.

"You're not acting like it's fine," she said.

"It's just that . . . today I . . . ."

I almost told her the real reason I seemed so out of it—what I was thinking about doing. But I knew she'd totally flip out, so I switched gears at the last second. Not that I lied or anything. I was still honest. Too honest.

"I'm sick of tuna," I said. "Every day it's tuna pie or tuna stroganoff or tuna surprise. You know, the only surprise around here would be a meal without tuna."

Mom's expression changed from hurt to angry and back again.

"You know I have to look for bargains these days, Hannah. And that tuna was thirty-three cents a can at Sam's Club."

"I know. But did you have to buy four cases? I'm growing gills."

"I try to make it interesting . . . ."

"Mom, 'tuna noodle strudel' isn't interesting. It's demented."

That did it.

"If you want lobster and steak every night, you just get That Man on the phone and tell him you're coming to Atlanta!" Mom yelled. Then she buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

I'd pushed the button—the one that automatically drags That Man into the conversation. It's pretty easy to push. I could say we were out of milk and it would be That Man's fault. I could say the john had stopped working and I'd hear how That Man had flushed Mom down the toilet. I could say my car needed new brakes, and she'd say if there was any justice That Man would get run over by a truck.

That Man That Man That Man!

I walked over to Mom and put my arms around her and said stuff like "I didn't mean it" and "I don't want to go to Atlanta" and "I like tuna surprise." But I was thinking something else entirely: "Damn it, woman—get over it! You're letting a cheesy, cheating bastard ruin your whole life! He's not worth it! Let it go!"

And then that English degree of mine finally paid for itself. If there's one thing they teach you to recognize in college-level lit classes, it's irony. And right here in front of me I had enough to fill two Edith Wharton novels with enough left over for a John Updike short story.

Who was about to let a cheesy, cheating bastard ruin her life? Like mother, like daughter. It was so Freudian it was spooky.

By the time my mother was through crying, my mind was made up.

When I left the apartment that night, I told Mom I'd just be gone a few minutes—I'd left my copy of Hannibal at Fendler's. It was a library book, hardcover, so if it got lost we'd have to pay a thirty-buck fine. That made it an urgent enough errand to suit Mom, who can get antsy about me "burning perfectly good gas" when I drive eight blocks for a late-night Ben and Jerry's run. Maybe she felt guilty about her little meltdown at dinner, because she just told me to hurry back. It's a Wonderful Life was on, and she was going to make popcorn.

I expected to be home before the last kernel popped. I was going to whip over to the old neighborhood, meet Arlo, tell him the whole stupid, crazy robbery thing was off, then drive home with a clean conscience for a wholesome, all-American evening with my mother.

If only.

Arlo's Hyundai was already at our designated meeting place—the corner of Knopfler and Knob Hill—when I showed up. It surprised me that he'd actually managed to make it on time.

I got an even bigger surprise once I parked and walked up to his car. The windows were steamed up, but I could see dark shapes moving behind the foggy glass.

Arlo wasn't alone. There were two other people in the car with him. I stopped a few yards short of the Hyundai's rear bumper, unsure what to do. By the time the big neon LEAVE NOW sign was flashing in my head, it was too late. Someone was getting out of the car and walking toward me.

It wasn't Arlo. For a second, I wasn't even sure it was a human being. The guy was huge. Like, Bigfoot huge. I couldn't even believe he'd been inside the Hyundai. He looked like he wouldn't fit in anything smaller than a tank.

He might not have been quite so scary if he'd been wearing something in the Christmas spirit, like maybe a fuzzy red sweater with a cartoon reindeer on it. But no—he was in burnout clothes. You know what I mean. Army surplus jacket, camo pants, combat boots. I couldn't see what was under the jacket, but I was pretty sure it had to be a Megadeath T-shirt.

He said exactly what you don't want someone like him to say under circumstances like these.

"Get in the car."

I took a step back, toward my car.

"Who are you?"

"A friend of Arlo's," he said. For a "friend" he sure didn't sound very friendly. "Get in quick before someone sees us."

"I don't think so."

He moved closer. I took another step back.

The houses on Knob Hill and Knopfler Drive are what you'd call "palatial": They're big, they're tucked away behind lots of trees and they have long, looping driveways from the road. So nobody was particularly close by. But making a scene happens to be one of my talents. I figured a good, long scream would get somebody's attention.

Chewbacca read my mind. His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and something inside bulged out against the heavy green cloth.

"Make a sound and I'll blow your head off," he said.

I froze, partially out of fear, partially out of indecision. I mean, how did I know the guy really had a gun? On the other hand, how badly did I want to find out?

A squeak-squeak-squeak came from the car. Someone was rolling down a window.

Arlo's curly-haired head popped into view.

"Get in the car, Hannah. Please," he said. "It'll be alright. Really."

I didn't know about the "It'll be alright" part, but the "Please" sounded pretty sincere. And pretty scared.

I got in the car. Arlo was in front with another guy, so that put me in the back with Paul Bunyon.

The man sitting next to Arlo stubbed a cigarette out in the ashtray before swiveling around to face me. His toothy yellow grin practically glowed in the dark. He was older than the rest of us, though I couldn't tell how much older. He didn't have wrinkles or gray hair or anything like that, but his skin seemed leathery, like he'd been stitched together from old wallets.

"Hey, Hannah," he said. "Sorry to scare ya', babe. I know you weren't expecting to see us. But don't worry. We're here to help."

He kept beaming his big grin in my face like it was going to hypnotize me. It reminded me of the python that tries to eat Mowgli in The Jungle Book. You know—"Trust in meeeeee. Just in meeeeee . . . ."

"Arlo, who are these guys?"

"Diesel and the Reptile," he said without turning around to face me.

"'Diesel and the Reptile'?"

I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. It sounded like the name of a bad punk band.

The older guy jumped in to explain.

"My man Arlo came to us tonight and told us what you're planning. He was looking for some help on the back end. You know, moving the merchandise. But we thought maybe it would be better if someone with experience stepped in to help. Just to make sure everything goes smoothly."

He said it all in this calm, ultra-reasonable tone, like, "Yeah, we're gonna screw ya' over, but hey . . . try to look at it from our perspective."

"Let me guess," I said to the guy. "You're the Reptile."

He nodded cheerfully. "That's what they call me, babe."

I gave him and The Hulk the eye for a second. Why is it losers like this always travel in packs of two?

"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Reptile," I said, "but I was coming over here to tell Arlo it's off. I can't do it."

The Reptile shook his head, still smiling.

"Oh, I think you can, Hannah," he said, sounding like a disappointed guidance counselor (the only kind I've ever known).

"No," I said, "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't."

"You will."

"I don't want to."

"I don't care."

The Reptile's grin was gone now.

"Let me explain it to you," he said. "You know what the rich guy looks like. You know what the boxes look like. Without you, we can't make the grab. And if we can't make the grab, then you're taking money out of the Reptile's pocket."

"Look, it's nothing personal, I just—"

"I'd take it personal," the Reptile cut in. He nodded at the burnout. "Diesel would take it personal. Wouldn't you, D?"

I'd been doing my best to ignore the man-mountain next to me, but I glanced his way now.

"Very personal," he said. That whatever in his jacket pocket was still pointing at my heart.

I decided on a different approach.

"O.K.," I said. "I'll try. But Arlo should've told you—I don't know where the guy lives. All I know is he's somewhere around the corner on Knopfler. I'm gonna have to sneak around peeking in windows until I see him."

Or sneak around pretending to peek in windows until I can slip into the shadows, circle back, get in my car and get the hell out of there.

"'Sneak around peeking in windows'? Oh, babe." The Reptile shook his head and chuckled. His impossibly wide grin returned again, giving me another look at his nicotine-stained teeth. "You are so lucky we're here. The Reptile has a plan." He picked something up off the front seat and tossed it to me.

It was a powder-blue ski mask decorated with the white silhouettes of snowflakes, sleds and snowmen. The Reptile handed identical masks to Arlo and Diesel before pulling the last one over his head. His face disappeared under the pale blue fabric, leaving nothing but his dark eyes and toothy smile. He was like the Cheshire Cat—if the Cheshire Cat smoked Marlboros and robbed gas stations.

"Ummmm . . . so 'the plan' is we sneak around peeking in windows . . . with masks on?" Arlo asked. He sounded pretty depressed. I assumed guilt was eating him up inside and I wished his guilt bon appetit. He deserved to feel guilty as hell for getting me into this mess.

"Nooooo," the Reptile said, still flashing his cocky grin. "The plan is we go up to every house on that street and just ring the doorbell. Sooner or later, we'll find our guy."

"Uh-huh," I said. I was starting to worry that my stupid little scheme hadn't just been highjacked by criminals—it had highjacked by insane criminals. "And that's not going to make anybody a little, you know, suspicious?"

"Not at all. Because we're gonna have a perfect cover. Tell me, babe—can you sing?"

I nodded, thinking my fears had just been confirmed: The Reptile was off his meds. But then he explained his grand master plan, and I realized that he wasn't outright crazy, after all. He was just slightly deluded and extremely dumb.

On the way over, they'd made two stops. One was at a Wal-Mart to buy the ski masks. The other was at a 7-11 to swipe the plastic donation jar next to the cash register. A flyer was taped to the jar. "GIVE THE GIFT OF BREATH," it said. Next to the words was a picture of a middle-aged woman coughing into a clinched fist.

We were about to go caroling door to door on behalf of the American Emphysema Association.

"Caroling in ski masks?" I said to the Reptile.

"Hey, it's cold out," he replied, sounding genuinely disappointed that I didn't share his enthusiasm for the plan. He pointed to the mask covering his face. "And they make us look kinda jolly, y'know? Harmless. Like clowns or something."

"Well, yeah, I can't argue with the clown part," I almost said. I caught myself just in time.

"Look, Reptile," I said instead, "I grew up in this neighborhood, and let me tell you something: Rich people are paranoid. Nothing ever happens out here, but half the people on the block have nine-one-one on speed-dial. They've got security cameras, guard dogs. Some of them have guns, Reptile. I mean, I'm talking NRA bumper stickers on the BMW. People who think they're being followed by black helicopters. Four strangers knocking on doors in ski masks is a bad idea."

I wasn't lying, exactly. I was just really, really exaggerating. I was talking about one person, the neighborhood's official wacko, Mr. Macnee. He was the kind of guy who put up "NO TRESPASSING" signs on Halloween and took potshots at deer from his back porch. His reputation as a lunatic extended for miles around, and kids used to ride their bikes in from other neighborhoods just to ring-and-run him. Sometimes it was worth their time, too: He'd been known to come charging out of the house in his tighty whities waving a pistol over his head.

But it didn't matter that there was some truth in what I was saying. The Reptile just shook his head and smiled like I was a fifth grader telling a dog-ate-my-homework story to the teacher.

"We're doing this together, babe. Get used to it. And if you get any ideas about yelling for help, just remember that this was all your idea, and that's what we'll tell the cops if we're caught."

"And remember me," Diesel added. "Cuz I'm gonna be right next to you the whole time."

I nodded. I'd remember. Diesel wasn't the kind of person who just slips your mind.

We got out of the Hyundai and began trudging through the slush toward Knopfler Drive. It was cold, and above us a haze of tiny snowflakes was drifting over a full moon. It was perfectly wintery, perfectly Christmasy, and I was perfectly miserable. As we marched along, we passed twenty seven Knob Hill. The house where I grew up. I was afraid to look at it. The sight of it would probably bring tears to my eyes, and I already had plenty to cry about that night.

I couldn't block all the memories, though. I thought back to the night just five or six Christmases before when Mom and Dad asked me if I wanted to go out caroling again that year. I was at the height of my high school snottiness at the time, and wandering around the neighborhood with my parents singing "Here We Come a-Wassailing" seemed like the absolute uncoolest thing I could possibly do. I told them I wouldn't go caroling if my life depended on it.

I guess I was wrong about that.

I told the Reptile we should skip the first house on Knopfler, and when I explained why he actually listened. I knew who lived there: Mrs. Knapp and her kids. There used to be a Mr. Knapp, but she kicked him out in, like, 1995. I guess she found a better lawyer than my mom did, because Mrs. Knapp stayed in the house with her daughters and Mr. Knapp we never saw again.

Next door was a huge, white Gone with the Wind-looking place. There were a lot of big houses in the neighborhood, but this was one of the few you'd have to come right out and call a "mansion."

The lights were on. Someone was home.

"O.K., let's do it," the Reptile said.

"I'm telling you, they're gonna call the cops the second they see us," I said.

"You'd better hope not," the Reptile replied. "Move."

Something hard jabbed me in the back. Diesel was prodding me with the could-be-a-gun in his jacket pocket. I moved.

As we walked up the long driveway toward the house, I tried to picture how this scenario was going to play itself out—and suddenly realized that we'd overlooked a key element of our cover story.

"What are we going to sing?"

"It doesn't matter." The Reptile shrugged. "'Frosty the Snowman.'"

"'Frosty the Snowman'?" I said. "Real carolers wouldn't sing that."

"Why not?"

"It's secular."

There was something about the silence that followed that told me the Reptile wasn't just considering my point. He didn't understand it.

"'Frosty the Snowman,'" I explained, "is not a song about Jesus."

"Why does it have to be about Jesus?" Arlo asked.

"I don't know. It just does. Carolers sing old stuff. Traditional songs. With religion in 'em. Not 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,' not 'Jingle Bell Rock' and definitely not 'Frosty the Snowman.'"

"Oh, who cares?" the Reptile said.

"I care," I shot back. "We've got to convince these people or I swear they're gonna call the cops."

"She's right."

I looked over my shoulder, shocked to hear Diesel's low rumble of a voice.

"Hell, man," he said, "'Frosty the Snowman' ain't even about Christmas."

"Okay, okay," the Reptile said, his voice starting to lose its smarmy calm. We were getting close to the house now, and he was obviously anxious to settle on something fast. "If not 'Frosty the Snowman,' then what?"

"'Here Comes Santa Claus'?" Arlo suggested.

"What's religious about that?" Diesel wanted to know.

"Isn't Santa, like, a saint or something?"

"I don't know," Diesel replied, sounding unconvinced. "Santa Claus seems pretty sexular to me."

Even if I'd wanted to correct him, I wouldn't have been able to. The Reptile spat out a curse before the debate could go any further.

"We're gonna sing 'We Three Kings,' O.K.? That's got baby Jesus and the three wise guys and all that Christmasy crap. So get ready. If our man answers the door, you give the signal—" He pointed a glove-covered finger at me. "—and Diesel will pop him in the face. Then we're in. Right?"

"Right," Diesel said.

"Right," Arlo mumbled, obviously wishing he was curled up somewhere cozy cuddling a warm bong.

I didn't say anything. I was too freaked.

Pop him in the face? What did that mean? "Pop" as in "punch"? Or "pop" as in "pull out a gun and kill the poor jerk?"?

As we stepped up onto the veranda and the Reptile rang the doorbell, I went from freaked to super-freaked. I was thinking about something else the Reptile had said. I was supposed to "give the signal" for Diesel to start popping. But what signal? We hadn't discussed any signal. What if I blinked or sneezed or scratched my nose and Diesel thought "It's go time" and some innocent old man ended up taking a special holiday trip to the morgue?

And then I went from super-freaked to super-super-super-freaked, because when the door opened, I found myself face to face with our prey. It was Naughty Boy.

He had a snifter of amber liquid in his hand—it must've been cognac or brandy or one of those other nasty things "mature" guys drink to prove they're sophisticated and worldly. When he saw our little ski-masked gang on his front porch, he smiled his icky smile and took a quick sip.

"What is this? A stick-up?" he joked.

The Reptile, Diesel, even Arlo—they all turned to me. If I so much as shivered the wrong way, the man standing before us might be killed. He was a vile, disgusting, lying turd, yeah. But he deserved a pie in the face, not a bullet through the brain.

We stood there, all five us frozen in place, for what seemed like an hour. I refused to move, afraid anything I did would be interpreted as "Let him have it!" From the corner of my eye, I could see the Reptile's gaze moving from me to Naughty Boy, Naughty Boy to me, as he tried to gauge my reaction.

"Hey, guys," our victim said. "It's freezing out here. What do you want?"

He started to swing the door closed. Not to shut it all the way, maybe. Probably just to cut off some of the frigid air flowing into his house. But the Reptile couldn't take any chances. He looked at Diesel.

Diesel took a step forward.

"Weeeeee three kings of O-rie-ent arrrrrrre," I blurted out.

Diesel stopped.

"Bear-ring gifts. We tra-verse a-farrrrrr," I continued. I locked eyes with Arlo and did my best to plead through my mask.

Sing, you zonked-out jackass. Sing!

"Fieeee-ld and founnn-tain, mooooorrr and mou-oun-tain," Arlo crooned, making my solo an off-key duet.

"Foll-o-wing yon-der star," Diesel belted out. Amazingly, he had a beautiful baritone voice, and he sang with the passion of an opera diva.

The Reptile joined in for the "Ohhh-ohhh star of wonder, star of might" part. He had the worst voice of all of us. It was the hoarse, strangled gurgle of a three-pack-a-day smoker. He really did sound like a reptile—an iguana doing an Elvis imitation. It threw the whole chorus off, and by the time we were into the second verse it was obvious none of us knew the lyrics. We were trying to fake it by garbling the words and throwing in some wheezy ooo-ooos and mmm-mmms, and finally the whole thing came crashing to halt when I sucked in a particularly deep breath of frigid air that flash-froze my vocal chords. My singing exploded into hacking coughs, and Arlo began thumping me on the back saying, "You alright?"

"Wait right here," Naughty Boy said, and he turned and disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him.

"Oh, crap, man. Hannah was right," Arlo said. "He's calling the cops."

The Reptile stepped around him to get in my face. "That's not the guy?"

"No . . . I've never . . . seen him before," I managed to lie between coughs.

"Middle-aged man alone in the house near the corner of Knob Hill and Knopfler, and it's not him?"

"That's right," I said, my voice starting to gain strength again. "For all we know he's off rounding up the wife and kids so they can hear us."

"No, man, I'm tellin' ya'. He's calling the cops," Arlo said, panic beginning to cut through the hempish haze that usually hangs around him.

The Reptile leaned in so close to me our polyester-covered noses almost bumped, and I could smell his stale, smoky breath even through my mask.

"If you're lying . . . ," he began.

The door opened again, and the Reptile turned around. Naughty Boy was coming out of the house straight toward him. The Reptile took a step back, bumping into me.

Naughty Boy reached out toward him. There was something clenched in his fist.

"Here," he said, and he stuffed a couple wadded-up bills into the donation bucket cradled in the Reptile's hands. He peered over the Reptile's shoulder, pausing to give me a long, steady look.

"Hey . . . I remember you," I thought he was about to say. But it wasn't recognition I saw in his eyes. It was pity.

"You're very brave," he said. Then, with a perfunctory "Merry Christmas," he spun around, stepped back into the house and shut the door.

Diesel bent over to look into the jar.

"Two stinkin' bucks," he said.

I looked at the jar, too—and the flyer taped to it.

"GIVE THE GIFT OF BREATH."

And then I got it. We were such crappy singers, Naughty Boy assumed we had emphysema.

It was so pathetic it should've been funny, but I wasn't in the mood to laugh. Neither was the Reptile.

"Listen, babe. I want that merchandise and I'm not leaving this neighborhood till I get it. You understand? So if that was him, you'd better just—"

"How many times do I have to say it? No. That was not him."

The lie was sounding weaker with each repetition, but the Reptile seemed to accept it . . . for the time being.

"Alright, let's go then," he said. "But the next time we come to a place with a cheesy-lookin' guy home all by himself, I might just send Diesel in whether you give the signal or not."

Which reminded me that I still didn't know what "the signal" was. But it did a lot more than that. It told me what I had to do.

I had to give the Reptile what he wanted . . . sort of.

As we walked up the long gravel drive toward Knopfler, Diesel began campaigning for a program change. He wanted us to switch to "Jingle Bells" because, "sexular" or not, everybody knew the lyrics. He also wanted us to sing it in four-part harmony. The Reptile rattled the change-filled bucket at him.

"Don't forget, D—we've got em-pha-ma-zema," he said, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. "Sing like you're about to hack up a lung."

Diesel responded with a pouty "O.K.," which made him seem a little less scary. He still had his hand buried in his jacket pocket, though, and whatever that hand held was still pointed at me and Arlo, so he was scary enough.

We skipped the next two houses. I told the Reptile I knew who lived there, which was half true. The Strassmans were in one. Back in high school, I'd briefly dated their son Josh. Given how that had turned out, I almost hoped Josh was home for the holidays—so I could sic Diesel on the grabby, stalker-in-training ass-hat. The other house was a big Frank Lloyd Wright-type pagoda-style monstrosity that drove out anyone who bought it within three years. I had no idea who lived there now.

The third home was dark and cheerless. There were no strings of lights hung in the trees out front, no electric "icicles" dangling from the gutters, no plastic reindeer on the roof, no wreaths hung on the mailbox or front door, nothing Christmasy at all. In fact, the place would've looked totally abandoned if it weren't for a dull, blue-gray glow that strobed across the front windows—the fluttering light of a television being watched somewhere deep inside the house.

We crowded up onto the porch, and the Reptile flicked his cigarette out onto the lawn before ringing the bell.

"Hey," I said as we stood there waiting for an answer, "what's the signal, anyway?"

"Oh." The Reptile scratched the top of his ski mask. "Uhhhh . . . just say, 'That's him.'"

Brilliant, eh? The CIA could use a guy like the Reptile.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"Ring it again," Diesel said after more than a minute had crawled by.

The Reptile leaned forward and hit the button three times fast. Ding-dong ding-dong ding-dong.

The flickering glow in the windows disappeared. A distant thud-thud-thud grew steadily louder. Someone was coming to the door.

"Get ready," the Reptile said, though I wasn't sure if he was talking to all of us or just Diesel.

I got ready anyway, taking a deep breath and wrapping my hand around Arlo's. He turned to give me a look of droopy-eyed surprise just as the door before us opened.

It didn't open far—only wide enough for a man's face to appear. It was a craggy face, the face of man worn down by his own anger and fear.

And then, as the eyes locked on the masked figures on his porch, it suddenly became a very different kind of face. The face of a man who was screaming his lungs out.

Mr. Macnee had been waiting for decades for something to happen. A U.N. army invading America, federal stormtroopers coming to take away his assault rifles, the Men in Black bringing another implant to shove up his butt. And now, at last, here it was. The barbarians were finally at the gate.

If I'd started a singalong by belting out "Dashing through the snoooow in a horse-open sleeeeiiigh," maybe we could've calmed him down. Maybe. But I didn't. I waited until Mr. Macnee had slammed the door shut—as I'd hoped he would—before turning to the Reptile.

"That's him!"

I shrieked it, because the words weren't just for the Reptile and Diesel. They were for Mr. Macnee, too. I wanted him to have no doubt whatsoever that the goons outside were there for him.

"Do it," the Reptile said to Diesel, pointing at the door.

Diesel didn't hesitate. He stepped toward the door and reached for the knob with one of his long gorilla arms.

And then: Pop.

Diesel stopped, staring at something on the door at eye level. It was just to the left of his head and it hadn't been there a second before.

It was a hole. A fresh bullet hole.

That's when I started running, dragging Arlo with me over the driveway and across Macnee's side yard. There was another pop, and I heard more pounding footsteps behind me.

"Run!" the Reptile howled.

I glanced over my shoulder, about to say, "What does it look like I'm doing?" But I didn't bother. Back beyond Diesel and the Reptile, Mr. Macnee was stepping out onto his porch with a gun in his hand.

"Yeah! Run!" I yelled. I let go of Arlo, as I figured by now even he would've gotten the general idea.

I dodged around trees as I ran, but I was still half-expecting to find out what it's like to be shot. I was totally expecting not to like it. Mr. Macnee had something else in mind, though.

"Get 'em, Cujo!" I heard him shout.

It's hard to think of any other words in the English language that could get you to run faster than those. The ground was soggy-wet with snow, but we were zipping over it like it was Astroturf, cutting through backyards in a diagonal from Knopfler Drive to Knob Hill.

Somewhere behind me, I could hear the huffing and puffing of a large animal moving quickly—and it wasn't Diesel. The sound was growing louder by the second.

But then from up ahead, a new sound caught my ear. It was as angelic and soothing as Cujo's panting was demonic and alarming. I could see Knob Hill by this point, and it seemed to be bathed in a heavenly light.

A gaggle of real carolers was walking along the road. There were maybe twenty of them in all, each carrying a small candle. They were between us and the cars.

"Si-i-lent niiiight. Ho-o-ly niiiight," they sang. "Alllll is caaaalm. Alllll is—"

A sickening ripping sound split the night, followed by a bellowed curse. I looked back again.

A large, lumpy shape had attached itself to the seat of Diesel's camouflage pants. It was an overweight pit bull. Cujo. He was trying to dig in his paws, but Diesel had all the momentum of the trucks he was named for, and the big dog was being pulled across the ground like a one-horse open sleigh.

The carolers had stopped to stare at us now, though a few of them were valiantly trying to carry on, crooning about yon virgin mother and the holy infant so tender and mild.

"Sleeeeeep in hea-ven-ly peeeeee-eace. Slee-eep in—"

And that was the end of the heavenly peace. There was another loud rip, and Diesel suddenly shot ahead of us, sans pants. We were right on top of our innocent bystanders now, and he barreled through them, knocking carolers and candles alike into the snow. The singer to get the worst of it, I was shocked and pleased to see, was my old boyfriend Josh Strassman, who ended up flat on his back with a boot print on his forehead. The rest of the carolers scattered, screaming.

As Arlo, the Reptile and I weaved through the crowd, Cujo went streaking past, his beady eyes still locked on his chosen target—Diesel's juicy behind. Diesel must have heard him coming, because he looked over his shoulder and reached into his jacket pocket.

"No!" I cried out.

But it was too late. Diesel pulled out his weapon and used it.

It was an ice scraper. He hurled it at Cujo, and the plastic doodad bounced harmlessly off the tubby pit bull's broad back.

I'd been "punk'd," as the idiots on MTV say. Diesel couldn't have blown my head off. The worst he could have done was scrape the frost off me.

That was it. I was through. I veered toward my car, threw myself behind the wheel and tore out of there.

I took a look back in the rear-view mirror as I left. Arlo and the Reptile had made it to the Hyundai. Diesel, too, though he wasn't inside. He was on the roof, a leg hanging perilously over the side. Cujo had clamped his jaws to one of Diesel's combat boots and was thrashing around like a great white shark going to town on a sea lion. The Hyundai lurched forward, and Cujo fell to the ground, taking the boot with him. The carolers had regrouped in a semi-circle a safe distance away, and they watched it all, looking kind of like the Whos at the end of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, except they were confused and appalled instead of joyful and smug.

When I was about a mile away, I pulled over at a convenience store and just sat there in the car for a while, panting. Once I'd caught my breath, I got out and stuffed my ski mask in the garbage can out front. Then I went inside to buy myself a Slurpee to settle my nerves. The little donation jar by the cash register was for the Humane Society, not the American Emphysema Association, but I stuffed in a couple bucks anyway.

I got home just as Jimmy Stewart was learning that if he'd never lived his wife would've become—fate worse than death—a librarian. With glasses! Mom leapt to her feet and rushed to the door as I came in.

"Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"

"I couldn't find that damn book. I was looking all over for it," I said, slipping past her into the oversized closet we jokingly call my "bedroom." My copy of Hannibal was buried under a pile of old Entertainment Weeklys my mom had snagged from Dr. Roth's office, and I yanked it free and brought it back out to the hallway. "Oh, man—it was here all the time!"

Yeah, I was getting better at lying and manipulating. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

I didn't hear from Arlo that night or the next day or ever. Maybe he still feels guilty. Maybe he has nothing to say. Or maybe—and I think this is the most likely explanation—he can't remember my last name or the store where I worked. The guy has a memory like a sponge . . . by which I mean it's soggy and full of holes.

That meant I didn't hear from Diesel and the Reptile either, which was a nice Christmas present. They didn't have any reason to be mad at me, anyway. As far they knew, I'd told the truth. The aging horndog who'd bought the fur coat and the jewelry turned out to be a well-armed gun nut. That's just the kind of bad luck you probably get used to when you're an incompetent petty criminal.

It didn't bother me that Diesel and the Reptile got away that night. We'd all had a dose of what one of my more granola college friends used to call "karmic retribution." We'd had evil, selfish thoughts, and because of that we were shot at, chased by an enraged attack dog and (in one case) de-pantsed in front of a large group of horrified strangers. Lumps of coal in our stockings would've been overkill after a night like that. The universe had already spanked us and sent us to bed without dinner.

So maybe there really is such a thing as justice. Maybe there really is a Santa Claus. I don't know.

There was a loose end, though. One of the bad guys did get away unpunished. And as much as I tried to push it out of my mind, it still cheesed me off. So the next day, I did something about it. Nothing big. Nothing illegal. I'd learned my lesson. I just drove back to the old neighborhood and dropped off a Christmas card.

Nice, right?

Well, not really. Not if you know what I wrote inside.

Hey, big guy!

Thanks for inviting me over to make a cold winter's night extra HOT!!! I sure hope "Mrs. Claus" doesn't find out what how b-a-d you've been! Give me a jingle when you're ready to meet me under the mistletoe again!

XOXOXO,

Your little ho ho ho

I sealed the card in a white envelope and kissed the front with a mouth smeared with my sluttiest lipstick. Then I left it in Naughty Boy's mailbox. It was Christmas Eve, around 9 p.m., and the radio weather guys had already gone into their annual routine about a blip on the radar heading toward us from the North Pole.

I didn't know what would happen with the card. Maybe Naughty Boy would get busted and maybe he'd end another year thinking he could get away with anything. It all came down to this: Who would bring in the mail the day after Christmas, him or his wife?

There was no way for me to know. But I'd done my part.

The rest was up to Santa.

HIDDEN GIFTS

Karen had just spoken blasphemy, plain and simple. Heresy. Sacrilege.

Not that her little brother knew what blasphemy, heresy or sacrilege were. But he did know poo-poo when he heard it. And to Ronnie, this was big poo-poo. The biggest.

"That's not true!" he screamed, popping off his pillow and scrambling over the wadded-up macramé blanket that separated his half of the couch from hers. "You're lying!"

Karen didn't even look away from the television.

"Oh, don't be such a baby. Everybody knows it."

And she said it again. The blasphemy. The poo-poo. The innocence-scorching truth.

"Santa isn't real."

"No no no no nooooooooo!"

Ronnie balled up his fists and pounded at Karen with them. But Ronnie was only six, and small for his age. He may as well have tried beating his sister senseless with a pair of earmuffs.

"Stop it. I can't hear."

Karen swiped out a long, thin arm that swept her brother off the couch. She didn't do it maliciously. It was a casual gesture, like opening a curtain. There were things she wanted to see. Things she wanted to feel.

Cousin Rick hadn't been in the apartment when she and Ronnie got home from school. And when their scrawny, thirtyish "cousin" (they refused to call him "Uncle Rick," like Mom wanted) wasn't around to hog the TV and flick lit cigarettes at their heads and hunch over the phone having hissy-whispered conversations with his creepy friends, Karen tried to make the most of it.

Today, "the most" meant soaking up Christmas cheer.

It was December 23, 1979, and the afternoon reruns were Christmas episodes. Andy Griffith, the Beverly Hillbillies, even the Addams Family—they'd all been wrapping presents and drinking eggnog and learning Very Special holiday lessons. It was totally phony and forced, but even bogus Christmas cheer with a laugh track and soap-flake snow was better than no Christmas cheer at all.

Karen and Ronnie didn't even have a tree that year. They'd started to put one up with Mom, pulling out the big fake fir Dad used to call "the holly-jolly green giant." But Cousin Rick put a stop to that.

"Jeez, what are you doin'? A guy can barely turn around in this sardine can, and you're gonna plop that big S.O.B. in the middle of the room? No way. You want a Christmas tree, decorate the bushes in the parking lot. Now shut up, would you? I gotta keep my cool. The Big Call could come any minute, and those guys ain't messin' around."

The kids turned to their mother.

Cousin Rick had been waiting for "The Big Call" for a week, and something was always getting on his nerves. When he wasn't out "hustling"—his word for whatever it was he did all day—he paced the apartment like a barnyard rooster, twitchy, herky-jerky, his round, anxious eyes darting from the TV to the phone. He'd already turned off the Christmas carols (he couldn't hear B.J. and the Bear) and nixed the stringing of lights (the bright colors reminded him of "a bad trip," whatever that meant). Now he wouldn't let them put up a tree?

Surely, Mom would stand up to him this time. Surely, she'd choose their Christmas over her boyfriend's weird little tics. Surely.

Without a word, Mom packed up the tree and stuffed it back in the closet. The next day, Karen saw it poking out of a dumpster around the other side of the building.

Which is how Christmas came to be something out there. At school, in stores, on billboards. In the past.

Or on TV.

It was the Bradys' turn now. Little Cindy was asking a department store Santa to cure her mother's laryngitis so she could sing a solo at their church Christmas service. That's what had brought up the whole Santa Claus thing in the first place.

"Stupid kid," Karen had snorted. And then she'd said it, blasphemed. And Ronnie had flipped out.

"There is a Santa Claus!" he howled from the floor.

His voice quavered, as if he might cry, but Karen knew it wasn't the tumble off the couch that had hurt him. Their apartment may have been tiny, but the musty, mustard-colored shag covering the floor was as thick and soft as a dirty old sponge.

No, she'd hurt him, and she wasn't even sure why. His faith in Santa had been irritating her, rubbing on her nerves like sandpaper, for weeks. She was a big kid—almost ten—and she knew she should let Ronnie have his little kid dreams. Yet another part of her longed to shake him awake.

She kept her eyes on the Bradys.

"Santa's fake," she said.

"He's real!"

"No, he's not."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"But how do you know?"

"I just do."

"Prove it!"

Karen finally tore her gaze away from the screen.

"You want me to? Really?"

Her brother blinked at her. It was up to him now.

If he insisted on this, she'd have to go through with it, right? That's what big sisters are for—helping little kids learn. And if a lesson stung a little, well, that wouldn't be her fault, would it?

Ronnie nodded reluctantly.

"Alright," Karen said.

She walked over to the TV and switched it off. The reruns would come around again one day. That's why they call them "reruns." But this moment with her brother—it would come only once.

"Follow me."

She headed for the bedroom Mom had been sharing with Cousin Rick the past few months. The door was closed. The door was always closed now.

"Where are you going?"

Karen looked back at her brother. "Where does it look like I'm going?"

"But . . . we can't go in there."

"Why not? Mom's at the Tiger tonight. She won't be home for hours. And you know how it is when he's supposed to be watching us. He'll probably show up five minutes before Mom and pretend he was here all day."

"But if he catches us . . . you remember what he said."

Karen did remember. The tone of Rick's voice, anyway. If he ever found them messing with his things, he'd have to do something . . . ugly. Karen had understood that much even if some of the words were new to her.

"He won't catch us," she said. "We'll only be in there a minute."

She turned and opened the bedroom door. The room beyond was messy, dark. Adult.

She stepped inside.

The bed—that was the place to start. Karen got down on her hands and knees and pushed away the crumpled clothes and cigarette packs so she could take a look underneath. The shades were drawn down over the windows, yet just enough silver-gray light glowed around the edges to see by.

There wasn't much to see, though. Just more clutter.

A single shoe. Dad's aluminum softball bat, the one Mom kept around "for protection." An old People magazine. A torn wrapper with the word "Trojan" printed on it.

It suddenly occurred to Karen that she might not find what she was looking for. The thought scared her.

"What's down there?"

Karen looked over her shoulder. Her brother stood in the doorway, half-in half-out of the room.

"Nothing."

She stood and started toward the closet. To reach it, she had to step around a pile of dirty clothes as high as her waist.

The apartment had never been like this when Dad was alive. But after Mom had to start working two jobs—days at the Lawn Devil plant, evenings tending bar at the Toy Tiger Lounge—things changed.

And then Uncle/Cousin Rick showed up, and things didn't just change some more. They fell apart.

He appeared overnight, like Christmas presents or Easter eggs. One morning, Karen and Ronnie stumbled bleary-eyed from the tiny bedroom they shared and there he was. A complete stranger eating their Boo Berry at the kitchen table.

"Hey," he'd said through a mouthful of cereal. "Your mom's still asleep."

After another half-hearted bite—and a full minute of awkward silence—Rick dropped his spoon and stood up.

"I don't see how you can eat this crap," he mumbled, and he stomped past the still-gaping kids and disappeared into their mother's bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He'd left the bowl, still filled with milk and soggy blue blobs, sitting on the table. That was The Rick System for dining and dishwashing: Dirty bowls, plates, cups and silverware were left out, encrusted with food, until there was nothing left to eat with. And when you reached that point, you got all your food from KFC and White Castle and ate it straight out of the box.

Cleaning (never), sleeping (late), bathing (when people noticed the smell)—soon it was all on The Rick System. Mom was on The Rick System. And it was making her seem less like Mom every day.

Dad used to warn Karen about "bad influences" at school, but she never really knew what he meant until she saw the effect Cousin Rick had on her mother. If there really were a Santa Claus, she knew what she'd ask him for. Not that the fat man would do it.

Santa gave bad people a lump of coal. He didn't drop them down abandoned mine shafts.

"What are you looking for?" Ronnie asked as Karen stepped up to the closet Mom and Rick now shared.

"You'll see."

But Karen wasn't sure he would. What if there was nothing to see? Could Cousin Rick have changed Mom that much?

She pushed aside one of the closet's sliding doors and got her answer.

"Come here," she said.

She turned to her brother and grinned.

Ronnie moved into the room slowly, cautiously, as if the floor was littered with land mines instead of dirty laundry. But then he saw what had put the smile on his sister's face, and he ran the rest of the way to the closet, plowing through heaps of wrinkled clothes as he went.

"The Death Star! The Death Star! The Death Star!"

Ronnie reached out for the box, ready to tear the heavy cardboard apart with his bare hands to get at the treasure pictured in color on the side: a Star Wars Death Star playset, the very thing he'd asked Santa for in the letter Mom helped him write two weeks before.

Ronnie stopped.

The very thing...and here it was in Mom's closet next to a Nerf football and a Shaun Cassidy album and a Nancy Drew book and a bunch of plastic-wrapped socks and underwear.

Two tubes of brightly colored wrapping paper were propped up in the corner.

Karen watched her brother's face as he put it all together. Wonderment gave way to puzzlement gave way to disappointment.

And then finally: contentment.

No, there was no Santa Claus. But yes, there would be a Christmas . . . because their mother still loved them.

Ronnie dropped to his knees before the Death Star looking as reverent and awestruck as a shepherd in the manger.

"Last year, it was all under the bed." Karen knelt next to her brother and picked up the Shaun Cassidy LP—obviously a gift for her even though it was Leif Garrett she truly loved. "I found it by accident. Mom was getting rid of Dad's clothes and junk, and I . . . I guess I was looking for something I could keep."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Karen shrugged. "You were too little. And you were still all sad about Dad."

"I'm still all sad about Dad."

Ronnie leaned in closer to the Death Star and started picking at the packing tape that sealed it in its box.

"Hey!" his sister barked, making him flinch. "You can't open it, dummy! We're not even supposed to be in here."

"But I wanna play with it," Ronnie whined.

"You can play with it after Christmas," Karen said, unconsciously imitating the flat tone and clipped diction of an exasperated adult. "And don't forget to look surprised when you unwrap it."

"But—"

"Do you want Rick to know we've been in here?"

"But—"

"Cuz he'll figure it out."

"But—"

"And then he'll be do it, I swear. What he said he would."

Ronnie nodded glumly . . . then reached out for the box again.

"But I wanna play with it."

Karen sighed. Fear didn't always work with Ronnie, and logic was no help whatsoever. What she needed now was a distraction.

"Hey, you know what?" she said. "I bet there's more presents in here. Maybe even something cooler than your Star Wars thing."

Ronnie looked at her skeptically, for what could be cooler than a Death Star playset? But he said, "Really?"

"Sure." Karen pointed into the darkness that swallowed the rest of the closet. "Back in there. Get out of the way and we can look."

"Well . . . ." Ronnie slowly dragged himself away from the toys. "Alright."

Karen stood and pulled the sliding doors toward her, revealing the other half of the closet—Cousin Rick's half, to judge by the leisure suits hanging there. Not that Karen had ever seen Rick in a suit. He favored loose, broad-collared polyester shirts and tight, white slacks. He used to be some kind of salesman, Mom had explained once, but now he'd "gone freelance," so he could dress however he wanted. Later, the kids asked him what his job was, but he just grinned and said, "Your Uncle Ricky's a desperado." He said it like it was a joke, but Karen and Ronnie didn't get it. When they didn't crack a smile, Rick told them to buzz off and mind their own bee's wax.

Karen didn't think there'd be any presents mixed in with his stuff. But she made a show of looking anyway, sliding aside suits and digging through the tasseled loafers and stinky sneakers heaped up on the floor. Another minute or so and she'd contrive some reason for them to get out of there. Maybe a false alarm of the "Do you hear footsteps?" variety. Anything to get her brother away from the Death Star before he could open it up and totally give them away.

"Hey," Ronnie said. "What's that?"

He pointed at a dingy Purdue University sweatshirt at the back of the closet. Unlike the rest of the clothes spread around on the floor, it didn't look like it had been dropped and forgotten the second it was stripped off. It was actually spread out with something resembling care.

Just below the Purdue logo—a barrel-chested, mean-eyed man gripping a sledgehammer—the sweatshirt bulged as if straining to cover a big pot belly.

There was something under there. Something hidden in a half-assed way that seemed oh-so-very Rick.

"Go on," Ronnie said. "Look."

The little man on the sweatshirt glared at Karen hatefully. He had more muscles than Rick, that was for sure, but the look of surly contempt on his cartoon face—that was the same.

It should've served as a warning, a reminder that they hadn't actually "messed with" any of Rick's stuff yet. That it wasn't too late. Karen knew that.

And still she flipped the little man off and whipped the sweatshirt aside.

Underneath was a box with the word "Florsheim" printed on the lid.

"What is it?"

"I think it's just shoes," Karen said.

The disappointment in her own voice surprised her. What had she been hoping to find? A Malibu Barbie? A pony?

It was Christmas, and Rick had bought new shoes . . . for himself. Of course.

Karen lifted off the lid.

"Hey!" Ronnie said, leaning in to peek around her. "He did get us something for Christmas!"

There were no shoes in the box. Instead, it held a loafy-looking package the size and shape of a large fruitcake.

Ronnie poked it with a single finger.

"Kinda squishy," he said. "Cruddy wrapping."

Rather than the usual festive red, green, silver or gold, the package was swaddled in course brown paper that looked suspiciously like a cut-up grocery bag. The jagged edges and clumsily folded flaps were fastened down with long strips of masking tape.

Karen didn't know what was in the package. But she knew enough to be scared.

This was what Rick didn't want them messing with. A squishy secret wrapped in plain brown paper. A grown-up thing, forbidden and frightening.

It was time to go.

Ronnie started picking at the tape on the package.

"Stop it!" Karen snapped. "It's not for us!"

Her brother kept working at one corner with a fingernail. A sliver of tape began to peel off.

"Hey! I said stop it!"

"I'm just gonna peek. Rick'll never notice."

"Yes, he will!"

"No, he won't."

Karen grabbed the package and jerked it out of the box. She meant to shove Ronnie away, fix the tape. Put things back together again.

But her brother had already worked enough tape loose to pinch it firmly, and when Karen snatched up the package, he held tight.

A long strip ripped off. The package opened.

And then it was snowing.

Fine, white powder filled the air. It seemed to hang there a moment, so thick Karen and Ronnie couldn't even see each other. It drifted down slowly, covering the carpet, the dirty clothes, Karen, Ronnie, everything.

By the time the blizzard was over, Ronnie was crying.

"We're in trouble, aren't we?" he said, tears gumming up in the white dust covering his cheeks. "We're in so much trouble."

Karen knew the truth of it. She wasn't sure what the white stuff was—Coke Cane? Heroine? Mary Wanda?—but she'd seen enough Rockford Files and Starsky and Hutch to know it was something bad people fought over. Killed over.

She and her brother weren't just in trouble. They were in danger.

Karen felt her lower lip start to tremble. Moisture pooled in her eyes.

And then someone said, "Don't worry. Everything'll be alright." And Karen was shocked and relieved to realize it had been her.

Her knees trembled as she pushed herself to her feet, but she willed them to stop.

She and Ronnie had been looking after themselves for a while now. Washing their own clothes, getting themselves up for school, packing their own lunches. How was this any different? It just made their To Do list a little longer.

Clean up drugs

Fix package

Stay alive

"Don't move," she said, heading for the door. "And don't get any of that white junk in your nose or mouth."

"Where are you going?" Ronnie wailed. "Don't leave me!"

"Geez, don't freak out," Karen said with all the cool, big-sister condescension she could muster. "I know what to do."

Less than a minute later, she was back. With the vacuum cleaner.

After hooking up the long, tube-like sucky thingy, Karen used it on her brother. He whimpered and wriggled as the vacuum snorked the powder from his clothes and hair, but soon he was clean enough to go out to the front window and act as a lookout. The second he saw Cousin Rick's dented-up Dodge Dart pull into the parking lot, he was to run and tell her. At which point, she would . . . .

She had no idea. She just had to hope she wouldn't need one.

It took her ten minutes to suck up all the powder. She meant to scoop it out and stuff it back in the package, but one look inside the vacuum bag told her that wouldn't work. The whatever-it-was, once pure white, was now mixed together with gray dust bunnies and strands of long black hair.

So Karen went to the kitchen and got out the Bisquick.

As she was pressing down the last strip of tape, Ronnie called out, "He's home! He's home!"

Cousin Rick came through the front door two minutes later. He found Karen and Ronnie on the couch watching The Brady Bunch. On the screen, Mrs. Brady was singing "O Come, All Ye Faithful."

Her laryngitis was gone. It was a Christmas miracle.

Rick shrugged off his parka and let it drop to the floor. Then he walked to the TV and changed the channel to Bowling for Dollars.

"Go outside and play," he said, plopping down between the kids. "The Big Call might come tonight, and I don't want you two hangin' around gettin' me all jittery."

"But it's cold out," said Karen.

"And dark," said Ronnie.

"So?" Rick threw a glance toward Karen's end of the couch. "Build a bonfire or something, I don't c- . . .hey. What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That. Under your eye."

Karen brought her fingers up to her face. There was something dry and chalky caked high on her left cheek.

"Oh. That must be flour. We made Christmas cookies at school today."

"Yeah?"

And then Cousin Rick did something he almost never did. He actually looked her in the eye.

"You bring any home?"

Karen shook her head.

"Sorry. We ate 'em all."

Rick turned back to the TV. One of the contestants had just thrown a gutter ball.

"Well, go on, then," he grumbled, pulling out his BIC and a pack of cigarettes. "Get outta here. I got business to take care of."

Karen and Ronnie hopped down from the couch and went to get their coats. They didn't complain this time.

"Karen?" Ronnie said as they roamed aimlessly around the parking lot. "What's gonna happen?"

Karen shrugged. "I don't know."

"You think he'll ever find out what we did?"

Probably. Yes. Sooner or later. That's what Karen assumed.

She looked up. It was a perfectly clear night, and the stars were bright and still. None of them shimmered or twinkled. They just hung there like holes in the big, black blanket smothering the sky.

Once upon a time, when she was a little kid like Ronnie, she used to wish on stars. She believed in Santa Claus, too. Same thing, really. Useless.

But it couldn't hurt, could it?

She picked a star.

"He won't notice," she said. "Everything's going to be O.K."

A door creaked open and slammed shut, and the kids turned to see Rick coming toward them with quick, purposeful strides.

He stopped beside his car.

"Finally got the call. The big one," he said, sounding nervous but excited, eager. "I'll be gone for a while. Tell your mom to wait up for me. She and I are gonna go out and celebrate when I get back."

As he ducked into the Dart, Karen noticed something tucked under his left arm.

The shoebox.

"Bye, Cousin Rick!" Karen called out. "Bye bye!"

She and Ronnie walked out to the sidewalk to watch him drive away, waving until the taillights shrank to pinpricks in the distance then faded to nothingness altogether.

Poor Mom had a terrible Christmas. Fretting. Pacing. Going downtown to fill out the missing person report. But Karen knew that she'd feel better soon. Be better soon. They all would be—Mom and Ronnie and her.

For the first time in a long time, Karen wasn't just hoping for that.

She believed.

RED CHRISTMAS

ONCE UPON A TIME IN AN ENCHANTED LAND FAR AWAY....

(OR, TO BE A BIT MORE PRECISE, ON DECEMBER 24, 1980, AT ELEVEN TWENTY SEVEN P.M., AT THE NORTH POLE....)

Jingle the elf noticed a peculiar package under the workshop's massive Christmas tree. There were dozens of boxes nestled around it: gifts to and from Santa, Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer and Rumpity-Tump the Icicle Man, who worked for the Clauses chasing away National Geographic photographers and cleaning out the deer stables.

But this particular present stood out from the rest for a very special reason.

"Jeez," Jingle said. "That's gotta be the crappiest-looking thing I've ever seen under Santa's tree."

And indeed it was. The wrapping paper was crinkled and smudged, and the bow-work was shockingly shoddy, the beautiful red ribbon mangled and smeared with inky black fingerprints.

Jingle shook his head in disgust. "Looks like the guys down in Wrapping started pounding the glogg before the Old Man even took off."

"Dishgushting," said Jingle's brother Jangle, who'd had a few snorts of glogg himself. "We oughta shay shomething to the foreman. Ish there a name on the tag?"

Jingle moved closer to the package. It was big—almost as big as Jingle himself. He found the tag buried under a long loop of loosely tied ribbon.

"'To Santa,'" he read aloud. "'From R. with love.'"

"'R.,' huh? Maybe it'sh from Rudolph."

"Doesn't look like it's been in a deer stall," Jingle said, peering at the wrapping paper. "I mean, it's got stains on it, but not . . . you know . . . ."

"Yeah, I shee what you mean," Jangle said.

(Despite Rumpity-Tump's best efforts, the deer stables were far from pristine.)

"Well, whoever 'R.' is, he's not one of the guys in Cards, Tags & Notes," Jingle said. "The handwriting's terrible."

He tried to pick up the box and give it a test shake, but it was so heavy he could only lift one corner. Something inside the box shifted with a muffled tinkle, and the edge along the floor turned dark and glistening.

"It's leaking."

"Oopsh," Jangle said. "You broke it. Shanta'sh gonna be pished."

"I didn't break it. Whatever it is, it was already . . . ."

Jingle's words choked to a stop as a sour-sweet smell reached his nose. It was the scent of gingerbread and peppermint and magic, with an undertone of paint and glue and sweat.

Elf blood.

Since Jingle's reflexes hadn't been dulled by glogg, he was the one to start screaming first. Jangle quickly joined in, though. The two elves scrambled out from under the tree and dashed shrieking through the hallways of Santa's castle. Santa himself had been airborne nearly an hour, so there was only one person they could turn to.

"Mrs. Claus! Mrs. Claus!" they yelled in unison (though Jangle's cries sounded more like "Mishush Claush! Mishush Claush!").

They found Santa's wife in the kitchen stirring an enormous cauldron of borscht. It was the only thing her husband would eat for the next six or seven months, so gorged would he be on cookies and milk by night's end.

"Blood!" Jingle howled.

"Blllllloooooood!" Jangle added.

"Oh my, no," Mrs. Claus replied sweetly. "It's just borscht. Goodness, when you elves start nipping at the glogg there's no telling what you'll—"

Jingle grabbed one wrist, Jangle grabbed the other, and they pulled her away from the stove, out the door and through the halls until she was standing before the giant Christmas tree, a dripping ladle still clutched in her hand.

Jingle pointed at the mysterious package. "Blood!" he howled again.

"Blllloooood," Jangle added dutifully, though he was a too winded now to give it much oomph.

"Oh. I see," Mrs. Claus said. "Dear oh dear. Well, I suppose someone had best open it up."

A crowd had begun to gather, but no one made a move toward the box. Mrs. Claus sighed, whispered another "Dear oh dear," handed her ladle to Jingle and stooped down under the tree's lowest branches. The ribbon and paper slid off the package easily. When she lifted off the lid, a chorus of gasps shook the silver bells on the tree.

Inside the box was the crumpled form of an orange-haired, cherub-faced elf.

"Deary deary dear," muttered Mrs. Claus, employing the fiercest vulgarities in her vocabulary. "It's Gumdrop, Sugarplum's brother."

Another gasp echoed up into the rafters.

"Could he . . . could he have been . . . wrapped by mistake?" Jingle stammered.

Such things had been known to happen. Two years before, a pair of elves named Glitter and Sparkle had crawled into a box for a quick nap between shifts in Wrapping. Come Christmas morning, a horrified eight year old found their lifeless bodies crushed beneath her Charlie's Angels Beach House playset.

Mrs. Claus reached into the package and gingerly shifted little Gumdrop.

"Oh deary deary deary deary dear," she said, which told the elves that whatever she saw, it was bad indeed.

"Wh-what?" Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus moved away from Gumdrop, giving the crowd a clear view of his blood-soaked back. Protruding from it was the red-and-white curl of a large candy cane. The deadly confection was smudged with sticky black fingerprints, just like the wrapping paper and ribbon on the box.

"I'm afraid this was no accident," Mrs. Claus announced. "Someone here has been very, very naughty."

The gasps turned to shrieks. A reindeer-handler named Holly fainted into the arms of her brother Jolly. Rumpity-Tump the Icicle Man became so frozen with fear he fell over and shattered, and his pieces had to be swept up and placed outside in the snow so he could pull himself together.

"A killer! A killer loose in the workshop!" Jingle wailed.

"And Shanta won't be back for hoursh!" cried Jangle, who'd been trying to steady his nerves with several long swigs from a flask he'd pulled from his vest pocket.

"Yes," said Mrs. Claus, nodding sadly. "It looks as though the borscht will have to wait." She stepped out from under the branches and cleared her throat with dainty dignity. "Could everyone hush now, please?"

Her voice never rose more than a half-step above a soothing whisper, ever, yet somehow her words carried further and penetrated deeper than if she'd screamed every word. The elves' lamentations and gnashing of teeth died away quickly, leaving only the sound of the wind outside and a quiet jingling somewhere high in the Christmas tree.

"Thank you. Now . . . is there anyone here who saw Gumdrop this evening?"

An elf toward the back of the room raised his hand.

"Yes, Snowflake?"

"Gumdrop was working with us in Nice Management this year. We finished the list a little early and went to get some . . . uhhh, eggnog at Carol's place."

Mrs. Claus picked Carol out of the throng. "Carol?"

"Yeah, Gumdrop was there for a while. But he and my sister Noël had a little too much eggnog, and they went off to . . . ummmm . . . make some mulled cider."

Mrs. Claus scanned the still-growing crowd for Noël's blushing face. "Noël?"

"Over here, Mrs. C. When we got to the bedro . . . I mean, the kitchen, Gumdrop realized he didn't have a...well...a...bag of mulling spices. There was one in his wallet, but he'd left it in his jacket at work. I might have had a bit too much 'eggnog,' but I'm not stupid—I told him no spice, no cider. So Gumdrop went back to work to get his jacket." Noël wiped away a tear. "He never came back."

"He went back to Nice Management?"

"Yes."

"And no one else saw him after that?"

The room was still.

"I see." Mrs. Claus folded her arms and shook her head. "'Eggnog' and 'cider-making' and 'mulling spices'? My oh my."

The assembled elves hung their heads in shame.

"Well, you've been working so hard this year . . . I don't think we need to mention any of that to Santa."

The elves peeked back up at her sheepishly.

"But this business with poor Gumdrop . . . ."

Something rustled high up in the tree, and a single ornament dropped from branch to branch to branch, finally shattering on the floor just a few yards from Mrs. Claus. Everyone looked up.

At the top of the tree, tinkering with the brightly glowing star perched there, was a single elf.

"Hello," Mrs. Claus said to him.

The elf peered down at her. "Greetingz." Then he went back to working on the star.

"Aren't you interested in what's going on down here?"

"Oh, it iz a zertainty. But I am having verk to do here, yez?"

"I think that can wait. Why don't you come down and talk to me?"

Mrs. Claus's tone was as sweet and lilting as ever, yet it was clear this was no request. It was a command.

"No," the elf said, not bothering to even look at her this time. "I think I finish my verk firzt, yez?"

"Oh. Well, then."

Mrs. Claus took a deep breath and twiddled her thumbs for a moment. Disobedient elves were as rare at the North Pole as murders. There were no precedents for dealing with either one.

"Jingle, Jangle, everybody—stand back please," Mrs. Claus finally said.

She reached into the lowest branches of the Christmas tree and began pulling off a long strand of shimmering garland. Once she had about thirty feet of it, she tied one end into a hoop and began twirling it over her head. When she let it go, the makeshift lasso sailed to the top of the tree and landed around the obstinate elf's right foot. With one quick, hard pull, Mrs. Claus closed the loop tight and jerked the little man into the air.

"Blahhhhhhhh!" he squawked as he cartwheeled downward.

"Ooooooooooh!" the elves cooed as they watched him fall.

"I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Claus after she'd caught him by the fluffy white collar of his green tunic, snatching him out of the air half a second before he could splatter at her feet. "But I really do think it's awfully important that we talk."

She loosened the garland and set her tiny prisoner down. He was chubbier than most of his kin, and a little taller too. He bent back and stared up at the top of the tree.

"Very imprezzive, Mrz. Clauz," he said.

"Why, thank you," Mrs. Claus replied humbly. "I've always been handy with decorations. Now tell me—what is your name?"

"I em Geeftrep."

"'Giftwrap,' you say?"

"Yez. Bruther of Scotchtape."

"Hmmm. I don't believe I've ever heard you or your brother mentioned before, Giftwrap."

The other elves shook their heads and squinted at Giftwrap with growing suspicion.

"Ve are new thiz year," he said. "Before this ve are . . . how do you say? Ve cobble the shoez, yez?"

"I see. But this year you decided to become toy-making elves?"

"Yez. The shoemaker ve verk for, he moved hiz factory to Indonezia."

"How terribly disappointing. Well, let me take this opportunity to welcome you to Santa's workshop."

Mrs. Claus held her hand out to Giftwrap. He hesitated just a fraction of a second, then grasped her hand and gave it a limp shake.

"Thank you, Mrz. Clauz."

Mrs. Claus smiled, then glanced down as she let go of his hand.

"Goodness—is that ink on your sleeve?"

Giftwrap didn't answer directly. Instead, he spat out a word no one had ever dared utter in the presence of Mrs. Claus.

"Oh, now surely that kind of language isn't going to help matters any," she began to say.

She didn't get a chance to finish. The "Oh" was still on her lips when Giftwrap pulled a candy cane from his tunic and lunged at her with it. She barely managed to dodge away in time, and the razor-sharp candy sliced off a corner of her white lace apron.

"Oh, Giftwrap," Mrs. Claus said. "My niece made that for me."

Giftwrap lunged again.

"Mrs. C!" Jingle called out, tossing her the ladle she'd handed him a minute before.

Mrs. Claus reached out and let the handle slap into her palm. Then she swung the ladle down just in time to parry Giftwrap's thrust. Giftwrap tried again and again, but each time Mrs. Claus turned the sugary blade aside.

"Really, Giftwrap, is this helpful?" Mrs. Claus asked, raising her voice just a bit to be heard above the clink-clank of their duel. "You can't escape. Why not stop fighting and tell me what you've been up to? I bet you'll feel a lot better if you do."

"Bah!" Giftwrap snarled. With a dramatic flourish, he hurled his candy cane into the floorboards, where it stuck with a loud, vibrating spronnnng. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out something brown and log-like.

"Look out!" Jingle yelped. "He's got a fruitcake!"

"Yez! And I em not afraid to uze it!"

Giftwrap brought the fruitcake to his lips and took a savage bite.

"Daz vedanya, zuckerz!" he shouted, crumbs and bits of candied orange peel spraying from his furiously chewing mouth. He took a big, gulping swallow, and almost immediately his face turned blue. He collapsed, writhing and gurgling. After a few seconds, he stopped moving.

Jingle slowly approached and gave Giftwrap a poke with the curled toe of his elf shoe. There was no response.

"I think he's dead."

"Dead? Deary deary dear." Mrs. Claus moved to Jingle's side and kneeled down to examine the body. "Hmm. I thought so."

She reached out and plucked the pointy ears right off Giftwrap's head.

There was more gasping and fainting from the elves gathered around.

"Don't anyone fret now. They're not real ears," Mrs. Claus said. "Giftwrap—or whatever his name truly is—was no elf."

"A man?" Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus nodded. "Yes. A midget."

"Why would a midget come all the way to the North Pole just to kill Gumdrop?"

"Oh, I don't think he would. Not just to kill poor Gumdrop, I mean."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either, Jingle. But I do know this: We haven't seen the last of the naughtiness tonight."

Mrs. Claus put a pair of elves named Mistletoe and Poinsettia in charge of guarding the bodies, then hustled out of the room, Jingle at her heels. Jangle started to follow too, but the glogg had turned his legs to rubber, and the only way to stiffen them up again was to curl up under a bench and take a nap.

Nice Management was deserted when Jingle and Mrs. Claus arrived. They found Gumdrop's jacket at his desk, lying atop a pile of statistics, graphs and pie charts analyzing the Naughty-to-Nice ratio of little boys who own albums by KISS.

"Maybe Gumdrop never made it back to the office," Jingle said. "He could have been murdered anywhere between here and Carol's place."

"No," Mrs. Claus said. "I think it's much more likely he was killed right here."

She headed for the far end of the room, where Santa kept the tilted worktable he slaved over so many long hours each year. It was where he compiled The List—the massive scroll on which he kept the names of well-behaved children who'd earned a visit come Christmas Eve.

Mrs. Claus peered down at the worktable a moment.

"Oh, goodness deary goodness," she said. "It's just as I feared."

She moved to the nearest garbage can, shook her head and pulled out two twisted, broken, ink-smeared feathers.

"What a shame. Santa loved these," she said. "Griffin feathers. So hard to come by these days. Oh, well. We have more to worry about now than Santa's favorite pens."

"That we do," Jingle said, nodding. "Uhhh . . . and what is it that we need to be worrying about, exactly?"

"Why, the name Giftwrap added to Santa's list, of course."

Jingle looked from Mrs. Claus to the feathers to Santa's worktable to Gumdrop's desk, blinking blankly. Mrs. Claus took mercy on him and explained.

"There were ink stains on the box Gumdrop was in, and on Giftwrap's sleeves, as well. And if you'll look at the table there . . . ."

Jingle followed Mrs. Claus' gaze. A black smudge marred one corner of Santa's worktable.

"Southerners aren't accustomed to quill pens and ink bottles anymore," Mrs. Claus said. ("Southerners" meant anyone who didn't live at the North Pole.) "So Giftwrap made a bit of a mess. And I can only think of one thing he might have been trying to do with a pen at Santa's worktable. Poor, unfortunate Gumdrop saw what he was up to when he came back for his jacket. And Giftwrap couldn't have that."

"Oh," Jingle said. "I see. Then Giftwrap had to make sure Gumdrop's body wasn't found until after Santa took off."

"That's right. Yet he wanted the body to be found eventually. That message on the card—it must have some special significance."

Jingle shook his head, bewildered and disgusted. "Sending a spy into the workshop, killing an elf, all just to get some kid on the Nice List. It's beyond naughty. It's nuts."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps this isn't about a child."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe someone wants to make sure Santa goes down a certain chimney tonight."

Jingle gaped at her, amazed that a woman who'd devoted her life to making children happy and hanging out with elves would have such a natural affinity for the workings of devious minds.

"You think it could be a trap?" he said.

Mrs. Claus shrugged. "You know how those toy company people feel about Santa. And the religious fundamentalists. And the Elf Liberation Front. And the Ayatollah. And Mrs. Thatcher. She still hasn't forgiven us for all those lumps of coal she received as a child. And—"

The longer the list grew, the wider Jingle's eyes became. "I never realized Mr. C had so many enemies."

Mrs. Claus's lips pulled into a small smile, sad but proud.

"The good ones always do, dear," she said.

"Well, if it's a trap, we've got to warn Santa right away!"

Mrs. Claus sighed. "I wish we could. But you know as well as I do how hard that would be."

Santa always took the fastest reindeer, naturally, so catching him by following his delivery route would be next to impossible. On top of that, he didn't really have a set delivery route. If children were still awake inside a house when he landed on the roof, he had to move on and come back later. As a result, the longer the evening wore on, the more he ended up criss-crossing the globe, perhaps alternating a drop-off in Kenya with a stop in Kentucky. That always increased the odds that he'd get lost somewhere in between. Santa would never, ever, under any circumstances stop to ask for directions, and as a result he could end up hovering confused over Antarctica or looking for Des Moines in the Amazon rainforest.

"Plus," Jingle said after they'd both ruminated on all this for a quiet moment, "maybe he's already been captured or . . . ." Jingle gulped. "Or whatever. He's been gone over an hour now."

Mrs. Claus grew pale, and an expression came to her face Jingle had never seen there before: a frown. It only lasted a second.

"Now don't you worry, Jingle," she said, the rosy glow returning to her round cheeks. "Santa's going to be just fine. In fact, I think I know how we can help him. You run and find Ribbons and Bows. I want to meet them in their office."

Jingle straightened up and saluted. "Yes, ma'am!" And off he went.

He found Ribbons and Bows downing shots of glogg at a hastily organized wake for Gumdrop. They were gruff, gnarled old elves who ran Request Processing with two little iron fists.

"Frank! Hank!" Jingle called out to them. Only the Clauses could get away with calling them "Ribbons" and "Bows." Anyone else who tried it got a punch in the nose. "Mrs. C needs you! Quick!"

They both threw back a last shot, then staggered off after Jingle. When they got to Request Processing, Mrs. Claus was already there sorting through the files on Frank's desk—an offense that would have gotten any elf a sock in the schnoz.

"What does the Missus need now, hey?" Frank asked. "You just sit back and let us dig it out for you."

"Thank you, Ribbons."

Frank's left eye twitched ever so slightly.

"We think a name was added to the Nice List at the last minute. But if someone wanted to lure Santa to a certain home—"

"They'd have to tell him what to bring, eh?" Hank finished for her.

"Exactly."

"So you'd be lookin' for requests that arrived today, hey?" Frank said.

"The later the better."

"Well," Frank said, thrusting his hand into a swaying tower of paper as tall as Mrs. Claus, "these are the last ones we got." Somehow he pulled out five letters without burying himself under an avalanche of envelopes.

"Double-rush late," Hank said. "Popped up when we thought we were all done. Barely got 'em processed in time."

"I see. Then these are the ones we want, Bows."

Hank's right eye twitched.

Mrs. Claus took the letters from Frank.

"Why, this first one's from little Karen Courtney," she said. "Santa and I know all about her. She's a little angel."

Frank nodded. "Nice to old people."

Hank nodded, too. "Kind to animals."

Even Jingle joined in. "Picks up her room. Brushes her teeth. Wipes off her boots before coming inside."

Mrs. Claus shuffled the letter to the bottom. "I don't think we need to worry about Karen. Now how about this next one? Alvin Erie?"

Frank shook his head this time. "Picks his nose."

Hank shook his head too. "Fights with his brother."

Jingle joined in. "Pouts. Cries."

"My goodness. Coal?"

"Coal," the elves sang in chorus.

"Ahhhh." Mrs. Claus moved on to the next letter. "Missy Widgitz?"

"Nice," said Frank.

"But," said Hank.

"Read the letter," said Jingle.

Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and took the letter out of its envelope. "'Dear Santa,'" she read aloud. "'I have been extra good all year long, but I do not want any dolls, games or books this Christmas. You can give my toys to a poor child who needs them more than me.'" Mrs. Claus smiled. "How precious."

"Keep reading," Jingle said.

Mrs. Claus looked back down at the letter. "'But there is something I would like—my very own . . .' Oh."

She peeked back up at the elves, who stared back at her, frowning indignantly.

"'Elf,'' Mrs. Claus read. "'I promise to feed it and take it for walks and . . .' Oh my."

"She's getting a Barbie," Jingle said.

"I see. Well, I think what we're looking for wouldn't be quite so . . . colorful." Mrs. Claus pulled out the next letter. "Like this one. This little boy wants books, games and a Farrah Fawcett-Majors poster. All very normal. What do we know about this—" She squinted at the name scrawled across the bottom of the page. "Bud Schmidt?"

Frank rolled his eyes. "Oh."

Hank rolled his eyes. "That one."

Jingle shrugged.

"Naughty?" Mrs. Claus asked.

"Eh," said Frank.

"Could be worse," said Hank.

"That's not the problem," said Frank.

"He's forty-three years old," said Hank.

"Ahhh," said Mrs. Claus. She placed the letter on Frank's desk. "Well, that is suspicious—if a bit transparent. I suppose it's the best candidate we have so far."

She flipped to the last letter, obviously hoping for something better.

Dear Mr. Claus,

I am seven years of age. I have been a well-behaved child this year. Thus I consider myself deserving of reward. I think you should bring me candy and a toy truck.

I will look for the candy in my socks. You may place the truck beneath the Christmas bush. I will leave baked goods out for you to consume, as is the usual custom.

Cordially yours,

Bjorn Bjelvenstam

4000 Sundquist Road

(on the northernmost edge of town near the abandoned lutefisk factory—it will look dark, but do not let that be of concern)

Kalmar, Sweden

P.S.: There is a chimney on my house. Please feel free to make use of it in the fashion for which you have become so famous.

"Ah ha," said Frank.

"Oh ho," said Hank.

"Umm hmm," said Mrs. Claus.

"I'll get the sleigh," said Jingle.

Minutes later, he and Mrs. Claus were in the air, headed for Sweden behind a team of young back-up reindeer.

"Now, Pac-Man! Now, Disco! Now, Yoda and Vader!" Mrs. Claus called out, giving the reins a gentle snap. "On, Ford! On Carter! On, Alda and Nader!"

The reindeer strained in their harnesses, rocketing over Greenland and the Norwegian Sea toward Sweden. But they weren't fast enough.

"Oh no!" Jingle cried when they reached the outskirts of Kalmar. "We're too late!"

He stood up and pointed at the rooftops below. They were covered with sleigh tracks, hoofprints and discolored snow—telltale signs that Santa had already come and gone.

The reindeer veered to the east then, changing course so suddenly Jingle lost his balance and nearly toppled over the side. The only thing that kept him in the sleigh was Mrs. Claus's hand reaching out to snag a handful of his green tights.

"Thanks," Jingle squeaked. "But where are we—?"

"Look! Up ahead!"

In the distance, a pinprick of light gleamed through the gentle swirl of snow. As they got closer, they could see shapes in its soft red glow.

Antlers, a rooftop, a chimney.

And an empty sleigh.

"Take it easy, everyone," Mrs. Claus told the reindeer. "Let's try to make this a very quiet landing."

The reindeer slowed to a flying trot, then a gliding amble, and Mrs. Claus's sleigh slid into place next to her husband's without a sound.

"Well done, my dears," Mrs. Claus said as she stepped carefully onto the roof. There wasn't much room to move around. It was a small house, dreary and forlorn, with no neighbors in sight other than a decaying factory half a mile up the road.

"Keep it steady there, buddy," Jingle told Rudolph, whose nose was beginning to strobe with excitement. "Where's Santa?"

Rudolph grunted and sneezed simultaneously, making a wet, snorting noise that, translated roughly, meant "I dunno." Comet and Cupid and the rest grunted and sneezed in agreement.

"Deary deary dear," said Mrs. Claus.

She was peering down into the chimney. Jingle crept over and pulled himself up to see what she was looking at.

A few feet below, metal bars gleamed in the moonlight. Mrs. Claus cleaned her glasses with her apron and leaned in to give them a closer look.

"They're mounted on some kind of spring mechanism," she said. "So when Santa got to the bottom of the chimney—"

"He couldn't get back out!" Jingle blurted. "You were right. It is a trap!"

Mrs. Claus shushed him. "Listen."

She turned an ear downward and bent over the chimney. Jingle imitated her.

Voices echoed up from inside the house.

"Me? Work for the KGB? Ho ho ho! Ridiculous!"

There could be no mistaking who it was. Santa was alright—for the moment.

"What could I possibly do for you?"

"Vell, you know vhat they zay," a heavily accented man replied. "'He zeez you vhen you're zleeping. He knowz vhen you're avake. He knowz if you've been bad or good, zo be good for goodnez zake.'"

"Yes?"

"Don't be denze, fat man! You are the greatezt zpy the vorld haz ever known!"

"'Zpy'?"

"Yez, zpy!"

"I don't—"

"There iz no zecret our enemiez could keep from uz vith you on our zide!"

"On your what now?"

"Our zide! Thiz cowboy the Americanz have elected—Reagan. He planz to zpend hiz vay to victory over uz. Vell, let him try! Ve vill have zomething money cannot buy. You!"

"Wait now. What's all this about a cowboy?"

"Zoon you vill be zmuggled to the Zoviet Union in one of our zubmarines. And then imagine the propaganda value vhen Zanta Clauz—the living embodiment of Veztern materializm—renounzez hiz vayz and zayz, 'At lazt, thiz red zuit of mine really ztandz for zomething!'"

"'Fez turn materialism'? My red 'zoot'? Ho ho! Goodness, lad! I can't understand a word you're saying!"

"Here iz all you need to underztand. Our operative at the Pole haz hidden a bomb—a very powerful bomb—in your vorkshop. If you do not cooperate, ve vill reduze your toymaking elvez to zo much zmoke and duzt."

Mrs. Claus and Jingle locked eyes on each other, each of them stifling a horrified gasp.

"Zmoke and duzt?" a baffled Santa mused.

"Da! Zmoke and duzt! You know. Boom!"

"Hmmmm. I'm sorry. You're just not getting through. Maybe one of you other fellows can tell me what your friend's so excited about."

A string of Russian curses bounced up out of the chimney.

"I vill blow up your caztle! It iz that zimple! Thiz iz the deztruct button here in my hand!"

"Oh! Ho ho! A bomb! I thought you said a very powerful bum. Now I see! Clever! Naughty, but clever! Ho ho ho! But let me tell you something, my friend. You'll never get anywhere in life with bombs and threats. Generosity and good cheer! Those are the things that really matter. Now why don't you let me out of this cage so I can be on my way? I've got toys to deliver. Ho ho!"

Santa's ho-hoing was cut off by more curses. The Russians were learning what Mrs. Claus and everyone else at the North Pole already knew.

Santa Claus was the sweetest man on the face of the Earth . . . and he was nowhere near the brightest.

At that moment, the real mastermind of the Claus clan was whispering quick instructions to Jingle. The elf gulped, nodded, hopped into Santa's sleigh and told Rudolph and the other A-list reindeer it was time to fly their furry butts off. They were careful to take off quietly, but once they were airborne they streaked out of sight like a red-nosed rocket.

"Get it through your thick zkull, Clauz!" the Russian spymaster was screaming as they left. "Ve are not letting you go!"

"Really? My my my. That's a bit selfish, wouldn't you say? Think of the children."

"I am thinking of the children! The children who vill grow up in a better vorld because ve have overthrown decadent capitalizm and freed them from the grinding boot heel of the bourgeoizie!"

"Well, I don't know about all that. I just know how those good little boys and girls love their toys. Ho ho! And if they don't find them under the tree tomorrow—goodness! We can't have that, can we?"

Mrs. Claus heard a strangled cry that was, no doubt, "Oh, shut up!" in Russian. Santa didn't get the message.

"If you let me go now I'll still have time to stop and eat all the treats the kids have left out for me. You wouldn't believe how disappointed the children are if I don't eat those cookies. And all those glasses of milk to drink! Speaking of which, I should probably make a quick pit-stop before I get going. Ho ho ho! So if you'll just let me out of here . . . ."

Mrs. Claus couldn't wait any longer. Another minute and the Russians might kill her husband out of sheer irritation. So she hopped in her sleigh, brought it around for a landing on the ground below, walked up to the front door and knocked. A minute passed without an answer, so she knocked again. This time the door opened just wide enough for a tall man in a black turtleneck and black leather trench coat to peek out at her.

"Yez?" the man said.

"Hello. I'm here about my husband. May I come in please?"

The tall man frowned. "It iz late. You should go home. There iz no—"

Pac-Man the reindeer sneezed, and the man poked his head out the door and saw the sleigh for the first time. His eyes widened. Then he poked his hand out the door, too.

There was a gun in it.

"Inzide, if you pleaze."

"Thank you," Mrs. Claus said.

In the house were four more men in black turtlenecks and black leather coats. They were all wearing berets and sunglasses. And all of them had guns.

Santa was on the far side of the room, standing in a cage that surrounded the fireplace.

"Gladys!" he called out when he saw her.

"Gladyz?" one of the turtleneck men said. Mrs. Claus recognized the voice immediately. It was the spymaster.

"No, dear. Gladys," she corrected him. "With an s. But you can call me 'Mrs. Claus.'"

She moved toward him with her right hand out. There was a gun in his, and the look on his face indicated that they were not about to share a hearty handshake. Mrs. Claus stepped past the gun, threw her arms around the Russian and gave him an enthusiastic hug. The spymaster stiffened like he'd been given an electric shock.

"Unhand me, voman," he spat.

"Oh, come now. Everyone needs a hug from time to time."

"Let me go!"

Mrs. Claus stepped back, shaking her head sadly. "Alright then. But you really shouldn't be afraid of a little human warmth."

"Ho ho ho! She's right, you know! You look like a man who could use a few hugs!"

"Zilenze, zimpleton!"

There was a comfy-looking armchair near the fireplace, and Mrs. Claus walked over and took a seat. All the guns in the room pivoted to follow her as she moved.

"Don't you worry, Santa," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. "We'll have you out of there soon."

"Wonderful! Time's a-wasting! I'm not even half-way through my route! So many toys to deliver. So many notes to read. So many cookies to—"

"Yes, darling, of course. We know."

"No one iz going anyvhere!" the spymaster barked. "A threat far away could not penetrate your thick zkull, Zanta. But now fate haz delivered uz a new hoztage—one you can zee with your own eyez." He brought up his gun and pointed it at Mrs. Claus's forehead. "Perhapz now you vill underztand that ve mean buzinezz. Vow to zerve uz, or your vife diez."

"Well, now . . . that's. . . I . . .," Santa stammered. "You wouldn't really do a mean old thing like that, would you?"

A malevolent grin slithered across the Russian's lips.

"Yez," he said. "I vould."

"I think he really would dear," Mrs. Claus said. "But he won't."

The spymaster cocked an eyebrow at her. "Oh? And vhy vouldn't I?"

"Because we returned your bomb." Mrs. Claus pulled out the control mechanism she'd slipped from his jacket while giving him a hug. "And I have this."

One of the turtleneck men blurted out a Russian phrase so foul it would have made a reindeer blush.

Mrs. Claus looked at him and shook her head reprovingly. "Such language," she said to him in perfect Russkij. "What would your mother say?"

"Sorry, ma'am," the henchman mumbled.

"Vhat do you mean vhen you zay you returned the bomb?" the spymaster asked, eyeing the remote control in her hand.

"We took it back where it came from."

"Where it . . . ? You mean Mozcow?"

Mrs. Claus nodded. "The Kremlin."

Two of the Russians burst into tears. Another threw himself down and began kicking and pounding the floorboards. Another, the tallest and palest of all the turtleneck men, simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly as if he'd already been through the exact same experience a hundred times before.

"Zteady, comradez," the spymaster said. "She iz bluffing."

"Oh, I assure you I'm not bluffing," she bluffed.

"Yez, you are. If you vere telling the truth, you could tell me vhere the bomb vaz hidden."

"Why, in the star at the top of our Christmas tree, of course."

There was really no of course about it. It was a guess. That little assassin Giftwrap had been up to something in the tree, hadn't he? If she were wrong, at that very moment Jingle would be dumping a perfectly good star in the Arctic Ocean while a bomb sat in the workshop, ready to blow the place to peppermint-scented smithereens if the Russians got their hands on the remote control again.

The spymaster laughed.

It took Mrs. Claus a moment to realize that it wasn't a gloating, "You old fool!" laugh. It was a bitter, "Why me?" laugh. Then she saw the slice of fruitcake he'd drawn from his black trench coat.

"Oh, come now," she chided him. "You don't have to take it that hard."

But it was too late for the spymaster. Within seconds his chin was covered in crumbs, and he was dead.

The tall, sighing spy moved quickly to the cage around the fireplace. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door.

"Go," he told Santa. He turned to Mrs. Claus. "Hurry."

He followed them out to the sleigh and helped them both into the front seat.

"I have to azk you," he said once Santa had the reins in hand. "At the North Pole, do you have . . . how you zay? Political azylum?"

"A xylowhat?" Santa asked.

Mrs. Claus smiled. "Get in." She waited until the tall Russian was settled into the back seat, then swiveled around to face him. "So tell me, young man. What can you do?"

The secret agent shrugged. "I have been a zpy for zo many years. All I know iz thiz Cold Var."

"You don't have any skills?"

"Vell . . . I do know one hundred and forty vays to kill a man."

"Oh." Mrs. Claus stroked her chin for a moment. "Well, maybe Rumpity-Tump could use some help in the stable."

"Ho ho ho!" said Santa.

The reindeer knew what to do when they heard that. So they did it.

NAIVETÉ

"Look, Charlie, let's face it," said the little girl with the raven hair and the cold, unblinking eyes. "We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket."

The Reptile, a.k.a. Alvin Joseph Erie of River City, Indiana, snorted so hard Chivas Regal came out his nose. Which wasn't just undignified and uncomfortable, it was a sad waste of fine whiskey. But there was plenty more where that came from (and plenty already in the Reptile's stomach), so his mood wasn't dampened even though the front of his vintage AC/DC T-shirt was.

"You go, girl!" the Reptile croaked, voice phlegmy, puffy eyes watering, nostrils burning like he'd just snorted a line of Comet. "Testify!"

On the television screen, Lucy Van Pelt dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"It's run by a big eastern syndicate, you know," she told Charlie Brown.

"Right on!" the Reptile cheered, losing even more of his drink as he raised the "World's Greatest Dad" mug in his hand in a sloppy, scotch-sloshing salute. He turned to Diesel, who'd draped his massive body over the living room's other La-Z-Boy recliner, and jerked a thumb at the TV. "See, D? What'd I tell you? You're not gonna get straight talk like that from no snowman."

Diesel (a.k.a. Kenneth Patrick McIntyre) kept his gaze glued to the TV, answering only with a "whatever" grunt that stirred some extra foam into the bottle of Bud Lite perched atop the round mound of his belly. There'd been three DVDs to choose from that evening—A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman and (excavated from its hiding place at the bottom of a drawer of socks) Girls Gone Wild: Dormroom Fantasies Volume 2. They'd already watched the Girls Gone Wild DVD. Twice. After that, Diesel had voted for Frosty. But the Reptile cast his vote for Charlie Brown, which meant Frosty lost by a landslide. In the tiny, two-man democracy Diesel and the Reptile had founded six years before, "one man, one vote" was not the law of the land.

Necessity had first bonded the men together. They met in the Knox County Jail: Diesel a fumble-fingered would-be beer thief, the Reptile a pot dealer so far down on the drug cartel totem pole he wasn't really on the pole at all but merely part of the dirt on which it stood. They were the pettiest of petty criminals, together in a holding cell the very night the River City Police Department took down the town's biggest crack house and the crew of swaggering gangbangers who ran it. This being Indiana, these were Hoosier gangbangers, and therefore lacking the serious street cred of their New York or Los Angeles counterparts. Which only meant they had something to prove. And there'd be no better way to prove it than grinding a couple crackers into crumbs.

The Reptile managed to keep himself and his new-found friend from the bottom of their cellmates' Reeboks by orchestrating a brilliant campaign of bluster and bravado (for the super-sized Diesel) and butt-kissing and bootlicking (for himself). Ever since then, Diesel had let the Reptile call all the shots.

Many of which had been misfires. Though he aspired to be a Napoleon of Crime, the Reptile was, in sad reality, closer to a Custer. But despite a long parade of bad ideas and worse luck—the foiled highjacking of an ice cream truck, the successful (though ultimately unprofitable) highjacking of an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, the oh-so-critical typo on the counterfeit "Ben Jovi" T-shirts they tried to unload at a concert in Indianapolis—the Reptile somehow managed to keep them alive and out of jail. Which had kept Diesel loyal. Up to now.

And now was looking pretty good. It was Christmas Eve, and they were enjoying a quiet night at home.

Not that it was their home. It actually belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Hettle, whose eldest son Arlo was one of the Reptile's most reliable (and, being perpetually baked, easy to short-change) clients. The day before, Arlo had dropped by the Reptile's dark, dank basement-apartment lair to purchase an especially large bag of weed.

"I'm gonna be stuck at my grandma's in Jasper for four days with, like, my entire family," the stoner moaned, his droopy eyelids, wispy kid mustache and predilection for mouth-breathing making him look, as always, like a sleepy catfish. "Bro, if I run out of ganja down there I'm gonna, like, totally lose my mind."

"Don't worry, my man. The Reptile won't let you down," the Reptile replied, offering his customer an encouraging wink. "So . . . when do you leave, anyway?"

And Arlo told him, thus ensuring that his home would soon receive a late-night holiday visitation that involved not reindeer on the rooftop and a shimmy down the chimney but a spluttering Plymouth Reliant parked around the corner and a back-door jimmied with a crowbar.

"Oh, Lucy Lucy Lucy," the Reptile sighed, sinking back into the La-Z-Boy's marshmallow embrace. "Now that's the Reptile's kinda woman." A box of cigarettes rested in his lap, and he shook out and lit up his fifteenth Kool of the day. "Saucy little wench."

"Do you think Peppermint Patty's a dyke?" Diesel mumbled, still unable to tear his eyes from the screen. Anything he saw on television other than static and C-SPAN utterly mesmerized him, and only hunger, thirst and their related urges could pry him away when a TV was on. In fact, just a few weeks before he'd botched the Reptile's scheme for a snatch-and-grab jewelry heist at Target because he forgot to provide the pre-planned distraction—a bogus vet-off-his-meds freakout in Housewares—after he became hypnotized by a demonstration video for the George Foreman Grill.

The Reptile shot him a venomous (and completely unnoticed) glare. "Peppermint Patty's not in this one," he snapped. "And anyway, you're missing the point. That Lucy—she tells it like it is. That's why I love this damn cartoon. Christmas is a racket. The stores, the guys who make the toys and cards and all that garbage, the bums they round up to play Santa. They all make money off it. They may as well call it . . . ." The Reptile racked his brain for something clever, but after a few seconds he decided that Diesel wasn't worth the effort. "Oh, I don't know. Cashmas. Cuz that's what it's all about, D. Everybody's just making a buck."

Diesel squirmed, looking uneasy in his easy chair, as if some weight deep in his gut had suddenly shifted. A concrete burrito. A chocolate brick. A soul.

"Not everybody," he said. "I mean, it means something to some folks, right? You got people giving gifts, giving money to the Salivation Army, going to church—"

"Oh, my man! You are so naïve!" The Reptile sucked in a deep lungful of hot carcinogenic goodness, then blew the smoke out in a cloud that drifted between Diesel and the TV screen he was still staring at. "Churches are the worst of all. Tonight's the night they bankroll their whole year. They get people coming in on Christmas Eve all full of that 'season of giving' crap, throwing big ol' wads of money on the donation plate to make up for the fact that they haven't been to church the last 364 days. It's just oil for the gears, D." The Reptile nodded and took a sip of Chivas Regal, pleased with his metaphor though he would've been hard-pressed to explain it. "Oil for the god damn gears."

"Well," Diesel grunted. The word just floated there for nearly a minute, a bridge to nowhere. "Well," he finally said again. "You don't see me making any money off Christmas."

The Reptile misinterpreted this as a criticism of his leadership abilities.

"Hey, you got nothing to complain about. Free beer, free food, free Girls Gone Wild. We'll take the DVD player, the TV, the stereo—whatever we can fit in the car. We'll make out alright."

Diesel just shook his head, seemingly unconvinced. Independent thinking wasn't something the Reptile witnessed in his friend very often, and it threw him. He thought about his plan for the night, the Napoleon in him clamoring atop a tall steed to survey the field of battle. And he had to admit it. It didn't look very impressive.

They'd never had much luck with hot goods. The most valuable item they'd ever had their hands on (aside from the Weinermobile) was a mint-condition copy of Amazing Spider-Man #5, which was supposedly worth nearly $3,000. When they took it to the owner of a local comic book shop, he told them he knew exactly where they'd stolen it from and he wouldn't call the cops if they sold the comic to him for twenty bucks . . . in store credit. Their track record with electronics wasn't much better, and there was a very real chance that they wouldn't make enough from the loot in Arlo's house to order a decent pizza.

Diesel was right, the Reptile thought. Stealing stuff was hardly worth the trouble. They needed to give themselves the gift that keeps on giving.

Cash.

It was Christmas Eve, and a Saturday night to boot. There'd be piles of money just lying around till the banks opened Monday morning. All they had to do was find one of those piles and rake it into a bag.

It was almost ten. What would still be open? Who wouldn't have guards and alarms? Where could they find lambs ready for the slaughter—preferably a whole flock?

And then, like a star going super-nova, a bright idea blazed to life in the Reptile's mind, and a not-so-heavenly choir belted out the Hallelujah Chorus.

When the Peanuts gang began "too-loo-loo"-ing their way through "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," signaling the impending ending of A Charlie Brown Christmas, Diesel finally glanced over at the Reptile, who'd been unnaturally quiet the last ten minutes. What he saw popped his eyes as wide as anything he'd ever seen on TV.

The Reptile was staring off into space, the stubby butt of a long-dead cigarette still in his mouth, his lips stretching toward his ears in a grin so intense it seemed to curl in on itself in pinwheeling spirals.

"Jeez, dude," Diesel said. "You look like the Grinch."

The Reptile hopped to his feet as fast as a man can from a La-Z-Boy at full recline. "Come on, D." Impossibly, his grin grew even bigger. "We're going to church."

The Reptile explained his plan as they raided closets in search of appropriate worship-wear. (The Reptile's AC/DC T and frayed jeans would surely raise eyebrows in even the most liberal church, while Diesel's camo gear and combat boots made him look like Sasquatch trick-or-treating as a Latin American death squad comandante.) Arlo's father apparently shared the Reptile's scrawny build and questionable taste, and a white linen suit from the Don Johnson/Miami Vice school of fashion was quickly drafted into service. Outfitting Diesel proved to be more of a challenge until the Reptile caught sight of a family portrait. Arlo's mother, it turned out, was what the marketing department at Lane Bryant calls "a real woman." Very, very real. Which is how her closet could produce a black "bigshirt" and an electric blue pantsuit large enough to contain almost all of Diesel's heft. The pant legs came to an end a full half-foot above the ground, but other than that the Reptile considered the ensemble a complete success.

"I don't know," Diesel said as he examined himself unhappily in a full-length mirror. "I guess it looks alright. But, dude . . . I'm wearing ladies clothes. It makes me feel weird."

"Don't worry. Long as you're not wearing a girdle you're still one hundred percent man." The Reptile tossed Diesel a tie emblazoned with the faces of the Three Stooges, no doubt a Father's Day gift from Arlo or one of his siblings. "Put this on. It oughta make you feel more manly."

Diesel did as he was told, but the tie didn't seem to reassure him. He was subdued bordering on glum as they left the house. The Reptile tried to buck him up by giving him a spliff the size and shape of a kosher dill. But after firing it up and toking it down, Diesel wasn't just glum, he was downright morose. That hardly struck the Reptile as strange, though, since morose seemed like an entirely appropriate attitude for anyone going to church.

Just which one they were going to remained undecided. They'd seen two churches as they turned into Arlo's subdivision, a Methodist and a United Church of Christ that stared at each other across Nicholas Road like the Sharks and the Jets daring each other to step across a crack in the pavement. The Reptile didn't prefer one over the other. As far as he knew, Methodists and whatever the United Church of Christ people called themselves (United Church of Christians?) were equally blessed, socio-economically. So ultimately it was location and timing that determined which house of worship they were going to invade: They came to the Shepherd of the Hills Methodist Church first, and its ten o'clock service was beginning just as they arrived.

Diesel and the Reptile sauntered in, picked up hymnals and lifted their voices up to God.

Their singing was something of a burnt offering in the Reptile's case, as his voice had been so ravaged by Kools his attempts at harmonizing sounded more like gargling. Diesel, on the other hand, belted out the first hymn of the evening ("O Come, All Ye Faithful") with such a rich, pitch-perfect baritone the little old lady standing beside him turned to ask why he wasn't in the choir.

"I don't know," Diesel said with a shrug as the organ's last bombastic blasts faded and the congregation sat back down. "Nobody ever asked me."

A moment later, the Reptile leaned over and pretended to point to something in the program he'd been handed as they strolled into the chapel.

"Hey, Sinatra—knock off the crooning," he whispered. "We don't want to be noticed, right?"

Diesel glanced down at the wardrobe the Reptile had picked out for him. Larry, Moe and Curly stared back up at him.

"Right," he said.

A black-robed, gray-haired white guy stepped up to the microphone in the pulpit.

"Friends . . . welcome," he intoned, giving the greeting an impressively Charlton Heston-ish gravitas.

For all the Reptile knew, the guy was Charlton Heston. All he saw was a multicolored blur with exceptionally good posture. The Reptile's vision wasn't what it used to be—ironic, perhaps, given that he made his living selling a folk remedy for glaucoma. He was in no hurry to have his eyes checked, however, since he had the same health care plan as most men in his profession, which is to say none.

"Let us pray," the Heston-blur said.

"God," the Reptile sighed, settling back and rolling his eyes heavenward. "Here we go."

The service that followed lasted approximately two weeks. Or so it seemed to the Reptile. He was a Lutheran by upbringing, if not inclination or practice, and he was disappointed (though not terribly surprised) to learn that Methodists don't sex up their services any more than the church he'd stopped attending at the age of fifteen, when his weary mother finally started letting him sleep off his Saturday night buzz in peace.

The Methodists sang the same songs he remembered. They did droning, call-and-response zombie chants just like he remembered. They did the irritating down-up-down sit-stand-sit low-impact aerobics he remembered. And they furnished their chapel with the same butt-numbing, back-gouging pews he remembered, which were designed not for comfort, he theorized, but for torture. After all, the church elders wouldn't want anyone napping when the collection plate came around, would they?

For the Reptile, no such torture was necessary. Waiting for the offertory was the only thing keeping him awake. His battle plan was this: See where the deacons take the money, slip into the john or a closet or an empty meeting room, chill for a while, sneak back out, grab the cash, then return to Arlo's house to toast their success with Chivas Regal and Bud Lite. It was a scheme so simple, so foolproof, it made the Reptile truly sad that Christmas comes but once a year.

Before he could really put that scheme into action, however, he had to survive the service with his sanity intact. The hymns, the Bible readings, "The Lesson" (which is how the program euphemistically referred to the brief-but-not-brief-enough sermon)—all of it passed by the Reptile unheard, unseen. His focus was turned inward, to the Girls Gone Wild highlight reel playing in his mind.

But eventually a sight appeared before him that was even more enticing than coeds with large breasts and low self-esteem: offering plates piled high with money. The Reptile had positioned himself and Diesel in the last row, the better to avoid notice, so by the time the deacons reached them the offerings had built up to quite a heap. And the heap kept growing larger as the plate for the Reptile's row was passed from hand to hand toward him. He was taken aback at first when Diesel reached into his pantsuit, pulled out a crumpled ten and dropped it in, but by the time the plate was in his own hands he was admiring his friend's rare display of strategic thinking.

A deacon was hovering in the aisle, just to the Reptile's right—God's bagman waiting for the night's haul. The man might remember a pair of unfamiliar tightwads who wouldn't cough up a gift during the Boss's kid's birthday bash. And any "offering" Diesel and the Reptile made now was really to themselves anyway, since they'd get the money back soon enough, with interest. So when the deacon left with the offering plate, the Reptile's last twenty was perched atop the mound of cash he carried, the cherry on a plump, flaky green pie.

It wouldn't be long now before Diesel and the Reptile got their slice—the whole thing. The deacons gathered at the back of the chapel, then marched up the aisle together and piled their swag on the altar. There was a little more up-down-sing-sit-blah blah blah after that, but this time the Reptile didn't zone out with visions of topless college girls dancing in his head. His gaze was locked on the loot. It wasn't just going to ascend to heaven on a moonbeam or disappear in a puff of smoke. Sooner or later, someone was going to move it. And when they did, the Reptile would be watching—and preparing to act.

What he wasn't prepared for was what came next. He and Diesel had been handed small, white candles when they walked into the chapel an hour or so before, but the Reptile had no idea what they were for. He'd never seen anything like them in the services he'd attended as a kid. Maybe the church had faulty wiring or didn't pay its utility bills on time. The lights could wink out at any second. But later, he noticed a line in the program that read "CANDLE LIGHTING/RECESSIONAL," which was half obvious, at least. They'd be lighting up their candles at the end of the service. The RECESSIONAL part reminded him of "recess" from his grade school days, but he didn't think the congregation was going to divide itself into teams for a rousing game of dodgeball or Red Rover. Whatever it was, it was the big climax to the service, and he was anxious for it to come so he could move along to the business at hand.

As it turned out, however, moving along was the business at hand. The deacons lit a few of the little candles, and slowly the tiny twinkling flames spread throughout the chapel, passed from person to person one flickering wick at a time. When every candle was lit, the minister said something about "spreading the light" or "spending the night" or "Lite-Brites"—the Reptile wasn't paying much attention to the words—before heading up the center aisle with the confident, purposeful stride of a prophet. The organist tore into "Joy to the World" with such gusto and volume it was clear she truly wanted the whole world to hear it, and people started to leave.

But it wasn't the rag-tag mass exodus the Reptile had been expecting, with some folks bolting for the doors while others just stood there chatting or waiting for the circulation to return to their lower extremities before attempting to walk. If that had been the case, it would have been easy for Diesel and the Reptile to linger, pretending to review a favorite Psalm while keeping a watchful eye on the offerings.

No, these Methodists were an orderly bunch, and they were filing out one row at a time—starting at the back. The families that had filled the pew across from Diesel and the Reptile's marched toward the exit with military precision, bright pearls of flame still glittering atop their candles. When the last of them was in the aisle, the Reptile found himself in exactly the position he'd hoped to avoid that night: the center of attention. The entire congregation seemed to be staring at him expectantly, even impatiently. He knew what they wanted, and he didn't want to give it to them. His mind was still racing, furiously searching for an out, when he felt the shove from behind.

"Jeez, go," Diesel whispered, sounding angry or perhaps even embarrassed.

The Reptile went.

An ambush was waiting for him in the hallway outside the chapel.

The deacons were there, collecting snuffed candles in boxes and wishing everyone a merry Christmas. One of them locked eyes on the Reptile, obliterating his chance to duck out unseen and find a quiet corner to hide in. By the time he'd given the deacon his candle (along with the least sincere "Merry Christmas" the man would hear that year), the Reptile was just a few steps from the exit—which was blocked by the minister, who was giving each person passing him a hearty handshake. Before the Reptile could dart away, the reverend's big, bony hand was reaching out for his.

"Hi," the Reptile said, giving the man's hand a shake as limp and quivery as a Jell-O crucifix. "Uhhh . . . good show tonight."

The minister froze for a few seconds, then chuckled. "Thank you. This was your first time at Shepherd of the Hills?"

"Yeah. I'm a Lutheran, really, but . . . you know. You gotta shake it up every now and then, right?"

The minister nodded slowly, a blank look on his face, as if politeness dictated that he show agreement with something that had just been said in Korean.

"Well, I hope you'll be back."

The Reptile smiled. "You can count on it, Reverend."

And then he was free at last. He drifted toward the parking lot slowly, expecting Diesel to appear at his side any moment. After half a minute had passed with no D, however, he turned around to look for his friend.

Diesel was standing in the doorway talking earnestly to the minister and the little old lady who'd been seated beside them during the service. Behind him, the hallway outside the chapel grew more and more clogged with parishioners. The log-jam finally broke when Diesel shook the minister's hand, received a hug from the old lady and headed toward the Reptile.

"What the hell was that all about?" the Reptile asked as Diesel shuffled up.

Diesel shrugged. "We were just talking."

"About what?"

"I don't know. Christmas. Church stuff." Diesel stared down at his combat boots. When he brought his gaze up again, he had an uncertain, almost shy smile on his face. "They asked me to join the choir."

The Reptile gaped at him—then nodded, his thin lips stretching into a grin.

"Good thinking, D. Now you got a reason to come back and scout the place out for us." He eyed the throng of church-goers still pouring from the chapel, most of them obviously anxious to become church-leavers as soon as possible. "We still want to hit 'em now, though. This is their jackpot night. I bet they usually don't rake in as much money in a whole month. Come on."

The Reptile headed quickly into the parking lot, moving along the line of cars closest to the church. Diesel followed, the polyester straining to contain his thick thighs shush-shush-shush-ing as he hurried to keep up.

"We can't go back in through the front door—not without giving a hundred people a close-up look at us," the Reptile said. "And who knows how long that old preacher guy'll be hanging around. So we gotta improvise."

When he reached the last of the cars, the Reptile shot a quick look over his shoulder. Only a handful of people had made it past the minister into the parking lot and none of them were looking his way. The Reptile pivoted sharply, veering right, and darted toward the bushes and shadows that lined the side of the church. It only took a few seconds of running to put him around the corner, out of sight of anyone coming out of the building or heading to their car. Diesel chugged after him, nearly invisible as he plunged into the darkness beside the Reptile.

"My man, you oughta keep that lady-suit when we're done with all this," the Reptile said. "It's better camo than your camo. I can barely see you."

"What are we doing over here?"

The Reptile took a quick survey of their surroundings. High wooden fence to their left, quiet subdivision homes beyond it. Nicholas Road about a hundred yards straight ahead. And running along on their right, the back wall of the Shepherd of the Hills Methodist Church.

The Reptile walked to the nearest window.

"What do you think we're doing?" he said, peering in at an empty classroom. The tables and chairs were uniformly tiny, and toys and thin-spined books were stacked on low shelves. A banner on the wall said "JESUS LOVES THE LITTLE CHILDREN." A shudder ran through the Reptile's slender body, the chill coming either from the brisk winter air or the ghostly tickle of Sunday school lessons long forgotten. "We're looking for another way in."

The window could be opened outward, swiveling on hinges like a miniature door. But it was sealed tight with a latch on the inside. The rest of the classroom windows were the same.

The Reptile moved on.

"Dude . . . dude, it's cold," Diesel whined as he clomped along after him, his boots seeming to seek out and land on only the twigs with the loudest snap potential.

"Hey, how about a little more stealth back there, Rambo?" the Reptile said. He looked in at the next room—a teen center, to judge by the foosball table, bean bag chairs and posters of pretty young men and women sporting the faux-scruffy look favored by whitebread Christian rockers. Again, the windows were sealed tight.

The Reptile invoked the name of the man whose birth they'd been celebrating in church—invoked it with blasphemous bitterness. After suffering through the Christmas service, he desperately needed a Kool. Hell, he could've smoked two just then, jamming them between his lips at the same time and sucking them down to their butts in seconds. But he knew better than to fire up his lighter within sight of the road. So he pressed on. When they were done, he'd light up a whole pack with a fifty dollar bill.

"We're getting pretty close to Nicholas Road, dude," Diesel said as the Reptile went striding past window after window, lock after lock. "Someone's gonna see us."

"Only if we're outside. That's why we gotta find . . . yes!"

A way in. At last.

They'd reached the end of the building, turned the corner. And the very first window they came to was open.

The Reptile peered through the glass at the room beyond. A shaft of light from a half-open door beamed in on a stack of dark, oversized folders and a row of golden robes hanging in a closet.

The window was only open about four inches, not enough to let in a person, just some fresh air. Scattered on the ground outside was an elephant's graveyard of cigarette butts. Apparently, somebody in the choir liked to warm up their lungs with a pre-service smoke.

"Finally. It's our window of opportunity, D!" The Reptile took hold of the edges and pulled. The window didn't budge. "Help me loosen this up."

The Reptile gave the window another tug . . . alone. When he turned to see why he wasn't getting any help, he found himself staring into an electric blue wall. Diesel's back.

"D? The window's over here, my man. Behind you. Attached to the building. D?"

"Geez, man . . . it's like she's looking right at me."

"She? Who? Damn!"

The Reptile jumped around Diesel, ready to keep jumping all the way back to his Reliant. There was a good forty yards of lawn between them and Nicholas Road, and the nearest street light was even further away than that, yet still he expected to see a car slowing to a stop, the driver gawking at them slack-jawed.

And there were indeed cars out there. But they were all zipping right along.

Diesel wasn't looking at them, anyway. He was staring across the road, across the ditch on the other side, across the long stretch of grass beyond it, at Shepherd of the Hills's competition: Bethlehem United Church of Christ. Sitting in front of it was what could have been a henhouse surrounded by floodlights. Fuzzy figures huddled in and around the ramshackle wooden structure. From a distance, it looked like they were all draped in bathrobes.

"Her," Diesel said. "In the naiveté scene."

"Who in the what?"

The Reptile squinted hard at the chicken shack. His eyesight might have been fading, but it didn't take strong eyes to figure out what was across the road. All that was required was a functioning brain.

"It's 'nativity scene,' D. And it's plastic. Or plaster, I don't know. Anyway, nobody's looking at you."

"But I feel like she is, you know?" Diesel said, his tone pleading, begging for his friend's understanding. "Mary. I feel like she sees me. And she seems . . . disappointed."

The Reptile blinked at Diesel as if he'd just sprouted wings and fired up a neon halo.

"Damn, D. I shouldn't have let you blast that roach when we left the house. Cuz I swear, you sound like you've got The Fear."

"It's not the pot. It's just that I've been thinking—"

"Well, there's your problem right there," the Reptile cut in. "You listen to all that preachy church crap and start thinking, you'll get so spun-around dizzy you can't see straight."

"No, dude. I was thinking before we even went into the church. Like, when we were watching the cartoon tonight? And Linus starts talking about the little baby in swallowed-up clothes and the heavenly hostess singing the good news and peace on earth, good will to men? You know. Like, a second a chance for everybody? That's what Christmas is all about." Diesel nodded at the window the Reptile had been clawing at. "Not this."

The Reptile shook his head and waved his hands like a man trying to shoo away a fly intent on buzzing its way into his ear.

"No, no, no. Forget Linus. Lucy, D. Lucy's the smart one."

Now it was Diesel's turn to shake his head.

"She's smart, dude, but that doesn't make her right. What she's talking about, the rackets and all . . . that's what we're supposed to save ourselves from."

"What are you, a wise man all of a sudden?" the Reptile snapped. "Listen to me, Kenneth. You're just as dumb now as you were when you woke up this morning. So don't start thinking you can think. Leave that to the Reptile. Now get your big ass over here and yank this god damn window open."

The Reptile spun around, marched back to the window and started tugging at it again. He'd never gotten nasty with Diesel before. It had never been necessary. What the Reptile said, Diesel did. It pained him to be so harsh with D now, but what choice did he have? They had a job to do, and they had to do it quick. Mary and the other assembly-line saints across the road didn't bother him. But real flesh-and-blood people driving past in real steel-and-chrome cars—those were a worry.

"I don't like this," Diesel said.

"There's a little crank thingy for opening the window," the Reptile replied without really replying. "If we just get a little more of a gap here, I think I can get my arm in and reach it."

"I mean, I feel bad, dude."

"Well, you know what they say, D." The Reptile leaned back, pulling on the window with all of his weight. For the first time, he thought he felt it budge. "No pain, no gain."

"'No pain, no gain'?" Diesel said. "Alright. I can live with that."

The Reptile didn't hear him. He was grunting and growling with effort, convinced the window was finally starting to move. He leaned back further, still gripping the window like a mountain climber clutching a rocky ledge. Something snapped.

The window tilted upward. The Reptile sprawled downward. The ground stayed just where it was—which is why the Reptile smacked into it so hard.

He lay there a moment, flat on his back, breathless with both exertion and surprise. Far above him, luminous white clouds, backlit brilliantly by a hidden moon, blotted out all but a small black pond of night-time sky. A single star shimmered in the circle of darkness, its twinkling beams reaching out like tendrils straining to touch the earth.

Gazing up at its lonely beauty, the Reptile felt something inside himself shift, itch, grow. It started as an observation, turned into a doubt, then transformed into a question that shook his very soul.

Where the hell is Diesel?

He sat up and looked around. His literal partner in crime was gone.

"You idiot!" the Reptile wanted to scream. "I've got the keys to the car! You're going to have a merry god damn Christmas walking all the way home tonight! Do you hear me, you moron? You stupid freak!"

He couldn't scream all that, of course. Not without drawing an unwanted audience. So he took out his frustration on the ground, kicking and pounding at the frozen sod. It wasn't very satisfying. The terra was far too firma. The Reptile's fists and heels were aching after the very first blows, and it was quickly clear that he was hurting himself more than the innocent earth beneath him. He ended his tantrum and dragged himself to his feet.

The window he'd been working on, he now saw, was hanging from a single hinge. He'd managed to bend and snap the other one. The glass pane was dangling, loose. All he had to do was push it aside, hoist himself up, and he'd be in.

A miracle. Hallelujah.

And he was the only one there to see it. The only one with pockets to stuff full of money. All because Diesel let himself get spooked by some baby Jesus-talk and a factory-made Mary.

The Reptile turned and shot a spiteful glare at the nativity scene across the road.

"Thanks a lot, lady," he snarled. He couldn't tell if the hazy Madonna he was squinting at so furiously was plaster or plastic or Play-Doh. He just knew she was fake—in every way—and she'd come between him and his only friend.

A woman, he thought. Ain't that always the way?

He tried to think of a suitable blasphemy to throw in her fuzzy face. After a moment's thought, he settled on "'Virgin' my ass." Then he whirled around, walked to the window and started climbing.

Just as he set a toe in the promised land, inside the church, he heard footsteps behind him.

"There he is!" a woman barked.

When the Reptile looked back over his shoulder, he was blinded by twin lights—flashlight beams aimed right at his face.

"Oh, yeah," a man said. "We got us a back-door Santa alright."

"This isn't what it looks like, officers."

The Reptile put up his hands. He didn't have to see the people coming toward him to know they were cops.

"Oh?" the male one said.

The Reptile felt a sudden pressure on his forearm, a jerk that wrenched his shoulder, and then he was on the ground again. Face down this time, his hands behind his back.

"Well, these aren't handcuffs, either," the male cop said. He snapped something hard and cold on the Reptile's wrists. "They just look like them."

They felt like them, too.

The cops hauled the Reptile to his feet and began steering him back toward the parking lot. The woman was reminding him of his right to remain silent, but that was the last right the Reptile wanted to exercise just then.

"It was him, wasn't it?" he ranted. "D! I can't believe it. I can't believe it! He ratted me out! After all we've been through together, he narcs on me! On Christmas Eve!"

The cops fell silent for a moment. Then the male cop spoke, sounding amused in a way the Reptile couldn't understand.

"And who would 'Dee' be?"

"Dean," the Reptile corrected incorrectly, struggling to regain the cold-blooded calm he thought of (also incorrectly) as his defining trait. "Just a guy I know. So he didn't send you guys over here, huh?"

The cops went quiet again. Then the female cop picked up where she'd left off, reminding the Reptile of his right to have an attorney present during questioning. And the funny thing was, she sounded amused, too.

They were sharing a joke, those two. And the joke was on him. Only he still didn't know what it was.

The punch line came ten minutes later. The cops had prodded him about "Dean" a few more times, brought the minister over to gape at him, let him freeze his ass off in the back of their patrol car while they slurped hot coffee fetched by a choir member still in her golden robes. Then they climbed in and hauled him off to be booked.

The cops were relaxed, even jovial. Definitely not worried about any other "back-door Santas" still on the prowl. That meant the minister hadn't noticed he and Diesel were together, the Reptile figured. And whoever'd called the police hadn't seen both of them creeping around outside the church. So D might end up alright, as long as the Reptile didn't drag him into it.

And he didn't plan to. Diesel got lucky because all of a sudden he started caring that something seemed "wrong." The Reptile could forgive him for that.

After all, it was Christmas, right? Like D said—the time for second chances. You just had to be smart enough to take your chance when it was handed to you. Diesel could still redeem himself. The Reptile would be needing money for a lawyer, and New Year's Eve was on its way. The easiest day of the year to roll drunks.

As the police cruiser pulled out onto Nicholas Road, the Reptile scanned the darkness beyond the reach of its headlights, straining for a sight he knew his eyes were too weak to see. He imagined Diesel peeking out around a tree or cowering behind a car, his borrowed blue pantsuit turning him into a wall of shadow. Or maybe he was hiding in plain sight, the fourth wise man in the "naiveté" scene. The Reptile smiled grimly as the patrol car passed Bethlehem United Church of Christ and the phony little manger with its phony little savior.

And suddenly the Reptile, who'd always fancied himself cold-blooded, knew what it felt like when your veins really do turn to ice.

Up close, he could see that the manger wasn't small at all. It was nearly life-size. Which was appropriate, since the figures milling about around it were alive.

The shepherds, the wise men, Joseph, Mary—everyone but the baby Jesus. They were real people in costume. Teenagers, by the look of them. A youth group bringing the nativity to life on Christmas Eve.

Only they weren't in character any more. They were standing around in clumps of two and three, chattering, watching the cop car, pointing. The only one still in position was Mary, who remained hunched over the straw-stuffed trough that served as crib for their pudgy Cabbage Patch Christ. Her mouth was moving, though she clearly wasn't speaking to anyone the Reptile could see.

She was talking into her cell phone.

SPECIAL DELIVERY

Me and Santa Claus, we got a thing or two in common. Not in the looks department, obviously. I look more like a shriveled old elf than your classic jolly fat man. But the way I see it, Santa's a trucker, just like I was for thirty-something years.

Now, obviously, he ain't a trucker in your literal, Biblical sense. The man don't drive a rig and he ain't a Teamster—at least, far as I know. But he's the fella who gets the goods from point A to point B. The elves, they're the manufacturers. And the kids, they're the customers. And Santa's the man who brings 'em together. Just like a trucker.

You know, I even pulled a Santa one year. Worked a real Christmas miracle for the children of River City. Well, for a toy store in River City, really. And for myself. But it's a whopper of a Christmas tale all the same. They oughta make one of them cartoon shows about it, like the ones they show on TV every year. Fetch me over a plate of them nachos and another beer, and maybe I'll tell it to you.

Thanks.

So now let's say you and me climb in my magical time machine and go waaaaaaaaay back to that ancient year nineteen and eighty three. I had it pretty sweet in them days. My wife Bootsie, God bless her, she pulled in good money at the Lawn Devil plant. That was before they packed it all up and shipped it to Mexico, you understand. Back then, Lawn Devil brought good money into River City—and into our house. I owned my own rig, didn't work for nobody but myself, could do a job or not do a job as I pleased, more or less. Not many truckers have things that cushy. This was years before Bootsie got sick.

We were all set for our usual Christmas Eve. Bootsie's momma was gonna come over with a ham, we would give each other presents, the boys would get in a fight about who got what record album and who got what poster and who got what T-shirt and what all. Then Bootsie and her momma and me would sip on some Fuzzy Navels and sing along with Johnny Mathis and Elvis while the boys sneaked out back to go kill a six pack with their friends behind the garage.

It don't sound like much, does it? But, boy, I miss it.

I missed it this year I'm talking about, too. Because the day before Christmas I get a call from Ivor Boraborinski. He and his brother Basil, they used to run a small transport company down around Evansville. Still do, now that I think of it. They're a bit on the seedy side, but not what you'd call outright shady.

Now whenever I got a call from a Boraborinski, I knew it was gonna be something interesting, because them two boys never stuck their noses into anything that wasn't. Every job with them was a double-rush long-haul ask-us-no-questions-we'll-tell-you-no-lies kind of deal, and it always ended up being a story. You listen real good to this one, maybe I'll tell you about the time they had me drop off a whole herd of reindeer at a danged mall!

So anyway, there it was Christmas Eve, and Ivor calls up and says, "I got a job for you, Bass."

"Uh-huh," I say.

"You'll probably want to leave right away," he says.

"Uh-uh," I say. But that doesn't faze Ivor.

"You'll have to be back by ten a.m. tomorrow," he says.

I don't even bother with an "Uh-uh" this time. Remember now—"tomorrow" is Christmas Day.

"Round trip's about a thousand miles," Ivor says.

I could've whistled or groaned or asked him just how much Jack he'd put in his eggnog, but I stayed quiet.

And then he mentioned how much he'd pay.

Bootsie heard me gasp from the kitchen and hustled over, looking worried. She probably thought somebody'd died or the church had burned down or one of the boys had got himself arrested again. I gave her a don't-worry shake of my head, but my words didn't comfort her much.

"You know I don't haul drugs or guns, Ivor," I say.

"I'm not asking you to," he says.

"Well, I don't get it then," I say. "Cuz that figure you just mentioned is obb-scene. If it was a movie, Jerry Fallwell'd tell me to boycott it."

And then he said something that really made me think he'd gotten carried away with the Christmas spirits that day: "You ever heard of a Cabbage Patch Kid?"

Well, I hadn't. I look at Bootsie and roll my eyes and do that little finger-circle-around-the-ear crazy sign. I figure I'm talking to a loony tune.

"No, I have not," I say, getting ready to hang up before he asks me whether I believe in the Abominable Snowman.

"They're dolls," he says. "Ask your wife about 'em. She'll know. Everybody's crazy for 'em this year. Stores can't keep 'em on the shelves. You got people practically killing each other for the chance to buy one. There've been fights, riots, you name it."

"Over a doll?" I say. I still don't exactly believe him at this point, but he's starting to make some kinda sense.

"Over a doll," Ivor says. "And right now in River City, you can't buy a single one of 'em. Sold out. On Christmas Eve."

"Uh-huh," I say.

"The company that makes 'em is working around the clock to crank out more," Ivor says. "The folks at Monkeyberry Toys have a consignment on order that'll be ready tonight at midnight. Six hundred dolls. And they know they can sell every dang one of 'em—if we can get 'em back to River City on Christmas Day."

"Uh-huh," I say. "Can you hold on a minute?"

Ivor grunts at me, and I slap a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

"Bootsie," I say, "Ivor Boraborinski wants me to do a special haul for him. Like right now. About a thousand miles."

"Uh-huh," says Bootsie, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I drop it: I tell her how much they'll pay.

"You want Pepsi or Mountain Dew this trip?" she says.

"Mountain Dew," I tell her.

Ivor overhears that and knows what it means. He starts telling me where to go to get the dolls.

Now usually, Ivor'd have me pick up a load of this or that on my way out of town. In the trucking business, it don't pay to go nowhere with an empty trailer. But Ivor just tells me forget it, this is rush-rush stuff and the Monkeyberry folks couldn't get anyone else to do it and the profit margin is covered but good. I've just gotta grab them toys and get 'em back to River City by Christmas morning.

See? Just like Santa Claus.

So less than thirty minutes later, I'm headed east on I-70. Pennsylvania, here I come. Turns out them "kids" didn't grow in any cabbage patch. They were made in a factory in a dumpy little industrial park outside Pittsburgh. This was back when you could actually find a doll that didn't have MADE IN CHINA tattooed on its keister, you understand.

They may as well have come from the North Pole, though. Whammy! The second I hit the road, here comes the snow. It starts off all slow and pretty and I've got my Johnny Mathis on the tape deck singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow" and it's real cute. But darn it all if Mother Nature don't take Johnny serious. The snow just don't stop. It didn't take long to go from cute to a pain in the butt to downright dangerous. And I've got hours and hours to go.

That's where the Mountain Dew comes in. Load me up with a couple cases of that stuff and I could drive to the moon and back without making a pit stop. When one can wears off, I pop open another. And when I get tired of that, I start tossing Lemonheads in my mouth to give it an extra kick. A man can't live on caffeine alone, you know. He needs sugar, too.

So by the time I get to the factory, here's what I've got on my bodily odometer: fifteen cans of Dew, two jumbo boxes of Lemonheads, God only knows how many cigarettes, enough beef jerky to start my own cattle drive and about five hundred close calls with ice, snow, deer, state troopers and cars driven by drunks and pinheads. And I've got to face that all over again on the way back, all without a single wink of sleep. Which is not exactly legal, but you know how it is. A trucker's logbook's got more fairy tales per page than Mother Goose.

When I finally get to the factory, it's something like eleven forty five in the p.m. Right on schedule—on my part, anyway. But it turns out I'm the twentieth truck in line. They've got people in the factory working quadruple overtime, those dolls are breaking the sound barrier as they come flying off the assembly line and still they're behind schedule. The demand was just too huge. So I'm told to sit down, shut up and wait my turn.

Which I do. But not 'til after I've gotten me my first gander at them dolls. They're in boxes all pushed together by the hundred and wrapped up tight in industrial plastic. But if you get up close and squint you can see their pudgy faces back there, like row after row of chubby little mummies staring out at you through their shrouds.

"Holy Cheez Whiz," I say. "That's what all the fuss is about? Looks like somebody busted these babies in the face with a baseball bat. Any kid with one of those in her bed's gonna wake up screaming for sure."

The toy people aren't exactly amused by this, maybe because they're just as tired as me. So I shut my trap and climb into my cab and turn up my Elvis Christmas tape real loud. But I'm off my stride with the Mountain Dew, and nature takes its course.

One minute Elvis is singing about having a blue Christmas without you, the next he's telling me to run for my life cuz them Cabbage Patch Kids are the unholy spawn of Satan. I even see one peeking at me in the rear-view mirror, its beady little eyes glowing in the dark, blood trickling from its nasty puckered mouth. I try to yell for help but nothing comes out. The little monster's pulling at the handle of the door and there's something pink and pulpy caught in its sharp teeth and I hear it say "I'm hungry, Daddy" and I can't move a muscle and knock knock knock. Suddenly some bossy foreman's telling me to wake the heck up cuz it's my turn to load.

First thing I do, of course, is pop open another soda. Then I take a peek at my watch—and nearly give myself a Mountain Dew shower, I jump so bad. It's almost two in the zippity doo-da morning! Those unmentionable so-and-sos let me sleep for two blankety-blank hours!

I rev up my rig and whip around to the loading dock and back up at fifty five miles an hour and hop out and start tapping my foot and staring at that loading crew so hard my eyes are about to pop out of my skull. They get the message, too.

"Take it easy, fella," the foreman says to me. "We know, we know. We've got families to get home to, too."

"Yeah, but mine's five hundred miles away," I say.

"O.K., O.K.," the foreman says all irritable like, but he and his boys work fast. Twenty minutes later he's sticking a form under my face saying, "Alright, fella, sign it and haul."

I look in the trailer and don't like what I see. The thing's more than half empty.

"That's six hundred dolls?" I say.

"Hey, they're dolls—not TVs or hogs or whatever you're used to hauling." He slaps the paper he's trying to get me to sign. "Six hundred. Just like it says in the order."

"Alright," I say. "You know your business."

"Damn straight," the foreman says—and pardon my French for saying it now.

I sign and I haul.

The snow's still coming down as I pull out. There's maybe eight inches on the ground at this point, and it's starting to drift. It don't look good. But I'm in a fine mood cuz I'm finally on my second leg, so it's just one more big push and I'm home. The factory's about five miles off I-71. All I've gotta do is get on the interstate, crank up the Christmas tunes and let the Dew do the rest.

I'm about half-way to 71 on this dark little two-lane stretch through the woods when I see a big orange sign propped up in the middle of the road. "Detour," it says. There's a black arrow pointing off onto something that looks about half a step up from a deer trail. But the weather being so bad and all, I just figure it's drifting up ahead, and the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation must know what they're doing, right? I turn onto the detour road.

Now this isn't one of your classic straight-as-an-arrow roads mapped out by a cartographer with a degree from a big state school. It follows a creek bed. It twists and it turns and it doubles back on itself until you don't know if you're headed east, west, north, south or straight down. I was out of sight of the main road before I'd gone thirty yards. By the time I'd gone a hundred, I was beginning to think about turning around—if I could ever find a spot to do it. Eighteen wheelers aren't exactly known for their maneuverability.

Of course, I'm none too happy about what this is gonna do to my ETA. And "none too happy" becomes "downright p.o.ed" when I see a fella in the middle of the road up ahead waving his arms. A few yards behind him there's a rusty old Buick half-on half-off the road at a cock-eyed angle. Looks like some Bud-happy yahoo couldn't handle the snow, and now it's up to old Bass to save the day . . . while ten a.m. Christmas morning gets closer and closer.

I'll admit it: There was a part of me that wanted to just keep on truckin'. But I guess all that "joy to the world" spirit of Christmas stuff was sloshing around in my head along with the Mountain Dew. I stopped.

I roll down the window and lean out and say, "What's the trouble, buddy?" To which the fella in the road has two interesting responses. One, he rolls down the stocking cap on his head so it covers his face. Turns out it's a ski mask. And two, he reaches under his coat and pulls out a revolver, which he proceeds to point in the general direction of my head as he walks over to my truck.

"No trouble here, 'buddy.' Unless you make some," he says.

I'm usually pretty good with the snappy comebacks, but this time I'll admit I wasn't up to the challenge. All I could get out of my mouth was something none too snappy like "Wha'?" or maybe "Huh?"

"Out," the fella says, waving the gun with three quick little jerks of his wrist. "Out out out."

Now I don't know about you, but my first inclination is to do what people pointing guns at me tell me to do. But just as my hand wraps around the door handle and I'm getting ready to climb down from my rig, I see lights flashing over the snow. Headlights. Someone's driving up behind us. Could be the state police. Could be some poor sucker about to get his head blowed off just cuz he's in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could be both.

I freeze.

Mr. Gun glances down the road toward the lights, then takes another step toward me.

"You deaf or somethin'?" he says. He cocks the revolver. "I said out."

The lights are close now—so close Mr. Gun is lit up like he's up on stage at a girlie bar. Plain as day I can see his faded blue jeans and raggedy parka and muddy good ol' boy boots. And I notice that he's not the biggest buck in the herd and his hand's shaking maybe a little more than the cold would account for. And I start to figure that this here highwayman ain't exactly Jesse James. Which doesn't help whoever's driving toward us. This fella might not be a professional, but he's got himself a gun, and that can be enough.

The crunch of snow and gravel's getting pretty loud now, the lights are getting brighter, but Mr. Gun's still focused on me me me.

"I'm not kiddin' around here, you so-and-so," he says, except his language is a little stronger than that. "Get out of the ding-danged truck."

A beat-up red pick-up pulls to a stop behind him while he's saying this, and I figure this is when the shooting's gonna start. I'm getting ready to throw myself down on the floor of the cab and start praying for a miracle when I notice the orange Detour sign lying in the back of the truck. A heavy-set fella steps out of the pick-up and walks up to Mr. Gun. He's got himself a ski-mask, too. His has got "Campbell's Soup" written across the forehead and "M'm! M'm! Good!" on the chin. The mask is stretched so tight across his fat face the fabric looks like to rip, like maybe it's three sizes too small.

"What's going on here?" Mr. Soup says. Except it sounds more like "Whuz goin' on hee-er?" He's got him a Southern accent so thick you could make a mattress out of it.

"He won't get out of the truck," Mr. Gun says. His voice is high-pitched, nervous, and for the first time I notice his accent instead of just being hypnotized by his Smith and Wesson. Sounded like these two were Mountaineers—kid hillbillies up from West Virginia.

"Well, heck," Mr. Soup says, and he snatches the revolver right out of Mr. Gun's hand. He steps up on the footboard of my rig and brings the barrel up under my nose. "This just ain't your night, is it?" he says, and a big grin stretches the fabric of his mask even further. "First truck we saw went whoosh—right by our little Detour sign. Didn't even slow down. The second one came down this way but didn't bother stopping to help my buddy here. On Christmas Eve yet! So we've been out here waiting a looooooong time. We're cold, we're tired and we want them babies. So just step out of the truck and I won't have to mess up your pretty face with a couple of bullets."

Now the more this fella talks to me, the more time I've got to stew on things. I'm not a brave man, but I can be a bad-tempered one, and a temper can make a coward do things a bona fide he-man hero would think was crazy. And I was getting madder and madder that these two holler-dwellers were trying to steal my rig after all the hours I'd put in—and with all the money I had waiting for me at the end of the haul. So I decided I wasn't going to make it easy for 'em.

"You say you want what now?" I say.

Mr. Soup's grin goes a little lop-sided.

"Cabbage Patch Kids," the former Mr. Gun—now Mr. Gunless, I suppose—says from behind him. "We know you got 'em."

"Cabbage Kids?" I say, giving Mr. Gunless a "What the . . .?" look. I turn to Mr. Soup and lower my voice. "Is he alright?"

Mr. Soup's smile has flopped all the way over into a frown now.

"Don't think you can b.s. me, mister," he says. "There's only one factory up that road that's still workin'. The toy factory."

"Yeah, that's right," I say. "I just dropped off a load of plastic there. I don't know nothin' 'bout any 'Cabbage Babies' or whatever it is you're looking for. Sounds to me like something you'd get in a grocery store."

I see a little fire kindle in Soup's eyes and I'm beginning to wonder if I've just made the biggest mistake of my too-short-by-half life when I hear Gunless say, "What are we gonna do?"

"He's lyin'," Soup says.

"What if he's not lyin'?"

"He's lyin'."

"What if he's not lyin'?"

"He's lyin'!"

"What if he's not lyin'?"

"He's lyin', you dot-dot-dash fool!"

Gunless goes all silent for a second. Then he says in a quiet kinda voice, "What if he's not lyin'?"

Soup takes in a deep breath. When he exhales, I get a nasty whiff of Cheetos and beer.

"We're gonna check," he says to his partner. Then he turns back to me. "And if you are lyin', I'm not gonna kill you with this."

He gives the revolver a little wave, then reaches up under his jacket with his left hand and fiddles with something. The hand comes back with a Rambo-looking hunting knife in it.

"I'm gonna kill you with this."

"There'll be no need for any killing," I say.

"We'll see about that," Soup says. "Now gimme them keys so we can open up this trailer and take a look."

Lickity-split, a plan forms in my head: I give the yokels the keys, then while they're in back checking on my cargo I hop out and slip into Soup's truck, which is still sitting there with the engine running.

Just as quick, Soup seems to have the same thought.

"Better yet," he says, "get on out of there and open it up yourself."

He steps away from the door, but he's still keeping that gun on me. I get the sudden feeling I've bluffed about as far as I can bluff and any more dilly-dallying is gonna get me a hole in the head bigger than the one I've already got.

"Alright, alright," I say.

I pull the keys from the ignition, open the door and slip out of the cab.

Once I hit the ground, I notice just how puny Gunless really is. I mean, Shirley Temple could take this guy in a fair fight, and it gives me ideas. Then I turn toward his pal . . . .

Now, Soup wasn't any Andre the Giant, but he coulda been Andre's not-so-little brother, I tell you that. I'd have to go up in a hot-air balloon just to take a poke at his chin.

So bare-knuckle brawling was definitely out of the question as a solution to my problems. Which was O.K., anyhow, to be honest with you, as I can't fight worth spit.

"Go on," Soup says. He doesn't give me a shove or anything cuz he's got his hands full with the gun and the knife. But those do all the shoving he needs done. I start towards the back of the truck.

I don't set any speed records getting back there, though. I'm calculating as I walk. Do I try to roll under the trailer and run off into the woods on the other side? Or do I . . . well . . . roll under the trailer and run off into the woods on the other side. It was all I could think of other than growing wings and learning to fly, which seemed like a bit of a longshot.

Just as I'm about to duck under the truck—and probably get a bullet in the butt in the process—there's no more truck to duck under, just those big darned semi wheels. I'd been so deep in thought planning my get-away, I'd blown my chance.

So there I am at the back-end of my trailer with Hulk Hogan holding a gun and a knife on me and I definitely don't feel those wings popping out. It was beginning to look like there was no way I was going to save my truck. And the only way I was going to save my life was through vigorous begging and pleading for mercy.

"Open it up," Soup says.

I do as I'm told without any back-talk, knowing it's a little late to start earning brownie points but figuring I may as well try. I unlock the bolt and pull the trailer doors open.

And there plain as day before our eyes was . . . nothing. It was pitch black in there. Soup and Gunless both lean forward, look at each other, then lean forward again.

"See?" I say hopefully. "Nothing."

"I don't see any dolls," Gunless says to the criminal mastermind.

"Shut up," Soup spits back. He pushes up against the trailer and leans in real far, and I can see one little eye under the "Campbell's" squinting away. "There's something way back there." He squints so hard it's a wonder he can see at all. "In the very back."

"Oh, that," I say. "That's not them Cauliflower Batch Babies or whatever. That's just some . . . extra plastic. I've got me another delivery to make in the morning."

My little pause between "some" and "extra plastic" was maybe like one second long, but I knew it might have been long enough to earn me a hunting-knife bow-tie. Soup gives me a stone-cold look, and I can tell he's wondering whether to slit my throat right then or wait to see how mad he should be when he does it.

After a very long moment, Soup decides to save the fun for later.

"Get up in there and check it out," he says to his buddy.

Gunless just kinda gapes at Soup for a while. I don't know, maybe he's afraid of the dark or something. But then he turns and hauls himself up into the trailer with a big grunt. I get a gander at the full moon as he goes up, if you know what I mean. I don't know why it is hillbillies can't seem to keep their pants up over their backsides.

So Gunless goes groping slowly off into the blackness, and in a few seconds there's a "Oomph" that says he's bumped into my cargo.

"Whadaya see?" Soup calls out.

"Can't see nothing," Gunless says. I hear his hands pawing around over the shrink-wrapped dolls. "But there's something here, alright. It's big. Feels like it's all wrapped up in plastic."

At that moment, a terrifying thought pops into my head. All these two rocket scientists need to do is pull Soup's pick-up around and use the headlights to get a good look inside my trailer. Then they'll see they've got what they want and I've been lying and it's goodnight, Nellie . . . and goodbye, Bass. And it's while I'm trembling over this—not volunteering the idea, of course—that I finally get those wings I'd been hoping for.

"Aww, heck . . . lemme have a look," Soup says (or words to that effect) and he puts his fists on the back ledge of the trailer still clutching the gun and knife, throws up a leg as thick as a tree trunk and pushes himself up inside.

I'm so stunned by this it takes me a second to do the obvious thing—which is slam that trailer shut at supersonic speed. It takes Soup the same amount of time to realize what he's done, and I see him whirl around just as the doors go clang right in his face. I re-lock the bolt a split second before Soup throws himself against the doors. There's a crash, and I hear him stumble back and fall, cursing up a storm the whole time. A second later, things get really noisy when two sets of boot-covered feet start kicking at the doors.

"Let me outta here!" Gunless screams. "Let me outta here!"

He sounds real hysterical, like maybe he really is afraid of the dark.

That's when I take the dunce cap off Soup and put it on my own fool head.

"Now just calm down there, boys," I say. "I ain't gonna—"

The first bullet came flying through the trailer door and kept on going right through my jacket just under my left arm. The second one took a little nip off my left ear. You can still see the scar right there. I didn't wait around for the third, fourth, fifth and sixth bullets. I dived head-first under the trailer and threw my hands up over my head. Not that my two little hands were gonna keep a bullet out of my brain if that's where it wanted to go.

Bang bang . . . bang bang bang . . .bang . . . click click.

And then nothing.

I'm lying there in the snow and gravel and frozen mud under the back of the truck and I'm thinking, "Well, I'm cold and scared and my ear hurts like a hmm-hmm, so I guess I'm still alive." But I'm not too anxious to get up and take advantage of that, figuring that's just gonna invite Soup to start popping off again. And while I'm down there on my belly just trying to be quiet and think quiet thoughts, I hear Soup and Gunless in the truck above me.

"Didja get 'im?" Gunless says.

Pause.

"I don't know."

"Y'know . . . if you did get 'im . . . who's gonna let us outta this here truck?"

Pause.

"I don't know."

"You're outta bullets, too, aintcha?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Where are the extras?"

Pause.

"In my pick-up."

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

"I'm scared, Buck."

"Shut up, Kev."

Now you might think all my troubles are over at this point. But I've got me a dilemma on my hands. The responsible, law-abiding thing to do is head to the nearest state police outpost and drop Buck and Kev off and let the great state of Pennsylvania decide their fate.

But. I can't just pull up and unload my new cargo like it's a bunch of frozen fish sticks. There are going to be questions. There is going to be paperwork. There is the great likelihood that someone's going to figure out how much driving I'd planned on doing in the span of twenty four hours—an amount of time behind the wheel which is not exactly legal, you understand. And, most importantly, there is the one hundred percent absolute guaranteed certainty that I am not going to make it back to River City by ten a.m. Christmas morning or eleven a.m. Christmas morning or even five p.m. Christmas night.

Which means all of this will have been for nothing.

So I did what I think any self-respecting trucker would've done. I crawled out from under the trailer, hopped back in my cab, fired up the engine and headed for the interstate.

It took me seven hours to get to River City. And I didn't need any Dew to keep me awake. I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I could've won the Kentucky Derby without benefit of a horse. Plus, my ear was throbbing away the whole time, and it's hard to get sleepy when it feels like a badger's nibbling on the side of your head.

I pulled into the parking lot out front of Monkeyberry Toys at ten fifteen a.m. And I am telling you, the place was packed. Cars cars cars—most of 'em empty. There was this big mob jammed around the doors to the store, and when everybody sees me pull up, they let out this shrieking scream-shout, and all of a sudden I've got three hundred doll-crazy women chasing after me. I barely made it around the side of the store ahead of 'em.

Around the corner there's the loading dock and about a dozen Monkeyberry employees waiting for me. I also see five familiar faces: Basil and Ivor Boraborinski and my truckin' buddies Dave Reeves, Milford Corn and Ernie Hutchings. I'd C.B.ed ahead for the cavalry, you see, and there they were.

While the Monkeyberry folks go try to head off the stampeding moms, I get my rig pulled around and back up to the dock. Then I climb out and go around back of the trailer, where the boys are waiting for me with the Monkeyberry manager.

"Good gosh, Bass, you look like heck," Ernie says.

"You should see the other fellas," I say. "In fact, you can. Do me a favor and try to look tough for a minute, would ya? They ain't gonna be too jolly."

And I open up the trailer doors, and there's my two Robin Hood wannabes squinting at the light—which they hadn't seen in quite some time except maybe what came in through the bullet holes. They looked like they'd just spent a day tumbling around in a clothes dryer. (I admit I didn't go out of my way to avoid every pothole I saw on my way back to River City.)

"I suggest you two get a move on before somebody calls the police," I say.

Soup stands up slowly and stumbles towards us. He's still got his mask on, but I can read his eyes. He doesn't look angry, just confused.

"Where are we?"

"The North Pole," I say. "Now scoot."

Soup looks us all up and down for a second, then comes to the only logical conclusion: He's getting off easy.

"Let's go, Kev," he says. And the two of them come on out of the truck, hop off the loading dock and walk off into a beautiful, crisp, clear Indiana winter morning. From there I don't know where they went—and I don't much care.

"Don't explain," the Monkeyberry manager says. He's already rushed into the truck to check out the dolls. He comes back to me with a delivery voucher and a pen. "Just sign this."

"With pleasure." And I haven't even gotten half-way through my name when the manager-man yanks the paperwork back and starts shouting "Go go go!" at more Monkeyberry employees who almost run right us over, they're so frantic to get those darned dolls on the shelves.

"Come on, Bass—tell us what happened," Milford says after we've jumped out of the way.

"Well, I tell ya'," I say. And my knees start to buckle at the idea of running through the whole thing. "Fellas, I'm exhausted. Thank you for your help, but I'm gonna have to give you a rain check on the story."

The boys are all gearjammers like me. They know what it's like to come off a long haul. So they all slap me on the back and tell me to go on home.

"I'll have your check for you tomorrow," Ivor says as I'm going.

"You better," I say.

I don't know how I got home. The job was done, the adrenaline was wearing off and I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or not. When I came in the door, Bootsie catches sight of my bloody ear and just about screams.

"Shhhhh," I say. "You'll wake the boys."

This was back when noon was early-rising for them.

"What happened to your ear, Billy?" Bootsie says. She's the only one ever called me "Billy."

I sit down in my La-Z-Boy and look at the Christmas tree and the presents underneath it and the cards and the porcelain Santas and the lights all over the place.

"I can't tell you how sweet it is to be home for Christmas," I say, and then I fall asleep in the time it takes to tell it.

When I woke up, it was December 26th.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steve Hockensmith is the New York Times best-selling author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls. His first novel, Holmes on the Range, was a finalist for the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony and Dilys awards, and its heroes went on to star in four sequels (On the Wrong Track, The Black Dove, The Crack in the Lens and World's Greatest Sleuth!). Before turning his hand to novels, he was a prolific writer of short fiction, and more collections of his stories are forthcoming . . . assuming anyone gives a crap about this one. His website is www.stevehockensmith.com, but you probably could have guessed that, smart cookie that you undoubtedly are. He thanks you for reading all the way to the end of the book, which is coming up rrrrrrrrrrrrrright . . . .

Now.

Table of Contents

NAUGHTY

Nine Tales of Christmas Crime

by Steve Hockensmith

Table of Contents

NAUGHTY

Nine Tales of Christmas Crime

by Steve Hockensmith