He, as usual, had left his car in the woods outside of town. One more advantage of a SUV—he could avoid being seen in motels. However, this time there had been a minor mishap. He was seen refueling near town. Certainly, he didn’t refuel at a gas station—there are superfluous eyes there, too, especially in bad weather when customers are rare. Filled gas cans lay in his trunk, so he proudly passed by the station without stopping, despite the red-blinking fuel warning light. He had to stop two miles later. But, while he was filling the tank by the roadside, a truck passed by in the opposite direction. Of course, the driver didn’t pay any special attention on him. He was not in the costume—he never put it on ahead of time. The driver didn’t reduce his speed and, even better, didn’t stop and ask whether any help was needed. Those damned kind Samaritans who eternally poke into other people’s business! The former good boys who hoped to deserve a gift from Santa. But this driver was not one of them. A bad boy. You were a bad boy and Santa will not come for you…
Santa will come for other bad children.
Finally two hypotheses remained to Gregory. According to the first, less logical but more attractive one, Santa Claus was an outstanding swindler who had managed to deceive the whole world. Certainly, he was not a usual scam artist. He obviously had mastered fantastic technologies unavailable to anyone else. Perhaps, he was an evil genius, as in comic books—though generally Greg was very irritated that in comics so often clever people are villains and, moreover, act like idiots, allowing stupid heroes to defeat them. And, considering that Santa had existed on the Earth for a very long time already (actually, Greg couldn’t get a precise answer from anybody, how long exactly), he could be a medieval alchemist who had found a philosophers’ stone and achieved immortality. Alchemy, of course, was a pseudo science, but nevertheless it was closer to science than to magic; mum said that all modern chemistry grew from it. This hypothesis, however, didn’t explain one thing—the purpose of the swindle. On the contrary, the bestowing of gifts seemed to be an absolutely lossmaking business. But if this guy doesn’t want anything bad, why does he lie, pretending to be a magic being? And why doesn’t he share his discovery with the world? Greg heard many times that there’s no such thing as a free lunch; it was simply surprising that adults who repeated it to him in a mentor tone didn’t even think to apply this thesis to Santa Claus. And what if one day he submits a bill to the whole world, with all the interest that had accumulated over centuries? In that case, mankind will be in big trouble. And the one who stops the mendacious old bastard in advance will save the world.
The second hypothesis, however awful it was, coincided with the classical explanation. That is, Santa Claus really was a supernatural being. Maybe the one thing in the universe which was breaking the well-knit and logical materialistic harmony… Greg couldn’t, didn’t want to acknowledge it. But nevertheless he knew that a real scientist should test a theory with an experiment.
During pre-Christmas days on TV and in printed media there were stories about boys and girls who didn’t believe in Santa Claus. And then, having stated their doubts, were convinced of the existence of Santa—either by a very serious and authoritative adult, like the editor of “New York Times,” or by Santa himself. And though the reliability of these stories, especially of the second type, was doubtful by itself…
“Santa Claus, I, Gregory George Prime from Malcolmtown, Maine, USA, don’t believe in you,” Greg loudly proclaimed to the darkness of the big room where the Christmas tree stood. For some reason he was sure that it was necessary to address Santa at night. As, obviously, one would speak to vampires, werewolves, and other undead creatures—if they really existed… “But if you exist—come and talk to me. Don’t sneak into the house late at night when I’m asleep. Come yourself, don’t send any assistants. I’ll meet you in the town park.”
For the plan that Greg has conceived, his home was not appropriate in any way.
“What an unpleasant thing is waiting,” John Rockston sighed, sitting down on the edge of a table and looking at the snow flying outside the window. “Especially if you know that, maybe, this very minute the bastard is already leading the next child into the woods.”
“We can’t do anything more now,” responded Douglas. “The crime lab didn’t dig out anything new; we can only hope to catch him with our nets.”
“Almost twenty four hours passed since we set them. If he hasn’t passed by any watching eyes during this time…”
“Than he, probably, has had time to settle down in some town already,” finished Douglas. “I know. And then, if he isn’t recognized in the streets—and photos are available only to policemen who are not too numerous in small towns—then we, most probably, will catch him only after one more murder. This is life, John. This is our job. Only in movies does the cavalry always manage to appear at the last moment… Well, time to make the next call to Wash.”
But, before Douglas had time to pick up the receiver, the phone rang.
“Douglas here. When? And he…? How long ago? Yes! Yes, of course, we’ll come personally!”
He hanged up and joyfully turned to the trainee.
“Sullivan is staying at a Portsmouth motel. Under a false name, by the way.”
“Arrested?”
“Not yet. He arrived as early as yesterday evening, but the manager got around to checking the license plates only now. He isn’t currently in the motel—obviously, somewhere in the city. The police have already begun to search for him. Grab your coat, let’s go.”
“To reach Portsmouth in such weather…”
“We have the use of a copter.”
Douglas hastily took his jacket from a hanger, loudly zipped it, and took out his gloves from the pockets.
“Trainee, what are you waiting for?”
“Sir, we were going to make a call to Wash.”
“Mm… you’re right, we should… So, what’s there? Answering machine again?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly, the fact that Sullivan stayed at the motel under an assumed name doesn’t yet remove suspicion from Wash… Though, most likely, he’s simply relaxing somewhere down south now.”
John put on his warm jacket, too.
“Sir, after all, isn’t Claus the same name as Nicolas?”
“Yes. But that means nothing. If the guy has a screw loose, hardly it was because of his own name.”
“Yes, but it could become an additional factor.”
“Well, theoretically it could. But now our main target is Sullivan. Ready at last? Let’s go. Lock the door.”
Just after Rockston turned the key in the lock, the phone rang again in the office. John made a movement to open the lock.
“No need,” Douglas stopped him, “after the fourth ring a call will automatically switch to my cell phone… Hello?”
This time he was on the phone slightly longer and even pulled a map out of his pocket, trying to unfold it on a door with one hand. Rockston helped him.
“Wash’s car was seen,” Douglas informed after hanging up. “Also yesterday evening. Here,” he pointed on a map, “near Malcolmtown. However, the information about it came from here,” his finger sharply moved to the south. “It seemed odd to a Malcolmtown truck driver that some guy fueled his car from a can instead of using the nearby gas station. And he, I mean the truck driver, looked attentively at him and remembered the number of his car. Actually, he didn’t remember it completely—he either forgot the last digit, or couldn’t make it out because of snow—but all the rest match. And today he talked about it in a diner where he stopped for dinner. The owner of the diner had already been contacted and made a call to the police.”