“Ain’t none of your business.”
“No, guess not. But I’ve seen firsthand what he’s done to folks that’s gone and got in his way. It ain’t a game with him. He’ll make you disappear.”
Jesse ignored him, kept tearing at the tape.
“Don’t believe me? Ask yourself this, did anyone ever find a trace of his wife? Some folks believe she ran off. Well, I know different.”
“How do you know different?” Lynyrd asked.
“Ain’t gonna say.”
“You’re full of shit.”
Chet hesitated, seemed to be weighing something. “Seen a picture of her dead body.”
Jesse’s blood went cold; he stopped pulling at the tape and looked up at Chet. Chet held Lynyrd’s gaze; he looked serious, as serious as a man could.
“A picture?” Lynyrd asked. “You’re telling me you seen a picture of Dillard’s wife and she was dead?”
“I’d just as soon not have.”
“Where’d you see a picture?”
“Dillard showed it to me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Now why would he do that?”
“Fuck if I know. I still ain’t got that man figured. It was a couple months back when I was helping him move that old freezer into his garage. When we were done he asked if I’d like to have a beer with him. Of course I would. Well, one beer turned into two, then four, then I don’t rightly recall after that. I know we pulled down a couple of lawn chairs and got lit right there in his garage. I know after a bit he starts talking about his wife, how much he misses her. He’s getting all choked up, but I’m smashed by then so I just roll with it. He pulls a sewing box down off the shelf, a fancy one, painted with pretty red roses. Says it used to belong to Ellen, opens it up and there’s a wedding picture of her. Ellen was a right pretty woman in her day I might add. He’s staring at the picture like he wishes he could crawl right into it. I’d always heard she’d cleaned him out, so I muttered something about how sorry I was to hear she done him wrong. Then he says, ‘Yeah she’s sorry, too.’ And something in his tone made me pay attention. He pries the back off that frame and pulls out a Polaroid. He stares at it a long while, his face cold as stone, then shows it to me. It was her, his wife. She was dead. No doubt about that, and it looked like she’d died bad. He says to me, ‘Never was a woman more sorry about anything.’ And the way he said it . . . why, it chilled me right to the bone.”
“Damn,” Lynyrd said. “Ain’t that some creepy shit.”
“Yeah, you’re sure right about that.” Chet looked at Jesse. “And that’s why if I were you, Jesse, I’d stay the fuck away from that guy. Ain’t nothing good gonna come from messing with him . . . not for nobody.”
The blood drummed in Jesse’s ears. He’d heard the rumors, but hearing Chet tell about what he’d seen firsthand sent it home. A chill climbed Jesse’s spine—his little girl was living with a man capable of cold-blooded murder. What else was he capable of? Jesse yanked the last bit of tape off and pulled his hand free. A dark red hole about the diameter of a pencil sat between the bones of his index and middle finger, welling with blood. He opened and closed his hand. It hurt, but all his fingers moved as they should.
“Looks like you got lucky,” Chet said. “Missed your bones. Guess you’re gonna have to whack off left-handed for a while, though.” He snorted. “But who knows . . . you might still be able to play that old guitar of yours.”
For the first time in his life Jesse didn’t care if he could play guitar or not, the only thing he could think about was Abigail being alone in that house with Dillard. Jesse pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out of the bay to his truck. He yanked the door open and got in.
“Hey, Jesse.” Chet walked up to the truck carrying the bag of game consoles. “You forgot something.” Chet pulled a box out. “Mind if I keep one? My nephew’s been begging for one of these all year.”
Jesse ignored him, trying to dig his keys out of his pocket with his left hand.
“Jesse, just so we’re clear. Nobody’s let you off the hook for that pickup tonight.”
Jesse glared at him.
“At the school . . . round back as usual. Say seven o’clock. Don’t leave us hanging. Oh, and do yourself a favor . . . listen up to what the General was saying and don’t do nothing stupid.”
Jesse sneered.
“Look, dipshit, I ain’t telling you for your benefit. I’m telling you ’cause I happen to like Linda and Abigail, and would sure hate for anything bad to happen to either one of ’em. I mean that. Hell, y’know, there was a time I wouldn’t have paid half a mind to the General’s wild rants neither. But Jesse, after what I’ve seen lately, I wouldn’t push the man. If he threatens to put your little girl in a box, you better take him serious. Face it, he’s got your ass coming and going. So just save us all some trouble and play nice. All right?”
Jesse didn’t answer him, didn’t even nod. He turned the ignition, ignoring the sharp pain in his hand as he put the truck in gear and backed out of the alley, leaving Chet standing there holding the sack of toys.
Chapter Four
Devil Men
Santa Claus glanced back over his shoulder. The two boys on their BMX bicycles were still tailing him. Santa had found a string of power lines late in the morning, had been following the trail west. That had taken him past a double-wide mobile home; the two boys had been out jumping on a trampoline when he’d marched by. They’d stared at him until he was out of sight. Now, a couple miles later, here they were, peeking around a thicket, watching his every move.
They will need a little discouragement. Would not do to have children watch dear old Santa hack Krampus and his abominations to death, after all.
A distant screech came to Santa’s ear, a most welcome sound. He searched the sky, found only heavy clouds. He plucked the horn from his belt and gave it one short blast. A second later he was rewarded with another cry and the sight of two dark shapes flying down out of the clouds toward him.
They alighted upon the twisted branch of a fallen oak—the two great ravens, Huginn and Muninn. The magnificent birds were as large as any eagle, their black feathers sleek and shining. They peered at Santa with curious, ageless eyes.
“You remember Krampus? Yes, I know you do. It seems he did not die in darkness as he should have. Somehow he has crawled out from beneath his rock to make mischief, and mischief he has indeed made. Now my Christmas sack is lost—is somewhere out there amongst the near town.”
The two great birds cocked their heads, questioning.
“Search for his beasts, his abominations, the Belsnickels. For they will be on the hunt as well. When you find them, stay with them like a dark omen, lead me to them with your cry . . . for my sword thirsts for their blood.”
The ravens squawked and nodded, nodded as any person might.
“Go my pets, make haste. Find them and show me the way.”
The giant ravens leapt into the air, the wake of their great wings kicking up the frozen leaves as they flew away down the hill.
Santa heard a clink, turned, found that the boys had dared venture closer, much closer than was wise, sitting on their bikes and staring at him. Santa walked up to them. The younger boy looked about to flee; he glanced anxiously over at the older boy. The older boy, a teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen, looked unsure as well, but held his ground.
“Whatcha wearing that getup for?” the teenager asked.
“Yeah,” the younger boy chimed in. “Why you dressed up like Santa Claus for?”