JESSE PASSED THE NO DRUG ZONE sign, slowed down, and pulled into the Sunny Hills Elementary School parking lot. He cruised around to the back of the cafeteria and parked near the Dumpsters. He noticed his fuel light was on, thumped it twice, watched the light flicker, and made a mental note to inform Chet that if he wanted him to make it to Charleston and back, he’d better spot him some gas money.
Jesse turned off the engine and stared at the monkey bars. He’d spent many a recess hanging about in that playground, back when he attended Sunny Hills, back when he still had dreams of becoming a big-time, guitar-strumming fool.
He glanced up the road. Where the hell is Chet? Jesse didn’t much care to be sitting in any one place for too long, not with those things out there somewhere. He wanted a cigarette, something to calm his nerves. He scanned the woods for any sign of their orange eyes. It was almost full dark and every shadow and bush looked as though it was creeping up on him. He picked his pistol up off the seat, popped open the chamber, double-checking that the revolver was fully loaded. He wondered if bullets would do any good against something like them, wondered if you needed silver bullets, or holy water, or some such. He slapped it shut and slid it into his front jacket pocket. He noted the Santa sack sticking up and tried to shove it deeper into the foot well.
If I can just pull this off, he thought. Get Linda and Abigail out of here, then things could be really good. Live someplace where it’s warm, near the beach, somewhere nice for a little girl to grow up. Maybe even carve out a little space to play my songs. It wouldn’t be Memphis, but it wouldn’t be Boone County neither. I’d have my family, and I wouldn’t screw things up this time. No, sir, not this time.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and did something he’d not done since he was a little boy. “Lord, if you got a moment I’d appreciate you giving me a listen. I know I don’t deserve your consideration, but if you could maybe ease up on me just a bit, just this once, for Abigail’s sake, I’d be mighty grateful. And if you do . . . I swear I’ll make it up to you, somehow, someway. I swear.”
He heard a caw, snapped his eyes open, and sat up, his heart drumming. He rolled down his window and peered up. The ravens, both of them, were circling above. “Oh, that ain’t right. Not at all.” He reached for the ignition and noticed two pairs of headlights heading his way.
Dillard’s patrol car pulled in and parked at the top entrance of the school parking lot to keep an eye on things, make sure no one interfered. Chet’s late-model Chevy Avalanche, black with tinted windows, pulled into the lower entrance and drove over to where Jesse was parked.
Jesse sucked in a deep breath. “Play it cool, Jesse. Don’t fuck this up.”
SANTA’S LONG STRIDE ate up the ground as he cut across the parking lot of the Goodhope Methodist Church. He was grateful for the approaching dusk, keenly aware of the odd looks he’d been getting. As he approached the church, a young woman carrying a cardboard box came rapidly around the corner. The large box blocked her view and she crashed into him, which knocked the box from her hands. Several bags of New Year’s Eve’s hats and horns spilled onto the walkway.
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “I am so sorry, I—” She did a double take and suddenly seemed at a loss for words. She glanced back over her shoulder to the man coming up behind her, an older, wiry man with stern, penetrating eyes. The man also carried a box of party supplies.
Santa Claus, stooped, raked the contents back into the box, handed it to the lady, then set off on his way.
“Hey, mister,” the lady called. “Excuse me. You dropped something. Here.”
Santa turned. The woman held his horn. He returned and she handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, and started to leave.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
This brought a slight smile to his face. “Merry Christmas.”
The man next to her looked him up and down, frowning at his trappings. He shook his head. “Today is Jesus’s birthday. Just pointing that out, brother, on account that some folks get a bit confused this time of year.” He laid a light hand on Santa’s arm and grinned. “They think it’s Santa Claus Day.”
Santa met his eye and held it.
“Reverend,” the lady said. “Don’t you even start.” She looked at Santa apologetically. “Just ignore him. He’s a bit impractical when it comes to Christmas.”
“Darn straight I am. Santa Claus and all his little presents tend to get in the way of God’s message.”
“As can religion,” Santa replied.
The reverend squinted. “Well, don’t think you can argue that the world needs a whole lot more Jesus and a whole lot less Santa.”
“God has many servants.”
The pastor addressed the woman. “See, this here’s just what I’ve been going on about. People get confused, especially children. Santa Claus is a fairy tale. Folks tell their children any different, why, they’re flat-out lying to ’em.”
“What makes you so sure Santa Claus is not real?” Santa asked.
“Ain’t ever laid eyes on him, have you?”
“Have you set eyes on Jesus?”
The reverend hesitated. “Jesus is in my heart.”
“Is there not room in your heart for both? They both spread peace, charity, and goodwill.”
“Only Jesus can save your soul from eternal damnation.” A smug smile spread across the reverend’s face. “Can Santa Claus do that? Don’t think so.”
Santa let out a sigh. “We all serve God in our way.” Then, almost to himself: “Sometimes whether we wish it or not.”
The pastor gave him a puzzled look, continued on, something about salvation, but Santa didn’t hear a word, listening instead to the distant cawing. He searched the sky, caught sight of the ravens circling far down the way. They have found it! They found the sack!
Santa set off quickly, leaving the pastor and the woman exchanging concerned looks.
ISABEL PUSHED BACK her hood, removed her sunglasses, and searched the sky. She found no sign of the ravens. All five of the Belsnickels stood on the bluff, scanning the valley, the small township of Goodhope sprawled out below them. Darkness was slipping in fast beneath the dense, low-lying clouds. They all hoped the man in the truck hadn’t gone far. All too aware that if the man had left the area then there’d be little chance of finding him before Santa or his monsters did.
Makwa gestured north, and they all looked that way.
“You see them?” Vernon asked.
Makwa jabbed his finger impatiently. He could speak English, all three of the Shawnee could, but doing so seemed to annoy them. Makwa referred to English as the ugly tongue. Isabel had given up on learning Shawnee, figured if she couldn’t pick it up after all these years then she never would. So between the Indians’ stubbornness and her lack of language skills, they were all, more often than not, reduced to grunts and pantomime.
“Well, I don’t see a thing,” Vernon snapped. Isabel couldn’t either, but that didn’t mean the giant birds weren’t out there. Makwa had been with Krampus a long time; Isabel guessed at least four hundred years, and the longer you were around Krampus the more his magic rubbed off. Makwa looked at them as though they were simple-minded, then took off down the trail followed by the two brothers, Wipi and Nipi. Isabel and Vernon shrugged and followed.