“WELL, I’LL BE damned,” Jesse said again, then once more for good measure.
He could see the corner of a box just inside the Santa sack. He stuck his gun in his jacket pocket and pulled out the box. He grinned. It was a brand-new Teen Tiger doll.
“Yes, Abigail, dear, there is indeed a Santa Claus.”
He examined the doll. A seductive pair of blue cat eyes surrounded by heavy eyeliner looked back at him from beneath an explosion of glittery hair. He was contemplating the appropriateness of the doll’s pouty, cherry-red lips, tiger-striped miniskirt, and exposed midriff, when it struck him how very odd that the doll should be there in the first place. This being Santa’s sack, he’d hoped there’d be toys inside, sure, and he’d also hoped there’d be a Teen Tiger doll, too, hadn’t he? And which one had he been thinking of? He looked at the doll again. “Tina Tiger,” the one his daughter wanted. And there she was, sitting right on top, as though the sack were handing her to him. It’s like the thing read my mind. The hair on his arms prickled and he gave the bag a suspicious look. Okay, settle down. You’re already weirded out enough. He took in a deep breath.
He lifted the sack, surprised at how light it was; he could hold it at arm’s length with just one hand. It was about the size of one of those Hefty lawn bags. He shook the snow off and carried it and the doll into his dining room, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him to keep the cold and snow out.
Outside, the EMT had arrived, bathing the room in flashing lights. Jesse tossed the bag on the floor, stared at it until he’d finished his cigarette, then pulled over a kitchen chair and sat down. He hooked a thumb into the lip of the sack and held it open, peering cautiously in, as though expecting something to spring out at him. The inside of the sack was dark, the black velvet lining quickly disappearing into shadows, allowing him to see no farther than three or four inches within. There was something unnatural about those shadows and the more he studied the dimness the more convinced he became that he wasn’t seeing shadows at all, but a sort of smoke, a dense, swirling vapor. The smoke ebbed and flowed, yet didn’t leave the sack.
He prodded the outside of the bag. It felt substantial, similar to the lumpy beanbag chair he’d had as a kid. He could push it this way and that, but it always regained its form. He really wanted to know what else was in there, but felt in no hurry to go sticking his arm into that smoky goo to find out.
He peered back inside, thought about how delighted Abigail would be if he brought her not one but maybe a couple of those little slutty dolls. He swallowed and eased his hand into the mouth of the bag. His fingers disappeared into the smoke, then his hand, then his forearm. He noticed a change in temperature, the inside of the bag being much warmer, and all at once he had an overwhelming notion that the bag itself was alive, that he had his hand in the thing’s mouth, and that the thing might chomp down on his arm like a bear trap. Something bumped his wrist and he cried out, yanking his hand from the bag. He examined his hand and arm like they might be covered in leeches, but they were fine.
“Damn it. Stop being such a pussy.”
He thought of another one of the dolls—the Asian one with the dragon tattoo—bit his lip and slid his hand back in, pushed inward until his arm disappeared up to the elbow, praying his fingers would still be attached when he pulled them back out. He fished about until he found the object again. It felt like a box. He pulled it from the sack and wasn’t the least surprised to find himself looking into Ting Tiger’s exotic purple eyes.
Jesse grunted. Okay, I get it. He thought of the Goth one, then the redhead, retrieving both of them. He didn’t stop there. Just the week before, Abigail had sat in his lap with the Toys “R” Us circular, naming all six of the Teen Tigers, had explained all their superpowers, had told him which ones she liked best and which accessories were must-haves. She went on to clarify just how hard it was for a girl her age to eat, sleep, or even breathe without having at least one of these awesome dolls in her possession.
A minute later, Jesse had the full gang of Tiger girls lined up across the table, as well as a tiger-striped, red Corvette and two accessory blister packs. And it didn’t take any great shakes to see that all those toys couldn’t have possibly fit in that bag together. The sack’s making ’em somehow. Then it struck him. The bag is making whatever I wish for! His eyes grew wide and he stopped breathing for a moment. Really? Had the heavens really just dropped a magic sack into his lap? He leapt to his feet, jumped over, and bolted the door, then peeked out the front window. The ambulance and patrol car were still out there, but the neighbors had all gone home, well, all except for Phyllis, who was gabbing on a mile a minute to the EMT driver.
Jesse pulled the shades shut and dropped down in front of the sack, his hand hovering over the opening. He closed his eyes, pictured a diamond ring, and slipped in his hand. There! He clasped a small velvet case, holding his breath as he slowly withdrew it from the bag. His fingers shook so bad it took three tries to pry it open. “Oh, fuck yeah!” he said, holding the ring up to the light.
His smile fell.
It was a toy—nothing but plastic and painted aluminum. “Dang it!” He shook his head. “Must’ve done something wrong?” He tossed the ring over his shoulder, closed his eyes again, concentrating this time on a watch. He specifically thought of the gold Rolex he’d recently seen down at the pawn shop. The watch he pulled out did indeed say Rolex on its face, but it was still a toy. “Aw, c’mon! C’mon!” Three tin rings, four plastic watches, and a tall stack of play money later, he got the message: the sack only made toys.
He slid back against the wall. “Well, crap.” He leaned his head against the paneling and stared up at the water stains on the ceiling. “Shit never seems to wanna go my way.” All at once everything that had happened this long, strange evening caught up with him and he just wanted to crawl in bed and stay there. He glanced toward the bedroom. “Probably build a snowman in there by now.” He sighed, plucked the seat cushion from the chair, propped it behind his head, and lay down right there on the floor. He watched the emergency lights flicking through the shades. His eyes wandered over to the dolls. He managed a smile. “I got every one of those little super-tramps . . . every single one.” He thought of Abigail’s face and his smile turned into a grin. “For once, baby doll, your daddy’s not gonna be a loser. For once your daddy’s gonna be a hero.” He closed his eyes. “Abigail, darling . . . just you hold on to your britches, ’cause Santa Claus is coming to town.”
“THERE. AT LAST, my Belsnickels . . . they return!” Krampus lifted his ear from the stone and stared up the shaft, pulling against his chain like a hound awaiting a feeding. The light above now bright enough that he knew it to be dawn. He could see their shadows approaching.
It was nearly fifty feet to the top of the narrow shaft; he wrung his hands together as they clambered down. Where is it? He searched their silhouettes for some sign of the sack.
Makwa, the big Shawnee, dropped down first, landing on all fours, his bear fur and buckskin garb torn and soiled, his flesh scraped and bloody. He stood and Krampus clutched his shoulders. “Do you have it?”