As with the girl, Krampus merely stood in the doorway and watched for several minutes. Other than his thumbs, the boy barely moved the whole time, staring glassy-eyed, his mouth half-open, looking like a lobotomy patient.
“He is bewitched.” Krampus strolled purposely across the room, right up to the screen, and smashed it in with his fist.
The boy clutched the game controller to his chest and froze, his eyes threatening to burst from his head. Krampus leaned over to the boy. “You are free. The world is now yours. Go take it.”
Krampus left the room, leaving the boy staring in perplexed horror. The Belsnickels looked from the boy to one another.
“Are we done then?” Vernon asked.
Isabel nodded and they followed Krampus from the house.
Stopping in the driveway, Krampus gave the home a deeply troubled look. “It seems there are other demons besides Santa’s ghost to contend with.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tweekers
Dillard sat in his recliner, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring at his flat-screen television. The set was off, but he stared at it anyway—staring and staring at that big, dark screen. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head starting to hurt. He’d tried to sleep, but got tired of lying there in that big bed—alone. Linda slept in the room with Abigail. She’d locked the door.
He’d tried to talk to her again, but might as well have been talking to the wall. Finally, he’d had to leave the room, because if he hadn’t, if he had to bear her grief-stricken face, listen to her sobbing over that fuckup for even one more second, he would’ve lost it again, would’ve done whatever it took to make her see it was Jesse, not him, that got Jesse killed.
He took another swig and wiped his mouth. It’s done between us . . . over. You know it. You can see it in her face. She’s gonna leave you the first chance she gets.
Things had been going so well. He’d come along at the right time, helped her out of a tight spot, and Linda seemed to really appreciate him. He liked that, liked the way it made him feel—like a knight in shining armor. It had been easy with her, easy to keep his temper, easy to be the good guy. But Jesse couldn’t leave things alone.
Should have made that boy disappear when I had the chance, before this shit-storm, before everything got fucked to hell. If I had, if I had listened to my instincts, then Linda and me would be upstairs in that big warm bed together right this minute.
He thought of his wife, Ellen, Ellen’s sweet, kindly face. Ellen had been a good woman, had done her best to please him. Why had I been so hard on her? What is so wrong with me? “Ellen, baby,” he whispered. “God, how I miss you.”
His police radio squawked and Dillard started, almost spilling his whiskey.
“Chief, copy.”
Dillard checked his watch; it was going on three A.M. “Fuck, what now?”
A youthful voice cut through the static. “Chief, copy.” It was Noel Roberts, the new officer; just a kid, as far as Dillard was concerned, started back in October. Dillard still wasn’t sure how he felt about him. Noel asked too many questions, wanted to do everything by the book, didn’t understand that in small towns sometimes you had to bend the rules. Dillard hoped that changed soon, or things wouldn’t be working out for Noel, not in Goodhope.
Dillard picked up the radio and hit the mic. “Go ahead, Noel. What now?”
“Code sixteen, possible code thirteen. Two locations, copy.”
“Noel, how many times am I gonna have to remind you you’re working for the fucking Goodhope Police Department, not the NYPD? Knock the academy bullshit off and just talk to me like a human being, all right? Now are you trying to tell me there’s been two break-ins tonight?”
“Ten-four, chief.”
Dillard rolled his eyes. “Mind giving me the whereabouts?”
“One on Second and Beech. Break-in occurred approximately oh-two-hundred hours. The other break-in occurred shortly thereafter at the residence at the end of Madison.”
“End of Madison? Ain’t that out where Doctor Ferrel lives?”
“Affirmative. Doctor Ferrel reports various acts of vandalism. Suspect smashed in his television.”
Dillard smiled at that. In his book, Doctor Ferrel was a conceited asswipe—the man spoke to him as though he were addressing a ten-year-old, going on and on in that snooty upstate accent of his, telling him what he should and shouldn’t be eating, drinking, and thinking, for that matter. And as far as Dillard was concerned, anyone that felt it proper to prattle on about the finer points of fly-fishing while giving a prostate exam deserved to have his television smashed in anyway. “Well, that’s just a doggone shame,” Dillard said. “Probably another meth freak. Did you get a description on the suspect?”
“Ten-four. Group of African-American males, wearing colorful costumes and disguises.”
Dillard stood up fast. That sounded like Jesse’s boys. “How many? What kind of weapons? Any injuries?”
“No report on weapons. Not sure how many. No one was injured. And chief . . . the odd thing is nothing was reported stolen. Just harassment and vandalism.”
That don’t make any sense, Dillard thought. Why would they break in and not steal anything? What the hell were they after?
“And also . . . the sheriff called.”
Dillard stiffened. Sheriff Milton Wright was a straight shooter and had been known to come sniffing around Goodhope whenever he found an excuse. Dillard made a point of keeping both the man and his nose out of his town and out of his business. “Well, just what did our good friend Sheriff Wright want?”
“Informing us to keep an eye out. Apparently they’ve had at least a half-dozen similar calls. Breaking and entering, harassment. Descriptions match our suspects.”
“Oh, shit,” Dillard said without punching the mic. “What the fuck is going on?” He hit the mic. “Noel, I’ll handle the home on Second.” And, thinking how little he wished to talk to a man who’d had a finger up his ass, “Gonna let you take care of the good doctor. Copy.”
“Ten-four, chief. En route.”
Dillard went upstairs to get dressed, found his cell phone, gave the General a call—got no answer. Shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Dillard couldn’t help a growing sense of unease. He finished getting dressed, tugged on his belt, holstered his gun, and headed out the door. “Something’s just not right,” he said, shaking his head, “not by a long shot.”
JESSE WATCHED THE lights of Goodhope disappear behind them, eclipsed by the dark mountainside. They headed east, deeper into hill country, leaving Krampus’s gift of Yule cheer in over three dozen homes spread about as many neighborhoods all along eastern Boone County. Most of the visits went smoothly, as smoothly as one could hope for any home invasion carried out by a host of costume-clad devils. As the evening progressed into the a.m. hours, most occupants were already fast asleep, making the going much easier. Jesse, Vernon, and Isabel urged Krampus to use the keys, to slip in instead of knocking, and found this to be better for all involved. While Krampus was busy traumatizing the children, they’d mastered getting quickly to sleeping parents and making sure they stayed asleep with a quick dusting of the sand. And in one instance they found out that sleeping sand was equally effective on Shawnee, when an overzealous handful found its way into Nipi’s face. Vernon claimed the incident to be an accident, but Jesse had his doubts. Nipi ended up sleeping it off in the sleigh for the next several stops.