Makwa pushed back his hood, shook his head. “No.”
Three more Belsnickels slipped down: the brothers, Wipi and Nipi, also of the Shawnee people, and the little man, Vernon, his long, bristly beard full of pine needles. They, too, appeared to have suffered dearly. They’d obviously been in a desperate battle with someone or something. Krampus looked from one to the next; none would meet his eye. “You do not have it? None of you have it?”
“No.”
“No?”
They shook their heads, continued to stare at the ground.
No. The word cut through him like a shard of ice. No. His knees threatened to buckle. He grabbed the wall to steady himself. “Was it him? Was it Santa Claus?”
“Yes,” Vernon answered and the three Shawnee nodded.
“Where is he? Where is the sack?”
“We did our very best,” Vernon said. “He was terribly strong and crazed . . . it was unexpected.”
Krampus slid to the ground, cradling his head in his large hands. “There will never be another chance.”
The girl, Isabel, dropped down. She flipped back the hood of her jacket, looked from Krampus to the four men. “You didn’t tell him?”
No one answered her.
“Krampus, the sack might still be out there.”
Krampus looked at her, confused. “The sack?”
“Yes, the sack. It’s out there somewhere.”
Krampus found his feet and grasped her arm. “What do you mean, child?”
“We had it. I mean almost. We were in the sleigh, fighting the old man for it, and— Ow! Dammit, Krampus. You’re hurting my arm.”
Krampus realized he was pinching her in his distress and let loose.
“It was crazy. Santa Claus went berserk. Biting and clawing and . . . and . . .” She trailed off, a look of intense sorrow fell across her face. “He kicked Peskwa out of the sleigh. We were so high . . . I don’t know it he made it or—” She hesitated, glancing at the others.
“Oh, he’s most certainly a dead little Indian,” Vernon put in.
“We don’t know that,” Isabel shot back.
“Unless he sprouted wings, he’s dead. I see no reason—”
“Enough!” Krampus cried. “Isabel. What happened to the sack?”
“Well, when Peskwa fell, he took the sack with him and—”
“So, the sack . . . it is still out there?”
“Yes. Well, maybe? I mean when—”
“Maybe?”
“You see, after the sack fell, the sleigh went spinning out of control. It was all we could do to just hang on. A few seconds later we slammed into some trees. We were all—”
“And Santa Claus? What happened to him?”
“Well, I’m trying to get to that.”
“Well, get to it.”
“I’m trying. You keep interrupting me.”
Krampus threw his hands up in frustration.
“Okay, see . . . hell, where was I? Oh, yeah, when we hit that first clump of trees, we were slung out, but not Santa, he clung on. You should’ve seen him, completely out of his gourd . . . ranting and raving at us and at them deer. Them reindeer were all tangled and spooked, and off they shot. Up, up and away. Went spinning across the hollow, into the part of the hill where there’s nothing but boulders and drops. Slammed into them rocks so damn hard the sound echoed all up and down the valley. None of us seen exactly where old Santa ended up. But I can tell you sure as shit he didn’t walk off from that. Ain’t no way. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Krampus snorted, then laughed. “Santa Claus dead. No. As sweet as such tidings would be, it takes much more than a hard slap to kill such vileness.” Krampus tugged the stringy hair sprouting from his chin. “But it is encouraging that his sleigh and the reindeer are lost.” He began to pace. “Means there might still be some chance to get to the sack . . . to find it first.” Krampus’s heart began to race. “Yes, certainly there is! You say the sack fell with Peskwa, did you not?”
Isabel nodded.
“Do you remember where he fell?”
“Yes. No.”
“Which is it, child?”
“Hard to say. I mean there’s no telling. The sleigh was spinning and—” Isabel glanced at the others. They shrugged.
“The sack will be somewhere near the body.” Krampus’s voice rose with excitement. “You need to find the body, or where it landed. Should not be that hard to do. Begin your search there. Split up and spread out, and—” He stopped pacing, stared at each of the Belsnickels. “We must beat Santa to it. He now knows I live . . . knows about you. He will be sending his monsters. The sack is the prize. It is everything . . . if he should find it first then . . . well, then we are all as good as dead.”
He snatched up one of the Shawnees’ spears, handed it to Makwa. “You still have your knives? Good. Take the rifle and pistol as well. You will need them should his monsters find you.”
“We lost the pistol,” Isabel said.
“Wipi shot him,” Vernon added. “At least three times at close range. I was right beside him. He hit him every time, right in the chest . . . didn’t so much as slow him down.”
“No,” Krampus said. “No, I wouldn’t think it would. Now hurry, make haste. Every second counts.”
The Belsnickels snatched up a couple of spears and an old shotgun with a broken stock from a pile of tools. They scrambled away up the shaft, one after another. Krampus shouted up after them, “Keep a sharp eye out for his monsters. You will know them when you see them. You will feel them.” Then, under his breath. “As they will feel you.”
JESSE PULLED INTO the drive of a small old house with peeling white paint. Linda and Abigail had been staying with Linda’s mother since the breakup. He glanced at his watch. He’d overslept and it was going on noon.
He peered into the camper where two garbage bags full of toys sat waiting for Abigail. He grinned, couldn’t help himself. Santa’s crimson sack sat on the floorboard next to him. He stroked the thick, rich velvet. He had a good feeling about that sack and didn’t intend to let it out of his sight. It was magic, and he felt sure that somehow or another it was going to bring him good fortune. He just hadn’t quite figured out the somehow yet, but at the very least he figured he could always sell it, had to be someone out there who needed a toy-making sack. He started out of the truck when something in his jacket clunked against the door. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket. “Shouldn’t need this,” he said, then snorted. “Of course, there’s no telling with Linda.” He stuck the gun back in the glove compartment.
Jesse knocked on the front door and waited. When no one came, he knocked again, louder.
“Hold your beans,” someone yelled. “Be right there.”
He heard shuffling feet, then Polly opened the door and stared at him through the screen. She gave him a pitying look.
“Are they here?” Jesse asked.
He thought she wasn’t going to answer him at all, when finally she sighed. “Why you wanna go and do this to yourself?”
He tried to peek past her into the living room.
She looked back over her shoulder. “I ain’t hiding ’em under my couch. They ain’t here, Jesse. Not one of ’em.”
“Over at Dillard’s,” Jesse said. It wasn’t a question.
Polly said nothing.
“Damn it!” Jesse stomped his boot on the doormat. “Tell me something, Mrs. Collins. Just what the hell does she see in that son’bitch?”
“I done asked her the same thing about you once.”
“The man’s pushing sixty. You think that’s right? For Linda to be going out with a man near about your age?”