He exhaled, opened his eyes, plucked the plastic bag off the seat, and got out of the car. “Try not to feel,” he told himself as he strolled up the stone path. “Try not to feel.”
He eased the front door open and stepped quietly inside. He found three grocery sacks stacked along the wall, Linda’s and Abigail’s clothes folded neatly within, and two plastic garbage bags with the dolls Jesse had given Abigail along with the rest of the things they’d brought over. The fact that she was gathering their things to leave bothered him less than the fact that she was paying no heed to his warnings. Her disregard only confirmed to him that she couldn’t be trusted, that he was doing the right thing. Doing what he had to do.
The sound of the television drifted out from the living room and he caught Linda’s voice talking to Abigail. Good, he thought, they’re together. He threw the bolt behind him and slid the bags in front of the door. He knew it wouldn’t keep anyone in, he just wanted something to slow a person down, say if they were in a real hurry to leave, for some reason.
He walked down the short hall, past the bathroom on his left, and then into the living room. The living room contained a small dining room area separated from the kitchen by a bar-style counter. Abigail sat in one of the stools, her back to him, playing with two of her dolls. Linda stood in the kitchen, fixing something on the stove. She caught sight of him and started, her eyes turned cold, and she looked away.
“See you got your things packed,” Dillard said.
Abigail stopped playing, looked over at him, no trace of her usual joyful smile. She glanced anxiously at her mother.
“I would like my keys back, please,” Linda said, she sounded tired and drained.
“Okay,” he said, and walked across the living room to the dining room. He unclipped his police radio, turned it up, and sat it on the table, wanting to be sure he didn’t miss any calls on Jesse. He sat the plastic bag down next to it and dug her keys out of his pocket, dropping them on the table.
Linda went about fixing Abigail a grilled cheese, keeping her back to him, going out of her way not to look at him. Dillard leaned over and slipped the locking pin into the sliding glass door—another precaution, should things get out of hand. He glanced out upon his backyard; a hint of sunset still outlined the hilltops. He owned close to five acres backing up to the river; his nearest neighbor was Tomsey through the woods to the south. Between the forest and old Tomsey being near deaf, he wasn’t too worried anyone would hear any screaming.
Dillard knew he should get this show on the road, that every minute he spent was one more minute someone could come along and discover the slaughterhouse over at the General’s, or that Jesse might show up somewhere in town. But he found the next step much harder than he expected. He watched Linda flip the cheese sandwich over in the skillet, stared at the back of her head, at her beautiful hair, and imagined the look on her face when the first blow landed, the pain, the confusion, the horror. He would have to live with that for the rest of his life.
He clenched his jaw. Now’s not the time to get weak.
He picked up the plastic bag and headed back to the hall and into the bathroom. He emptied his bladder, then stripped down to only his socks. Footprints in the blood could be used the same as fingerprints; it would be easier to just burn the socks later. He didn’t worry about his DNA evidence, it was his house, they’d be expecting that, but blood, blood was a different matter. If he planned on matching the brutality of the murders at the General’s place, then there’d be plenty of blood and he had to make sure none of it got on his clothes. He stacked the clothes, his watch, and his shoes on the floor next to the sink. After he was done killing the girls and planting Jesse’s evidence, he would shower and then come back down and dress.
He opened the sack, pulled out the gloves, slipped them on, then took out the ball-peen hammer. Figured that’d be the right tool to start with. He’d hit Linda hard, but not too hard, just enough to knock her down, maybe a kneecap next, something to keep her from running while he took care of Abigail. Then he would get the knife and do the job right.
He opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air tingling against his nakedness. “Meat,” he whispered. “They’re just meat.”
NOTHING.
Blackness.
Light.
Adrift, the current tugging him down, down, down.
Drowning. Choking. Weight. The pain of flesh. Santa Claus felt cold stone beneath his back, opened his eyes. All was bathed in golden light. Blurry shapes shifted about him.
His wife’s face slowly came into focus, hovering over him, not Nanna, but Perchta, his earthborn wife. She clutched his hand, worry etched into her ageless eyes.
“He lives,” she whispered, then, loudly, “Santa Claus has returned to us!” A great clamor echoed about the chamber. Santa blinked; he lay in the chapel, encircled by his lesser wives. All of them weeping and wailing with joy. The sounds stabbing into his head like knives.
So that was death. No thoughts. No memories. No regrets. Nothing. So very sweet.
Two beings—neither male nor female—in golden robes stood at his feet, their white wings almost too bright to look upon. One of them spoke. “It seems God does not wish you dead.”
“Why?” he coughed, clearing his throat. “How do I matter to God?”
The two angels exchanged a surprised smile. “Why? Because you amuse her.”
“Amuse?” Santa sat up. The world spun about him. He clutched the slab to steady himself. “Amuse? Do I serve no higher purpose than to entertain?”
“You bring a smile to God’s lips. Is that not enough?”
Santa swung his feet off the slab, tried to stand. His knees buckled and Perchta caught him, kept him from falling. “I am not but a plaything.”
“You are upset?”
“I am done amusing the gods. Done with this song and dance.”
“You wish to be done?” The angel’s brow furrowed. “But there is no greater calling than to serve the Lord. Is it not an honor?”
Bells, far away, growing louder, voices, it was that song, that silly, silly song: “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Santa glanced around at the women, none of them seemed to hear. “I am done, I said. Done with all of it. Tell God to leave me be!”
“You would give it all up?” The angel shrugged. “If it is your wish to let it go, to become mortal, it can be made so.” The song, the bells, they began to wane. “Your name, like your song, will fade, and eventually the name Santa Claus will be forgotten.”
The song ceased; his breath the only sound. The silence chilled his heart.
“What name shall you be called henceforth?” the angel asked. “I would guess not Baldr. Bob? Mike? Tom? Who will you be now?”
“Stop it. Why do you torment me?”
The angel laughed. “You only torment yourself. Do you truly believe you are an equal to the likes of Jesus, or any of the great prophets? You are a curio, a man in a red suit handing out gifts.”
Santa ground his teeth.
“We will honor your wish. But remember, it was you that turned your back on God.” The angels withdrew, left the chapel, headed up the path.
“No,” Santa said.
They kept walking.
“No,” he called. “No . . . do not leave!” He took a step after them, clutching the slab to keep upright. “I take it back!” he cried. “I take it back!” His voice broke into a sob. “I take it back.”
They stopped, studied him, their eyes full of pity. They returned. “Who are you?”