CHIEF DILLARD DEATON leapt from his car, almost forgot his shotgun, reached back in, yanked it across the seat.
“Aw, jeez!” Noel cried, running over. “Chief, man, am I ever glad to see—” He stared at Dillard’s face. “Heck, chief, what happened to you?”
“Where are they?” Dillard asked, walking briskly toward the fire.
Officer Roberts jogged to keep up. “Um . . . well . . . hard to say with all the smoke, y’know. They were heading around the side of the building last I saw.”
“I told you not to let them out of your sight.”
“I know, but the sheriff told me to sit tight until backup arrived.”
“What?” Dillard spun on his heels. “The sheriff? You called this in?”
“Well, yeah. Had to. We’re outside the town limit. Outside our jurisdiction.”
“Do I look like I need a lecture on whose jurisdiction we’re in?”
“But the fire. I thought it was procedure to—”
“Shut up. Just shut up!” Dillard almost punched the boy, almost laid him out flat, and wouldn’t that have added an interesting layer to his growing list of troubles. He stepped forward, got right into Noel’s face. “I don’t wanna hear another word about procedure. You go back to the vehicles and wait for the goddamn sheriff to show up. Got that? Don’t you move unless I say so. Got it? Got it?”
Noel nodded and headed back, looking every bit the whipped pup. The truth was Dillard planned on going down there and shooting Jesse dead on sight and he sure as hell didn’t want Officer Boy Scout anywhere near him when he did—didn’t want any witnesses at all.
Dillard heard a distant siren racing their way. Dammit. Just what I don’t need. Fuck! Gotta find that boy quick-like. He chambered a round, pushing through the smoke. He spotted footprints in the snow, at least five or six sets, followed them around the back of the building, where they ended in a cluster around a wadded-up newspaper. He found deep ruts and fresh droppings—deer or goat maybe, he wasn’t sure which, only sure that nothing quite made sense. If he’d happened to look up at that moment, he might’ve caught sight of a sleigh pulled by two large goats heading east, toward the hills, but just then flashing lights caught his attention. It was the sheriff, pulling into the parking lot.
Dillard rubbed the bridge of his nose, tried to stifle the growing pain behind his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired, very old. “Gonna be a long night. Gonna be a long fucking night.”
Chapter Sixteen
Horton’s
Jesse watched Krampus stare at the plastic play gym and the handful of toys scattered about the yard of a small ranch home somewhere just south of Whitesville. Krampus had been staring—without a word, without so much as a grunt—at the toys for going on twenty minutes. So long that Jesse began to wonder if he’d planned to get out of the sleigh at all.
The whole crew was quiet, lost in their own thoughts, perhaps contemplating the craziness at the church—or, like him, how they’d ever ended up with this strange, moody creature in the first place. Jesse was quickly losing whatever hope he might’ve held that there’d be a resolution to any of this . . . some path that might lead to a way out.
They’d already visited two homes, both without much incident, but also without much enthusiasm. Krampus had actually walked past a blow-mold Santa without smashing it. Jesse got the impression the Yule Lord was just going through the motions, even his speech to these children had lacked any real passion. Jesse felt he was on a sinking ship with no way to jump overboard. He exchanged a glance with Isabel, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. Isabel shrugged back. After another long moment, she cleared her throat. “Krampus,” she said in a soft tone. “Maybe we should head on back. Take the night off.”
“Why, what a splendid idea,” Vernon added. “Certainly has my vote.”
Isabel cut him a sharp look.
“What?” Vernon said in a defensive tone. “If Krampus is in one of his intolerable moods, I see no reason why we should all have to suffer along.”
“He is right,” Krampus muttered. “There is no more need. It has all been in vain, I fear. The world does not want to remember, and now it appears . . . I am out of time.”
“Out of time?” Isabel asked. “What do you mean?”
Krampus only shook his head.
“Krampus? What’s going on?”
Krampus looked up the driveway, sighed, grabbed the switches and the sack, and stepped out of the sleigh. “You can join me if you wish. Matters not.” He started up the drive. The two Shawnee jumped out and followed.
Isabel elbowed Vernon. “Could you not be such a jerk?”
“You know,” Vernon said, sounding uncharacteristically terse. “Sometimes you forget that I’m not along for the joy of it. I’m his prisoner . . . his slave. Frankly, I really don’t give a damn what happens to the old goat.”
Chet nodded. “Amen, brother.”
“Well, some of us do,” Isabel said, slipping out, chasing Krampus and the Shawnee up the drive. Jesse looked at Vernon and Chet, shrugged, and followed after Isabel, catching up with them as they gained the porch.
Krampus reached for the door handle and froze. He let out a gasp. Jesse followed his eyes to the steps, saw nothing more than two pairs of shoes, started to ask what the matter was, then looked again.
The shoes were propped up as though on display in a shoe store; arranged within each shoe sat an array of candies. A card stood pinched between the shoes.
Krampus dropped the sack and the birch branches, reached for the card, held it open so they could all see. Krampus’s hand actually trembled. The card read: HAPPY YULETIDE, KRAMPUS. WE ARE VERY GOOD KIDS. LOVE, MARY AND TODD.
“Well, I’ll be,” Isabel said.
“Bet they read about Krampus in the paper,” Jesse said.
“Maybe,” Isabel said, “or maybe we visited one of their pals or some of their kin last night.”
Krampus dropped to one knee. He plucked up the candies, held them in his palms. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for your tribute.” The Yule Lord wiped at his eyes and Jesse realized the great beast was actually crying. “Their reward,” Krampus said. “They need their reward. Jesse, retrieve some coins.”
Jesse picked up the sack, held it out.
“You gather them. My hands are full,” Krampus said without taking his eyes from the treats; he held them as one would most precious stones.
Jesse pulled open the sack, hesitated. Hadn’t Krampus spoken of these coins being in some sort of hell? Jesse wasn’t sure he wanted to go putting his hand in hell . . . any hell. Everyone waited on him. He sighed, thought of the triangular coins, and inserted his hand. He felt coldness, closer to the feeling of fear than an actual temperature. The chill penetrated right to his bones, to the very marrow. It tingled, almost painful, made his teeth hurt. Jesse tried to concentrate on the coins, wanting to get things over with as quick as possible. His hand bumped something crusty and brittle—rotting things came to mind. Then something touched him, more of a caress, like someone pulling gauze across his skin. He let out a small squeal, yanked his hand out. “Fuck, Krampus. There’s something in there!”
Krampus let out a snort. “Of course. The dead. Do not fear, they cannot hurt you. They are only ghosts . . . lost souls, the ones that could not find their way home.”
Jesse peered into the smoking darkness, thought he heard something—wailing. Sounded faint and far away, but there was no mistake, he heard them. He shuddered as a chill slid down his back.