Naughty and Nice

by Kevin J. Anderson

  ***

  Seven

  When Santa Claus returned to our offices, he looked even more anxious than before. His face was sallow, almost jaundiced; his flowing white beard looked scraggly, with a thin brownish stain from where he’d been hitting the pipe a little too often. He had lost enough weight that his red jacket was gathered in folds around his waist with his wide black belt cinched tighter. I saw that he’d even punched a new hole.

  “Usually when I visit, people set out milk and cookies for me.” He sounded disappointed, beaten down. “I’ll be glad to get back to running the bed-and-breakfast, but I have my duties first. I can’t do my rounds without that list of Naughty and Nice.” He slumped into a chair beside Sheyenne’s desk and let out a sigh. “I tried to write a new one from memory, but my mind isn’t what it used to be—too many bitter cold nights out in a reindeer-powered sleigh. I won’t kid you, Christmas Eve is a hard night—a real nut-cracker. After it’s over, I crawl into bed and sleep for a week.”

  “My accountant says the same thing about Tax Day,” I told him.

  Santa adjusted his floppy red cap. “I haven’t heard you jingle my bell, and time is running out. It’s beginning to look a lot like a screwed-up Christmas.”

  “I’ve been investigating,” I reassured him. “Particularly your rival Elfis. He makes no secret of the fact that he wants to take you out, but he insists he doesn’t need your list to do it. What can you tell me about him?”

  Santa’s face fell, as if his heart had shrunk three sizes that day. “That elf deserves a lump of coal in his stocking on Christmas morning. Unfair business practices, inferior materials—do you know that his silver bells are made of cheap aluminum?” He frowned again, let out another sigh. “I try not to think ill of people, but I’d like to take a thick candy cane and go thumpety-thump-thump on his head. He’s ruining traditions by taking away the incentive for children to be Nice. Just look at the rude manners in chat rooms on the internet.”

  My heart went out to him. “I’m looking into his North Pole South operations, and Robin is studying his business practices. I haven’t found any evidence that he arranged to steal your Naughty and Nice list, but I’ll keep digging.”

  After rummaging around in the kitchen, Sheyenne flitted into the main room, carrying a plate with three stale chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of milk. “Look what I found for you, Santa!”

  He brightened. “’Tis the season to be jolly—so I’ll try my best.” He pulled a paper ticket from the pocket of his red jacket. “Could you validate this for me? I’ve got my reindeer and sleigh parked on the roof.”

  “Of course,” Sheyenne said, and stamped his parking ticket.

  Santa took the rest of the cookies “for the reindeer” and slipped through the door just as Mr. and Mrs. Tannenbaum hurried in. They looked anxious, and my heart sank, wondering how I was going to tell them that their darling Buddy wasn’t the sugarplum they believed him to be. If the young werewolf was getting into so much trouble, how could the parents not know? Were they willfully oblivious to the fact that their angel came straight from the dark side?

  “We weren’t entirely honest with you,” Mrs. Tannenbaum said, then looked away shyly. “We have something else that might help.”

  Her husband said, “I convinced my wife that we needed to give you every detail if we want our Buddy back. Our son is more important than our shame and embarrassment.”

  “We thought you might be able to solve the case without it, and then we wouldn’t have to admit … admit—” Mrs. Tannenbaum’s lower lip quivered. Her eyes flashed golden, and I could see a hint of werewolf coming to the fore.

  “Buddy’s given us difficulties before,” Mr. Tannenbaum admitted. “He’s an unruly kid. I think it comes from his full-fur blood. Trouble in school, trouble with vandalism. He’s even run away from home a few times.”

  “But he always comes back,” Mrs. Tannenbaum interjected. “He’s a good boy at heart.”

  I asked, “Do you think there’s any possibility that he’s just run off again?”

  Both Tannenbaums shook their heads. “Not so close to Christmas. He would have waited to get his toys first. He’s a troublemaker, but he’s a greedy troublemaker.”

  I didn’t know if that was the best kind or the worst kind. “The information doesn’t help a great deal at the moment, but I’ll keep asking around.”

  The Tannenbaums looked at each other. “Oh, that’s not what we meant to tell you, Mr. Chambeaux. We were reluctant to say anything about what we did because … because, well, it’s not exactly legal.”

  That’s never a good phrase to include in a sentence. I braced myself.

  “We had to do something because Buddy ran away so often. So, the last time we took him in to the vet …” Mrs. Tannenbaum swallowed hard, then lowered her voice. “We had a tracking chip implanted in the base of his skull. Nothing anyone would notice, mind you, but … just in case.”

  I perked up. “A tracking device? Then we can pinpoint his location right away!”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Tannenbaum. “Do you think that might help you find him?”

  I slapped my forehead, and it made a hollow popping sound from the bullet hole there. “The cases don’t solve themselves,” I said, “but I do need all the information.”

  “The tracking signal has a very limited range,” Mr. Tannenbaum said. “Quite discreet, but not terribly useful. Still, if you get close enough …”

  The Tannenbaums looked sheepish after they gave me the secret frequency and serial number of the tracker. “Just bring our little boy home, please? That would be the best present we ever had.”

  ***

  Eight

  When we began our search, I decided to take police backup—McGoo—just so I could say I was being sensible. I didn’t want to go overboard, though, because there was a better-than-even chance Buddy had just run away with his juvenile delinquent unnatural pals. Still, if Buddy’s disappearance was connected with the other missing kids, McGoo would want to be along.

  Then Robin insisted on joining us. With such a three-pronged approach, how could we not be prepared to solve any problem?

  She had frowned in disapproval when she heard about the implanted tracker chip, claiming that it violated the civil rights of an underage werewolf. But McGoo had seen enough troublemakers in his work, and he was more inclined to try the “terrified straight” approach. Robin finally conceded that if the tracker meant we could reunite the full-time fuzzy kid with his once-a-month fuzzy parents, then all was for the best.

  With the tracker’s frequency and serial number, Robin downloaded a free but highly rated Track Werewolf app for her smartphone. She bundled up in a wool coat, and we all set off into the snowy night to find Buddy, leaving Sheyenne in charge of the office.

  We wandered around the Quarter for a frustrating hour, following false signals (a garage-door opener and a universal TV remote control). I was beginning to think that we might not pick up the tracker’s limited-range signal until after we had already found the subject in question. We were lost and frustrated; what had seemed to be an easy solution was turning out to be a headache and a waste of time.

  Then Sheyenne called us and saved the day. She had found an update for the Track Werewolf app, which dealt with certain bugs and user issues and increased sensitivity. Once Robin installed the update, we found a strong signal. We were closer than we thought.

  The signal led us straight to the tall smokestacks and gigantic toy warehouses behind Elfis’s North Pole South complex.

  Holding her phone, Robin took the lead, guiding us along the chain-link fence to the back service entrance of the gigantic manufacturing warehouses. The temperature was dropping, and fluffy snowflakes drifted down. Not a creature was stirring, not even the ones that usually stirred at that time of night.

  Approaching the back guard gate, we found two burly golems wearing security guard uniforms. Their clay bodies were stiff and hardening in the cold, but one per
ked up. “Do you hear what I hear?”

  The other said, “Do you see what I see?”

  Now alert, the golems prepared to block our way, both of them focusing on McGoo’s uniform, the dark blue police shirt, trousers, and cap. “That looks good on you,” said one of the golems.

  “We both wanted to be cops, but couldn’t pass the tests,” the other explained.

  I knew why, but I didn’t embarrass them by pointing out the reason.

  McGoo said, “We’re searching for a missing child, and we have reason to believe he’s inside one of the warehouses.” He held out a copy of Buddy’s picture.

  “Kids just can’t stay away from toys,” said the first golem.

  Robin held up her smartphone, showing the app. “And we have electronic evidence he’s in there.”

  The golems were again intrigued. “Is that phone one of the new models?”

  The other said, “Does it have Angry Vultures on it? Or Curses with Friends?”

  I knew if the golems started playing games on Robin’s phone we would never get past the gate. “We need to have a look, bring that boy back to his parents.”

  The first golem had a stony expression on his clay face. “Sorry. We can’t let you inside. Elfis is very strict.”

  The other golem looked intimidated. “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows when you’ve been bad or good.” In tandem, they shook their smooth clay heads and pointed upward. “Security cameras.”

  Time for Plan B. I removed a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of my jacket and showed it to the two golems. “We have a duly authorized search warrant to enter the premises, signed by Judge Hawkins herself. This grants us unfettered access to all parts of the North Pole South warehouses so we can find and rescue the young man.”

  The first golem guard took the sheet of paper and studied it intently, while Robin shot me a questioning glance. She craned her neck to see what the guards were looking at. McGoo could barely keep the smile off his face.

  The other golem took the sheet from his partner; they both had frowns on their clay faces. “All right then. We’re security guards, sworn to uphold the law.” They opened the chain-link gate for us. “Go on inside. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Robin was perplexed, but she glanced down at the blinking light on her Track Werewolf app. Buddy was definitely close, inside the big factory building ahead of us. With his best I’m-an-authority-figure gait, McGoo marched away from the guard golems. Robin hurried alongside me. When we were out of earshot, she asked, “What was that all about? When did you get a search warrant?”

  “It wasn’t a search warrant,” I said. “It’s the fine-print listing of Elfis Originals I took from Just Dug Up Collectibles.”

  McGoo worked at the warehouse door; it was unlocked. “Golems can’t read,” he said. “At least most of them can’t. That’s why they couldn’t pass their UQ Police Department exams. Good work, Shamble.”

  Robin was astonished. “Then we got in here under false pretenses, and I have real ethical problems with that. We’re trespassing.”

  “We’re rescuing a missing child,” I said. My boundaries were a little more blurred than Robin’s, but I did manage to get things done.

  Robin was about to continue her objections when McGoo opened the loading dock door. The dark, noisy factory hangar was worse than the worst New Year’s Day hangover. It was a true holiday of horrors.

  ***

  Nine

  I doubted children opening their gifts on the morning of Christmas Eve Eve (if Elfis and his minions delivered on time, as promised) would want to know where their presents really came from.

  We were seeing the ugly side of holiday cheer: appalling labor conditions, thick smoke, clanging hammers, grinding gears, and jets of steam venting from pressure valves. Foul water trickled out of rusty pipes overhead. A labyrinth of rattling conveyor belts rolled toys along to packaging lines. Sparks flew and blazing fires roared out of open furnaces fed with black coal that poured from supply hoppers in the ceiling. A separate set of conveyors dumped defective metal toys into a smoldering furnace. It was as if the Island of Misfit Toys had an active volcano.

  Robin looked around in horror, shocked by what she saw. McGoo’s face was stormy with anger.

  Most appalling of all, though, were the kids shackled to the assembly line, hunched over the conveyor belts, red-eyed, dirt-smeared, waifish. They toiled at assembling dolls, painting action figures, stuffing collectibles into boxes. There were werewolves, zombies, ghouls, even human children, all looking dejected and haggard.

  As I scanned the faces, I recognized many of the kids featured on the Have You Seen Me? pictures from the Talbot & Knowles blood bars. I saw one gray-furred werewolf boy, mangy and yet somehow still cute, chained to a station where he was applying black button eyes onto Raggedy Ann dolls. Either he was confused by the instructions, or the dolls catered to an entirely different type of unnatural, because he sewed three eyes on each doll.

  “That’s Buddy Tannenbaum!” I said.

  The boy heard me even over the factory din. He turned, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and his eyes lit up upon seeing us. He dropped the doll onto the dirty factory floor and leaped toward us, but was brought up short by silver shackles that bound his wrist and ankle.

  “I’ll be good! I promise!” he yelped. “I won’t be naughty anymore. I don’t want to be on the list!”

  Robin was ahead of us, grim and determined. “We’ll get you out of here, Buddy. Your parents hired us to find you.”

  “My mom and dad? But Elfis said they didn’t love me anymore.”

  “Of course they love you,” Robin said. “Parents love even naughty kids.”

  A steam whistle blew. More coal dumped out of the feeding hoppers, and the furnace burned brighter.

  Then the elves came—evil elves, and ugly enough that they might have been disowned by even the G-side of the family. They carried cattle prods painted like cheery candy canes; others brandished icicle spears that dripped in the intense heat of the factory floor.

  McGoo and I drew our guns and stood next to Robin. The ten elves closing in didn’t look afraid of us at all. Too late, I realized that they were just a distraction.

  Two other hench-elves stood up from behind the conveyor belt and hurled snowballs at us—icy snowballs with rocks in the middle. Cheater snowballs. (I did say they were evil elves.) Their aim was supernaturally true, and with one hail of hard snowballs, they knocked the guns out of our hands.

  Then the hench-elves closed in, wielding icicle spears and candy-cane cattle prods. They overpowered us, shoved us to the factory floor, and used tough strands of satin ribbon to bind our wrists. We were going to have a black-and-blue Christmas. An evil elf even slapped a coordinating stick-on bow on each of us before they herded us toward the back of the factory.

  “Elfis is going to want to see you,” said one of the guards.

  “Oh, by gosh, by golly, that was on my Christmas wish list,” I said, which earned me a jab from one of the cattle prods. Since I’m a zombie, it takes a lot to shock me, but the experience was still unpleasant. I was more worried about McGoo and Robin, who could indeed be permanently damaged.

  Elfis was at a raised supervisor’s station near the warmth of the big furnace, sitting on a high director’s chair with a small worktable beside him. Black dust from the coal hoppers left a gritty film on everything, but somehow it didn’t affect his white sequined jacket or his blue suede shoes. He was perusing a rolled parchment filled with names—countless names, sorted into two columns, one marked N and the other one marked N. He muttered to himself as he used a large goose quill pen to check off names.

  “Naughty … yes, got that one. Naughty … yes. Naughty … we have a very high success rate.” Then he sneered at a line, crossed it out vigorously with the nib of his quill pen. “Somebody slipped up—this kid’s in the Nice column! People tend to notice when nice kids go mi
ssing.” A supervisor hench-elf scurried off to rectify the error.

  Elfis picked up a bullhorn and began shouting toward the factory floor. “Listen up, kiddies! I have plenty more applicants to choose from, so if you want to be promoted in my criminal organization, you’ve got to produce, produce, produce! Only the best can survive this boot camp—also known as the Holiday Season! If you work hard, you’ll be real henchmen by Easter.” Elfis then started to laugh. “We’re going to put that damned bunny out of business, too!”

  He slid his sunglasses up on the bridge of his narrow nose as his fiendish hench-elves pushed us forward. He seemed surprised to see us. “Mr. Chambeaux and friends—have you come to negotiate on Santa’s behalf again? Well, it’s too late. I’ve already got the holidays sewn up in a body bag, and now you’ll never stop me.”

  When all else fails, when things look grimmest, I like to state the obvious. It puts villains off guard and usually gets them talking—too much. “You said you didn’t have Santa’s list of Naughty and Nice. That was dishonest.”

  He held up a long finger. “No, that was misleading. I said I didn’t steal the list in order to earn brownie points or to make Santa look incompetent. I stole it strictly for my own purposes.” Elfis waved the parchment, showing us the long list of names. “It’s a recruitment tool, like a screening folder for job applicants. Santa already identified the naughty children for me, the ones suitable to become part of my operation.”

  “But you put them to work as slave labor,” Robin said.

  Elfis shrugged. “Well, they are naughty. Even criminals need to know the consequences of their actions. You do the crime, you pay the time. Community service for my community.”

  I struggled against the satin ribbons binding my wrists. It reminded me of my childhood, trying to snap the ribbons so I could open my presents. Now, as then, the ribbon had supernatural strength.

  Elfis leaned forward, opening both of his hands to warm them at the nearby furnace. The conveyor belt continued to clatter, dumping defective toys into it, plastic ones as well as metal. “It’s so nice to be warm for a change. And you three will be all toasty, too. I’m afraid I can’t allow my plans to be foiled—or tinseled. Into the furnace with them!”