“Told you, haven’t seen a dime this year. Haven’t seen a single one of them, not even out of the corner of my eye.” He squinted at Taylor. “Probably have you to thank for that. Always showing up during my shifts. Always acting like I owe you something.”
“Isn’t me you owe anything to. But those kids? You owe them far more than an apology.”
Brockstin shrugged noncommittally. “Let’s face it, they’re all rehashes, reruns. Always asking for the same things, new fads coming and fading within a year. They practically don’t have personality yet.”
Taylor laughed, the sound twisting mirthlessly as it burst from him. “And you’re not a stereotypical cunt? You think kids deserve to be dragged away from their families simply because they’re too much alike in your eyes?”
“Didn’t say that,” muttered Brockstin.
“No, you’re not saying much, are you?” Taylor grinned ferociously to cover his disgust.
“Because there’s not much to say.”
“So you’re telling me you’re useless? Finally. Now I can report your ass to the police, plant a little extra something from one of the kids who never showed back up.”
“They’d not believe you.”
“You think so? A bullet to the head might do the trick just the same.”
At the threat, a smug smile grew on Brockstin’s face. “Another gun waving? Think I’m stupid, don’t you? Think I didn’t set up a camera for a time like this?” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his beard almost long enough to drag on the coffee table. “I now have you. Get out of my house and pray I don’t turn the video into the police myself.”
Taylor crossed in front of the television, ignoring the way the light flickered as the screen changed back and forth between the anchors. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be sure to toss the house before I leave.”
“You can’t—” spluttered Brockstin.
“I don’t believe you haven’t seen them.” Taylor ran a hand over the red felt of the Santa suit, then plucked up the hat and gave it a deep sniff. Hair gel. Cigarette smoke. Licorice.
“I haven’t!” Brockstin stood, cutting a strange figure, for his laugh lines gave him a jolly aura that belied the mix of anger and concern vying in his eyes.
“Maybe they haven’t paid you. Could see them skipping out on Brantonville since there are so many new festivals and Christmas fairs cropping up all over the county.” He did not even attempt to mask the disdain in his voice. “But you’ve seen them.” He tossed the hat back to the recliner and leaned against the bookshelf beyond, the haphazardly stacked DVD cases shuddering precariously.
“I haven’t. I haven’t seen them. Haven’t heard them. Haven’t talked to them. I haven’t had any dealings with them this year.”
“Snow’s been scarce,” murmured Taylor as he crossed his arms, the leather of his jacket crinkling quietly.
“That’s right. People all praying for a white Christmas like last year, but they’ll just have to settle, out of luck. Elves aren’t here. Be happy, why don’t you?”
Taylor stiffened at the implied attack, the words far too close to what Greg had been saying lately. Elves not here, fled to colder, fuller pastures. Setting them up for an uneventful holiday. Nothing but stockings and hot cocoa in garish mugs featuring button-nose elves and winking snowmen. He should be happy. Or at least content. But…
“I’d be happier knowing that for sure.”
Brockstin sat back down, making the couch creak and groan as he shifted his weight. “Well know for sure then. I haven’t seen them. Nobody’s seen them.”
“Not nobody.”
“Listen to you. Even you haven’t found them this year, have you?” Brockstin nodded, answering his own question when Taylor didn’t respond. “Not a peep. That’s why you’re here. Face reality, kid. I have. No extra cash lining my pockets. You can turn them out if you like, for proof. Pity too. Racked up a bit of debt I’d been planning on paying back with their green.”
“What about up the road? You take your show on travel?”
Brockstin snorted. “Maybe once upon a time. Haven’t bothered trying to fill in my extra hours for years.” Then he stared at his Santa suit. “Maybe I should have this year though, huh? Not sure I could handle much more of trying to decipher kid speak though. Getting too old for this shit.”
“You’ve always been too old.”
“Get out. And expect a call from the police too.”
“Like you’d dare.”
“You threatened to kill me. Twice!”
Taylor took another look around the room, then headed for the front door by way of the kitchen, searching, with no attempt to conceal it, for any indication an elf had visited Brockstin. Yet he found no melted sugar stains, no licorice twists, no smears of glitter or leftover gumdrops. The heavy scent of reindeer did not linger in the air and nor did peppermint hover. Brockstin didn’t even own seasonal candy, though Taylor did find some leftover pumpkin ales in the fridge. He nabbed one, cracked it open on the magnetic bottle opener hanging off the fridge and took a swig. Dark, frothy, with an aftertaste that attempted and failed unerringly, to be anything resembling pumpkin. He frowned, looked at the label again, then abandoned the beer on the counter on top of some papers.
“You need to look up the concept of privacy! And stop asking the impossible from Santa!” called Brockstin from the couch.
“You sacrificed the right to privacy when you started selling those kids out. And you have no idea what Santa is—”
Taylor paused, gaze fastened on what first appeared to be a piece of colored glass, an orange cast reflecting the sunlight burning in from the window over the sink. He crouched and plucked the tiny object up between thumb and forefinger. Turned it over, searching for any sign of filament, of green plastic or broken wires, hoping it was just a bulb from a mundane strand of Christmas lights.
And yet almost hoping it wasn’t.
From the next room, the couch creaked, then Brockstin appeared in the doorway. He must have caught sight of the beer on the counter because he shook his head. “Stop getting into my stuff.”
“It’s been in there probably since October. You trying to quit?”
Brockstin glowered. “Was a birthday present.”
“Who gives you birthday presents? Must not have liked it anyway since it’s still in there.” Taylor lifted the piece of glass as he stood. “One of them threaten to whip you into shape?”
“Broke a glass Christmas ornament pulling it from the box. You know the traditions, right? Putting up a tree, hanging ornaments, cookies. Lots of cookies. I like that part. What about you? Do anything for Christmas? Anything other than harass poor Santas on their days off?”
“Why would I do anything else? I love Christmas.”
Brockstin snorted.
Taylor glanced again around the kitchen. Took in the neatly organized dishes through glass-fronted cabinets, the small stack of bills waiting to be paid, and the pile of fliers detailing different craft shows and Santa visits that Brockstin had obviously been collecting. Taylor shuffled through the stacks of paper quickly, pushing aside the bills after ascertaining they were just electric and water. The fliers though, he paid a little more care to. Some had black circles around telephone numbers. Others large crosses splitting their centers. Near the bottom, Taylor sucked in a breath.
“Seventh Annual Christmas Tree Lighting!” “Food Trucks!” “Music!” “Kid’s Games!” “Free Community Event!” all shouted up in a garish, curly font, and Taylor could practically hear the groan of the printer being forced to spit out so much blue ink for the background.
“You need to get a life, kid. Call your friends. If you don’t have any, make some. It’s the holidays, after all.” And the crinkling around Brockstin’s eyes made the smile seem genuine.
Genuinely unwelcome.
Taylor lifted the paper, facing Brockstin. “You’ve crossed this one out. Why?”
“They got a guy on the committee to pla
y Santa for free. Fire trucks are going through the square too, I heard. Didn’t need me.”
Taylor glared for another moment.
Brockstin sighed and plucked the old pumpkin ale from the counter. As he drained it slowly into the sink, he said, “Look. I’ve always told you things, whether I’ve liked it or not. I haven’t seen them. Don’t know anything about them coming around here this year.” He tossed the empty bottle into the recycling box and looked at Taylor again. “Seriously, kid. You need other hobbies.”
“If you hear anything—”
“I won’t call.”
Taylor crinkled up the flier and dropped it into the trash can as he strode toward the door.
“I’m still calling the police!”
“No you aren’t. Because I saw a little girl’s bloody scrunchies here three years ago. A few other trophies a guy like you would keep too.”
“Bullshit!”
“Tamara Scharner. Look her up if you don’t remember. Sure the police would love that tip if they come seeking me out.”
“You know what? I hope they do come this year. And I hope they drive you crazy!”
“Ho, ho, ho, asshole,” said Taylor as he shut the front door.
But outside, he ground his teeth in frustration. No answers. No ideas. Not even an inkling, a hint, anything to keep him focused in a direction that made sense.
Maybe he should get in his car and start driving, out of town, out of county, all the way until he found a place where there were kidnappings to look into, the police fumbling the cases over the holidays. His gut hurt, both physically from too much coffee and not enough to eat, and figuratively, as he imagined the hurt on Greg’s face when Taylor didn’t show up Christmas morning.
Maybe that would be best though.
He climbed into his car and pulled away from John Brockstin’s townhouse in its picture perfect neighborhood. He kept the townhouse in his sights, watching through the rearview mirror the way the branches shuddered over the gnomes in the front yard, one of them looking for all the world like a blobby snowman complete with pipe and beady black eyes. He shuddered, unable to rip his gaze away from those misshapen white curves. Those hollow eyes seemed to follow him, daring him to succumb to sudden paranoia, to turn back and check that it was just a faded, colorless, cracked gnome and not a snowman holding itself together by will alone.
Taylor shook his head and took the curve in the road a little too fast, Brockstin’s home gone from the rearview mirror. Only then did he glance at his phone. A few missed calls, but no texts. He hesitated, then called back. Greg picked up on the first ring.
“Happy anniversary.” Dry, almost sarcastic tone.
Taylor was too surprised to hear anything else or think of an appropriate response. They had an anniversary? They had an anniversary?
He hung up the phone and tossed it in the passenger seat, his heart suddenly railing against his chest. He shouldn’t have done that. Maybe. That urge to turn the car around and drive the other way grew stronger, strong enough he turned left, away from Greg’s house.
This had been the reason he’d not cared about taking up with a man like Greg. A man who could put a gun to Taylor’s head because there was someone else he put first, always first. It’d been a boon. Something of a relief. A safety net, knowing that if Greg put Mandy first, always, then Taylor would never have to feel guilty he’d ruin anything if he left. He could just leave, with the knowledge that Mandy had been more important, that Taylor had been transitory in Greg’s life. Disposable.
Oh, but it was a thin excuse. Thin, weak, and worthless in the case of his own confusion. It’d held him in good stead for many months now; that same excuse he’d mumble when Greg hinted about wanting Taylor to move in. The same excuse whenever the topic of marriage ever came up, which only ever happened tangentially since Greg wasn’t that obvious about his desires.
But Taylor could see it and feel it. In the way Greg groaned Taylor’s name, in the breathless quality of Greg’s kiss and certainly, oh, so certainly, in the iron-fisted grip Greg kept on Taylor through the night. Murmurs against his neck that no other man had thought necessary seemed to come so easily to Greg. As did the Freudian slips of the tongue, the flash of moments when Greg would say, “In a couple of years,” they’d do something together or “when Mandy’s capable of handling it.” There were plans floating about Greg’s mind of futures that Taylor had never even considered.
Such blatant assumption both warmed Taylor’s heart and froze him up concurrently. He’d end up back in his pathetic excuse for an apartment. Would attempt to think about anything but Greg, imagining a life years from now when Greg might be nothing but a parent Taylor had dallied with just a tad on the long side. A parent who had thanked him without fruit cakes or cash, but with summer trips to the beach and long drives during the first turning of autumn, their hands together like some high school romance.
Their kisses were still hot and heavy a year later. Ready, full of longing and need. An ardor Taylor had never before experienced since he hadn’t known any high school romance when he’d been that age. Seductive might not be the right word. Maybe hypnotizing or dreamy.
Outside, another town marking went by, drawing him closer to the county line. He’d left clothes at Greg’s. Tools at his apartment. But he had his duffel in the backseat, his guns, his cash, everything he truly needed. Could fill up a few times, keep driving while his nerve remained and settle somewhere based on the local radio news of missing children reports.
Christmas came but once a year and this year was Greg’s with Mandy. The guy deserved some good memories, untainted by a literal representation of the worst few days of his life. And they certainly didn’t care much about the danger anymore, too caught up with presents and gingerbread and frosting and fucking Christmas lights…
Taylor sucked in a startled breath and pulled off to the side of the road. He sat with the car idling absently, the heater blasting dry air that made his eyes itch, forcing him to blink and blink again as he struggled with a thought that threatened to sink down, down back to his subconscious.
Then, he pulled out into traffic, took a U-turn, and headed back the way he’d come, doing his damnest best to ignore the giant, stacked hay bales painted white to resemble a cartoon snowman.
Chapter Four
Katie was just handing over Mandy’s book bag when Taylor pulled into the driveway. Greg took the bag on autopilot, forgetting what he’d been saying as a wealth of relief abruptly clogged his synapses and wrestled with the heavy stone weight that had settled in his gut this morning. Katie turned her attention to her trunk while Greg resisted staring toward Taylor so that the depth of his relief wouldn’t be too blindingly apparent.
“She got up early this morning at my mom’s and managed to gobble her way through who knows how many cookies before we caught her. So be warned. There might come a stomachache later.”
“Taylor!” screeched Mandy. She’d been still sitting in the backseat, door open and a gel pen in hand, but now the pens and notebook went flying and she was jumping out of the SUV and running over to Taylor’s door as he opened it. “Did you bring me a present?”
“Why would I bring you a present?”
“Because it’s Christmas,” said Mandy with a tone that tacked on the implicit word “dummy.”
“I thought Christmas was about buying me presents.”
“Nooo. It’s about everyone!” She threw herself against him, her dark hair contained in two pigtails that immediately went wonky. She squirmed and wiggled as she peeked around Taylor in an attempt to see what might be hidden in the backseat.
Katie passed Greg a pillowcase filled with more than Mandy’s special pillow—a clattering of pens and toys and a single stuffy named Bobby Pie, or B. P. Turtle, all weighing it down. “She seems to like him.” A tentative smile, the kind she’d only occasionally give Greg since their divorce. “That’s…good.”
“He’s like a fun uncle. Caught him teaching her how to
make rubber-band guns. I’ve been shot twice now.”
“Ah,” she said, but then their conversation turned stilted. She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her jacket though it wasn’t quite cold enough for her to be shivering. “Have a good Christmas then. I’ll call tomorrow, after ten though, so you have a chance to have the morning and all.”
“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll like that.”
They made their goodbyes, with only a vague awkwardness still lingering over them from their time together. Then Katie called Mandy over, gave her love and last-minute reminders not to eat too much chocolate, all while tightening her pigtails. As Katie pulled away, waving at Mandy, Taylor approached behind them, his presence both a boon and a shadow, strong, yet tenuous and Greg couldn’t help but feeling as if the man standing by him had already left again. Checked out, driven somewhere Greg couldn’t follow.
As soon as Katie’s SUV had gone, Mandy turned on Taylor with a broad grin. “Did you like my stealth mode?” Though she mispronounced “stealth” as “elf” and Greg wasn’t entirely sure it was on accident.
“Perfection.” Taylor held up an okay sign, thumb and forefinger making a circle. “I’ll give you an S for stupendous. Your mom never noticed me there.”
Ah, the school breakfast, the one Greg couldn’t attend because it would have been crossing a line they’d drawn in their agreements. He hadn’t known there’d been a behind-the-scenes strategy talk between Taylor and Mandy though.
He followed behind them on the walkway, laden down with book bag and pillow as Mandy chatted about her secret ninja skills and Taylor allowed her to level up. They’d bonded faster than Greg had any right to expect them to. Sneaking ice cream sandwiches at two in the morning, leaning over videos of how-to-make-homemade-weaponry, Taylor showing Mandy pressure points and quizzing on dart gun terminology in place of the real thing. Taylor had even cut out crudely penciled elves from poster board and turned it into a game for Mandy to whip her jump rope at them to knock them down.
Rise of the Snowmen Page 3
