by Johnny Miles
“What the hell?” Kris banged his fist on the dashboard, torn between the immediacy of going into stealth mode and seeing to Bucket, who sat in stunned silence.
“Melchior, can you hear me?” Kris spoke into the earpiece. “We’ve lost cloaking. I repeat, we’ve lost cloaking!”
Static. Then: “Kr—?”
“Melchior! Send help. Bucket is…he’s…sick or something. And we’ve no cloaking device.”
“’M sorry, Kr— At the mo— We can’t—”
Melchior’s harried voice came through, but the transmission was sporadic, just as he’d said it might be.
“’Sporter is out, but…an idea…’lling Wode…’Be he can….”
Frustrated, Kris yanked the piece from his ear and flung the device as far away as he could. Gathering his courage, he finally faced Bucket. At a loss for what might have caused the rapid deterioration, Kris struggled with a horrified anger at what had become of Bucket. His skin had wrinkled and withered, now dry and paperlike as it all but hung off his bones. His traveling clothes, usually snug and conforming to his small body, seemed to have grown several sizes too big.
Why? Kris wondered. We’ve made this trip a hundred times!
A sudden chill filled the night air, and Kris wasn’t certain that it had to do entirely with the weather. He gazed up at the sky and noticed an odd, rapid, and sudden convergence of clouds. Something was happening that was way beyond Kris’s control, and he did not like it one bit. It began to flurry.
“Bucket, I-I don’t know what’s happened, but—”
“I’m afraid I do. You see, I…last year…this entire year, in fact…I’ve had a lot of…thoughts.”
“I don’t understand. What kind of thoughts?”
“Bad, negative thoughts, Kris. About things I’m ashamed to admit…even to myself.”
“No, Bucket. That can’t be right. Bad or negative thoughts have a bad impact, I know. I get that. If it’s any consolation, I’ve had them too, but—”
“Yes, but you didn’t have negative thoughts while using Magic, did you?” Bucket snapped.
“I refuse to believe negative thoughts would cause this much damage. Under the influence of Magic or not. It must be something else. Some…anomaly.”
“You-you think so?” Bucket asked hopefully. He seemed unconvinced but at least willing to believe.
“Yes. I know so,” Kris replied with finality. They grew silent. Then, after a moment, Kris added, “We’re going to get through this. We’re going to fix this.”
“I don’t see how, Kris. You were right. I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed at the North Pole.”
“But you’re here now. And for what it’s worth—”
“Hey, mister!” someone hollered. “You can’t park there!”
Kris turned to see one of North Carolina’s uniformed finest hurry down the steps of the officious-looking building, his eyes bug-eyed and mouth agape.
A lightbulb suddenly went off in Kris’s head. Despite the thickening flurries, the growing cold, and Bucket’s unexpected condition, Kris felt a rush of adrenaline.
“Bucket? I’ve got an idea. It’s risky but…”
Kris clambered down from the sleigh. He hated himself for not coming up with another solution, but it was the only way he could think of to get into jail, into the same cell as the man they were looking for.
The burly cop approached.
Kris scanned the man’s soul. If Kris sensed even an ounce of evil dwelling in the officer’s heart, he’d have no problem. Except he felt no malice coming from the young muscled blond. Which only made Kris feel worse for what he was about to do.
“What the…? Santa?” The cop chuckled, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t—”
“Not nearly as sorry as I am”—Kris read the name on the cop’s nametag—“Officer Moody.”
Kris pulled back and punched Moody in the face. There was an odd crunch as Kris’s fist connected with the man’s nose. Blood spurted as he went down on his ass and slid on the thin coating of snow now accumulating.
“What the hell’d you do that for?” Moody spluttered through the blood dripping onto his lips. He then radioed into the tiny communicator on his lapel. “Man down. I repeat, man down!”
Seconds later, as Moody stood with a wobble, the station doors opened. A male cop followed by a plus-sized policewoman hurried down the stairs and raced down the sidewalk. From the looks on their faces, Kris could tell they were assessing the situation. He laughed as the two nearly collided with Moody.
“What the hell’s so funny?” Moody yelled. “Ain’t nothing funny about this, old man. Richards, grab this crazy old bastard and help me take him in.” Moody and the other male cop seized Kris. They violently yanked him toward the station, a gust of wind helping them along. They read him his rights, not even bothering with handcuffs.
“Where are we going? What the hell are you doing?” Behind them, Bucket made it known he did not appreciate being manhandled. “You can’t grab me there! Bitch, what is wrong with you?”
Kris roared with laughter and sent Bucket the thought that perhaps he’d been watching way too many reality shows. To which Bucket replied, though Kris wasn’t completely sure it was meant for him, “Go fuck yourself!”
Chapter Ten
Whatever—or whomever—had taken hold of Griffin had let go just as quickly. His lungs on fire, Griffin sucked down as much air as he could. Oxygen had never smelled so sweet, even if it carried with it the faint remnant stench of human waste.
Woozy, Griffin scrambled pell-mell toward the cell door. He gripped the cold metal bars to steady himself and pressed his face against them, frantically searching the corridor for proof someone had been there. Except that as far as he could see, as far as he could hear, there was no one there. He cocked his head to listen. Nope. Not even the sound of receding footsteps. No sound at all except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and his beating heart.
What the hell is going on?
Disgruntled, Griffin pushed away from the bars. Maybe he’d imagined the man in the hallway, one with a malevolent air about him. But, no. That couldn’t be right. Griffin knew what he’d seen, and what he’d seen was real.
Or maybe you’re going insane like Virginia, a sarcastic voice quipped in his mind.
Exasperated, Griffin paced the cell. He tried to think, but his brain was far too jumbled. It was impossible to concentrate or follow any train of thought, what with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He knew only that he couldn’t stay locked up. He needed to escape. But how?
Forcing himself to focus, Griffin discarded the possibility of creating a distraction. Besides, there was no one else there to perform the sleight of hand needed for a commotion.
He was considering the possibility of running out of the cell when the door opened again. He might be able to move fast enough, knock out the cops the way he’d done to Thomas and Piedmont. But even if he managed to get out, how fast would he be able to run? For how long? And how far could he get? Where would he go where he’d feel safe? Who could he trust? Where would he seek refuge? Where would he find answers?
More confused than ever, Griffin stopped pacing.
If only I could…disappear. Just…pop out of this cell and appear somewhere else!
Griffin turned. He stared past the iron bars. After all he’d seen lately, was it farfetched to think he just might be able to pop out of the cell and appear in the hallway on the other side of the bars? Griffin closed his eyes and visualized himself standing where he wanted to be. He waited a moment, then opened his eyes.
“Damn,” he muttered, ran his fingers through his hair, and walked back to the cots. He sat, elbows on knees, exhausted from the hamster wheel of rambling thoughts his mind had become.
Piedmont’s words suddenly popped into his head.
“This is bigger than any of us, Kloss.”
Despite his anxiety, Griffin forced h
imself to relax. He let his mind roam, jumping from one thought to the other, all in the hopes of finding something—anything—that might make sense or give him a clue. The answer, he knew, was always out there but not always obvious.
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there in contemplation. Days? Hours? Minutes? But a noise brought him back to present awareness. The hair at the back of his neck prickled.
Shit. What if he’s come back?
Griffin struggled to remain calm, certain it was a cop with another prisoner to throw in the tank. If it was another perp, Griffin couldn’t let it show he was anything but cool. Jail, after all, was not for pussies. He imagined himself bored, like being detained were nothing more than a huge inconvenience. He suddenly felt himself puff up with an air of great disdain.
Two men stepped into view—one a huge, muscle-bound bruiser of a cop, the other a smaller, thinner man in his early 50s who looked like Sting. The cop unlocked the cell and ushered the man inside.
Now, Griffin thought. He saw himself as he’d been in the parking lot, the crowd a blur as he punched one then the other of the two taunting men. It had been a thrill, the exhilaration quite astounding! But something wasn’t right. He didn’t feel the same sense of urgency, and Griffin briefly wondered if he’d ever be able to control the ability.
He sighed as the door squealed closed and the cop walked away. Griffin felt the other prisoner sizing him up. Purposely, he looked away from the newbie, fixing his gaze on the toilet, though aware of the man’s blatant staring. Griffin crossed his arms and huffed.
Don’t look at me. And don’t even think of coming near me.
Clearly his new cellmate couldn’t read minds, because much to Griffin’s dismay, the man walked over and sat beside him.
Hadn’t anyone told this guy this was not proper jail etiquette? Griffin thought to turn his back on the man but sensed a genuine, passionate, real individual in need of company. A man who needed to be heard. Deep down, the man was harmless. Still, Griffin didn’t feel like talking.
Something Griffin’s mother used to say sprang suddenly to mind: “Your touch alone always makes people feel renewed and full of hope again. You have that gift, you know.”
With an inward sigh, Griffin lowered his defenses, allowing the man’s energy to wash over him. Griffin felt for…something. He was never really certain what he was tapping, but “it” almost always came up as images, as if he were viewing a small clip on the Internet from a scene in that person’s life. When it came to him, Griffin saw a man fighting for justice, social issues, and glaring inequalities, even if he was a bit…
Griffin poked about a bit more. Then it came to him.
Downtrodden and freshly dumped.
Griffin let out a groan, and despite his desire to be alone with his thoughts, he couldn’t help who he was. He just wasn’t antisocial. Nor could he ignore his mother’s words or the aura of self-pity that surrounded the newly arrived man. Before Griffin could speak, however, the prisoner opened his mouth.
“First time?”
“How can you tell?” A little white lie to boost the guy’s morale wasn’t a bad thing, was it?
“Lucky guess.” The new guy went silent. After a moment, he added, “I’m Michael.”
“Griffin.”
“So, what did you do? Beat up a little old lady? Pissed on Santa’s boots? Tickled someone to death?”
Griffin laughed. He thought a moment before replying. “I was…doing my job. Trying to keep this sleazy guy’s mitts off one of our dancers.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.
“Oh, so you work at a strip joint.”
Griffin sensed a sudden shift in the man’s energy. Was he disappointed or phishing? Griffin grew cautious once more. What if the man turned out to be one of those…lunatics?
“Yeah. The Precocious Puss. I’m a bouncer there. Well…was.”
“Well, goodness knows you’ve got the build for it.”
Griffin heard the admiration in Michael’s tone and couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Definitely phishing. And most certainly not one of those.
“What about you? What did you do?” Griffin asked, hoping to take the focus off himself.
Michael sighed, shrugged, then shook his head incredulously.
“I thought the other guy had a gun.”
Griffin bristled as unwanted images flickered across his mind. Michael’s images like a series of quick snapshots. Griffin tried to stop the imagery from appearing, tried to pull himself away from Michael’s energy, but the images came all the same.
A mall. Two white men with long beards and hate in their eyes. They were dressed in camouflage, and their body language made it clear they were ready for trouble. One of them reached into his jacket pocket, and with the state of the nation lately, Griffin understood Michael jumping to conclusion. In fact, Griffin might have done the same had he been in Michael’s position.
A final image popped into place. The crowd at the mall. People scattering, some moving closer. And in the crowd, a familiar face. Griffin’s heart leapt.
Jackson?
But then the image was gone. Michael had moved on mentally, his thoughts now on a big, muscular hunk in a police uniform. The things Griffin saw all but made him blush, and he disconnected. He stared at Michael, and although the glimpse of Jackson worried Griffin, it also gave him hope. It meant Jackson was near.
Griffin found himself relaxing as he and Michael filled the air with small talk, even though all Griffin could think of was that quick shot of Jackson. Barely aware of what either of them said, he tried to tell himself it was someone else, someone who only looked like Jackson. After all, what would the chances be of Jackson being at the same mall at the exact same time?
His thoughts came to a screeching halt when the corridor doors swung open. They hit the walls with a thud. Griffin and Michael stopped talking. Griffin heard shuffling feet. Protesting. Someone clearly did not want to be there.
“Put me down, you fucking bitch!” a shrill voice cried.
“Why don’t you put him down and let him walk on his own?” This from a deeper voice, one with a bit of drawl and reverb. Surprised by the sudden warmth and tingling in his body, Griffin was reminded of Barry White. He was even more surprised when the tingling sensation heightened into something he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since he was a boy. It felt like…hope. And joy. And…Christmas!
Griffin’s jaw went slack as a black Santa suddenly appeared before them, half pulled, half shoved by two cops. Behind them an elf energetically struggled, even as he was lowered onto his own two feet.
No. Not an elf. A little person, Griffin reminded himself.
“You were right the first time. He is an Elf.”
Stunned by the deep, throaty voice that popped into his head, Griffin glanced at Santa. Their eyes met. In that split microsecond, memories of Christmases past flooded Griffin’s brain: the scent of fresh-cut pine trees; cookies baking in the oven; his mother smiling though bittersweet as she tenderly hung the ornaments, each with its own story to tell.
Griffin saw himself throughout the years, beside his mother—she’d been so young, so pretty!—as he helped decorate. He could feel the thin metal hooks in his fingers as he bent them as surely as if he held one now. He felt the slick tinsel before tossing it in the air to cascade onto the branches.
And hot chocolate at night, from the moment the tree went up, no matter how warm it was outside, because that’s what you did at Christmastime. Hot chocolate with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and endless hours of sitting in his PJs at the base of the tree, watching it blink and flicker while hopes and dreams and prayers built a foundation, welled up within his soul, and evaporated into space. Griffin knew Santa would see how good he’d been, find his heart’s desire, and fulfill his and his mom’s wishes.
The cell door clanged open, abruptly bringing Griffin back to the present.
“No! Stop! This isn’t right! I don’t underst
and! How did I get so ooolllddd?”
The hope Griffin had felt vanished as the police unceremoniously shoved Santa and his Elf into the cell. The Elf winced and moaned in pain as he fell on hands and knees, nearly kissing the floor with his forehead.
“What’s wrong with you? Why did you push him like that?” Santa rushed at the female cop as she slammed the door shut. He grasped the bars and pressed his face against the iron as though he might ooze through. And for a moment, Griffin could have sworn he actually did see the man’s face give a little. He thought he saw the bars widen just so. Then he blinked and it was all gone.
Griffin shook his head and told himself he was imagining things. People didn’t just morph or manipulate their bodies to fit their needs.
And they don’t move about at lightning speed either.
The Elf looked up at Griffin, who blinked, taken aback.
“If I find you hurt him in any way, there’s going to be one hell of a load of coal in your stocking!” cried Santa.
Something about the seriousness and sheer innocence of Santa’s words struck Griffin as funny. He snorted. Beside him, Michael chuckled. On the other side of the bars, the cops laughed. One of them pushed Santa back with his nightstick, none too gently.
“Hey! I saw that. Where I come from, we call that police brutality.” Michael stood, irate.
“I saw it too.” Griffin stood also, moving to defend the new arrivals. Then he caught Santa’s movement out of the corner of his eye. Griffin knelt to give the Elf an assist, but he’d already been helped to his feet.
“I told you these humans weren’t worth the trouble,” the Elf muttered.
Griffin rose and shared a curious look with Michael as Santa and Elf sat as far away from them as possible. Griffin stared openly at the black man consoling the white Elf in a way that spoke of a shared history. In fact, the way Santa touched the Elf and whispered let Griffin know Santa and Elf belonged to each other.
Torn between turning his back on the odd duo and a morbid curiosity to find out more about them, Griffin felt a certain, inexplicable kinship. The man glanced at him. Or was he looking at Michael? No, it was definitely him. Why else would Griffin’s blood grow warmer as if his mind were being probed? As quickly as the sensation came, it left. Griffin was suddenly keenly aware of Michael ready to pass out beside him.
