In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel

by M. R. Sellars

  “Well, that didn’t help, but a lot of the folks who remember that are long gone. You know how protective we are of her,” he explained with a sigh. “Every year it’s been the same. One of you Feds shows up and insists on interviewing her. Then, come Christmas night, after everything is over, and Merrie is Merrie again, she starts talking about Mister Drew, or Mister Keene, or whoever was sent that year. For some unknown reason she expects them to be coming back to visit with her again… She gets up early on December twenty-sixth every year, then just sits there waiting for the entire day.”

  “That would explain why she wasn’t surprised to see me this morning,” Constance mused.

  “Pretty much. But, you’re the first to actually show up. Until now, every year she’s ended up heartbroken because they don’t come back.”

  “She takes it that hard?”

  Again he answered with a quiet nod. Then he said, “Not sure why about that either… Takes her awhile to get over it too, and that doesn’t sit well with folks around here, as you’ve discovered.”

  “That’s a fact,” she agreed.

  “Eventually, that memory fades and she forgets it too. But something tells me she’ll remember you…” Skip gave a thoughtful snort and then shook his head. “You know, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure you’d show up over there today. But like I said last night, I had you pegged as different, so I called Martha and told her to keep an eye out. I admit, I was hoping I’d read you right about that too… Glad to see I did.”

  “You could have said something about it last night. Were you testing me?”

  “No,” he shrugged. “I think maybe I was testing myself.”

  “So do you think you passed?”

  “You showed up, so I think maybe I did. I guess we’ll find out,” he replied, then absently brushed at his mustache. “How about you? Did visiting with Merrie answer any lingering questions?”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I don’t really know that I expected it to. Like I said, I just wanted to see for myself that she was okay. We ended up visiting for a while. I even got a fresh manicure.” She held out her hands to display her nails.

  “Sounds like Merrie…” Skip replied.

  Constance gazed thoughtfully at her nails and then looked back up to the sheriff’s face. “But, even without answers, it made me feel good just to see her. Does that sound odd, Skip?”

  Carmichael shook his head. “Nope. Not odd at all. I know you’re a part of her life now, and from what you just said I think maybe she’s become a part of yours too. I realize it sounds sappy, but you’ve been touched by the spirit, Constance.”

  “The spirit of Christmas?”

  He shrugged. “Of Christmas… Of Merrie… It’s all the same to us around here.”

  “You know, I think maybe I understand exactly what you mean.”

  He regarded her carefully and then smiled. “Yeah, I think maybe you do. You’re good people, Constance.”

  “Thanks. You are too, Skip.”

  “Ya’know, I’ve never said this to any of you Feds before, but then, none of the others ever gave me a chance…” He paused and once again combed his fingers through the brush on his lip for a second. “Do me a favor, Constance: don’t let ‘em send anyone else to Hulis on this case.”

  She sighed. “I’m not sure I can stop them.”

  “Maybe you can. I guess it all depends on what you put in that report of yours.”

  “Something tells me it won’t make any difference.”

  “You’re probably right,” he agreed. “But sending an endless parade of Feds up here isn’t going to bring Merrie any peace. That’s what she really needs. Once that happens, maybe she can move on… Hell, maybe Rebecca and Hulis can too.”

  “Maybe so…” Constance smiled, then gave him a nod. “I’ll promise you this much, Skip: I’ll come back. You can count on it. If the bureau wants to send someone anyway, I’ll make sure it’s me.”

  “You know I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Yes, I do. Don’t worry. I think I have some pull that the other agents don’t.”

  “Do tell…”

  “I would if I could.”

  “Well, I tell myself this every year,” he grunted. “Guess I’ll tell you too… Let’s hope next Christmas you’re just here to visit and have a cup of egg nog.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’m sure Merrie would too.”

  CHAPTER 32

  12:24 P.M. – December 26, 2010

  College Gas ‘n Go

  BR 61 South – Canton, Missouri

  CONSTANCE tore a fresh paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands. This was the second gas station she had visited in the past ten minutes. At the first stop, she had walked into the unisex facilities and then immediately turned and walked back out. If she was going to die prematurely, she had already decided that it wasn’t going to be courtesy of a toilet seat that hadn’t been cleaned since before she was born.

  Her heels clicked sharply on the tile as she stepped over to the door, then used the damp paper towel to grasp the handle and pull it open. Hooking her foot in front of the door she wadded up the towel and tossed it into the trashcan, actually landing it dead center in the receptacle—unlike some of the other women who had visited recently. Using her elbow she shoved the door the rest of the way open and exited. It’s not that she was germaphobic by any stretch, but she was sure that even this restroom needed a date with some bleach and elbow grease.

  She strolled slowly past the drink coolers, inspecting the selections, and then paused. She still had a little over three hours left before she would roll into Saint Louis. Although she’d slept well last night, she still didn’t feel like she was caught up, so she was definitely going to need caffeine to get her through the upcoming stretch of highway. After a brief moment of indecision, she settled on a bottle of green tea that was boasting “all natural” on the label. She didn’t fully buy into the advertising by any stretch, but she figured her body would appreciate green tea more than a soda, or even coffee.

  After paying for the drink, she headed back out to the first row of pumps. Since she had left her coat on the passenger seat of her car, she hurried—heels again tapping out a sharp cadence, this time against the grimy, salt-frosted pavement. She had already topped off her tank and paid with her card before seeking out the restroom, so she quickly unlocked the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, then settled the bottle of tea into the console cup holder. As she reached over her shoulder for the safety belt, she heard a warbling chime issue from her side.

  Abandoning the belt, she reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved her cell. The screen displayed, UNKNOWN, and for the number, a row of ten zeros, separated by strategically placed dashes. She frowned and consciously creased her brow, wondering at the odd data and whether to even bother answering. After a moment, the device ceased to jiggle, and the vibrato tone stopped. Problem solved.

  Constance moved to slide it back into her pocket when it suddenly began to tickle her palm and sing the same generic tune to her again. She pulled it back up and found the same message on the screen. Giving in, she thumbed the answer button and tucked the cell up beneath her hair and against her ear while she used her other hand to fish her sunglasses from the visor.

  “Hello?”

  An unfamiliar woman’s emotionless and curt voice asked, “SA Mandalay?”

  Constance frowned again. “Yes, this is SA Mandalay. Who is this?”

  “Please hold,” the woman replied.

  A dull silence instantly filled the earpiece. Constance let out a displeased harrumph but continued to wait. Several seconds later, there was a click and a new voice came on the line.

  “SA Mandalay…” a calm, almost soothing male voice said. “I trust you are doing well today?”

  Now she wasn’t just displeased, she was confused and starting to edge toward somewhat angry.

  “Who is this?” Constance demanded, not botherin
g to hide the irritation in her voice.

  There was a quiet chuckle at the other end. “Forgive me, I suppose I should have introduced myself first. I’m Assistant Director Jack Graham.”

  Constance fell mute, the earlier aggravation now turning into a bewildering sort of alarm. She knew the name wasn’t likely to be a coincidence, not after everything she’d just been through.

  After what seemed to be a forever period of silence she managed, “Good afternoon, sir…”

  “Good afternoon, SA Mandalay,” he replied. He was, in a sense, restarting the conversation from square one.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’m simply checking in with you,” he told her. “I know that you were just assigned to a rather difficult case at my direction, and I wanted to make sure you came through it okay.”

  “So far,” she replied, still stunned. “Thank you for the concern, sir.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he replied. “You should take some leave when you get home. A few days for yourself to rest up. Perhaps spend a belated holiday with your significant other, Detective Storm.”

  The comment was as subtle as a hammer, but she willed herself not to flinch, verbally at least. Instead, she replied, “I still need to file my report, sir.”

  “The report can wait, SA Mandalay.”

  “But–”

  “Trust me,” he said, cutting her off, “your report can wait. I insist you take a few days for yourself. I’ll be calling your supervisor with the authorization. After what you’ve seen, you deserve it.”

  Obviously she was being left no other choice. She just wasn’t entirely sure why. Therefore, she said the only thing she could: “Thank you…”

  “You’re very welcome,” he replied. “Besides, I’m sure you could use a little time to think about what you plan to include in your report.”

  “Sir?”

  “You came into possession of somewhat sensitive information during this case…” he said, allowing a verbal sword to dangle above her head.

  “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! I never should have dragged Ben into this” she thought to herself. “God, what if they come down on him for this too…”

  Apparently her pause was long enough to evoke another quiet chuckle from AD Graham. “Relax. Who do you think sent you that file and text message, SA Mandalay?”

  She realized that she had been holding her breath and now allowed herself to exhale slowly then take in a fresh lungful of air.

  “May I ask why, sir?”

  “To help you understand,” he replied.

  “I’m still not certain that I do.”

  “Hence your need for some time to think.”

  Constance waited a heartbeat then asked, “What are you wanting me to put in my report, sir?”

  “What do you think you should put into the report?” he asked.

  “No disrepect intended, sir, but it seems to me the bureau has been hiding something for thirty-five years.”

  “What do you think that might be, SA Mandalay?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, sir. However, I can’t help but wonder if everyone in that town is involved.”

  “They are, Special Agent, but not in the way you imagine.”

  “Sir?”

  “There is no conspiracy among the people of Hulis. You can trust me on that.”

  “Then that only leaves…”

  He filled in her pause. “As I said, you need to think about it.”

  “If that is the case, why didn’t you send Rowan Gant with me? The paranormal is his forte.”

  “I have my reasons, SA Mandalay.”

  The tone of his voice told Constance that any further questions were unwelcome at this time. She hedged her bet and replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “By the way…” Graham added, “it might help you to understand if I tell you that Joseph Wayne Garrity was missing from his cell early yesterday morning. Vanished without a trace.”

  “Joseph Wayne Garrity, sir?”

  “Check the file, SA Mandalay,” he replied. “I look forward to seeing your report once you’ve had a little time to recuperate.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  Without further comment or even a farewell, the call ended. Constance pulled the cell phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment. Finally, she snapped it shut, stuffed it into her pocket, then hit the trunk release and climbed out into the chilly wind. Her laptop case was nestled in between her suitcase and gear bag, so it didn’t take much to dig it out.

  Back inside the car she pulled the notebook computer out and flipped open the clamshell, simultaneously slipping a thumb in between to press the power button. Once it had booted, she sent her finger dancing across the touchpad and brought the mysterious emailed file up on the screen.

  Constance began paging through the rap sheets she had already studied for hours, but then with far less sleep under her belt. Still, even then it hadn’t escaped her notice that Detective Sergeant Addison Carmichael was listed as the arresting officer on each of the reports. What she hadn’t noticed before was that some of the sheets had been tagged as “missing.” A gut feeling told Constance that she didn’t even need to count. The tagged predators in the file would add up to seven. That same feeling also told her she knew exactly where they each had gone.

  After sifting through the pages, she eventually found Joseph Wayne Garrity. He was supposed to be serving seven to twenty-five for repeatedly molesting a nine-year-old girl in a Kansas City suburb.

  Until yesterday morning, that is.

  Apparently Merrie Frances Callahan had amended his sentence.

  EPILOGUE

  ON the remainder of the drive home, Greg Lake’s voice filled the interior of Constance’s sedan as he lamented the broken promises of Christmas and a man in a red suit who was not what he seemed. Whenever the song would reach its end, she focused on the last line, which so eloquently claimed that the Christmas we get is the one that we deserve. The rap sheets of the eight dead predators would flash through her mind, and in that moment she would believe the words to be true.

  Then she would thumb the controls on the steering column and skip the CD backwards to start the tune again from the beginning. Now and again, as the song echoed in her ears, she would splay out her hand atop the steering wheel and look at the fresh lacquer of pearlescent pink polish on her nails, then smile.

  Unfortunately, her smile would soon fade. She would flash on the dozens of rap sheets in the file for child molesters who were still alive, and realize that for Merrie—and Rebecca—Christmas would forever be Hell.

  Then her vision would begin to blur as tears welled in her eyes.

  AD Graham was correct. She was definitely going to need a few days…

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Since people tend to not read the disclaimer on the copyright page, I’ll say it here: Hulis, Missouri does not exist. I’m pretty certain I cannot be any clearer than that.

  Hulis—and Mais for that matter—are fictional towns, populated by fictional characters, all spawned by my warped imagination. If you go hunting for either of them on a map, you won’t find them. Not in Missouri, anyway. I haven’t checked elsewhere.

  Granted, you’ll probably find the highways that are mentioned, but you won’t find those two towns. If you do, don’t tell me because then I would feel compelled to go there for a visit and that could be all kinds of dangerous.

  Also, while you might notice a landmark or two that seem oddly familiar, be aware that I have rearranged a few things to suit my fictional world, with fictional characters, in a fictional situation. That’s how it goes with fiction. It’s sort of a fiction thing…

  You will also notice that a portion of this novel reads word for word like a novella titled Merrie Axemas: A Killer Holiday Tale. Why? Because In The Bleak Midwinter is based upon that particular story. Please note, I just said based upon, not exactly like. Since I wrote the novella, I’m allowed to muck about with it with impu
nity.

  What that means is that while this novel contains portions of text taken directly from the original novella, you will find massive additions, minor subtractions, a host of changes, and a vastly different ending. That’s sort of a novel thing…

  Lastly… Constance Mandalay is, of course, a character from the Rowan Gant Investigations, as is Detective Benjamin Storm. The characters Addison “Skip” Carmichael, Harry Broderick, and Melanie Slozar are an homage (in name) to a 70’s era movie and TV show called Salvage. The characters Ruth and Elvis Babbs are named for and loosely based upon my maternal grandparents, Ruth and Elvis Babb—no S. (The S is another story entirely.) If you happen to hail from my hometown of Fulton, Kentucky, you will recognize some of the landmarks in Hulis, and maybe even another character name or two. That would be because I used my knowledge of “home” (from the 70’s) to create the fictional town. Oh, and Double D’s Pizza is real. It is in South Saint Louis County. Go there, eat pizza, drink beer, and tell them M. R. Sellars sent you. Trust me, they won’t kick you out for that…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sellars and his younger sister with Department Store Santa, 1966

  A member of the International Thriller Writers, M. R. Sellars is a relatively unassuming homebody who “tells pretty lies” for a living. Legend has it he started making up stories to entertain a stuffed bear during his single digit years, then began writing them down sometime around his early teens when the growing catalogue of fiction started causing headaches. In May 2000, his first full-length novel, HARM NONE: A Rowan Gant Investigation was released, officially launching the acclaimed paranormal thriller series.

  Sellars currently resides in the Midwest with his incomparably amazing wife, equally fantastic daughter, and a pair of male felines he describes as, “the competition.” When not writing a new novel, in order to satisfy his lifelong dream of being a satirical humor columnist for a major metropolitan newspaper, twice each week he removes his glasses, dons blue tights and a red cape, then blogs about the incredibly bizarre world that is his life as a writer, husband, and father. It has been said that his blog articles sometimes blur the line between fiction and reality. To that he responds, “What line?”