The Christmas Knife

by Jackie North

  "What?" asked Luke. "Stolen? How did that happen?"

  "I was showing it to the bartender, and turned to get my wallet to pay for my beer, and then—"

  "Have you called the police?" asked Luke, his voice more strident now. "Was it the bartender who took it?"

  "Yes and no," said Clayton, a little breathless now that the worst of it was known. "He was admiring it with me, and then turned to help another customer when the knife and sheath were stolen. I called the police and they took the report, but Luke, there might only be four main roads out of this town, but there are a dozen side roads that head across huge tracts of land. There's nobody catching this guy, nobody."

  For a small moment, Luke was quiet. Clayton listened to the silence, his heart thudding in his chest, though in the background he could hear the TV going. He thought about Luke and Sarah and Shawn in the family room watching a sitcom together, the way he and his Mom and his Dad and Sarah used to do, back when the world was much younger. Those days were gone now, and the vision of faded, homey curtains over the window above the sink flashed in front of Clayton's eyes and then vanished.

  "Hang on," said Luke. "Sarah wants to talk to you; I'm giving her the phone."

  Clayton's heart leaped up in his throat. He'd not talked to Sarah for at least two years, ever since that awful day. The idea of talking to her now about this dreadful thing, which would surely get in the way of the hoped-for reconciliation between them, made his face go numb, made his chest ache.

  There was a quiet rustle on the other end of the line, and then Clayton heard Sarah's voice for the first time in what seemed forever.

  "Clayton, it's Sarah," said Sarah, introducing herself as if the two of them were strangers, which they were, a little. "I'm so sorry—was it truly stolen? Did you look beneath the barstool? Remember the time—?"

  Then she stopped, even as the memory flickered in front of Clayton, almost as if it was happening just then. Sarah and him, New Year's Eve that year when Mom and Dad had gone on a tropical cruise, and it'd had been before she'd met her first husband, so with both of them having nobody, they'd spent the evening together. They'd had a few drinks and talked, and Sarah had misplaced her purse. Luckily, they quickly found it beneath the barstool, both of them laughing so hard that Sarah confessed she'd peed a little. Which made them both laugh harder.

  The memory was a good one, bright and shining amidst all the other good memories, and the bad ones, too.

  "No," said Clayton, swallowing over the lump in his throat. "I looked. The police can't find the guy, I'm sure of it. And now, I won't have anything for Shawn for Christmas."

  "We're giving him an Xbox," said Sarah quickly. "We'll change out the tag and it'll be from you. That's how we'll do it."

  "But I don't want to give him an Xbox," said Clayton, and his voice shook, hard as he tried to stop it. "Every kid is getting one of those. I wanted to give him something special, something nobody else had—Uncle Bill gave it to me, and now it's gone. Somebody else has it—"

  "It doesn't matter," said Sarah, in that fierce way she had when she'd made up her mind. "None of that matters now. None of it. Only, I'm so sorry for what happened, for what I let happen and didn't stop."

  "None of that matters now," said Clayton quickly, taking her apology then and there, putting forgiveness in his voice as he echoed her words. "None of it."

  "So come home," said Sarah. "Come home for Christmas. We'll figure it out when you get here. How long will it take you to drive from Dickinson to Parker?"

  "Ten hours," said Clayton. "But that depends on the roads. There's a blizzard brewing, from the looks of things. I'll check the weather report, but I'm pretty sure—"

  "Then get some rest and head out early tomorrow," said Sarah, and Clayton could almost see her nodding, her silvery blonde hair falling over her shoulders. He could even hear the slight rustle when she tucked her hair behind her ears, in that way she did when she was thinking, and his love for her flooded through him. "And I mean early. Then you'll be here by tomorrow night, in plenty of time for Christmas. Do you have the address?"

  "Yes," said Clayton, and he didn't have to tell her that he'd had it from the second he'd gotten the invitation.

  He'd not gone to the wedding where she married Luke, still too hurt over her support of the man, now her ex, who had separated them from each other. But none of that needed saying; they both knew what had happened. And now there was a chance for a new beginning.

  They'd talk about what had happened between them at some point, when things had settled down, and the wounds that had begun to close would really start to heal. He couldn't wait to see her and Shawn again, couldn't wait to meet Luke, who had already received Uncle Bill's stamp of approval.

  "Tell Luke thank you," said Clayton. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, scrubbing hard. "And tell Shawn I'm on my way."

  "I will," said Sarah, the depth of her love oozing up through the slender cell phone. "Drive safe, okay? I can't wait to see you."

  "Me too," said Clayton.

  His eyes were wet and his mouth was dry, but the cold pockets of emptiness in his heart were starting to fill. It was going to be the first Christmas he was looking forward to since his parents died several years back, the first he and Sarah would spend together without being overloaded with sadness. They weren't going to be sad, they weren't. They were going to be happy, and since Luke was a decent guy, a good guy, he could see her, could see Shawn, any time he wanted. And that was the best Christmas gift of all.

  Chapter 3

  Gritty eyed the next morning, Clayton was packing his small army-green canvas duffle bag when the police called. They had a lead, they said, as someone, several someones actually, had called the station asking about the reward money for the Bowie knife and the beaded sheath. Could Clayton stick around while they investigated the leads? Clayton agreed that he would, at least for a few hours, as it was worth the delay in case they actually did find the articles.

  When he hung up and took a look at his phone, he noticed four messages, left for him ass-early while he'd been sleeping. He swiped his thumb to view the transcribed message, which, as usual, was slightly garbled and not very informative. Still, several words stood out in the text: found, Bowie knife, beaded sheath, reward.

  When Clayton played each message aloud, the whole thing became a little more clear, though not by much. Each of the callers, all male, were phoning in about the reward they saw offered on Craigslist, which was up to $500 with a timely return of the knife and sheath, no questions asked.

  The last message was from Sarah, and as he saw that she'd left it at 3 a.m., the reason for the tiredness in her voice was easily apparent. And maybe there was a little bit of desperation as well, as she had posted online about the stolen gift, and had left Clayton's phone number as the contact. Hence the calls asking about the reward.

  Her message went on to state that she and Luke would pay the reward, and that Clayton wasn't to argue with her about that. Her voice sounded a little sad, as if she'd had that last glass of merlot and decided to take matters into her own hands, only after that, she'd started to feel that Clayton would be mad, and wouldn't come home for Christmas after all and she needed to explain it all.

  He needed to call her. Never mind that it was still early, his passionate, vibrant sister would already be up working on her Christmas preparations. Luke was probably helping her, as he seemed to be that kind of guy, and Shawn would be dancing at their heels, hoping for pancakes with chocolate chips in them for breakfast.

  Clayton scrubbed at his eyes, and sat on the bed, cell phone in hands, just as he had the night before. He needed coffee as soon as he could get his hands on it, but if he was going to hang around for some guy to come for the reward, he also needed to get to a bank machine, as people who returned stolen items only if there was reward money usually preferred cash.

  Sarah answered after only half a ring.

  "Clayton?" she asked.

  "They're cal
ling already," said Clayton, knowing she would understand his desire for not dancing around the bush. "Did you really think this would help?"

  "I did," she said. "How many calls have you gotten thus far?"

  "They're lining up for it like wolves," he said, shaking his head. "But it's okay, it's okay. The cops got some calls as well, and they want me to hang around while they check it out. I figure I'll be here till noon, and then I'll leave. Is that okay?"

  "Yes, I'm sorry," said Sarah, and in the background Clayton could hear the ding of the timer on the stove, and wondered if it was sweet rolls or pumpkin bread that was just about done in time for breakfast. "It seemed like such a good idea after a glass of wine, you know. But this morning I'm realizing that not everybody is going to be honest about it."

  "I'll vet them, don't you worry," said Clayton. "Every single one. And who knows, maybe there's some guy or gal who has found the knife and the sheath and only wants to give them back."

  "That'd be in the spirit of Christmas for sure," said Sarah.

  "For sure," said Clayton in echo. "All right, well, I'm going to get coffee—"

  "Be sure and eat something, too," said Sarah quickly.

  "I will," said Clayton. "See you tonight, sis."

  "See you, little brother," said Sarah. Clayton could hear the warmth in her voice, and almost see the little smile, as if she'd just kissed him on the cheek, laughing as he blushed. It had been way too long since they'd seen each other, and while there was going to be a delay in his driving, he'd see her soon. See all of them soon.

  "Later, gator," he said.

  "Later, gator," she said in response.

  Clayton pressed his thumb to the phone to hang up before they got even more soppy with each other, though he was smiling just the same. Soppy was what he wanted, and what he'd been missing, though he'd not realized how much till now.

  He puttered about the room, finishing his packing, taking his duffle bag out to the car. He checked his pocket for his phone, bundled up in his thin down jacket, and went to the front desk to check out.

  It had been a pleasure using a real key on a large plastic tab while locking and unlocking his hotel door and he made a point to tell the young, female clerk this as he returned the key, and signed the final charge slip. To her, the real key probably reminded her that she was in the middle of nowhere, and far away from bright lights and magnetic key cards that took all the magic out of staying in a hotel, so her unimpressed expression only made him smile.

  "Thank you for the stay," he said to her, then got in his car and drove to the diner for another excellent breakfast of biscuits and gravy. He lingered there, drinking slightly bitter coffee out of a thick, white china mug, and treated himself to a post-breakfast treat of toasted English muffin with extra butter and jam. The diner was warm and only half full, so it was pleasant to linger, and nobody looked like they wanted to kick him out.

  After a bit, he called the three guys who'd left messages about the reward. And, one by one, he realized they were shysters.

  The first guy had a number listed with an area code from San Diego, and while he could have moved to nearby Montana, as he stated, he hadn't the first clue about the time it would take to drive from Billings to Dickinson.

  "I can be there in ten minutes," the guy said. "Will you have the reward?"

  Clayton hung up and blocked the number.

  The second guy was more persuasive, but when Clayton asked him about the receipt that Clayton had tucked inside the sheath, he flat out lied.

  "That must have fallen out, man," said the guy. Which was impossible, as the receipt had a bit of sticky tape on it that had snagged on the handle of the Bowie knife.

  Clayton hung up on him, too, and blocked the number as well.

  The third guy was a little bit more persuasive, with a tale of woe about needing the reward money to buy presents for his five children during the holidays. But beyond using the words listed in the ad on Craigslist, he hadn't the faintest idea what an Indian beaded leather knife sheath actually was.

  Clayton let him ramble for a minute, then hung up on him, and blocked that number, too.

  Around noon, just as Clayton was finishing up his third cup of coffee, the cops came by the diner. In a town as small and connected as Dickinson, it didn't surprise Clayton overly much that they knew where to find him.

  He stood, laid a twenty and a five on the table next to the green-lined bill that didn't even include a charge for the English muffin, and watched the cops come in. Several people waved at them, and the cook behind the counter lined up two white china mugs, and began pouring the bitter coffee for them.

  "That ad your sister placed isn't doing much good, Mr. Nash," said the first cop, the same one from the night before who'd been so useless. "We're getting crank calls, and getting no leads."

  "Now you say that," said Clayton. "So I've wasted my time waiting for news."

  "Sorry about that," said the second cop, though he seemed utterly uninterested in the issue at hand and more interested in the blue plate lunch specials that were being placed at the long counter lined by leather-topped stools.

  "I'm on my way to my sister's, then," said Clayton.

  He stepped around them, not waiting for expressions of sympathy or consolation. He had a ten-hour drive in front of him and he needed to get a move on.

  Chapter 4

  After gassing up the car at the last gas station on Dickinson's main street, Clayton drove out of town on Highway 22, a two-lane blacktop road that shot out across the high prairie with the single-mindedness of an arrow. It would take him a few hours of driving on coffee-jangled adrenaline before he'd need to stop, which would probably be in Reva, South Dakota, just at the point that the highway would begin to zig and zag its way into Wyoming.

  From that point, being on the road would begin to feel like he was getting closer to Parker, where a sense of home and family awaited him.

  Highway 22 turned into Highway 79 at the South Dakota border, where he noticed the grey-and-white snow clouds starting to lower in the sky. He stopped at the gas station in Reva, which, really, in addition to the feed store and the farm machine repair shop, made up the entire town. He got a cup of coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid, and struck up a conversation with the cashier, who was waiting for the credit card approval to process.

  "Where you headed?" asked the young man, his face earnest as he gave Clayton a ballpoint pen.

  "Down to south Denver," said Clayton. He signed the slip the cashier gave him, and looked up at the sound of dismay the cashier made.

  "There's a storm coming," said the cashier. "It's on the news."

  "Yeah, I saw the clouds and smelled the snow," said Clayton, and knew that the cashier would understand that in this part of the country, the smell of snow in the air and the direction of wind was sometimes more accurate than the weather station. "I'm hoping to beat it."

  "It's already snowing," said the cashier.

  Clayton looked where the young man was pointing, out through the large floor- to-ceiling window of the gas station.

  Large, fat flakes were drifting down, and if that had been the extent of it, Clayton would not have been worried. But in between the downy flakes were smaller bits of snow, coming down a little faster and twisting in the air sideways. Those were the signs of more snow to come.

  It was going to get cold, and then it was going to get colder, and not all roads in this part of the country were gritted or plowed. They stayed layered with snow, and while trucks and farm equipment could roll over or through, Clayton had a car meant for the highway and for city streets.

  "I'll be okay," said Clayton. He'd driven through worse, though that had been in an eighteen-wheeled rig.

  He tucked up the collar of his thin down coat and got into the car, buckled up, turned on the heat with the warm air aimed at the windshield, and drove south on Highway 79. Winter-brown grasses and low shrubs spun past either window and ahead of him, the dotted white line droned on
into a mesmerizing smear as it started to snow.

  At first, the snow snaked across the blacktop in that twisty, ribbon-like way that it had when the road was warm and the storm hadn't started in earnest. The flakes of snow, which luckily were coming sideways from the west instead of straight at the windshield, grew more urgent, as if they had a mission to cover the landscape with the appropriate Christmassy feel. Already the dead weeds by the roadside were coated with a sharp-edged white rime, stiff in the oncoming wind, measuring the depth of snowfall by their thin, reedy stalks.

  In the first hour out of Reva, Clayton received four calls about the reward, one after the other. Each voice sounded metallic as it came through the speakers of his car, as he had one of those swanky cellphones that could bluetooth a call and leave his hands free to drive.

  Each voice also sounded a little too concerned with the reward money, or had, again, no idea what an Indian beaded knife sheath actually was. Moreover, they each seemed to think that he was going to drive for hours in bad weather to meet them without actually proving to Clayton that they actually had the knife and sheath.

  The fourth call came from a woman who talked too fast and demanded a thousand dollars for the items' safe return. She gave Clayton her cell phone number and wanted him to call her with a transfer confirmation number so she could collect the reward money at her own bank, rather than waiting for a check in the mail. She sounded like she wanted to make Clayton feel bad for making her wait for the reward money, when she hadn't even returned the item yet.

  Clayton hung up on her with a click of his thumb on the steering wheel, and frowned at the flakes coming at the passenger door window as the blacktop in front of him began disappearing at the edges, and the clouds drew low on the horizon in front of him, grey and dark and boiling.

  An hour later, as he turned to take the road past Castle Rock, he realized that maybe he should have taken the main highway, as at least that'd be plowed, or cleared by passing traffic from other folks heading to their Christmas destinations. If he got stuck out here, out in the middle of nowhere, rescue would be hours away, and he'd be late, so very late, getting to Parker.