by Brom
Noel nodded and headed back, looking every bit the whipped pup. The truth was Dillard planned on going down there and shooting Jesse dead on sight and he sure as hell didn’t want Officer Boy Scout anywhere near him when he did—didn’t want any witnesses at all.
Dillard heard a distant siren racing their way. Dammit. Just what I don’t need. Fuck! Gotta find that boy quick-like. He chambered a round, pushing through the smoke. He spotted footprints in the snow, at least five or six sets, followed them around the back of the building, where they ended in a cluster around a wadded-up newspaper. He found deep ruts and fresh droppings—deer or goat maybe, he wasn’t sure which, only sure that nothing quite made sense. If he’d happened to look up at that moment, he might’ve caught sight of a sleigh pulled by two large goats heading east, toward the hills, but just then flashing lights caught his attention. It was the sheriff, pulling into the parking lot.
Dillard rubbed the bridge of his nose, tried to stifle the growing pain behind his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired, very old. “Gonna be a long night. Gonna be a long fucking night.”
Chapter Sixteen
Horton’s
Jesse watched Krampus stare at the plastic play gym and the handful of toys scattered about the yard of a small ranch home somewhere just south of Whitesville. Krampus had been staring—without a word, without so much as a grunt—at the toys for going on twenty minutes. So long that Jesse began to wonder if he’d planned to get out of the sleigh at all.
The whole crew was quiet, lost in their own thoughts, perhaps contemplating the craziness at the church—or, like him, how they’d ever ended up with this strange, moody creature in the first place. Jesse was quickly losing whatever hope he might’ve held that there’d be a resolution to any of this . . . some path that might lead to a way out.
They’d already visited two homes, both without much incident, but also without much enthusiasm. Krampus had actually walked past a blow-mold Santa without smashing it. Jesse got the impression the Yule Lord was just going through the motions, even his speech to these children had lacked any real passion. Jesse felt he was on a sinking ship with no way to jump overboard. He exchanged a glance with Isabel, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. Isabel shrugged back. After another long moment, she cleared her throat. “Krampus,” she said in a soft tone. “Maybe we should head on back. Take the night off.”
“Why, what a splendid idea,” Vernon added. “Certainly has my vote.”
Isabel cut him a sharp look.
“What?” Vernon said in a defensive tone. “If Krampus is in one of his intolerable moods, I see no reason why we should all have to suffer along.”
“He is right,” Krampus muttered. “There is no more need. It has all been in vain, I fear. The world does not want to remember, and now it appears . . . I am out of time.”
“Out of time?” Isabel asked. “What do you mean?”
Krampus only shook his head.
“Krampus? What’s going on?”
Krampus looked up the driveway, sighed, grabbed the switches and the sack, and stepped out of the sleigh. “You can join me if you wish. Matters not.” He started up the drive. The two Shawnee jumped out and followed.
Isabel elbowed Vernon. “Could you not be such a jerk?”
“You know,” Vernon said, sounding uncharacteristically terse. “Sometimes you forget that I’m not along for the joy of it. I’m his prisoner . . . his slave. Frankly, I really don’t give a damn what happens to the old goat.”
Chet nodded. “Amen, brother.”
“Well, some of us do,” Isabel said, slipping out, chasing Krampus and the Shawnee up the drive. Jesse looked at Vernon and Chet, shrugged, and followed after Isabel, catching up with them as they gained the porch.
Krampus reached for the door handle and froze. He let out a gasp. Jesse followed his eyes to the steps, saw nothing more than two pairs of shoes, started to ask what the matter was, then looked again.
The shoes were propped up as though on display in a shoe store; arranged within each shoe sat an array of candies. A card stood pinched between the shoes.
Krampus dropped the sack and the birch branches, reached for the card, held it open so they could all see. Krampus’s hand actually trembled. The card read: HAPPY YULETIDE, KRAMPUS. WE ARE VERY GOOD KIDS. LOVE, MARY AND TODD.
“Well, I’ll be,” Isabel said.
“Bet they read about Krampus in the paper,” Jesse said.
“Maybe,” Isabel said, “or maybe we visited one of their pals or some of their kin last night.”
Krampus dropped to one knee. He plucked up the candies, held them in his palms. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for your tribute.” The Yule Lord wiped at his eyes and Jesse realized the great beast was actually crying. “Their reward,” Krampus said. “They need their reward. Jesse, retrieve some coins.”
Jesse picked up the sack, held it out.
“You gather them. My hands are full,” Krampus said without taking his eyes from the treats; he held them as one would most precious stones.
Jesse pulled open the sack, hesitated. Hadn’t Krampus spoken of these coins being in some sort of hell? Jesse wasn’t sure he wanted to go putting his hand in hell . . . any hell. Everyone waited on him. He sighed, thought of the triangular coins, and inserted his hand. He felt coldness, closer to the feeling of fear than an actual temperature. The chill penetrated right to his bones, to the very marrow. It tingled, almost painful, made his teeth hurt. Jesse tried to concentrate on the coins, wanting to get things over with as quick as possible. His hand bumped something crusty and brittle—rotting things came to mind. Then something touched him, more of a caress, like someone pulling gauze across his skin. He let out a small squeal, yanked his hand out. “Fuck, Krampus. There’s something in there!”
Krampus let out a snort. “Of course. The dead. Do not fear, they cannot hurt you. They are only ghosts . . . lost souls, the ones that could not find their way home.”
Jesse peered into the smoking darkness, thought he heard something—wailing. Sounded faint and far away, but there was no mistake, he heard them. He shuddered as a chill slid down his back.
Krampus put on a mischievous grin. “You just want to be careful not to fall in. You would wander about those endless catacombs until your body wasted away, the dead following your every step . . . waiting to claim you as their own.”
Jesse swallowed loudly, did his best to focus on the coins, and stuck his hand back in. This time his fingers found what he was searching for. He pulled out a handful of the triangular coins and held them out to Krampus.
“Good, place them in the shoes.”
Jesse did. Six coins total. “Those are gonna be some happy kids,” Jesse said. “Probably buy themselves a right decent car with that.”
Krampus handed each of the Belsnickels a piece of candy and held one back for himself, a red lollipop. He stared at it a moment, the way someone would upon a long-lost photo from their youth, then pulled off the wrapper and slipped it into his mouth. “Our work here is done,” he said, and headed down the drive to the sleigh. Jesse noticed a light spring to Krampus’s step. The Yule Lord hopped aboard, glanced back at the house, and nodded, the moonlight glistening off his broad smile.
“The Yule Lord has returned at long last.”
KRAMPUS PRACTICALLY SKIPPED up the drives of the next several houses, his tail swishing playfully back and forth, almost wagging. He did not sneak or creep about, not anymore, he entered boldly with a loud cry and cheer of Yuletide greetings. The Belsnickels scrambled to subdue alarmed parents while Krampus thrilled and terrified the children with his tales and gifts. At one home, a man actually unloaded both barrels of his shotgun and would’ve most likely killed Vernon had Chet not managed to wrestle the gun away. They flew from house to house, skimming the treetops, Krampus shouting out Yule cheer to any and all he saw below, and soon Jesse lost count of the homes they hit.
Sometime well past midnight, they heard music as they were fl
ying fast above a lonely stretch of highway well out in hill country. They flew around a bend and saw a building set off the highway. A handful of cars, motorcycles, and trucks were parked in the glow of the neon beer signs. Krampus circled over the place, watched a cluster of people carrying on and laughing as they stumbled their way into the joint.
Jesse caught the name, Horton’s, and realized he knew the place, that he’d actually played there once, a while back. He recalled it had a rough crowd, one of those joints where they put chicken wire up in front of the stage to keep the players from getting hit with beer bottles.
“Is it a feast hall?” Krampus asked. “Or a tavern, perhaps?”
“It’s a bar,” Chet said. “Another crappy little honky-tonk.”
“What are they celebrating?”
Chet shrugged. “Another day on this shitty planet be my guess.”
Krampus nodded. “It is indeed a good day to celebrate.” He dropped down, landing the sleigh behind the bar. He grabbed the sack and hopped out.
Jesse recognized the tune; a sloppy version of that old Oak Ridge Boys’ tune, “Elvira.” Jesse had always hated that song. But it’s loud, Jesse thought, and sometimes that’s all that matters.
“Come,” Krampus said and started away.
“Don’t suppose I might sit this one out?” Vernon asked.
“No. It is time to celebrate the return of Yuletide. Time for all of us to celebrate.”
“Yes, well, I was afraid of that.”
They climbed out and followed the Yule Lord around to the front.
Chet began chuckling to himself. “If this goes even half as well as that church, then we’re in for one hell of a fine time.”
“Might be more his crowd,” Jesse added.
“No,” Vernon moaned. “He doesn’t have a crowd. This will be another disaster.”
“Can’t wait,” said Chet.
HORTON WHITE STOOD behind the bar. A picture of Neil Diamond autographed to him hung on the wall above the rows of liquor, right beside the one of Hasil Atkins. Everyone around Boone County had a soft spot for old Hasil, but Horton couldn’t say the same about Neil. Folks just didn’t care much for the old crooner and weren’t the least bit shy about letting him know it. Horton kept the picture up nonetheless, because he liked Neil Diamond, a lot, and because this was his bar and he’d put up anybody’s picture he damn well felt like. Of course if folks didn’t start buying some drinks soon, this wouldn’t be his bar for much longer, be just another run-down shack along the highway.
The first of the month was almost on him and Horton had no idea how he was going to make rent. He knew he couldn’t afford to be late again, not with the General threatening to bust up the place if he was. He usually pulled in a pretty good crowd between Christmas and New Year’s, counted on it to catch up financially, but not this year, especially not tonight. Maybe thirty folks had shown up, tops, about half his usual crowd, and the worst of it, no one was buying. He’d had to let his cook go last month, which left him managing the bar while trying to take short orders. Not that anyone was exactly lining up for his burned French fries and microwaved hot dogs.
He scanned the sullen faces. Folks were out of sorts, appeared beaten down, tired, even the band couldn’t keep the beat—kept screwing up their sets. Nothing too unusual about that, what was unusual was the fact that no one seemed to give a hoot. No boos, or catcalls, certainly no one throwing bottles. Only two people were on the dance floor, Martha and Lynn, dancing with each other as usual on account that none of the men wanted to dance with them.
Other than a handful of bikers, it was mostly regulars: Rusty, Jim, Thornton, and the rest of that bunch from the mill. Tom Mullins and his four brothers had shown up, making Horton a bit nervous at first, as trouble followed that family around like a hungry puppy. But even Tom was mellow tonight, sipping—not drinking—his beer, just playing pool with that butchy gal Kate from down Goodhope way. The bikers were mostly keeping to themselves over in one corner. Horton smelled weed, wanted to ask them to take their smokes outside, not because it bothered him none, only because maybe then they’d drink a bit more. But he didn’t know these boys, didn’t want to stir anything up, but he sure wished someone or something would stir things up—something to get the evening going.
“Shit,” Horton said, speaking to the handful of dour faces before him at the bar. “Someone die I don’t know about? Or maybe the post office just forgot to deliver everybody’s welfare checks?” No one gave him so much as a snicker.
The door opened; Horton didn’t bother to look over, at least not until he caught the look on Lucy Duff’s face. A man, a very tall man, entered the bar along with a cold gust of night air. The lights were dim, but not so dim that Horton couldn’t see that the man had horns twisting right out of his forehead.
“Well bend me over and fuck me silly,” Lucy said, her words slurred. She elbowed her friend Nelly. “Hey, Nell, check that one out.”
Six more figures came in behind the tall devil man, dressed in old-time costumes, their faces streaked black. Some of them wore furs, and masks with horns. But it was their eyes that made Horton uneasy, the way they caught the light and gleamed orange in the shadows.
Is this a joke? Horton wondered. Someone’s gotta be playing a prank on me, because last I checked we weren’t running any costume contests. He spied a large sack; the tall one handed it off to one of his gang, a lean-looking man, spoke something in his ear and pointed to the bar. Oh, fuck. Horton understood the disguises, realized that they were actually about to try and rob his place. Horton stepped quickly over to the icebox, set his hand on the sawed-off under the counter. Are they nuts? Do they have any clue the kind of folks they’re dealing with? Horton guessed half his patrons were packing right this minute, and the rest carried a knife or some other means of defense. Hard men and hard women, the kind of folks that didn’t back down from a fight. Horton had no doubt that if these fools drew weapons, someone was gonna end up full of holes.
“It’s them,” Lucy said. “Y’know. The ones from the paper.”
“What ones from the paper?” Nelly asked.
“Dan,” Horton said sharply. “Hey, Dan. Back me up.”
Dan sat next to Lucy. Horton had spent half a tour in Nam with Dan, knew Dan didn’t go anywhere without his piece, knew he was a good man to have at your back. Dan saw that Horton had his hand under the counter, looked to the door, and sobered up quick. He shifted round, dropped his hand into his jacket pocket.
The lean man with the sack approached the end of the bar. The man was even creepier up close. The makeup and that odd glow to his eyes looked so very real. Horton had no idea how he got his eyes to do that. Some new type of contacts?
“Mister,” the slim man said. “Beg your pardon. Got a question for you.”
Horton stared at the man from where he stood, not about to take his hand off his shotgun. “Yeah, what can I do you for?”
“Like to open the bar for the evening.”
Of all the things Horton had expected the man to say, that wasn’t on the list. He cut a glance over at Dan, but Dan’s eyes stayed locked on the man.
“I bet you would, son,” Horton said. “Bet everyone in here would.”
“Don’t worry . . . we’ll be paying up front,” the man said and shoved his hand into his sack.
Oh, shit! Horton felt his heart leap into his throat. He’s going for his piece. Horton yanked the shotgun out from beneath the counter, leveled it at the man. Dan tugged out his .38.
“Whoa!” the lean man said. “Hold on a sec, now. It ain’t what you’re thinking.”
“How about you take your hand out of there nice and slow,” Dan said. “Then we’ll figure on what we’re thinking.”
The man nodded, then did something funny. He shut his eyes as though concentrating real hard. Horton wondered if maybe the guy was jacked up on something. Horton stole a quick glance over at the rest of the gang, knowing this would be when they’d make their play. O
nly they hadn’t moved, weren’t even looking his way. Just standing there watching the band like nothing in the world was going on.
“Okay,” the man said. “I’m gonna pull my hand out nice and slow. I’d appreciate it if you two don’t shoot me when I do.”
“Well, now that all depends on what’s in your hand,” Dan said. “Don’t it?”
The lean man slowly withdrew his hand and instead of a gun he held a clump of tarnished triangular coins. He laid them on the counter. “These are gold. Should be enough to cover it.”
“This some sort of joke?” Horton asked.
The man shook his head. He didn’t look like he was joking.
“He wants to pay with play money,” Dan said and chuckled.
Horton started to join in when a glint of gold caught his eye. He stepped forward for a closer look. Horton had done a spot of panning in his day with his grandfather in the hills. He knew what real gold looked like, felt like, tasted like. He picked up one of the coins, weighed it in his hand, bit it. His breath left him. “Well, I’ll be damn, Dan. This is real.” He counted seven coins in front of him, more than enough to buy all the beer and liquor in the joint.
“If you let me stick my hand back in this sack, I can add a bit to that.”
“What?” Horton said, still mesmerized by the amount of gold sitting on his bar. “Why, yeah, son. Go right ahead. Knock yourself out.”
The lean man pulled out five more coins. “That oughta do it. Don’t you think?”
Horton didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words.
“What’d you say? We got a deal?”
Horton nodded. “We sure do. We sure as hell do.” He set the shotgun back in its hitch and quickly slid the coins into his bar towel, wrapping them up, getting them out of sight. He was amazed at how heavy they were. Hell, he thought. Got rent covered for a year or so. Maybe even a vacation or two. He hid them up under the ice chest, out of reach of any sticky-fingered barflies.
