The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  They settled on a packet of crackers and a cube of cheese from a recent Red Cross parcel. Shard passed them the cigarettes, the pack decorated with a pagoda and Chinese characters.

  “Don’t hang onto that pack,” Shard said.

  “Sure,” Marty said. He gave one cigarette to Hughes, took one himself, and struck a match. He put the pack away inside his tanker’s overalls as he drew on the cigarette with a denied smoker’s delight.

  “Not a lot of tankers in here,” Shard said. “You ever notice that, Skitter?”

  “Guess so,” Skitter said, shrugging.

  “Occupational hazard,” Marty said. “If a tank is hit, the whole crew gets it. If they bail out, there’s a ton of small arms fire going on. Hell to pay if you gotta run.”

  “How’d you get captured?” Shard said.

  “We hit a mine. Blew a tread clean off. Me and Hughes got out to check the damage, and artillery starts dropping all around us. We dove into a ditch, and the next thing we know a round hits our tank dead center. The Chinese swarmed all over us.”

  “You were lucky,” Skitter said. “Sort of.”

  Hughes nodded. Luck was a relative thing. Here he was, smoking with his buddy on Christmas Eve, while his pals decayed on some forgotten hillside.

  “We knew a couple of guys back when we were first captured,” Shard said. “They were from a Pershing tank. Remember them, Skitter?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Don’t remember their names.”

  “Miller,” Shard said, “and Lefkowicz. You guys know them?”

  “When was this?” Marty asked.

  “Back in ’fifty, late September,” Shard said.

  “Never heard of ’em,” Marty said, blowing smoke. “Hell, Hughes was still in high school back then.” Hughes closed his eyes, a distant smile crossing his face.

  “When the North Koreans interrogated them, they claimed they were from a disabled Sherman. Why’d they do that, I wonder?” Shard said, as if he didn’t have a clue.

  “The M26 Pershings were new to Korea back then,” Marty said. “The Reds wanted the dope on ’em real bad. Armor thickness, gun velocity, all that technical stuff. When we first got Pershings, the brass told us to avoid capture at all costs. Easy to say sittin’ on your ass in Tokyo.

  What happened to them guys?”

  “The camp commander took them one day,” Shard said. “Maybe someone talked, told him they were from a Pershing. Never saw them again.”

  “Guys shoulda kept their mouths shut,” Marty said. “How many G.I.s knew about them?”

  “Everyone in our section,” Skitter said. Shard nodded his agreement. A dozen of them. Some had been sick, too weak to do anything, others killed shortly after by the North Koreans, making it unlikely they were informers. They were the only two left.

  “Miller and Lefkowicz,” Hughes repeated. “They on that list of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many names?”

  “Four hundred plus,” Shard said.

  “That’s one dangerous list,” Marty said.

  Skitter and Shard left after a while, stopping to watch the rat feast in progress. Men were peeling off tiny shreds of meat and licking fat off their fingers.

  “You add Cooper to the list yet?” Skitter asked, his voice nonchalant as he blew warm air on his fingers.

  “Not yet,” Shard said. He moved closer to the fire, watching one guy toss rat bones into the flames. The fire danced higher, charring the carcass until there was nothing left but the lingering smell of rat.

  “We need to talk,” Shard said to Skitter. “Where no one can listen.”

  “What’s wrong with right here?” Skitter said. They were back on the log outside their hut. The wood was shiny and cold, worn down by months of sitting, watching, and waiting. Moonlight cast long shadows across the camp like a searchlight.

  “I don’t want someone hearing us. Come with me,” Shard said, standing and waiting for Skitter.

  “Jeez, Shard,” Skitter said. “Is this another ghost story?”

  “Yeah. It’s about the ghost of Christmas future. Let’s head to the rec hall.”

  “We’re not supposed to be in there alone,” Skitter said, jogging to catch up with Shard. “And stop with the ghosts.”

  “You’re one of Yuan’s prize progressives,” Shard said. “He won’t mind.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t spend all that time listening to Yuan to blow it at the last minute,” Skitter said, checking the area for guards. He hugged himself against the cold, his legs jittering in place as Shard opened the door. The sound of Christmas carols, sung low and quiet, drifted across the frozen ground.

  “Sit down,” was all Shard said, hard, between clenched teeth. He moved to a table near the window. He motioned for Skitter to take the chair across from him.

  “Shard, I’m fed up with this,” Skitter said, slumping in his seat. His eyes took in the darkened room, searching for a reason as to why they were there, as red silken banners hanging from the rafters rippled in the draft.

  “I know,” Shard said, the words like a sigh from deep within.

  “You know what?” Skitter said, leaning forward, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I know it all, Skitter. I know what you’ve done.”

  “What?” Skitter spread his arms and laughed. “What have I done?” His eyes darted back and forth, and Shard felt a childhood memory wash over him. When Pa accused him of some misdeed, he’d played it the same way. Buying time, trying to figure out what his old man knew, his mind racing to make sure he didn’t reveal anything Pa hadn’t found out about.

  But this was North Korea, not an Ohio farm. It wasn’t broken windows or skipped chores.

  “Schuman, Kelso, Coop, Miller, and Lefkowicz. You betrayed them to keep yourself alive,” Shard said. “And today, Cooper.”

  “No.”

  “I know,” Shard said, nodding solemnly. “You kept me alive to watch out for you, to make sure you were protected.”

  “Shard, this is your buddy Skitter you’re talking to. What’s come over you, pal?”

  “We aren’t buddies, Skitter,” Shard said, slamming his palm down on the table. “We’re criminals. We stole from the army and made a lot of money selling to gangsters. You were crooked in Japan and I was a fool to think you’d be different here. Miller and Lefkowicz, the two tankers. Far as I recall, you and me were the only ones who knew about them to survive.”

  “What is this, an inquisition?” Skitter spread his hands in supplication. His fingers trembled, and he quickly stuffed them into his pockets. A sigh’s worth of condensation filled the cold air between them.

  “Kelso and Cooper, they were your big catch. You told the Reds about Kelso. Then you saw Coop was there too and turned him in.”

  “Shard,” Skitter said. “How can you believe that?”

  “You got extra rations for us,” Shard said. “You needed me alive so I’d watch your back. Like today. You didn’t want me killed, so you snitched on Cooper and promised a germ warfare confession. What was your reward for that?”

  “I only offered the confession to save you,” Skitter said, panic entering his voice. “That’s all I did, I swear.”

  “You came back smelling of fried fish,” Shard said, leaning into Skitter’s face and sniffing the air. “You’re an informer, a rat, and they feed you for it.”

  “No,” Skitter said, his eyes wide with disbelief, unable to take in his best friend turning on him. “I saved your life. Dysentery would have killed you. You needed those extra rations, you needed to live!”

  “Yes,” Shard said. “Yes. God forgive me, I did. I can still feel that soup filling my belly. The taste of betrayal. Onion soup.”

  They faced each other across the moonlit table, neither man moving. />
  “Shard, we’re a team,” Skitter said, his voice almost breaking.

  “What about Schuman? You told Yuan about the jackknife, didn’t you? For a pair of boots. What did that have to do with us being a team?”

  “I gave you a pair of socks,” Skitter whispered, his head bowed. He was acting like a child, his voice a whine, as if socks answered all questions.

  “Coop and Kelso dead,” Shard said. “Miller and Lefty tortured and killed. Schuman. Cooper shot today. What else, Skitter? What else have you done?”

  “You can’t tell anyone, Shard, please,” Skitter said, folding his trembling hands as if in prayer.

  Now it was out in the open; the blood on Skitter’s hands.

  “I haven’t told anybody, Skitter.” That seemed to calm him. Skitter looked up at Shard, eyes gleaming with tears.

  “I’ve been so afraid,” Skitter said, the words tumbling out. “Yuan hounds me every day, and I worry about the guys finding out. I’m dead either way if I screw up.”

  “Hounds you for what?” Shard said.

  “The list, he knows there’s another list,” Skitter said. Shard didn’t have to ask how he knew. “What are you going to do? You’re not going to rat me out, are you?”

  “No,” Shard said, shaking his head. “But there’s something you have to do.”

  “What?”

  “You have to refuse repatriation. You’re a progressive, you’ll do well. It won’t be a prison camp, they’ll treat you like royalty. If you don’t agree, I tell the whole camp what you’ve done.” Shard laid his hands on the table. He wished Skitter had taken a different path, but he hadn’t, and here they were, Shard playing the ghost of Skitter’s Christmas future.

  “No. No,” Skitter cried. “They’ll tear me to pieces.”

  “Exactly.” The hardness was back in Shard’s voice.

  “I can’t go to Red China. What would my folks think? They’re decent people. Please tell me you don’t mean it.”

  “I do.”

  “Why me? Why not you? You took the soup, didn’t you? You knew!” Skitter stood, his body quivering, his mouth twisted.

  “I figured things out,” Shard said. “Too late. There’s a line, Skitter. I don’t pretend to know where it is, but you crossed it.”

  “I kept us both alive,” Skitter said.

  “And I’ll remember the price other men paid for the rest of my life,” Shard said. They sat in silence, alone in the cold moonlight.

  Shard rose and walked to a desk, bringing back paper and pencil. “If you want to write to your folks, go ahead. I’ll take it to them myself. Write their address out and I’ll hand-deliver it.” He set the paper and pencil in front of Skitter and placed a hand on his shoulder. Gave a reassuring squeeze.

  “You won’t say anything to my folks about the other stuff?” He wiped his sleeve against his nose, cleaning away tears and snot. Shard knew Skitter. He was quick to agree, but he’d try to find a way out later, to skitter out of trouble. The list would be his ace in the hole. The final betrayal that could get him out of this jam.

  “I promise, not a word to anyone,” Shard said, meaning it.

  “Okay.” Skitter wrote out his parent’s names and address in Lewiston, Michigan, then stopped, his hand hovering over the page. “I don’t know what to say to them.”

  “Tell them you’re sorry,” Shard whispered, his hand resting on Skitter’s shoulder. “How very sorry you are.”

  Skitter craned his neck back and smiled at Shard. He took a deep breath, and began to write, lead scratching against coarse paper.

  Shard watched from behind, the slanting rays of moonlight casting his long shadow over the table. Skitter bent to the task, a schoolchild facing a tough assignment. As he wrote, Shard murmured good, good, nodding in rhythm to the soothing words, patting him on the shoulder.

  He lifted his hand from Skitter’s shoulder and swung it across his throat. He dug his right elbow into the shoulder and pushed against the back of Skitter’s head with his right palm. He grabbed his right arm with his left hand, as he’d been trained, and with one sharp push, Skitter’s neck broke.

  The pencil still in his hand.

  Gently resting Skitter’s head on the table, he patted his hair. All that remained was to be sure there was no retribution for the death of a prized progressive.

  He took the sheet of paper and carefully folded and re-folded it until he could tear off the address and salutation in a neat straight line. He took it and left the remainder on the table.

  I am so sorry.

  Hoisting Skitter’s body onto the table and climbing up, he grabbed the nearest red banner. He twisted the silk fabric until it was tight, then knotted it in several places. He tied it around Skitter’s neck, holding up the body as high as he could.

  He let go. Skitter’s feet, still in the boots he had traded for Schuman’s life, rested on the tabletop. Shard moved the table away, leaving Skitter dangling two feet above the floor.

  I am so sorry.

  Outside, several huts had chimed in on the same carol, the words drifting over Shard like new-fallen snow.

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen

  Let nothing you dismay

  Remember, Christ, our Saviour

  Was born on Christmas day

  To save us all from Satan’s power

  When we were gone astray

  O tidings of comfort and joy,

  Comfort and joy

  O tidings of comfort and joy

  It brought Shard no comfort. Joy wasn’t even in the cards.

  Blue Rock

  His coffee had gone cold. The counterman was busy cleaning the stainless steel fixtures, whistling to himself, ignoring Shard. It was time to go. He had five hundred miles between him and Lewiston, in Michigan’s northern woods. He saw no reason to linger in Blue Rock.

  “Merry Christmas,” Shard said, leaving a dime tip on the counter.

  “Merry Christmas,” the counterman echoed as he rubbed down the refrigerator door.

  Shard glanced back, then out the window. The afternoon light was already fading, the cheery colored lights in the street struggling against the approaching grayness. No one was looking.

  He did a double snatch. Two Hershey bars disappeared into his coat pocket, nestled against the worn paper with Skitter’s note, written out last Christmas Eve. Outside, he gave Blue Rock one last look.

  I am so sorry, he said, watching the words turn into plumes of frosty breath and vanish into the air.

  They always came back.

  “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”

  And Other Holiday Secrets

  WHEN THE TIME CAME

  by Lene Kaaberbøl & Agnete Friis

  Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis are the Danish duo behind the Nina Borg series. Kaaberbøl has been a professional writer since the age of fifteen, with more than two million books sold worldwide. She has been nominated for the Hans Christian Andersen Medal and is the author of the historical mystery Doctor Death. Friis is a journalist by training, and is the author of the standalone literary thriller What My Body Remembers. Kaaberbøl and Friis’s first collaboration, The Boy in the Suitcase, was a New York Times and USA Today bestseller, has been translated into 30 languages, and has sold half a million copies worldwide. The book introduces Danish Red Cross nurse Nina Borg, a compulsive do-gooder who aids undocumented immigrants in Copenhagen. There are three further Nina Borg novels: Invisible Murder, Death of a Nightingale, and The Considerate Killer.

  Ørestad, Copenhagen

  “Shit.”

  Taghi felt the tires on the junker Opel Flexivan sliding and losing traction in the icy mud. If he drove any closer to the entrance they might get completely stuck on their way out. The marble sinks were heavy as hell, and right now a wet, heavy snow was barreling out of
the black evening sky, forming small streams in the newly dug earth in front of the building. The walkway around the building lacked flagstones. Nothing at all, in fact, had been finished. The whole place had been abandoned, left as a gigantic mud puddle, slushy and sloppy, and they were forced to park out on the street.

  Taghi backed up, swearing in both Danish and Farsi. It would be backbreaking work lugging all the stuff that far, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He wasn’t going to risk getting bogged down with all that shit out here in the middle of nowhere. No goddamn way.

  They hopped out on the street and stood for a moment, hugging themselves in the icy wind. The building looked like every other place out here. Glass and steel. He’d never understood who would want to live in such a place. True, there was a view of some sort of water if you were up high enough, but otherwise . . . Taghi sneezed and looked around. The other brand-new glass palaces were lit up as if an energy crisis had never existed, but there was no life behind the windows. Maybe nobody wanted to live this way after all, when it came right down to it, and it would for sure be a long time before anyone moved into this particular building. The workers had been sent home several weeks ago. Something to do with a bankruptcy. Taghi didn’t know much about it, but he had been by a few times in the past week to check it out. They could pick up some good stuff here.

  At the corner of the enormous glass façade, pipes and cables stuck up out of the ground like strange, lifeless disfigurements. A stack of sheetrock lay to the side, the top sheets presumably ruined by now; the middle ones might be okay but they were a waste of time. They were after the marble sinks in the ten apartments. Three men, three hours’ work, and a short drive out to Beni’s construction site in Valby. It was exactly what he needed, Beni had said.

  The front door stood open a crack.

  When they had been by earlier that day it was locked, and Taghi sensed Farshad and Djo Djo exchanging glances when he carefully shouldered the door open and stepped into the bitter cold hallway.