Christmas At Timberwoods

by Fern Michaels

  Richards practically had steam coming out of his ears. “One of these days, Summers, one of these days . . .” He pointed to the clock in the office. It was 5:40.

  Angela stood up from her seat on the bench by her father, her face haunted. “This feeling is getting worse by the minute. I feel like my head’s going to explode.”

  She paced around nervously, her movements uncoordinated and jerky. “You have to get out of here, Daddy.”

  “I’m not leaving you. Look, why don’t you call your friend, the one who has the puppies? Talk to her for a few minutes and maybe you’ll calm down,” Murray suggested helplessly as he looked into his daughter’s tortured eyes. “Use the pay phone. Mine doesn’t get much of a signal—must be the SIM thingy.” He waved her on her way. “Go.”

  Angela walked around the corner to the phone booth, her mind whirling. Would Mrs. Summers’s calm voice soothe her? It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try if this feeling would just go away.

  “Could I speak to Mrs. Summers?” Angela asked a voice she did not recognize.

  “Mrs. Summers isn’t here right now,” the woman answered. “She had a doctor’s appointment and then she was stopping by Timberwoods to pick up a gift. She should be back in a little while—around seven, I guess. Do you want to leave a message? I’m her sister. I’m babysitting the puppies.”

  “She went where?” Angela screamed.

  “To the doctor’s office and then . . . to Timberwoods. Say, what’s the matter?”

  “Are you sure?” Angela pressed. “What time was she coming to the shopping center?”

  “I’m not sure. She said something about it depended on how long it took at the doctor’s. The roads aren’t too good, so she’ll be driving slow. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the name of her doctor? Do you have his number? I have to reach her as soon as possible.” Angela chewed on her fingernail while she waited. “Okay, I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, breaking the connection. She dialed the doctor’s number and counted the rings.

  “Hello, I’m trying to reach Amy Summers. Is she still there? . . . How long ago did she leave?” Angela let the receiver fall and raced to find her father. Quickly she told him of the phone conversations. “We have to find her, Daddy, and stop her from coming into the mall. We’ll go outside and check the entrances. Hurry, Daddy. We can’t let anything happen to her.”

  “That’s doing it the hard way. All we have to do is call Eric Summers and he can station a man at each one of the doors to catch her.”

  “I should have thought of that—oh, it doesn’t matter who did! She can’t come in here, she just can’t. Mr. Summers will take care of it.” Her eyes brightened momentarily in thanks to her father and his quick thinking.

  Once they had called Eric Summers, Angela and her father prowled the mall, each intent on their own thoughts. No matter which way they walked, Angela invariably circled back and headed toward the North Pole display, going past her group of angel statues several times.

  They could use a real one, she thought wildly. But then there never seemed to be a real angel around when you needed one.

  Her growing sense of foreboding reached fever pitch. It was someone in the mall. She was certain of it. But who? Would she recognize him—or her—if the person came into her line of vision? She had no way of knowing—and no idea of how much time was left. She stopped and looked at her father imploringly, tears swimming in her eyes. In her peripheral vision, a flash of red appeared and then disappeared. Angela blinked the tears away and stared transfixed at the sight to her left. It was Charlie Roman trudging down Holiday Alley with a sack over his shoulder.

  An excruciating clarity hit her hard. Words from her worst nightmare came back to her.

  What you can’t see is sometimes right in front of you.

  The aura of the unknown man in her vision surrounded Charlie—she knew. It was him. “Oh my God. Daddy! It’s Charlie. The Santa!” She grabbed her father’s arm in a viselike grip.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Santa is the bad guy? Doesn’t management do background checks on the seasonal hires?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t run the mall! He’s filling in as a walk-around, I guess—the real Santa is over there on that snow-covered throne.” She put a hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh my God, look at all those kids in line! We have to tell Mr. Summers right away.”

  “Okay, Angel, whatever you say.”

  Charlie’s first reaction when he saw Angela pointing him out to the man she was with was to run. She knew what he was up to. He wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did. He could see it in her horrified expression, in her tear-filled eyes. He ran into the closest store—a health food shop—and ducked behind a vitamin display. Who was that man with her? he wondered. Probably one of the plainclothes police officers Eric Summers had brought in to investigate the bomb threat. Only it wasn’t just a threat. Not anymore. He pulled back his red velvet coat sleeve and looked at his watch. When he was ready, he would use his cell phone for a remote detonator, just in case the mechanical timer failed. The way things were going, it would.

  “He shouldn’t be too hard to find, Angel,” Charlie heard a man say outside the store.

  “I have to find him, Daddy. I have to. If I can find him I may be able to stop him.”

  Recognizing Angela’s voice, Charlie peeked through the tall display of vitamins.

  “I hope so, Angel. But what makes you think he’ll talk to you?”

  “I—I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he and I are alike in some ways. I guess you could say we understand each other.”

  “What?” Her father’s reply was pure bafflement.

  Charlie breathed in relief. She hadn’t given him away. For what it was worth.

  “Come on,” she said exasperatedly. “Maybe he went that way.”

  Charlie turned around and leaned his back against the display. “Angela,” he whispered, then let out a long sigh. She still showed consideration for him, even after the rough way he’d spoken to her at their chance meeting, even knowing that he was the one who was going to blow up the mall.

  But her father would turn him over to the authorities in a heartbeat. Angela hadn’t succeeded in pulling him away from the outside of the store.

  “This is too risky. Who is this Charlie guy, anyway? How do you know him?”

  “I met him outside the mall. He tripped and people were laughing at him. I tried to help. He’s lonely. Like me.”

  Her father coughed. “Lonely? He’s a psycho. Anyone could see that.”

  “Don’t start! You sound just like . . .”

  Their argument faded out of his hearing as they moved away.

  Charlie was touched by what Angela remembered. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusion about why she’d left him? Maybe he should have given her a chance to explain. She might have had a good reason. Christ, he’d never thought about that. There could have been any number of reasons why she’d left. She’d told him that she’d tried to call several times. Damn, if only he’d gotten her message. He told himself not to get sentimental. It was too late for that. But he ought to get Angela and her father out. And tell her to get as many kids as she could to follow her, no questions asked. He owed her that much.

  Then again, an ugly-sounding voice in his head told him, you don’t owe her a thing. A growing darkness crept over him. She and everyone else would have to take their chances. It would be fun to watch. Unless the device he’d rigged up failed at the last second. The problem was how to test the detonator without setting off the bomb. Consider it a challenge, he thought irrationally. The kind of thing that got a man nominated as Employee of the Week. Yeah.

  Carol Andretti, her husband at her side, pushed the wheelchair down the hall toward the shopping center’s lower level. Maria was propped up with pillows, and a safety belt was fastened about her waist. Her eyes were feverishly bright as she tried to look in a
ll directions at once. She wanted to tell someone how beautiful it was, but she felt too weak to talk.

  “Mr. Richards said he would meet us over here by the angel display,” Carol whispered to Joe Andretti. “Look, there’s Santa, over in Toyland, but he has a hundred kids waiting in line. I wonder—oh, there’s another one, sitting by himself on the wrong side of the angels,” she said, trying to smile. “That must be the Santa he was talking about.”

  “You sure?” Joe asked, looking down at his daughter.

  “Do you have a better idea?” she asked her husband in a low voice. “We have to get in and out of here quickly, doctor’s orders. Come on, honey,” she said brightly to Maria, “one special miracle coming up.”

  Mary and Cheryl sat in the manager’s outer office, talking while they waited and idly flipped through magazines. Two other women were ahead of them, clutching plastic bags with logos from expensive mall stores.

  “There really isn’t any point in complaining, you know. What’s he going to do?” Cheryl demanded. “It’s almost six thirty and we haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

  “How the hell can you be hungry? You just ate half those stale nuts.”

  “That’s because I’m starving,” Cheryl griped. “We could be eating, but oh no, you have to come here and complain about the candy and nuts. Little Miss Quality Control, that’s you. Like he’s going to do anything; these guys are just fixtures. All they do is play games with the public.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing. Seven dollars is seven dollars. And that clerk was rude. I don’t have to put up with that. And as long as we’re here, I’m going to bitch about that pursesearching business at the door.”

  “Speaking of doors, I didn’t see—”

  “I’m sorry I even mentioned it. Look, here comes somebody who looks like he handles complaints.”

  “How can you tell?” Cheryl muttered.

  “Because he has a clipboard, looks efficient, and he’s in a hurry. He’ll make short work of these two ahead of us.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Cheryl said as she stuffed more Jordan almonds into her mouth. “And did you notice she gave us all white almonds? I like the pink ones, and the blue ones, too. I hate white!”

  “Do me a favor and save a few so this guy can see that they’re stale.”

  Cheryl rolled her eyes and continued to chew. The guy was speedy, she would give him that. Their turn came almost immediately.

  “Two things,” Mary said to him firmly. “Don’t hurry me like you did that other lady. I have something to say and I’m going to say it. We bought two digital cameras. As a matter of fact, we spent almost six hundred dollars in the mall this afternoon. Actually, six hundred and seven, if you count the Jordan almonds and the peanut butter fudge, which is why I’m here. The almonds are stale. We bought these cameras after we took a couple of pictures. See these pictures? This is Cheryl,” she said, holding out the first picture, “and this is Santa Claus. We bought two cameras, so we were entitled to two free pictures. This one of Cheryl is okay, but look at this one. Isn’t it a mess? All red. Makes me think of blood.”

  The complaints manager looked at the photo indifferently, saying a few noncommittal words.

  Mary forged ahead. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with the cameras and they work right when we get them home. Anyway, after we put our things in the locker, we bought these almonds and candy, and they’re stale. We thought you should know. Here, taste them. We want our money back. We complained to Nanette herself and she just said, ‘I’m fresh!’ ”

  “That’s the slogan for Nanette’s Nut House,” the man with the clipboard said. He glanced again at the blurred picture, but didn’t say anything about it.

  “Well, aren’t you going to do something? Did you hear me? I spent seven dollars on stale candy and nuts, and I want my money back!”

  “Not a problem, ma’am. If you have the receipt, I’ll initial it and give you this form to get double your money back from the proprietor. We want our customers to be happy.”

  Mary calmed down immediately. “That’s more like it,” she said with satisfaction.

  Chapter 15

  Carol sat down next to her daughter and sighed. Her polite hello to the Santa she’d thought was theirs had seemed to startle the man. He had muttered some excuse and gotten to his feet, walking swiftly away, like someone was chasing him, for goodness’ sake. No sign of anyone who looked like a mall CEO. Dolph Richards hadn’t showed. What a jerk. She’d expected the red-carpet treatment, and now Maria would have to wait.

  Joe had gone to the food court to get them all a bite to eat. Her little girl seemed happy just to look around, leaning back in her wheelchair to take in the group of angel statues, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “They’re so pretty, Mommy. And look at all the little ones.”

  “Yes, I see,” Carol said abstractedly, peering into the crowd to look for Joe.

  “No, you don’t. You’re not looking where they are.”

  Carol made an effort and snapped out of her preoccupied state. “I’m sorry, honey. Which little angels do you mean?”

  Maria pointed. “Right there. Those paper angels stuck in the green stuff. Aw, one’s broken.”

  “That’s easy to fix.” Her mother reached out and reattached a dangling wing with a quick fold of the paper. She smoothed her daughter’s hair. “All better.”

  Maria smiled. “When is Santa coming back?” she wanted to know.

  “Soon,” her mother lied, wishing she knew herself. “Very soon.”

  “Can I make an angel if we have to wait?”

  “Ah—sure.” Carol rummaged in the large handbag slung over the back of the wheelchair. “I usually carry your art pack—yes, I brought it.”

  “You can cut it out for me,” Maria said.

  “All right.” Carol was glad to have something to do. When Joe got back, she was sending him up to the main offices to raise hell. She took out a piece of white paper and folded it in half, using a crayon to draw the outline of one side of an angel. “Now, you know I’m not too good at this, sweetie,” she said. “Remember the snowflake I cut out for you?”

  Maria nodded and wriggled in her chair so she could watch her mother better. “It fell apart in a million billion little pieces.”

  “Exactly. But an angel is easier.” Carol found the blunt-tipped scissors in with the markers and began to cut out the angel, holding it up and making it flutter. Maria laughed happily. The sound brought tears to her mother’s eyes.

  “It’s beautiful, Mommy!”

  “Do you want to color it?”

  “No. I like it white. But can I write a wish?”

  “Of course.” She pulled out a thick magazine so Maria had a surface to work on and positioned it and the paper on her daughter’s lap. “There you go.”

  Maria thought for a minute, then carefully printed in block letters.

  HAPPIE HOLLIDAYS TO AL

  “Who’s Al?” her mother asked, mystified.

  “All. It says happy holidays to all.”

  Carol laughed. “Oh, I get it. But ‘all’ has two l ’s. Anyway, that’s a nice wish to make, honey.”

  “Cut out another angel,” the little girl insisted. Carol obliged. Maria concentrated on her printing, then handed the angel to her mother to read.

  PLEESE MAKE ME ALL BETR

  “Did I spell it right?” she asked anxiously.

  “Close enough,” her mother said, tears welling in her eyes again as she gave her daughter a hug.

  “Put it in an empty spot where the big angels can see it,” Maria instructed.

  Her mother nodded and tucked the two new angels into the surrounding greenery. Then she looked up, relieved to see that their Santa was coming back.

  His face was almost expressionless. Offputting, although maybe Maria wouldn’t notice that he didn’t seem to have the holiday spirit, as far as Carol could tell. She gritted her teeth, wanting to get this over with and get her sick child safely back to the
hospital.

  He passed them by, to her astonishment, and vanished in the crowd. Next, not quite running but not walking either, came an intense-looking young woman—a girl, really—and a man with her who had to be her father.

  The girl looked down at Maria, and Carol would have sworn you could hear a click, as if the girl instinctively knew how ill her daughter was. At least one person in this crowded, overwhelming mall cared about other people. That was something, Carol thought, straining to see where Santa had gone.

  The young woman stopped by the wheelchair, over her father’s brief protest, and knelt so Maria didn’t have to look up. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Angela. I saw you make that angel. It’s pretty.”

  “I’m Maria Andretti. Mommy helped.” She grinned with pride anyway.

  “I’m Carol.” She smiled at the girl, grateful for her impromptu kindness toward her daughter.

  The girl smiled back. “Thank you. I love the ones that the kids make.” She gestured to the largest of the silver angels, capturing Maria’s attention again. “I designed all those big ones. And people here helped me make them.”

  “You did?” Maria asked with amazement.

  Angela nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  The delighted little girl pondered that for a moment and tugged on her mother’s hand. “Those are her angels, Mommy.”

  “Whatever you say, honey.” Carol didn’t see the Santa or her husband, Joe, returning. The young woman seemed to sense her worry and rose to her feet.

  “You’re very talented,” Carol said to Angela. “I think those angels are Maria’s favorite thing in the mall.” She looked down at her daughter, who seemed restless. “What do you say, honey? Should we go find Daddy?”

  Maria objected, but weakly.

  “You can come back another day—” Angela began, then stopped. Her eyes widened and Carol turned to see what she was looking at. The Santa again. Just as sullen as before.