Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 5

"Now, guys...," I said, unsure what was going to come out of my mouth next.

It turned out to be a stunned grunt. As I stepped back again, the world suddenly dipped and turned sideways, and a second later I found myself lying beside something large and p.r.i.c.kly.

Fortunately, it wasn't Big Buck. I'd caught my heel on the last step and stumbled backwards into one of the smaller trees lining the path to Santa's Workshop.

"Get her," Big Buck said.

I rolled up onto my feet just in time to face Kev no more than four feet from me. He was rushing at me crouched down with his arms stretched out, like a mime imitating a crab. As he moved in, I stepped to the side, grabbed one of his spindly little arms and swung with all my might.

To my utter shock, it worked. Kev went flying into yet another tree, rolling to the ground in a tangle of lights and tinsel.

I swung around to see Big Buck lumbering down the steps toward me.

"See! I wasn't lying about knowing karate!" I lied.

He didn't even slow down. It was time to run, run, Rudolph.

I turned and sprinted to the nearest exit, too afraid to look back until I was outside in the cold December air and the door was closing behind me with a rea.s.suring clack.

I peered back into the dim shadows of the mall and saw . . . dim shadows of the mall. Big Buck and Kev hadn't followed me. They were letting me go!

I turned, ready to dash the last thirty yards to my Rabbit. And that's when I realized what a huge freaking idiot I am.

I hadn't parked in my usual spot that morning. I didn't want Big Buck waiting for me outside when I left that night. So I'd parked down by Value City, on the other side of the mall.

I was going to have to walk all the way around the parking lot, alone, in the dark, to get to my car.

Oh, did I say walk? Try sprint.

I didn't see anyone outside as I raced around the darkened mall. There were still a few cars in the parking lot, but the people they belonged to were inside somewhere, sweeping floors or counting money or molesting mannequins or G.o.d knows what. I could see more cars moving way over on Diamond Avenue, but I knew I was nothing to them-just a speck in the dark almost a half-mile away.

As I ran, I noticed two strange things. There was a big trailer parked by the side of the mall, the kind you see on the highway loaded with cows on their way to Hamburger Heaven. And the trailer stank. Like cattle, but even worse somehow-cattle eating rotting moss while wearing wet wool sweaters.

Of course, I didn't stop to ponder these mysteries. I had things to do, people to escape from.

I came flying around the corner of the mall just a couple dozen yards from where I was parked. And then I went flying right back the way I'd come.

Something red and white and big was coming out of the nearest exit. A second later, I heard someone yell, "Hey!"

They knew where I'd parked.

I had three options: (A) just keep running running running and hope that I ran into somebody before Big Buck and Kev ran into me, (B) hide or (C) pray for divine intervention.

I was already pretty winded (too many cigarettes and late-night pizzas at school) and I'm not the religious type. So I went for option B. And, hey, I could still do plenty of praying once I was hidden.

Of course, the secret to proper hiding is finding what hiding professionals call a "Hiding Place," and I figured I had about twelve seconds to do it.

Behind the bushes?

Too obvious.

Under a car?

Too exposed.

In the stinky truck?

Too . . . .

Alright. Why not?

I darted around to the back of the trailer. It wasn't the kind that opened by rolling up, like a garage door. It had doors that swung open on hinges. And there was no lock, just a couple metal bolts. I undid them as quickly as I could, cracked open a door, climbed through and pulled the door closed.

Once I was inside the trailer, there was no way to bolt the door again or even keep it completely shut. Which made me realize this wasn't exactly the best Hiding Place. There was no escape route. If Kev and Big Buck figured out where I was, there was no way to get out except the way I came in.

This is why I'm not a hiding professional.

I was panicking about this, completely forgetting to do my praying, when things got worse. Something behind me moved.

There was a grunt, then heavy footsteps, then more grunting. I turned around slowly-and couldn't see a thing. It was pitch black in there. But it was obvious I wasn't alone.

The grunts and clattering footsteps spread all around me, and the smell I'd noticed before got so bad I almost gagged. It was like a petting zoo multiplied by two pig farms and the breath of a thousand dogs.

And I wasn't the only one who noticed it. There were narrow slots in the side of the trailer, and through them I could see Big Buck and Kev stalking past.

"You hear that?" Kev asked.

"You smell that?" Big Buck said. He walked up and stuck his fat face against one of the slots. I was tempted to run over and poke his beady eyes, but almost immediately he stepped back waving a hand in front of his nose. "Whooooeeee. And I thought you smelled bad."

"Oh, ho ho," Kev growled.

He and Big Buck walked around to the back of the trailer.

"Well, lookee here," I heard Big Buck say.

He was noticing, I could only a.s.sume, that the doors were unbolted.

I wasn't happy about it, but what choice did I have? I started creeping away from the doors . . . and toward my stinky trailer-mates. Whatever they were-cows, sheep, llamas, unicorns-I figured they couldn't be too dangerous. Someone's going to leave a truckload of bears at the mall?

I shuffled through the blackness blindly, my arms stretched out in front of me like a zombie. The snorting and stamping around me got louder, which actually helped.

Clop clop, wheeze.

Excuse me. I'll move over this way.

Stomp stomp, grunt.

Alright, alright. I'll move a little more that way.

I'd been doing my Helen Keller imitation maybe half a minute when Big Buck opened the door. Just enough light streamed in for me to see him and for him to see me-and both of us to see what was in the trailer.

Reindeer. Nine of them. Big ones.

Big Buck and I were both dumbstruck. Reindeer? Really?

And then I remembered Missy Widgitz's big surprise. This was how she was going to get a leg up on River Valley Mall. Screw the "real elves." We'd have the real Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen and . . . uhhhh . . . Rudolph and . . . uhhhh, s...o...b..ll and . . . you know. All of them.

I don't know if Big Buck figured it out or not. Once he'd accepted the reindeer's presence, he didn't seem to care. The look of surprise faded from his face, and he smiled at me.

"You better come out of there, Shannon."

That made it even worse, somehow. Here I was about to be killed, and the jerk couldn't even get my name right.

"I don't think so," I said.

"You better come out, or we're comin' in."

Kev pushed in behind him.

"Buck . . . I don't think we oughta go in there," he said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

Big Buck shot him a glare. "You're afraid of Bambi?"

Kev peered into the trailer. The reindeer were spread out all around me, their breath coming out in long puffs of steam.

"Bambi never got as big as that," he said. "And it's so dark in there."

"Yeah, sure, I get it," Big Buck sighed in a strangely resigned, Here we go again kind of way. "Guess I'll just have to take care of the b.i.t.c.h myself, then."

And he started to haul himself up into the trailer.

Now, this is where my story's going to diverge a bit from the official account. I told the police that when I saw Big Buck coming at me, I screamed. Which is kind of true. I did scream.

I screamed, "Yah! Yah!"

And I stamped my feet.

And I slapped the nearest reindeer on the a.s.s.

Donder and Blitzen jumped, b.u.mping into Comet and Cupid, who got spooked and bolted. And when a couple of reindeer bolt, the others tend to follow.

Big Buck didn't scream. He didn't have time. He just fell back out of the truck and let out one loud "Ow!" All I could hear after that was the sound of big hooves. .h.i.tting something soft and wet.

When I finally worked up the nerve to peek outside, there were nine reindeer spread out all over the Olde Towne Mall parking lot-and one Santa Claus spread out all over the pavement behind the truck. Kev was long gone.

It took about five minutes for the cops to show up. The TV news vans were there in ten. I think I was still in shock at that point. I caught a glimpse of myself on TV the next day, and it wasn't pretty. I was being put in a police car (my mom practically fainted when she saw that on the news) with this stunned, stupid expression on my face. I looked like I'd been partying with Arlo.

It took a while for me to pull my words together, but I finally got out the whole story about Big Buck and Kev and the tape. The police were pretty nice, but they just sort of nodded their heads and looked concerned and asked me if I wanted to speak with a counselor. After a couple hours, my mom came and took me home.

Despite my babblings about a pervmo conspiracy, I think the cops a.s.sumed it was really an attempted rape, nothing more. The newspaper and TV stations didn't come right out and say it, but they hinted the same thing. At first. But then a day later, there it was on the front page of the Herald-Times: "Police Uncover Santa Burglary Ring."

The first part of the story went something like, "River City law enforcement officials have revealed that the man smooshed by reindeer earlier this week at Olde Towne Mall was William 'Big Buck' Thomerson, a.k.a. William Thompson, a.k.a. Thomas Williams, a.k.a. William Williamson, a.k.a. Vincente Benito de la Rosa III, a career criminal with multiple convictions for home invasion, burglary and theft stretching back to the early eighties. Police suspect that Thomerson was attempting to use his position as Olde Towne's resident Santa Claus to identify families that would be on vacation over the holidays, making their homes targets for break-ins. Sources also reveal that Thomerson might have secured his position through foul play: Yesterday afternoon, police found his fingerprints in a car that was involved in an accident that cost the mall's previous Santa his life. Thomerson's suspected accomplice, Kevin 'The Elf' Kane, was apprehended in Indianapolis yesterday attempting to hotwire a golf cart after his car ran out of gas near the city's Broadmoor Country Club. Authorities expect Kane to be back in River City for questioning tomorrow."

I've got to say-at first, I was pretty impressed by River City's finest. It took some real brains to connect all the dots.

But then I thought, "Did it really?" Maybe it didn't take brains at all. Maybe all it took was a tape-a tape that could have been found in Big Buck's pocket, untrampled, by cops checking out my story.

Of course, the article didn't have a sentence like, "Detectives gratefully acknowledge the a.s.sistance of Hannah Fox, whose paranoia and insane life choices made these breakthroughs possible." But that was O.K. There was an even better bit towards the end of the story.

"Thomerson's position at Olde Towne has raised disturbing questions about the mall's hiring practices. 'I a.s.sure you, we're going to be investigating this thoroughly and taking steps to ensure that it never happens again,' said Patti Cheney, Olde Towne's new promotions director. According to Cheney, the mall will discontinue its 'Santa's Workshop' operation for the rest of the holiday season."

Which meant I was unemployed, and there was nothing my mom could say about it. I'd been attacked, traumatized by vile criminals. It would take me weeks to recover-weeks I would spend sucking candy canes and watching TV.

It was going to be a merry Christmas after all.

SECRET SANTA.

Monday, December 15, 2003.

In his own way, Erik Bigelow was a stickler for punctuality. According to the employee manual, everyone who worked for Now! Publishing was supposed to arrive no later than 8:30 a.m. So when Bigelow came in at his usual time-9:20-he had his eyes peeled for anyone as lax and late as he was. Those he caught he lectured on the importance of team spirit and playing by the rules and giving one's all. He gave the same speech to any Now! employees he saw trying to sneak out earlier than his usual departure time, which was 4:50.

Bigelow would have no time for lectures this particular morning, though, as he was exceptionally late, even by the standards he set for himself. A new batch of screener DVDs had arrived at the office on Friday, and Bigelow had snagged them all before they could make their way to their intended destination-the cubicle belonging to Chris McCoy, editor of DVD Now! magazine. Bigelow wasn't exactly McCoy's boss. He was director of circulation and production, and technically none of the editors worked for him. But Bigelow made a lot more money than McCoy, and that counted for something. And since management gets to allocate resources and such, Bigelow had allocated the DVDs straight into his vast private collection. As a result, he'd stayed up extra late Sunday night, unable to turn off the commentary track to the Star Trek V Director's Edition until he'd heard every last thing William Shatner had to say.

So Bigelow woke up late and tired, much to the consternation of his Rottweiler, Bantha. He couldn't leave for work without taking Bantha around the block, letting the dog leave behind evidence of her presence so large and hard to ignore it could easily convince experienced animal trackers that a herd of buffalo had recently moved through the area. And he couldn't pa.s.s the neighborhood Starbucks without stopping in for a vente mocha latte. And he couldn't have a vente mocha latte without having two Krispy Kreme doughnuts to go with it. And he couldn't very well have two old Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which might have been sitting in the display case for as long as twenty minutes. So he had to kill time letting Bantha terrorize squirrels in the park across the street until the sign lit up announcing that the fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts were ready.

All of which meant he walked into the office nearly an hour and a half later than the Now! employee manual mandated. No one said anything to him about playing by the rules or giving one's all, however. The only person higher than Bigelow in the Now! food chain was the publisher, Dave Crowley, and he almost never showed up before noon. And Bigelow's only equal/potential rival-the company's editorial director, Alex Sandberg-was too busy actually working to notice Bigelow's comings and goings, not to mention too wimpy to say anything even if he did. (Sandberg was the company's resident Mr. Nice Guy, which was one more reason Bigelow hated him.) But Bigelow didn't make it to his desk without any censure whatsoever. It just didn't come from his boss, and it had nothing to do with his tardiness.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Marcy Albright asked as Bigelow hustled past her cubicle.

Bigelow skidded to a stop.

"Forgot what?" he said, which answered his secretary's question.

(Officially, Marcy wasn't his secretary. He just liked to think of her that way. She was actually an executive a.s.sistant/office manager. The fact that he had to share her with Crowley was fine, a necessary bit of economizing. That he had to share her with Sandberg was a galling injustice he would rectify one day.) "The 'Secret Santa' thing. It starts today," Marcy said. "Don't tell me you're giving somebody a cup of coffee."

The only thing Bigelow held in his hands was his Starbucks cup. All that remained of the doughnuts was a sugary film that coated his fingers and lips.

"Oh, that," Bigelow said. "Hold on."

He set his coffee down on Marcy's desk, pulled out his wallet and removed a wrinkled five-dollar bill.

"Run across the street and buy me . . . oh, I don't know. A sandwich or something."