Silent Night

by R. L. Stine

  “Sit down, Clay,” Pam said, slapping the couch cushion. “I only meant—”

  “Somebody else killed the guard,” Clay said heatedly, jamming his fists into his jeans pockets. He wouldn’t say anything more.

  “And somebody got twenty-five thousand dollars,” Mickey added glumly.

  “Yeah. And we left with what we came in with—nothing!” Clay shouted, working himself up into a rage.

  “Did you talk to Maywood?” Pam asked calmly, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. “Did you find out what happened to him Friday night?”

  Clay shook his head as he paced to the window, taking Mickey’s old spot and staring out at the thin layer of new snow. Less than an inch had fallen during the day. “I tried calling him at Dalby’s. They said he called in sick. When I tried his apartment, there was no answer.”

  “If he was sick, wouldn’t he have called you?” Pam asked, playing nervously with the frayed fabric on the couch arm. “I just don’t understand why he let us go through with the robbery if he knew he wasn’t going to be there. I mean, if he knew it was going to be a different guard, why wouldn’t he—”

  “How should I know?” Clay interrupted wildly. “Give me a break, will you?”

  “Pam wasn’t accusing you or anything!” Mickey cried, coming to Pam’s defense.

  “You both think it’s my fault the thing got messed up,” Clay said, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Well, there was nothing I could do.” He moved to the center of the room, breathing hard, his chest heaving.

  “We don’t blame you,” Mickey said, trying to calm Clay. Mickey was obviously frightened—he knew what Clay could be like if he lost control.

  “Look, we’re all in this together—right?” Pam quickly added. “Come on, Clay. Sit down.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to budge.

  “Did you call your cousin?” Mickey asked Pam. “Does her father suspect anything? Does he know anything?”

  “I tried to reach her around lunchtime. But the girl at the perfume counter said she wasn’t there,” Pam said, making an annoyed face. “I think I heard her in the background before I was put on Hold. She just didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Because she knows that you—that we—” Mickey couldn’t finish his question.

  “Nobody knows anything,” Clay insisted loudly, as if trying to convince himself. “If anybody thought it was us there Friday night, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it. We’d be in a hot little room somewhere, being grilled by the cops.”

  “Clay’s right,” Mickey said, brightening. “It’s obvious that no one saw us. No one has any idea we were there.”

  The phone beside the couch rang.

  Pam, startled, picked it up. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was gruff, hoarse. “I saw what you did,” he rasped.

  “What?” Pam froze.

  “I saw what you did,” the voice croaked, low and menacing. “I want my share.”

  “No!” Pam shrieked and dropped the phone.

  Chapter 20

  I’LL KILL HIM

  “Where were you last night?” Foxy asked. Pam hesitated for a moment. “I told you. I went over to Mickey’s,” she said uneasily, avoiding his eyes. “I offered to help him and Clay. They’ve got a big math project due at the end of vacation.”

  “Oh. I didn’t remember.” Foxy stared at her thoughtfully, pulling at the neck of his blue sweater. “Are you okay, Pam?”

  “Yeah. Fine,” she lied, forcing a smile. She squeezed his arm tenderly, reassuring him.

  He knows me too well, she thought. He can tell that something is troubling me. If only I could tell him. But I won’t. No way. No way I want to get him involved.

  It was Tuesday night. Pam’s parents were out grocery shopping, and she and Foxy were sitting on the living-room couch. Some sitcom was on the TV across the room, but neither of them was paying any attention to it.

  “How’s work?” Pam asked, trying to change the subject, trying to get Foxy to stop studying her so intently.

  He shrugged. “Not bad. It has its enjoyable moments,” he said. “How come you’ve been hanging out with Clay and Mickey so much?”

  She smiled at him, trying to cover up her uneasiness. “Foxy, you’re not the jealous type, are you?” she asked, taking his big hand between hers.

  “Maybe,” he replied, returning her smile.

  “It’s just that you’ve been so busy,” she told him, trying not to sound defensive.

  He started to say something, but the phone rang.

  She got up, crossed the room to turn down the sound on the TV, then picked up the phone from the low table near the hallway.

  She recognized the gruff voice immediately.

  “I want my share,” he whispered in her ear.

  He knows where I live! Pam thought. He knows who I am!

  She glanced across the room at Foxy, who was watching her, who must have seen the horror on her face.

  “I want ten thousand dollars or I’m telling the police,” the voice rasped.

  “What do you mean?” Pam asked, her voice trembling. She turned toward the wall, hoping Foxy wouldn’t hear.

  “I saw you,” the voice said. “I saw you kill the guard. I saw everything.”

  “No—we didn’t!” Pam shrieked. “We didn’t do it!”

  Across the room Foxy jumped to his feet.

  The caller ignored Pam’s outburst. “I want ten thousand dollars to keep quiet,” he rasped. “I’ll be coming for it soon.”

  “But we don’t have any money!” Pam cried.

  She was talking to a dead phone line. He had already clicked off.

  “Pam—”

  She was startled to discover that Foxy was standing right behind her.

  “Pam—what is it? Who was that?”

  “Oh, Foxy!” she cried and fell into his arms.

  He hugged her close. “What? What? Tell me,” he insisted.

  “I’m so scared,” she confessed, her head against his chest. “So scared.”

  “Who was that?” he repeated. “What’s happening, Pam?”

  She had to tell him. She was too frightened to hold it in any longer.

  He led her back to the couch, and they sat down. He held her hands tightly. “Foxy, you’re not going to like this,” she began and then told him the whole story.

  She started with the night at Mickey’s when Clay revealed his plan for robbing Dalby’s. With a trembling voice she told him about the robbery, how it went wrong, how the guard was shot, how they fled and just narrowly escaped before the police arrived.

  Even though they were alone in the house, she whispered, leaning in close to him. All the time she talked she studied his face for the disapproval she knew would be there.

  But Foxy’s face revealed only concern, concern mixed with disbelief. He listened to the whole story in silence. Then, when she finished telling him about the raspy voice demanding ten thousand dollars, he let go of her, his expression changed, his dark eyebrows lowered over his dark eyes.

  “Pam,” he said, “I-I’m so—sorry.”

  She had managed to hold herself together till then. But now her shoulders heaved, and she began to sob.

  Foxy reached out to comfort her, but she pushed him away. She wanted to cry. She wanted to sob and scream and kick. She’d been holding it in too long, much too long.

  But to Pam’s surprise, the feeling passed quickly. She dried her cheeks with her hands. She smiled guiltily at Foxy and apologized.

  “I didn’t want you to know any of this,” she admitted. “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  “I’m not surprised about Clay,” Foxy said thoughtfully. “But you and Mickey—”

  “I just got so tired of being poor!” Pam cried. “And so—so jealous of Reva, I guess. I don’t know, Foxy. I mean, I have no excuse. I was stupid. I went along with it.”

  She stood up suddenly, gripped by one thought. “Wh
at am I going to do now? This creep who just called—he knows where I live. He—he’s very frightening, Foxy.”

  “You have to go to the police. Tell them everything. Just what you told me,” Foxy said.

  “No, I can’t!” she shouted. “Don’t you see? The police won’t believe us! I’m amazed that you do!”

  “But, Pam—”

  “No!” She cut him off firmly. “We can’t tell the police that we were there but didn’t kill the guard or take the money. They wouldn’t believe us in a million years. Besides, Clay would never agree to go to the police.”

  Foxy got up off the couch and grabbed Pam’s hand. “Let’s go see Clay,” he said.

  A few minutes later they were in her mother’s car, driving toward Mickey’s house, where Clay and Mickey were hanging out as usual. Earlier in the day the snow had started to melt. Then the temperature dropped again and the roads froze over.

  Foxy gripped the passenger door handle tightly as the car slipped across the ice. “Can’t you drive a little slower?” he asked nervously.

  “I’m only going fifteen,” Pam told him, “and I’m still sliding all over. It’s really treacherous. Maybe we should turn around and go back.”

  “No,” he insisted. “We’re almost there. We’ve got to talk to Clay and Mickey and figure out what you’re going to do about this . . . blackmailer.”

  “You’re being very understanding about this whole thing,” Pam said, pulling out of a skid.

  “I’m a saint—remember?” Foxy cracked, holding on to the door handle for dear life.

  They slid most of the way to Mickey’s house where Pam parked by the curb. To walk up to the front door, they had to lean into the frigid north wind.

  Mickey was surprised when he saw Foxy. “Hi, how’s it going?” he asked Foxy, staring at Pam.

  “He knows,” Pam told Mickey. “I told him all about it.”

  “Let us in. It’s freezing out here!” Foxy cried.

  “It isn’t much warmer in here,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “I don’t think Dad paid the heating bill.”

  They stepped into the small living room. “Yo, join the party,” Clay said glumly.

  “Clay, I got another phone call,” Pam said anxiously, the words spilling out of her. “The same guy with the croaky voice. He says he wants ten thousand dollars. He says he saw us in the store. He says he’s coming for his ten thousand real soon.”

  Clay didn’t react at first, just stared intently at the window. Then he looked up at Pam and in a low, calm voice said, “Whoever he is, I’ll kill him.”

  The quiet way Clay said that frightened Pam as much as anything that had happened. It was something people said all the time. “I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll kill him.” It was something said in anger. An empty expression. People never really meant it.

  With Clay it was different. Clay didn’t say things he didn’t mean. It was one of the scary things about him.

  “Clay—you’re kidding, right?” Pam said, more of a plea than a question. “Please—promise me you’re kidding.”

  Chapter 21

  EVERYONE HATES YOU, REVA

  Thursday morning, even though she was an hour late, Reva rode up to the sixth floor, hung her coat in her father’s closet, then strode quickly to the bank of security monitors to talk to Hank.

  She tapped him on the shoulder hard, and he whirled away from the screens. “Reva. Hi.” He eyed her suspiciously. The last time she had passed, she cut him dead.

  “Hank, it’s time to stop the stupid games,” she said, her voice low and hard. She had practiced her speech all the way to the store. She knew exactly what she wanted to say.

  “Reva, I can’t talk right now,” he told her, glancing back at the screens. “The store is open. I’m supposed to monitor these screens.”

  She grabbed his arm and tugged, pulling him off the high stool. “Hey, let go—” he protested unconvincingly. “What’s your problem, anyway, Reva?”

  “This will only take a few seconds,” she said.

  “But my job—”

  “You won’t lose your job. I promise,” she said, her face still cold and expressionless. She pulled him into her father’s office, which was empty, and closed the door.

  “Reva. Listen—” He stared into her eyes, trying to figure out what she wanted.

  “No more games,” Reva repeated, brushing back her hair. “Stop playing innocent, Hank. I’m not buying it.”

  “Innocent?” He shifted his weight uncomfortably, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blue uniform trousers.

  “Look, I guess I was pretty cruel to you,” she continued with her speech. “I mean, I said some things I shouldn’t have. And that night with the guard dog. Well—I apologize.”

  He continued to study her face, his expression unchanging.

  “I hope you’ll accept my apology,” Reva went on, returning his stare, “because I’m asking you for a truce now. I want you to stop trying to frighten me.”

  “Huh?” His mouth dropped open in exaggerated surprise.

  “You heard me,” she said sharply. “I want you to stop all the stupid jokes. They’re not funny, and they’re getting out of control.”

  Hank shook his head. He removed his hands from his pockets and raked one back through his spiky, blond hair. “Have you totally lost it, or what?”

  “Hank!” She didn’t want to lose her temper. But she couldn’t help it. “I know you’re the one who sent me the dummy in the box. And the bottle of blood.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not a good liar, Hank,” Reva said, glaring angrily at him. “You put a needle in my lipstick. You’ve been trying to frighten me, trying to terrorize me to pay me back for the way I broke up with you. But—”

  “No way,” he said softly. He took a step toward the closed office door. “No way.”

  “You’re denying it?” Her eyes burned into his.

  “No way,” he repeated.

  “Hank, I know you hate me,” Reva blurted out. She surprised herself. That wasn’t in her prepared speech.

  It appeared to surprise Hank too. His expression changed, softened. His dark eyes narrowed. “Hey, I don’t hate you,” he said. “I feel sorry for you.”

  His words stung like a slap in the face. She uttered a low cry. “You feel sorry for me?” She felt like laughing and crying at the same time. “I don’t understand,” she managed to say, confused by her strong feelings.

  “Anyone could have sent you those things,” Hank explained. “You don’t have a friend in the world, Reva. Everyone hates you. Everyone. I can think of ten people who hate you enough to put a needle in your lipstick.”

  “You’re crazy!” she screamed. “You’re really sick!”

  “I’m not saying it to be cruel,” he replied heatedly, his normally pale face flushed, his dark eyes excited. “I’m explaining why I feel sorry for you.”

  “But it’s not true—” Reva started.

  “Tell me one good friend you’ve got,” Hank demanded, moving toward her, looming over her, powerful in his blue uniform. “Come on. Name one.”

  “Well—”

  Why couldn’t she think of anyone?

  How stupid, she thought. Of course I have friends. I have lots of friends.

  Name one, Reva, she challenged herself. Name one.

  “I feel sorry for you,” Hank repeated, not backing off, not letting her off the hook. “You don’t have a friend in the world.”

  Reva let her head drop.

  She raised it and stared at Hank. He was right.

  She felt deflated, as if someone had popped her with a pin and everything holding her together had been blown apart.

  “You’re right, Hank,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  He stared back at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue.

  “Ever since Mom died, I—I haven’t had time for friends. I had to be hard,” she said, talking more to herself than to Hank. “I had to keep to myself. Ke
ep my feelings to myself. I knew if I let my feelings go for one second, I’d lose control and—and—”

  Her voice caught in her throat.

  They stared at each other, standing close together now.

  Hank’s expression softened, his dark eyes searching her face.

  “I—I didn’t even cry at Mom’s funeral,” Reva said. “Even then, I knew I had to hold myself in, had to harden myself. Otherwise—”

  Before Reva knew it, she was in Hank’s arms. He felt so warm, so strong, so protective.

  But even now, pressing her face against his, feeling his arms wrap tighter around her, she couldn’t cry, didn’t want to cry.

  And even now, allowing herself to be comforted, allowing Hank to hold her, allowing herself to let go just a bit, to loosen the reins that had held her in so tightly, even now Reva felt the fear.

  Even now she wondered if Hank wasn’t the one trying to frighten her. Even now she wondered: What’s next?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Pam slammed down the phone.

  No answer at Reva’s house. And the line was still busy at Foxy’s.

  Who could he be talking to all this time?

  She glanced at her watch. It was eight thirty-five. Thursday night.

  She still wanted to talk to Reva, to find out what was being said in the store, if there were any theories as to who the culprits were who robbed the store and killed the guard.

  But Reva obviously wasn’t home. And Foxy—what was Foxy doing on the phone all this time? Talking to some secret girlfriend?

  The thought tickled her. She couldn’t imagine Foxy sneaking around with another girl.

  But, she realized, anything was possible. She couldn’t imagine herself burglarizing a department store. And yet she had.

  I’m going to go see what Foxy is doing, she decided.

  She pushed open the storm door and peered out across her small square of a front yard. It was warm out, almost springlike. The ice and snow had all melted. The air smelled fresh and piney.

  Pam decided to walk to Foxy’s. It was only five blocks. She hadn’t had any exercise all day, having hung around the house, unable to do anything or concentrate on anything but how sorry she felt for herself.