by R. L. Stine
Foxy’s being so understanding about this, she thought, crossing the street and walking with quick strides along the sidewalk past familiar, silent houses. He seemed to realize right away that I didn’t need him to scold me or disapprove of me or tell me what an idiot I was.
He’s been so supportive, like a real friend.
And he’s so cute and cuddly.
A lot of girls wouldn’t appreciate Foxy, she thought. But I knew right away that he was special.
Two blocks later she was smiling to herself, thinking about Foxy, when the hand grabbed her from behind.
Before she could scream, the gloved hand slid down over her mouth, holding her too tight to scream.
She tried to pull away, but overwhelmed by panic, her muscles locked, all of her strength seemed to die.
She felt hot breath against her cheek.
Another arm was now locked tightly around her waist.
She was being dragged, dragged off the sidewalk into a dark yard, behind a tall hedge where no one could see her. No one could help.
Chapter 22
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO TO ME?
I can’t breathe, Pam thought.
I’m too terrified to breathe.
Who is it? What is he going to do?
The tall hedge seemed to surround her, bend in on her, suffocate her.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Got to think.
Got to find a way to get free.
Her eyes darted to the house above the sloping lawn. Please—somebody be there. Somebody—help me.
But the house was dark. The curtains were pulled.
The gloved hand loosened a little over her mouth.
“Don’t scream. Don’t try to turn around.” The raspy voice was right in her ear.
Again she felt his breath, hot and wet against her cheek.
He shoved her then, into the prickly hemlock hedge, still holding on to her.
“I’m warning you. Don’t turn around. Don’t yell for help.”
I’m too scared to yell, Pam thought. I’m too scared to make a sound.
She was breathing hard now, breathing noisily through her nose.
The gloved hand slipped away from her mouth, and she gasped, sucking in big mouthfuls of air.
“Don’t turn around and you won’t get hurt,” the voice whispered, just behind her.
“What are you going to do to me?” Pam managed to cry.
There was a long silence.
Somewhere down the block a car door slammed. A dog barked.
“What are you going to do to me?” Pam repeated, her voice so filled with terror she didn’t recognize it.
On the other side of the thick hedge a car rolled slowly past.
Can’t you see me? Pam thought, watching the headlights through the shrub. Please, driver—please see me.
But the car moved silently by. The lights disappeared.
The grip tightened around her waist. “I saw what you did,” the voice whispered. “I was there Friday night.”
“But I don’t have any money,” Pam whispered back. “We—”
“Don’t turn around!” he rasped. “I’m warning you.”
They were both breathing hard now.
Pam became cold all over, numb, frozen with fear. “Please—” she said.
“This is just a warning,” he said, not loosening his grip. “I can get to you. Easy. I can hurt you. I can hurt you right now.”
“What do you want me to do?” Pam whispered, staring at the dark ground.
“I want ten thousand dollars. That’s all. And I want it tomorrow night.”
“But I’m trying to tell you,” Pam whispered, choking out the words, “we don’t have the money. We didn’t take any money. Ow!”
She screamed as both his hands dug into her waist, and he pushed her face into the hedge.
“Don’t lie to me! I was there! I saw you!”
“I’m not lying!” Pam insisted.
“I want ten thousand dollars tomorrow night, or I’m going to the police. Do you hear me?”
Instead of replying, Pam took a deep breath. Then, with a burst of strength, she ducked low and twisted out of his grasp. With a cry she lurched away from the hedge and stumbled down the drive to the street.
And spun around.
And saw who it was.
Pam recognized him immediately.
“You!” she cried. “I don’t believe it!”
His eyes flashed with fear for just a moment, then anger drove out all other expression.
As she gaped at him in shock, he caught up with her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and tossed her hard to the asphalt driveway.
He stood over her, then dropped down, pinning her to the drive.
“Too bad you turned around,” he whispered.
Chapter 23
ANOTHER PRACTICAL JOKE
Everything went white.
Pam shut her eyes.
When she reopened them, the light was still there. As she stared into it, it seemed to divide in two.
It took her a few seconds to realize she was looking at car headlights, moving slowly toward her.
Where was her attacker?
He was already running away. She spotted him darting along the hedges, keeping low until he reached the corner. Then he turned and disappeared in the heavy darkness.
Pam got to her knees, and the earth seemed to tilt and spin.
Still on the ground, she raised a hand and waved to the car. It stopped. The door on the driver’s side opened.
“Here—please!” she managed to cry.
Stand up, she told herself.
But the ground was too slanted. She wasn’t sure she could get all the way up.
She heard footsteps, heavy, hurried footsteps. Then two hands had her by the shoulders.
“Pam?”
She raised her head, tried to focus. “Foxy!”
Confused and concerned, he held on to her. “Pam—what’s going on? Who was that?”
She shook her head.
The ground was tilting back to normal. The hedges weren’t spinning quite so rapidly.
“Foxy—I’m so glad to see you,” she managed to say.
She allowed him to pull her to her feet. Then she leaned against him as he walked her to his car.
“Who was that? I saw someone running,” he said, supporting her against his side.
“Foxy,” she said, “you won’t believe who is blackmailing us. You just won’t believe it!”
♦ ♦ ♦
The next morning Reva congratulated herself on arriving at the store on time. In fact, she was there ten minutes before the doors opened.
I hope I’m not turning over a new leaf, she thought. Promptness is such a boring virtue.
It was bound to be a busy day, she realized. The Friday before Christmas meant that last-minute shoppers would be thronging the store. On her way in she had seen a line of people, huddling against the morning cold, waiting for the doors to open.
Reva decided a busy day would suit her just fine. Maybe having to wait on a lot of customers would keep her mind occupied so she could stop thinking about her conversation with Hank.
She had thought of little else since the day before. At first she had thought Hank was being cruel. But the more she considered what he said, the more she realized that he had spoken out of concern for her.
And she decided that he might have been right.
She had always thought there was something stupid and thickheaded about Hank. But that was only because it was necessary for her to feel superior to other people. Hank, she knew now, was a lot more sensitive than she had given him credit for.
Could it really be Hank who was playing these disgusting, cruel jokes on her?
Reva couldn’t think about that now.
She had been pacing around the first floor as she thought and had made her way to the electronics department when she heard shouting in the electronics stockroom.
Reva stopped.
She heard loud cursing and then grunts and groans, shoes scraping against concrete, boxes falling, the sounds of people scuffling.
She hurried to the doorway of the stockroom and peered in.
“Hey—” she cried in alarm. “What’s going on? Stop it!”
The two boys wrestling in the middle of the floor ignored her and didn’t even look up once from their fight.
“Mitch—what on earth!” Reva cried.
Mitch, red-faced, his thick, black hair wild about his face, was wrestling with Robb, who was in full Santa costume, except for the beard and red hat, which were on the floor.
“Stop it! Come on—stop it!” Reva pleaded.
The two boys continued to ignore her, cursing each other angrily as they rolled on the floor, throwing wild punches.
Reva stormed to the middle of the floor, leaned down, and tried to pull Robb off Mitch. But he wriggled out of her grasp and landed a hard punch on Mitch’s jaw.
“What’s going on here?”
All three of them turned around as Donald Rawson, the stockroom manager, burst into the room. Rawson reacted quickly and strode over to the struggling boys. He quickly pulled Robb away.
Mitch climbed slowly to his feet, rubbing his already swollen cheek. “Robb’s crazy,” he told Rawson. “He started it—for no reason.”
Robb glared silently at Mitch, gulping air, his face nearly as red as his costume.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Rawson said angrily. “Just get to work.” He turned to Robb. “Pick up your stuff and get your costume together. The doors are opening in less than five minutes.”
“But he—” Mitch started.
Rawson raised a hand to cut him off. “I said I don’t want to hear about it. Settle it after work, okay? Go out to the parking lot and beat each other senseless. But at least wait until Robb is out of costume—okay? That’s all we need is for kids to see the Dalby’s Santa Claus in a fistfight with a stock clerk!”
The two boys looked as if they wanted to continue their fight, but Rawson stood between them, waiting with his arms crossed. Finally Robb bent down and picked up his costume pieces before lumbering out of the stockroom.
“I don’t believe you guys,” Rawson muttered to Mitch. Then he, too, hurried out.
Mitch avoided Reva’s stare. He was still rubbing his swollen cheek.
“What was that all about?” Reva asked, shaking her head, bewildered.
Mitch shrugged. “What do you care?” he muttered. Then he headed over to the crates in the receiving area and started to unstack them.
Reva watched him for a few seconds before heading for the main floor.
Is everyone going crazy? she wondered.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I couldn’t find my list, but I still remember everything I want,” Michael said excitedly.
Holding his hand tightly, Reva led her little brother through an aisle mobbed with late-afternoon shoppers. As they climbed the short flight of stairs, Santa Land came into view, a long line of kids against one wall, clinging to their parents, hopping up and down, chattering excitedly.
“Ooh—there he is!” Michael exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.
“We have to wait in line,” Reva said, pointing to where they had to go.
“Is that beard real?” Michael asked, staring at Robb as he lifted a crying little girl off his lap.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Reva replied, laughing.
“No. I’m just going to ask for presents,” Michael said seriously.
They stepped to the end of the line. A tiny little girl, two at the most, was seated on Robb’s lap, tugging hard on his beard.
“Do I have to sit on his lap?” Michael asked, and he seemed anxious all of a sudden about the experience he’d been looking forward to. “Couldn’t I just stand up next to him?”
Robb would probably appreciate that, Reva thought. But she told Michael, “No. It’s a law. You have to sit on his lap if you want to get the presents you ask him for.”
Michael thought about this earnestly, biting his lower lip.
Reva laughed at how serious he appeared and ran her hand through his silky red hair. “You don’t want to hurt Santa’s feelings, do you? He likes boys and girls to sit on his lap,” she said.
He likes it about as much as a toothache, she thought, chuckling.
The line inched forward. Kids were climbing all over their parents, impatient to get their Santa visit over with. Several mothers fussed with cameras, ignoring the squawking kids at their feet.
Finally Michael was next in line. “Do you think he knows my name?” he asked Reva, still grasping her hand.
“I think you should tell him your name,” Reva suggested.
“What about my address? Does Santa know my address?”
Before Reva could answer, one of Santa’s elves, a young woman in a truly ridiculous costume with bells on her cap and on her soft, pointy shoes, came to usher Michael up to Santa’s throne.
He immediately let go of Reva’s hand and half walking, half skipping followed the elf, an eager smile on his face.
I should have brought a camera too, Reva thought, moving out of the line to the waiting area on the other side of Santa Land. Daddy should see this.
She watched Michael as he made himself comfortable on Santa’s lap, listing all of the things he “needed” for Christmas, counting them off endlessly on his fingers. He had indeed memorized his entire list.
When he was finally finished, he ran back to meet Reva, perplexed. “That Santa’s a fake,” he told her.
“Huh?” She took his hand. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s not his real stomach. There’s a pillow in there. I felt it.”
“Well, he’s just Santa’s helper,” Reva explained, guiding him toward the elevators. “The real Santa is up at the North Pole. But Santa’s helpers get all of the information up to the real Santa in time.”
This seemed to satisfy her brother. Feeling glad that she’d finally kept her promise to him, Reva dropped Michael off on the sixth floor at her father’s office.. Then, humming to herself, she returned to the perfume counter.
There, behind the counter, she found another enormous carton waiting for her. Like the one before, it, too, was tied in a broad red ribbon with a bow on the top.
Reva sighed. “When did this come?” she asked Ms. Smith.
“Please—I’m with a customer,” her supervisor snapped. “Some of us here actually wait on customers.”
Another stupid, mean trick, Reva thought, staring at the big carton.
Only this time I’m not going to scream and carry on.
I’d have to be pretty stupid to fall for the same thing twice in a row.
She snipped the ribbon with a pair of scissors, then cut off the tape that secured the lid.
Someone has a really juvenile sense of humor, she told herself.
Sick and juvenile.
I suppose another poor mannequin has been sacrificed in an attempt to scare me to death.
She pulled back the lid and stared inside.
And froze.
Her breath caught in her throat. She started to choke.
She spun her head away, but the sight didn’t leave.
It seemed to be burned into her eyes.
This was no mannequin.
No mannequin. No mannequin. No mannequin.
It was Mitch crumpled up in the bottom of the carton.
And the blood that had dripped down his back and made a small puddle on the carton floor was real.
Because there was a large kitchen knife shoved between Mitch’s shoulder blades.
Chapter 24
WHO MURDERED MITCH?
Every time Reva closed her eyes, she saw Mitch.
Saw his knees pressed against the side of the carton, rising up over his bowed head.
Saw his shoulders sloped forward in the carton, arms hanging limply at his sides.
Saw the
back of his neck, so pale. His shiny black hair, usually so carefully brushed, matted against his head.
Saw the dark stain on the back of his shirt. The puddle of coagulated blood on the carton bottom, soaking through his jeans.
Saw the knife handle, the tiny gleam of blade protruding from it, placed so perfectly, so symmetrically in the middle of his shoulder blades.
Every time Reva closed her eyes, she saw all of this.
And when her eyes were open, she couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t think of anything else.
When the police questioned her, two soft-spoken police officers, one not much older than Reva, she couldn’t think, could barely speak.
Why would anyone murder Mitch?
Why would someone murder Mitch and gift wrap him for her?
Reva had no answers.
And there was Lissa, leaning her head on the glass of the perfume counter, sobbing and smearing the glass with her tears.
She couldn’t help the police, either.
After the questions, after what seemed like hours of police milling and poking around, after the photographers, after the reporters, the paramedics, the hushed crowds of muttering onlookers, after the bent, lifeless body had been covered and carried away, and the carton had been dragged away, leaving a wide scum of blood in its wake, Reva still saw the body, still saw poor, slumped-over Mitch.
She remembered kissing him in the stockroom.
She remembered Lissa breaking in on them.
She remembered laughing at Mitch after Lissa broke up with him.
And she saw Lissa, her face red and puffy from crying so long, cast an accusing glance at Reva.
Accusing. Deserved.
I owe Mitch an apology, Reva thought. But it’s too late. Too late to tell him I’m sorry.
And for the first time in years, Reva felt like crying.
Felt like it but still managed to hold the tears in.
“Go home,” her father said gently, his warm hands on her trembling shoulders. “Shall I have someone drive you home?”
“No. It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” she said, reaching up to squeeze his hand.
I’ll never be okay, she thought.