Naughty or Nice

by Barbra Annino

  Matt’s hands clenched the dashboard, and his head jerked around as if he were looking for a way to leap from the car. His voice emerged, raspy and dry, from his throat.

  “My ex. Leelee’s mother. Molly. I remember now. We were having dessert while Leelee played on the floor. I felt sick and was trying to get to the bathroom. Then, I guess I died. Right there on the floor near Leelee. Oh God! Molly made my daughter watch me die.”

  Calla inhaled sharply, her mind racing. Matt’s situation was getting too complicated. His poor daughter—no matter her age—had seen death. Whether her conscious mind ever remembered it, death had marked her subconscious. And it appeared that Leelee might witness a lot more death if she were left in Molly’s hands.

  Calla could not allow that. She knew from personal experience what exposure to death could do to someone.

  “Your ex?” she asked Matt. “Where would she go now? Where would she take Leelee?”

  Matt thought about this and then slammed a fist onto the dashboard.

  “Dammit! I don’t know. She wasn’t at the house.”

  “Okay, okay, go easy on the interior, will ya? Try to calm yourself. You’ll remember more if you relax.”

  Calla felt the blaze of Matt’s eyes staring at the side of her head, two little pinpricks of heat that caused her to shiver and remember the knife at her thigh.

  If he attacked again, she might have no choice.

  “Tell me about Leelee,” Calla said, hoping to distract Matt and spur his memory at the same time.

  “She was born in the summer,” he said, his voice slipping into memory with each new thought. “Leah Marie Carol, but we nicknamed her Leelee almost right away. Five pounds, four ounces. Just a little thing. She loves her stuffed sheep, and only the sound of the ocean will put her to sleep. We had a recording to play in her bedroom at night ….”

  Matt’s voice trailed off.

  “What?” Calla asked.

  “I know where they are. I know where Molly probably took her: a place nearby … on Bay Shore Road. Her mother owns it.”

  He rattled off the street number, and Calla turned the car in that direction without thinking.

  All she knew was that a child was in the care of a murderer, and her only concern was to get the little girl to safety. Calla would do anything to prevent little Leelee from walking the difficult road she herself had walked.

  The Mustang raced through the increasingly windy streets, and a gust from the ocean pushed the little car laterally across the road.

  “I have to make a call,” Calla said, yanking her phone from the clutch purse that was wedged in the seat.

  She dialed Pursiful, and his voice came tense and ready across the speaker.

  “You okay, Cal? I should have called Whitaker. This was a murder, not an accident. You could be in danger. Murder victims don’t always rise peaceably. Tell me where you are.”

  Fear skittered along Calla’s spine, and she looked sideways at Matt, who remained so tense it seemed as if his body had seized into one giant cramp. She felt the weight of the knife on her thigh as she thought of what she might have to do. Continuing to Molly’s hideout would only make it more probable that she would have to use it, but she had to make sure Leelee was safe. No child should be exposed to violence and death at her mother’s hands. What it might do to her … Calla simply couldn’t allow it.

  “I’m fine, but the situation isn’t quite what you think,” she replied finally, “Matt Carol is with me, and he says his ex Molly killed him and took his baby girl. I’m going to save that child.”

  Pursiful swore in Greek. Somehow, he made it sound reasonable.

  “Calla, you don’t understand what might happen.”

  Calla gritted her teeth, feeling the painful pull of the swollen bruises from Matt’s fingers. She knew the risks. All of them.

  “Yes, I do. I know better than anyone what might happen. And I won’t let it.”

  Something between a moan and a sigh burst through the phone speaker. Pursiful understood. He always understood.

  “It isn’t the same thing, Calla. You know that. You were a newborn when it happened. This child is not. She won’t likely be affected the way you were, and if she is, it’s already too late. The smart thing to do is to wait for the police—for me and Whitaker at least—and keep Matt away from that house.”

  “No,” Calla insisted. “I have to make sure she’s safe. Send the police. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She punched the end button and shoved the phone into her coat pocket. It rang again immediately, but she ignored it.

  “There’s the house,” Matt said, pointing out the window to a brightly lit building that was more of a shack than a house. It clung to the foundation against the sea winds, but just barely. A dark sedan was angled across the driveway.

  “That’s my car! Jesus, she stole my car too.”

  Calla pressed the gas, rocketing past the house in case Matt got any bright ideas.

  “Where are you going? I said she was there! I have to get Leelee.”

  Calla remained silent and turned down the next block.

  “You aren’t going to do anything. You have to stay in the car.”

  Matt snorted, spinning in his seat to look back at the house.

  “Hell, no. I’ve got to get my baby.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Matt. You can’t go in there, not looking the way you do. Not even looking the way you did. You’re dead. Remember? You’ve got to trust me to help you.”

  He steamed and simmered beside her, and she hoped some calm logic might keep the lid on his boil.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said, her voice soft yet authoritative. “You stay here in the car, and I’ll make sure Leelee is there. Then we’ll wait for the police to come and take care of your ex.”

  Calla looked hopefully toward Matt only to see his fist blur toward her.

  Her head rocked under the force of the sudden blow, and her skull cracked loudly against the window.

  At first, she felt nothing, but then splinters of pain ripped through her head and down her neck. Calla’s eyes refused to focus, and she flailed wildly, trying to fend off Matt. His first blow had left her dizzy and stunned, and she knew she couldn’t withstand a second.

  Her vision just began to clear when the Mustang jounced wildly, and her foot reached automatically for the brake. She stood hard on the pedal, and even though they weren’t going terribly fast, the Mustang began to slide, its wheels slipping on sandy soil.

  As soon as the car slowed enough, Matt leapt out and disappeared into the cloud of dust, leaving the passenger door open as the vehicle continued to skim across the ground, taking out a row of large plastic trashcans.

  When it finally drifted to a halt in someone’s front yard, Calla froze, both her mind and body absolutely unwilling to work.

  She couldn’t do anything but breathe, and even that became a struggle as blood oozed from her nose and her already abused throat constricted with a mixture of rage, fear, and regret. Her vision blurred as she tried to think.

  What was happening? Pursiful said that murder victims didn’t always rise peaceably, but really? This seemed a bit much for an innocent nerd who was offed while eating a slice of pecan pie. Until now, she had witnessed Matt’s violent tendencies, but she had been able to keep him calm and rational. Adding his missing daughter to the situation had pushed him too far. Sure, parents were supposed to become stronger and more dangerous when their baby’s life was at stake. Mothers gained the superhuman ability to lift cars from infants. But his was something more.

  And Calla had to shelter that babe from any more exposure to violence … no matter whose hands wrought it.

  Unsure how much time had passed, Calla came to her senses, flung the Mustang into reverse, and bounced off the curb into the street, where she squealed to a stop so hard that the open door slammed shut. She flung the car into drive and careened toward the shack.

  She quickly p
arked the car in the neighboring driveway, jumped out, and ran on unsteady feet to the front door, which was now splintered from its frame and hung loosely. Calla pushed it open slowly, still trying to regain her balance before confronting anyone, living or dead.

  From inside, Calla heard Matt’s feral growl.

  “Give me my daughter!”

  “W—who are you?”

  The house went grave silent for long moments, and Calla crept toward the direction of the voices.

  She edged toward a doorway and chanced a look. It was a kitchen covered in lemon-patterned wallpaper and bright with tension. Leelee sat in a high chair beside the table, her chubby toddler legs kicking beneath her. Molly and her mother stood protectively on either side of the child.

  In the fluorescent kitchen light, Molly didn’t look like a murderess. She looked suspiciously like most other mothers at Christmastime: overly extended but still trying to be cheery. Her blond hair was in a high ponytail, and she wore dark wash jeans. The words “Ho! Ho! Ho!” were emblazoned across her sweatshirt, but Calla didn’t think they were meant to be ironic. She was in the spirit.

  A deeper look at Molly revealed something more than too much holiday stress. Dark circles bloomed under her eyes, and bruises of various colors, some faded and some fresh, marred the exposed skin of her neck, face, and hands. She moved stiffly, as if she might have more bruising along her ribcage. This woman hurt, and she was staring at Matt’s spirit body with unconcealed alarm.

  Without answering Molly’s question, Matt stalked straight toward her and grabbed her by the throat, an action Calla realized now was habitual. Calla’s hand flew to her own neck, where similar bruises burgeoned.

  God, why hadn’t she seen the truth sooner?

  Understanding cleared the remnants of blurriness from Calla’s vision, and she moved with laser accuracy into the room and toward Matt. She could feel rage rolling off his back, palpable and hot. Without a second thought, she reached for the knife at her thigh, her eyes moving between the enraged revenant and the little girl in the high chair she needed to protect at all costs.

  Oh, God, what had she done?

  She had unleashed an abusive man on his murderer, and now she would have to dispatch his soul in front of his own daughter.

  Before she could act, Matt spoke again.

  “I’m the man you killed, bitch. The father of your child. Don’t you recognize me?”

  Molly choked and managed to slur out, “You’re crazy.”

  Matt shook her hard, and Calla felt the pain flare in her own bruises.

  Molly’s eyes bugged out, and her fingers clutched at Matt’s hands on her throat. Her mother raced around the table, between Calla and the revenant, and began to strike at his back with weak-willed blows.

  “Let her go! Let her go! You’re killing her!”

  Matt removed one hand from Molly and shoved the older woman against a wall of cabinets. Dashing her head against a corner, she slid to the floor with a sickly, wet groan.

  “Momma!” Molly gasped despite Matt’s grip on her throat.

  Molly’s mother’s mouth moved soundlessly, but Calla could make out her words, “No, no, no …”

  Nothing stood between Calla and the revenant, and death loomed heavily over them all. The stench of mortal panic pervaded the room, calling in a deep, horrible voice for a sacrifice.

  Calla could sense Matt’s soul and knew that something unfathomably large and wild was affecting it, a storm of epic proportions that spun and twisted the world of the dead man’s emotions.

  Vengeance called to him.

  “You killed me and took our daughter,” he snarled. “Now I’m going to kill you.”

  At the table, Leelee began to cry, and Calla’s gaze flew to the child, whose big blue eyes were bewildered by this situation that she was far too young to comprehend but still old enough to experience fully.

  “Matt,” Calla said from behind him, her voice coming out as cold as the blade in her hand. “Stop now. Let her go. Look, your daughter is safe. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  Everything paused. The winds died away. They were in the eye of the storm. It was time for a decision.

  Without turning around, Matt whispered, “No,” and tightened his hold on Molly.

  With his decision made, Calla readied the knife, hoping like hell she was strong enough to pierce the revenant’s heart in one move because she doubted she’d get a second chance. He would kill her for sure, and then his soul would be forever tarnished.

  Molly gasped, her eyes goggled, and her hands began to lose their strength. Calla took one brief look at the child and forced herself to turn away. All she could do now was minimize the damage.

  She angled the knife to best pierce Matt Carol’s heart and crouched low, starting her approach several steps back in hopes of a more forceful thrust. A man didn’t die easily the second time around.

  Calla felt as if her own soul floated above the scene, watching the actions of her physical body without concern. Still, she felt everything, every prickle of adrenaline as the world diminished to this one thing: the struggle between life and death.

  And before she could move to end it all, one word, certain and innocent, permeated the chaos: “Dadda.”

  Christmases Yet to Come

  The air cleared as suddenly as if a beam of golden sunlight had split the storm clouds, and everyone in the room turned to the child, whose wide eyes were focused on the revenant with unwavering intent.

  “Dadda,” she repeated, waving her chubby hands toward Matt.

  “Leelee?” Matt whispered, dropping a gasping, blue-faced Molly to the linoleum floor. “You know me? You know your daddy?”

  “Dadda,” the little girl insisted, reaching for the neck as his now-gentle hands lifted her into his arms.

  Knife still poised for the strike, Calla gaped at father and child. She knew exactly what it meant that Leelee knew her father in his spirit body.

  “Matt?” Molly gasped. She skittered backward a few feet, eyes wide with panic and confusion, but upon realizing that Leelee remained in his grasp, she leapt up and removed her daughter from Matt’s arms. Cuddling her daughter’s head under her chin, she went to stand beside her mother.

  “I—I—don’t understand. I don’t know who you are,” she stuttered, her eyes darting back and forth from Matt to me, “but Matt’s dead.”

  “Yes, you killed me,” Matt said, his words softer than Calla had expected. His eyes had not left Leelee, and his face had transformed from rage to confusion to shame.

  “I killed Matt,” Molly confessed.

  “She had to kill him,” Molly’s mother slurred from her place on the floor. “He’s been beating her for years. Last time, I found Molly unconscious. I thought she was never gonna wake up, and there was no way out for her. She had to save herself and Leelee.”

  Matt’s head lowered.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I do things like that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I try to be good, but it never seems to work.”

  “That’s what you always said after,” Molly said, sounding exhausted. “But it never meant anything. It never did! You always did it again. And in front of our daughter … You were never going to stop, and I couldn’t let you hurt Leelee.”

  “I never would have hurt her,” Matt protested, eyes wide with horror. “Never. I love her.”

  “You said you loved me,” Molly whispered. “And you almost killed me. I couldn’t take the risk.”

  The color drained from Matt’s flesh, and he couldn’t seem to form a reply. Calla glanced between Matt and Molly, trying to figure out what was happening and what—if anything—she should do about it.

  Should she protect the innocents—and herself—and dispatch Matt now or risk further violence and allow him one last chance to redeem himself?

  This was why Calla hated these cases. The last thing she wanted to do was give an abusive asshole the chance to redeem hi
mself. Men who made women and children suffer beatings and mental anguish deserved nothing more than a knife to the heart. But she had seen Matt’s soul—the potential for goodness within him.

  How could such evil and such potential goodness exist in one man?

  Calla’s fingers closed tighter around the knife, but she waited.

  People talked about near-death experiences changing their outlook on life, but for others, a death experience is required to open their eyes.

  Maybe Matt would be one of them.

  Either way, she had to give him one last chance to choose.

  Finally, Matt broke the tense silence with a soft, raspy whisper.

  “I—I—I’m the bad guy,” he said, tears falling from his eyes. His voice was tinged with regret and understanding as he turned to Molly. “I hurt you, and I would have hurt our daughter too. Someday.”

  He took a step toward Molly and Leelee, but his ex shrunk back, tightening her hold on the little girl.

  Matt’s face fell, but then he winced in understanding. He held up his hands and stepped back again.

  “You should have killed me. I would say ‘I’m sorry,’ but you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Molly shook her head.

  “I’ll go,” Matt said with an anguished sigh. “I’ll leave you both alone. I just want to say good-bye to Leelee.”

  Molly nodded slowly. Her eyes remained wary, but she turned the young soul-seer in her arms so that she could see her father.

  Matt stayed just out of arm’s reach, tears falling down his cheeks.

  “Leelee, I love you, and you’re safe now. You’re safe from me, and I’ll make sure you’re always safe.”

  The whine of sirens invaded the scene in the kitchen, and Matt’s head jerked up, instantly becoming aware of reality, of Calla and the knife clutched in her hand. He stared blankly at her battered face, at the blade in her fingers, and then blinked at her.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I had to,” he said to Calla.

  The sirens grew louder now, and time was short. The police would be here soon, trying to figure out what had happened to Molly and her mother. Calla surveyed the room.

  One dead man.

  Two soul-seers.