Rudolph!

by Mark Teppo

  Rudolph and I both had it. We had brought the Spirit of Christmas back from hell, and in the two years since, it had always been there in my belly. That warm-extra-brandy-in-your-eggnog sort of feeling.

  But it can fade. I tell you now: it can fade. Santa was losing it. Satan had yanked hard and pulled all of it out of Fat Boy once, and he had nearly done the same with Mrs. C. We had brought it back, but the connection wasn't as concrete as it had been in the past. You can repair the damage, but you can never truly weld the desire back the way it was. And if the world is hard enough on you, if there is nothing but despair and bleakness all day long, the Spirit does lose some of its luster.

  I didn't have much strength left. How long had I been down here? Four days? Five? Thanksgiving had been late this year, and I had stayed in my hotel during the mad shopping frenzy that had followed. How many rehearsals had I seen? Three? Four?

  I had been working late in the office, trying to figure out what the deal was with the seats. I had cracked the spreadsheets, and had started to see some holes in the expenses. Money was going out faster than debts were accruing. I was starting to wonder about Ted's ability to do math.

  They had been waiting for me that night. I remember leaving the office and standing by the elevator. The bell rang, and the doors opened, and then there had been a rush of sound behind me. Heavy footsteps coming at a run. I had turned just as something heavy slammed into my back. I bounced off the elevator door and fell on my back, staring up at the polished light of the elevator car. And then everything had gone dark.

  Someone had hit me with the ornate garbage can next to the elevator, and after I passed out, they dragged me like a fifty-pound sack of dog food down to the basement, where I was incarcerated. Tied up, blindfolded, and left to go five rounds with the pounding headache waiting for me when I woke up. Eventually, they showed up and started asking questions about the money.

  It was a long con. Erma had said as much. The production was never meant to succeed. They set up the company, found a script that had enough promise to be seen as avant-garde and daring to a couple of investors, and set up shop. The show might open, but the reviews would be so awful that no one would come. Tickets would go unsold, and the principals would vanish with the money they had siphoned off the accounts. And I had finally realized what the disconnect was in the spreadsheets. It wasn't that Ted couldn't do math; he was screwing up the buckets. The one that all the bills went into was marked Net 60, and there was another one marked "Paid" and it contained everything that was in the Net 60 bucket. Everything was being marked as paid—in cash, no less—but that wasn't actually true. All those accounts were going to be due in mid-December, just about the time the show shut down. All the investment money that should have gone to these debts would be missing, and the collectors would be calling, looking for their payments. Without decent ticket sales, there wasn't going to be any money to pay them off with.

  They were playing a tricky game, but they had placed themselves well enough to play it out. When I showed up, the pot suddenly got a lot bigger, but the trick was getting me to cough up the money. And when that hadn't happened outright, they had decided to sweat the account info out of me instead.

  And they might actually get it. It had been five days since I had eaten anything. I was past woozy. I was starting to have trouble with my vision. I had given up on worrying about dehydration. It took too much strength. What was I doing down here? Who got hurt if I gave them the money?

  Who got hurt if I didn't give them the money?

  Slapper was Franklin Donovan King. He was the show's leading man as well as the director of record. Over the past few days, I had gone back over everything that had happened since I had arrived at the Heritage about six hundred million times, and every time some other little detail poked out. I hadn't actually ever met Franklin, which was somewhat odd, given our respective roles in the company. Erma had always deflected my questions about the whereabouts of the man playing Rudolph; she had even told me some wild story about a family tragedy back in Illinois that had required Mr. King's sudden presence over Thanksgiving. Rehearsals were still going on with Bucky Dowminster—the ersatz understudy—standing in for King. Everything seemed to be moving along, progressing as it should. No one had seemed terribly concerned about the lack of the leading man/director, and I—who had never seen a live musical, much less produced one—had figured my confusion in this regard was merely my theater production inexperience.

  Franklin came to visit again, and when he saw that I wasn't wearing the blindfold, he hovered on the periphery of my vision—hiding in the shadows, smoking his noxious cigarettes. Occasionally, I'd get a glimmer of light bouncing off his shaved head. He smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession, as if his tactic this time around was to poison all the air in the small room until I talked.

  I figured there wasn't much reason to wait that long.

  "You don't have much faith in Bucky, do you?" I whispered.

  He exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Why do you say that?" he asked in return. "He's getting a lot of practice."

  "But not much direction. I may not know much about theater, but I know what happens when you let someone think they know what they are doing. He's got the lines down, but that doesn't mean much, does it? Not that you care, I suppose."

  "Not really," he said. "Reviewers will see it during the preview shows. By the time it actually opens, it'll be all over." He flicked his cigarette at me, and it bounced off my lap, scattering a spray of sparks. I was so tired I didn't even bother flinching. "Bucky's only experience is regional theater. He's never done Shakespeare. He's never sung anything more demanding than a chorus role in The Music Man. But he has the right combination of arrogance and stupidity that will allow him to think he can pull this off."

  "Whereas your combination of arrogance and stupidity means you can actually do it?"

  "I've done Shakespeare. I've done Hamlet. And not in some backwater Canadian production like Keanu Reeves. I played MacBeth in Los Angeles, Caesar in Boston, Shylock in Virginia."

  "They why the con? Why bother when you've obviously got some talent."

  Franklin grimaced slightly. "There's no money in talent."

  "Back to that Keanu thing again?"

  Speaking of arrogance and stupidity, here I was smart-talking the one guy who might have it in him to actually hurt me. I suppose some part of me thought riling him up was a clever plan.

  Franklin shrugged as he dug into a coat pocket for his tobacco pouch. He was playing it cool, but I could tell that I was getting on his nerves.

  All I needed to do was figure out how to capitalize on this before I crossed the line and he started torturing me again.

  "Who wrote the musical?" I asked, buying some time while I tried to rub enough brain cells together to start a mental fire. "The only thing I saw was a copyright notice by someone named Dread Caspian, which isn't a very good pseudonym. Did you write it?"

  Franklin shook his head as he grabbed a large pinch of tobacco and dropped it in the center of a cigarette paper. "Dunno. Who cares really?"

  "It just landed in your lap?" I asked.

  "Not my department," he said. He rolled the cigarette back and forth between his fingers. "I'm just the talent."

  I wondered if that meant there was someone else involved. A producer-type like me. Someone who had gotten them started. "I was just curious," I said.

  "I guess it gives you something to do while you're down here," he said. He raised the cigarette to his mouth and ran his tongue along the paper, and then rolled it a final time between his fingers. "Are you bored yet?" he asked. "Of being curious?"

  I licked my lips carefully. "I suppose I should be thinking about something else, shouldn't I?"

  He nodded as he flicked open his lighter and lit his cigarette. I flinched slightly when I heard the crackling sound of the tobacco lighting up, remembering the hot touch against my earlobe. He puffed once or twice, watching me through a haze of smoke, and afte
r he snapped his lighter shut and put it away, he blew a lazy smoke ring. "‘How long a time lies in one little word!'" he said, evidently quoting one of Shakespeare's historical plays. My brain couldn't keep them straight at this point. "‘Four lagging winters and four wanton springs end in a word; such is the breath of kings.'"

  It was only money, I thought. It wasn't like I couldn't get more. If not from Mrs. C, then from somewhere—there were other ways. Not entirely legal ways, but I could raise the capital myself if I needed to. I could even pay Mrs. C back, if it came down to it. In which case, was the money worth dying over?

  Was that my price? One million dollars.

  There was a bustle of voices from the next room then, a rattling cacophony as if a Greek Chorus had been infected mid-prologue with Tourette's Syndrome. Someone bumped into the storeroom door, fumbling with the doorknob.

  Franklin hurried toward the door, the expression on his face tight and grim. This wasn't part of the plan, I realized. He reached the door as it opened, and Henrik rushed in.

  "We've got a problem," Henrik said. "A really serious problem."

  Franklin pushed Henrik back toward the door. "Not here," he growled. "Not where he can hear us."

  Henrik backed up against the door, which clicked shut behind him. "No," he said, fumbling for the lock behind his back. "This may be our only chance."

  "What are you talking about?" Franklin snapped.

  The door secured, Henrik fumbled with something in his pocket. He raised his hand, some of his elegant grace coming back, and proudly displayed what he had brought with him. As if he were an advertising model, showing off the latest fashion.

  Except what he had in his hand was an old German Luger.

  "We stay here. He's our hostage."

  Franklin glared at the gun in Henrik's hand. "Is it the cops?" he asked, his voice low.

  "Worse," Henrik said. He pushed past Franklin and glided over to me, the gun pointing right at my face. "It's friends of his."

  "What are you talking about?" Franklin demanded. "He doesn't have any friends."

  "He does," Henrik said. "I've seen them. They're looking for him."

  "This isn't the time, Henrik. This isn't the time to lose your cool." Franklin gestured at me. "He was about to tell me the code. We were almost there. Are you out of your fucking mind?"

  "We should have left, Franklin. We should have been satisfied. And now? It's all falling apart."

  "Nothing's falling apart, Henrik. Nothing's going to happen." Franklin's voice was calm and soothing, like he was trying to coax a wild dog to let go of his sneaker.

  It didn't work on Henrik. "There are reindeer out there!" he shouted. He started waving the gun around, causing Franklin to duck. I wanted to duck, but all the ropes were still holding me to the chair. "They're looking for Rosewood, and they're very angry."

  "Reindeer don't do anger," Franklin said. "Listen to yourself. You're talking stupid animals with antlers. They're just horses. They're—"

  "They're not horses," I croaked, interrupting him. "They're a species of deer."

  They both stared at me.

  "Horses are domesticated," I explained. "Reindeer aren't. That's the first difference. The second—"

  "I don't give a shit whether they're domesticated or not," Franklin snapped. "They've got four legs and they—they don't talk. They don't do anger. They don't come looking for people. They're just fucking animals."

  "These ones do," Henrik said.

  "Do what?" Franklin said. His face was getting flushed, and the color was rising all the way to the top of his shaved head.

  "Talk," Henrik said. "I heard them."

  "There are no reindeer," Franklin said, his voice becoming calm again. "You're just imagining it. We're really close here. I just need a few more minutes with Rosewood. Okay? Can you hold it together for a few more minutes?" He held out his hand. "Give me the gun. We'll go outside and talk. This'll all be over soon."

  There was a glint in his eye that I didn't like. Franklin had done dinner theater. There wasn't going to be any talking.

  Henrik wasn't fooled either. "Stay away from me," he said, pointing the gun at Franklin. The tip of the barrel wiggled slightly, but otherwise the pistol was steady.

  Something banged against the closed door, rattling it in its frame, and Henrik flinched. The gun went off, noisy in the small room, and Franklin was shoved up against the wall. He clutched at his left shoulder, blood running over his fingers.

  "Oh," Henrik said. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear." He lowered the gun and appeared to be on the verge of tears. "Oh, Franklin. I'm sorry. This isn't—I didn't mean to—"

  Howling, Franklin launched himself from the wall, his bloody hand reaching for Henrik and the gun. Henrik started to raise the gun again, but Franklin slammed into him, and they went to the floor. Something hit the door again, but neither man paid it any attention. They kicked and clawed at one another, rolling back and forth on the ground. Even though I had the best seat in the house, I couldn't tell who was winning.

  The two men bumped into me, and I tried kicking, but the ropes around my legs didn't provide much range of movement. Henrik reared up, his hand still on the gun, and Franklin followed, clawing at the choreographer's arm. They slammed into me, and I squeaked as they knocked my chair over. My shoulder hurt as I hit the floor, but I managed to keep my head from smacking the concrete.

  The gun went off again, and I froze. They were behind me now, and I held my breath for a second, waiting to feel something. Waiting to find out if the bullet had hit me.

  The door cracked, a large splinter of wood breaking off and falling to the floor.

  I heard someone moving behind me, and I tried to scoot myself toward the half-broken door. Someone grabbed the back of the chair, halting my incremental progress. I looked over my shoulder, and saw the face of the musical's leading man. There was blood on his face and neck. "The code," he coughed. "Give me the access code."

  With a lot of effort, he hauled himself around the chair and slumped against me, his head nearly in my lap. I couldn't squirm away; his weight was holding me in place. He had the pistol, and the tip of the barrel dragged across the floor as he struggled to lift the gun. I could only watch as his arm quivered with the effort.

  "Thou . . ." His teeth were clenched, and his head was shining with sweat. "Thou are slain," he said. The pistol barrel lifted slowly. "No medicine in the world can do thee good—"

  The door shattered, and a tall, antlered figure bounded into the room. The reindeer was lanky and had a splotch of white fur on his flank that looked like the imprint of a hand.

  Franklin raised his head, gasped half a word, and then collapsed. The pistol slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor.

  The reindeer skipped to a stop and bent his head to look sideways at me. "Wow," he said, examining the room. "What happened here?"

  "Too much Shakespeare," I said, and only then did I pass out.

  December 9th

  I woke in a hospital bed. My eyes felt like they had been stapled shut, ripped open, and then stapled shut again. My mouth was moist for a change, and there was a distinct tang of iron riding on the back of my tongue. I lifted my head carefully and wiggled my toes. The heavy sheet moved slightly at the other end of the bed.

  I was in a private room. There was a half-open door on my left that led to a closet-sized bathroom, another door just behind, and on my right there was a small desk tucked under a large set of curtains. On the desk were several vases filled with colorful flowers. I couldn't tell if there were any cards.

  There was an IV in my arm, and a cuff on my finger was keeping track of all the important stuff going on inside: oxygen content, blood flow, heart rate. I squinted up at the plastic bag hanging at the head of the bed. They were dripping me full of saline and nutrients.

  I was alive then, which is more than could be said of some.

  That had been Ring at the end, just before I passed out. I hadn't recognized him at first. He
looked like a real reindeer now, but he still had the scar from Satan's burn. The fur had grown back, but it was white.

  Little Ring. All grown up.

  That made me sad for some reason, and when the door opened a few minutes later and a nurse came in, I hastily swiped at my cheeks.

  "Good morning," she said cheerfully. "How are we doing today?" She bustled about the bed, checking the drip, fluffing the pillow behind my head, retucking the blanket in at the foot of the bed. She was a little whirlwind of efficiency. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "Do you need to make a bowel movement?"

  The proximity of those two questions confounded me for a minute, and she hurried on with her litany of questions. "Do you have dry mouth? How's your bladder feeling? Would you like oatmeal or fruit? Or both? Are you feeling nauseated?"

  I thought about just saying yes once and letting her figure out which question I was answering.

  "How about some sunlight?" she continued. "Shall we see how beautiful a day it is going to be?" She bustled over to the curtains and yanked on the string. The curtains opened in a rush, flooding the room with sunlight, and the nurse shrieked.

  At first, I thought that she—like me—had had her eyeballs scorched out by the sudden light, but when I could see again, I realized she was reacting to the pair of reindeer parked on the narrow ledge outside the window. Their fur was matted and wet, and they did not look amused. The one wearing the black librarian glasses tapped on the widow with a hoof.

  "Open the window," he said, his voice muted by the glass.

  The nurse was half on the bed. Half on my leg too. "Wh—wh—what are they?" she stuttered.

  "Reindeer," I said. I extricated my leg and sat up. I was a little light-headed, and the sunlight was giving me a headache, but everything else seemed to be working correctly. The IV tried to tangle itself around me as I got out of bed, but I managed to escape its coil. My knees were a little wobbly, and I was slightly out of breath by the time I figured out how the window latch worked.

  It was so nice to breath cold winter air.