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 assume, 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, Snowball 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 hoarse 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 bitch 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 ass.
Donder and Blitzen jumped, bumping 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 hitting 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 assumed 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 assistance 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 assure 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 DVD
s 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 pass 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 assistant/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."
"You're gonna give somebody a sandwich for Christmas?"
"The sandwich is for me. I didn't have time to grab anything for lunch this morning. I'll take care of the present later."
"What kind of sandwich do you want?"
"Oh, whatever. You know me."
Bigelow leaned in to get his coffee, taking the opportunity as he did so to try for a peek down Marcy's blouse.
"I'm easy to please," he said.
Marcy stood and wrapped a coat around herself, and Bigelow headed into his office whistling "Sleigh Ride." His in-box was overflowing and the message light on his phone was blinking, but first things first. There were goodies to unwrap.
Power was always sweet, but in December it had the especially satisfying flavor of chocolate. Now! published three magazines, which meant come the holidays three different sets of vendors and publicists and freelancers tried to curry favor by showering the office with edible bribes. Bigelow saw to it that the cornucopia spilled out in his direction, giving Marcy standing orders that all large packages should be delivered to his office first. The truly choice gifts went home with him. The second tier he passed along to Crowley as part of his ongoing efforts to keep his lips locked to the publisher's posterior. The dregs—tins of stale popcorn, tacky ornaments that had shattered in transit, etc.—ended up in the staff lunchroom with a Post-It note attached.
Merry Christmas, gang! Help yourselves!
—Erik Bigelow
Today's haul seemed to be shaping up nicely. Several big boxes had already arrived via Fed Ex and UPS, and the regular mail would undoubtedly bring more. Bigelow was about to tear into the most promising package—a small but satisfyingly heavy box with the unmistakable rattle of gourmet nuts—when a brightly wrapped package caught his eye. There was a tag attached.
"For Erik," it read. "From your Secret Santa."
Bigelow rolled his eyes. Giving anonymous gifts to a randomly chosen coworker was bad enough. Why should he waste his time and money on somebody he didn't even need to kiss up to? But to make the whole thing even more aggravating, when Marcy had come by with the little red Santa hat full of names, he'd drawn out the one he wanted to see least of all: Alex Sandberg. So now he had to find cutesy presents for the man he considered the only real threat he faced at Now!.
He leaned over and looked in his trashcan. The picture he'd dumped there Friday hadn't been cleared out yet. It was a small, tacky, plastic-framed painting of cats caroling outside a snow-covered home while a Scrooge-ish basset hound glowered at them from an upstairs window. It had been a gift from the printer who handled Antiques Now!, Bigelow's least-favorite publication in the Now! stable (mostly because it drew such feeble freebies). Bigelow had been so disgusted with the lame painting, he hadn't even bothered walking it to the staff lunchroom.
But now it had its uses. Bigelow pulled the picture from the garbage can just as Marcy stepped into his office holding a brown paper bag.
"Clean this up and throw it on Sandberg's desk when he's not looking," Bigelow said.
"Hey! You're not supposed to let anybody know who you're—"
Bigelow was already rooting around in the paper bag, which he'd snatched from Marcy when she'd reached out to take the cat painting.
"What's this? Pastrami?" he asked.
"Corned beef."
He handed the bag back to her. "You know what would really be good? Roast beef. With horseradish. Ooooh, and a pickle."
Marcy opened her mouth to say something, but Bigelow managed to close it with the droopy-eyed, tight-lipped, It-Won't-Make-Any-Difference-What-You-Say-So-Why-Bother? boss look he'd mastered since his latest promotion. She turned and left without saying a thing, and Bigelow got back to the business at hand: opening presents.
He saved the one from his Secret Santa for last. The wrapping paper covering it was red with the word "HO!" in chunky white letters repeated over and over again. The gift beneath was flat and rectangular and stiff—obviously a book. Not being edible or formatted for a DVD player, it was of little interest to him. Still, free was free.
Once he'd ripped the wrapping away, he sat for a long moment, blinking down at his present, confused.
It was DON'T Steal This Book! Controlling Your Kleptomania by Dr. Avi Birnbaum.
Tuesday, December 16
Bigelow had almost forgotten about his Secret Santa when he came to work the next morning. He'd spent a few minutes wondering about the "gift"—what did it mean and who could have sent it and was it someone he could fire? But he'd had a good day after that. Crowley hadn't bothered showing up at all, which meant Bigelow didn't even have to pretend to work. Instead he'd surfed the 'net, done some Christmas shopping, caught a matinee showing of The Matrix Revolutions, hovered around the cubes cute girls worked in. Then he'd ca
lled it a day early, leaving the office with two shopping bags stuffed with plundered goodies.
Once again, Bigelow's desk was piled high with boxes when he arrived. And once again, one of them was red with "HO! HO! HO!" in white letters and a little card from his Secret Santa. This time, Bigelow opened that package first. It was another book.
Dirty Work: How White-Collar Criminals Are Destroying Corporate America.
Bigelow's balding head went instantly slick with sweat.
Was this some kind of accusation? Maybe even a blackmail attempt? All over a few measly DVDs?
Well, a few hundred DVDs, when you added up all the screeners he had piled in his bedroom closet at home. And then there were all the Christmas presents he'd appropriated.
Oh, and those little liberties he sometimes took with his expense reports. And he'd stolen someone's leftover pizza out of the fridge one day. It was covered with pepperoni and mushrooms and he just couldn't resist . . . .
No, he was being silly. Bigelow shook these disturbing thoughts out of his head as effectively as he shook off his conscience. Someone was turning this "Secret Santa" thing into a sick joke, that was all. And it was time he found out who. He walked out to Marcy's cube.
"Did you see someone sneak into my office this morning?"
Marcy smiled and shrugged. "Maybe."
"Who was it?"
Marcy shook her head. "Secret Santas are supposed to stay secret. What'd he give you, anyway?"
"Well," Bigelow said, about to spew some bile about the immature jerks they had to work with.
He stopped himself just in time. The situation was humiliating enough without having the whole office know about it.
"Just some knickknacks," he said.
"So did you have time yesterday to perform your Secret Santa duties?" Marcy asked, arching an eyebrow.
It took Bigelow a few seconds to get what she meant.
"Oh, sure," he said.
He went back to his office and came back a minute later holding a chipped mug with the words "Merlin Distribution Services—Working Newsstand Magic" printed on the side. It came from a gift set of gourmet coffee beans and chocolate-coated stir-spoons. Bigelow liked gourmet coffee beans and chocolate-coated stir spoons. Chipped mugs he could do without.
Naughty: Nine Tales of Christmas Crime Page 5