by Jaym Gates
Nick studied her intently. “The NSA has been trying to get their hands on that list for years, Elmore. What makes you think I’m going to use it for you?”
Buddy had about had enough of tea and cookies and intrigue. “Because it’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for the children.”
This time, it was Nick who set his teacup down. He closed his eyes. His brow furrowed between them.
“The list. It’s real?” Agent Munin said calmly.
Her comment made no sense to Buddy. “You came here tonight in search of something you didn’t know existed?”
“It hasn’t just been years that the NSA’s been hunting this list,” she said to Buddy. “It’s been generations. So long that it’s become a legend of a legend, an afterthought written up in one agent’s job description that no one has ever had to act on. Until now.”
Buddy folded his arms across his chest. “Exactly how long have you been following me?”
Agent Munin sighed. “The mail is always monitored, as is the chatter. When I was notified of the red flags, I didn’t even know why at first. Even then, I certainly didn’t believe…” Her voice trailed away and she turned back to Nick. “Well, I didn’t.”
Nick put a large hand over the delicate ones still clasped upon her knees. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m glad it was you.” He stood and turned to Buddy, defeated. “I’ll get you the list,” he said. “And may God help us all.”
He disappeared behind the only door that remained closed in the house — the bedroom? — and rummaged about a bit. He returned shortly with a small wooden box. In the box were some tools, a few paintbrushes, a couple of polishing cloths, and a ghost of Christmas past.
Buddy gazed down at the articulated minstrel puppet, still dressed in his motley attire. “Hello there, Jeff.”
Jeff did not answer.
This wasn’t strange, as Buddy couldn’t recall Jeff speaking more than a time or two. The strangeness was that there was no list present in the box, no paper of any sort to be found. Perhaps Jeff knew where the list was?
Nick handed the teacups to Agent Munin before pushing the books off the table between them and setting up shop. He gave Jeff a thorough sanding and dusting before attacking his eyes and ears with the detailing tool. It was amazing to watch him work again, those large hands deftly manipulating the tools with the skill of a master.
When Nick was satisfied with the shape of Jeff’s head, hands, and feet, he brushed the puppet again and then began to paint. The arches of his eyebrows were both comical and sinister. His cheeks became rosy and his eyes were bright, and as soon as his mouth was painted, it opened up into a large yawn.
“It’s been too long, old friend,” Jeff said to Nick.
Buddy and Agent Munin both sucked in a breath. Buddy remembered Jeff speaking before, but he didn’t remember these deep, resonant tones. This was not the voice from Christmases past, it was the voice of Christmas Future.
Despite the warmth of the room, a shiver went down Buddy’s spine.
“Azrael,” Agent Munin said quietly as she came to the same conclusion.
Death, be he angel or ghost or god, had even more names than Nick. But here, in this place that smelled of sugar and tea and wood smoke, he was simply … Jeff.
“I need to access the list,” Nick said to the puppet.
“Are you sure?” Jeff replied. “You know how difficult it was to step away the last time. You might not be able to do it again.”
Nick’s eyes met Buddy’s. The twinkle had gone, leaving behind sadness and exhaustion. “It’s for the children.”
The spirit within Jeff did not seem to have full control of the puppet, but he did manage to tilt his head up slightly. His face was still half red and half blue, a worn tint that Nick had not taken the time to repaint. “I spy an elf and a daughter of Piet, but neither look like children to me.” He winked at Buddy in recognition. Buddy gave Jeff a small wave in return.
“There are children in trouble,” Nick clarified.
“There have always been children in trouble,” Jeff countered. “And there always will be. You retired and left them to fend for themselves, to live their own lives on their own terms, as you intended to live yours. This is what you decided all those years ago. This is what you told me to remind you of if the day ever came when you took it upon yourself to ask me what you’re asking me now.”
Nick hung his head. “I know.”
“So I will ask you again and you must answer me truly. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There was no boom in Nick’s voice, no joyous chuckling undertone. The word fell from his lips like a wet snowball. Buddy could imagine invisible chains shackling themselves to Nick, the familiar burden settling itself into place. Buddy felt terrible. But if anything happened to those children, he’d feel even worse.
Agent Munin bowed her head as if in silent prayer, and then lifted a hand to her ear. “The storm is almost upon us,” she said, at which point Buddy realized she was relaying the information she’d just received in her earpiece. “Just give us a direction and we can get the rest of the details on the way.”
“Just so we’re clear,” said Buddy, “I’m still the lead on this case.”
“Absolutely,” Agent Munin replied without hesitation. “The NSA has no interest in your investigation. But we are happy to be of service.”
Just as long as they got their grubby little hands on Nick and his list when all was said and done, of course. Buddy nodded, affirming both the spoken and unspoken words between them.
Meanwhile, Nick was grilling Jeff. “It would be a name on the Naughty side.”
Jeff managed to throw a hand wildly up in the air. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”
“Male,” said Buddy. “Between the ages of twenty and fifty. Has kidnapped twelve or more children and is holding them somewhere in Yellowstone.”
“That qualifies as a direction,” Agent Munin said through her teeth. “We could have been in the air already.”
“Sorry,” said Buddy.
“Bank the fires,” Nick said to Buddy. “I’ll throw some things in a sack and we can be on our way.” He grabbed an empty tin off a shelf and tossed it to Agent Munin as he started back toward the closed door. “Pack the cookies.”
She rolled her eyes, but obeyed. “Yellowstone. We’re on our way.” Buddy could tell she was speaking to the person in her ear and not to him, so he dumped the remainder of the teapot into the stove. Agent Munin stopped him on his way to the kitchen.
“You are aware of the statistics of kidnapping,” she said quietly.
“I know.” The majority of kidnapping cases ended in death.
“Even if your friend managed to intercept the letters as soon as they were mailed … we’ve far exceeded the twenty-four-hour window.”
“I considered that. But the kidnapper wants Nick’s attention. He’ll keep the children alive if only for that reason.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Nick emerged wearing a thick fur coat as white as the driven snow. Buddy thought it odd to see him without the traditional crimson jacket. His trousers were a dun camouflage and the hiking boots were tan instead of black. At least the sack was familiar. It hung limply against Nick’s back as if it held naught but a can of beans, but Buddy knew better. The entire house could have fit in there, and then some.
Nick tucked Jeff inside his belt and blew out the lamp. When he closed the door, he placed a bare hand on it, almost as if saying good-bye.
The helicopter was already spinning and humming when they exited the cabin — the wind had picked up to such a point that Buddy couldn’t tell if what was being blown into his face was natural or manufactured. Either way, his cheeks were rosy when he reached the vehicle, and his clothes were damp from head to toe. He hoped the NSA could afford a heated chopper.
“Hiya!” A tiny woman with dark ponytails who looked barely out of her teens handed Buddy three headse
ts. “Put these on!” she screamed over the whine of the main rotor. “We need to be out of here like yesterday!”
She wasn’t kidding. Almost immediately after Buddy pulled Nick into the cabin after him, a gust lifted the helicopter and blew it off the mountain. At least, that’s how it felt to Buddy. Agent Munin yelled some curse as she slammed the door shut after herself — it was lost beneath the wind and the hooting of the young pilot as she rode the storm like a bucking bronco.
Buddy felt himself turning green. The sheer effort it took not to toss those recently-consumed cookies made him break a sweat. He glanced at Nick. The NSA might take custody of him when this was over, but in the meantime, Nick was Buddy’s responsibility. Not that he needed to worry — the old man simply held onto the bar above his head and smiled nostalgically.
When they’d escaped the maelstrom and Buddy’s heart returned to a far more manageable beat, he remembered the headsets and passed them around. He had to remove his jacket’s hood so that the muffs fit properly over his ears. He heard nothing beyond the dull beat of the motor above them. Agent Munin tapped the side of her own headset and mimicked turning a switch. The fumbling fingers of his shaking hand eventually found it.
“… you hear me now?” Agent Munin was asking.
Buddy nodded, and then remembered the headset had a microphone. “Yes,” he responded.
“Sir?”
Nick nodded as well. “Yes, I can hear you.”
“Ma’am,” the pilot said to Agent Munin, “if our destination is Yellowstone, I’m going to need to plot out refuel points along the route.”
“No, you won’t,” said Nick.
“This helo only gets about 345 miles to a tank, sir,” said the pilot. “Four hundred if I push it, but these winds aren’t exactly working in our favor.”
“Trust me,” said Nick. “You won’t need to refuel.”
The pilot looked to Agent Munin, who nodded. “Yes, sir,” she replied with a grin.
“I’m afraid we don’t have a headset small enough for Jeff,” Agent Munin said into her mic. Buddy wasn’t sure if she was making a joke, but he spotted a dimple in her cheek that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Who is Jeff?” asked the pilot.
Nick removed Jeff from his belt and held the puppet out for inspection. As the pilot turned to look at him, he raised his arm limply in a salute.
“Hello there,” he said.
That terrible voice echoed as clearly and loudly through their headsets as if he’d spoken from directly inside their skulls. Instinctively, Buddy reached for the switch on his earmuff again, as if he could turn down the volume.
“Santa Muerte.” The pilot crossed herself and kissed her fingertips. “Lo siento, señor. Me llamo Lupita Flores.”
“Yo se,” said Jeff. “Encantado. The man we’re after is Dwight Griswold.”
“The governor of Nebraska?” asked Buddy. “Isn’t he dead?”
“Yes,” Jeff said confidently.
“The Dwight Griswold we’re looking for is very much alive,” said Nick. “And very angry at me.”
“I’ll say. What happened?” Judging by the way Nick clenched his hands into fists by his sides, Buddy guessed it wasn’t good.
“He wrote me a letter,” said Nick. “I didn’t answer.”
“But you retired long before Griswold would have been old enough to write you,” said Agent Munin. “Wouldn’t the post office have intercepted it and answered for you?”
“They can’t answer the ones burned in the fireplace,” Nick said flatly. “Those still find me.” Buddy couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been to ignore all those childish pleas, fewer and farther between but still unceasing after all these years.
“What did the letter say?” Lupita’s question was followed by silence in the cabin … as silent as a helicopter in the rain could be.
“He can’t tell you,” said Buddy. “It’s like doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Child-saint privilege,” said Agent Munin.
“I’m no saint,” Nick growled. “Not anymore.”
“Are the children dead?” Agent Munin blurted out the words quickly. “Forgive me,” she added. “I had to ask.”
“Their souls have not entered my purview,” Jeff said magnanimously.
“Thank you,” said Agent Munin.
“Would you like to know their names?” Nick asked softly.
Normally, discovery of the children’s names would have been a high priority. Victimology was essential when profiling such a kidnapper. Now that they had a name and a location, it didn’t matter…to the case. It still mattered to Buddy. “Yes, please.”
“Bethany Finch. Jae Saito. Lynette Boulet. Robin Keyser. Kaitlin Oh. Paravi Patel. Tien Nguyen. Diana Cabrera. Namid St. Marie. Faris Hussein. Baird Langstrom. Kwame Bello.” Nick said the names slowly, pausing reverently after each one.
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” said Lupita. “Madre de dios. All those poor children.”
“Hold on. Dwight Griswold is a white male, right?” Buddy caught Agent Munin’s eye and knew she was thinking along the same lines. Children these days had all sorts of crazy names, but to hear them paired with their proper surnames gave Buddy a whole new perspective.
“Yes,” said Nick. “Why should that matter?”
“Because it’s odd for a kidnapper to choose victims outside his own race, never mind multiple races like the list you just mentioned,” said Agent Munin.
“Do they have anything in common?” Buddy asked Nick.
“Not sure,” said Nick. “As Zahra pointed out, they are all from varying races and socio-economic backgrounds. Let me think on it some more.”
“A few of them are named after birds,” said Lupita. “Does that make a difference?”
“Similarities are usually all or nothing,” said Agent Munin.
“So he’s a collector,” Buddy surmised.
“Or he’s covering all his bases trying to get Nick’s attention,” Agent Munin countered.
“Well, he’s accomplished that,” said Nick. “I just hope we get there before another child goes missing.”
By Buddy’s estimation, they made it to the far side of Yellowstone in a little over an hour. Their arrival was accompanied by much muttering in Spanish on behalf of Lupita — she eventually cut power to her mic, but Buddy could still see her lips moving. She turned it back on when Nick tapped her on the shoulder, guiding her in for the landing.
Buddy took a deep breath as he stepped gratefully back down on terra firma. There was snow here as well, and the air was as crisp as it had been on the mountain, but he could sense the change in altitude, the subtle rise in temperature. The trees here spoke to him as they did on the mountain, but up there it was a harsher, more solitary song. Here, it was calmer, more harmonious, embracing every living element as a part of the whole. Buddy had felt small and anxious on the mountain. Here, he felt … wider, as if his lungs were somehow big enough to breathe in the sky.
Lupita cut power to the chopper so that they could talk, but she did not disembark.
“He’s holed up in a cave,” said Nick. “I can feel it. The entrance is down that way.”
“Only one entrance?” asked Agent Munin.
Nick nodded.
“One way in, one way out,” said Buddy. “There’s a possibility that this won’t end well.”
“Can you sense the children?” Agent Munin asked Nick.
Nick paused a moment, and then shook his head. “It’s all a bit fuzzy. It might be because the children are frightened. It might be because Dwight’s overwhelming nastiness is blocking everything else.”
“That’s happened before,” Jeff said from his spot in Nick’s belt.
“Either way, let’s proceed with caution,” said Buddy. He began to walk in the direction Nick had pointed, but Nick grabbed his arm.
“I’ll go first.”
“Sir,” said Agent Munin, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
>
“I go first, or you don’t find the cave entrance,” said Nick. “Take it or leave it.”
Agent Munin’s lips formed a tight line. “Fine. But you’re not going in unarmed.” She offered her service weapon to Nick, but he declined. He opened the sack and pulled out the shotgun he’d met Buddy with at the cabin. He loaded the gun, but placed no extra shells in his pockets. Satisfied, he tossed the sack back into the helicopter. “I’ll be back for that,” he called to Lupita.
“We’ll be waiting for you,” said Lupita.
Nick was right: the cave’s entrance was deceptively difficult to find. It was all but a mirage in the rocky landscape, accompanied by sparse meadow grass and little else that would have tripped Buddy’s elf-sense. He allowed Nick to lead, as promised. Nick’s brilliant white coat glowed in the darkness.
Buddy left his weapon in the holster, choosing instead to concentrate on making as little noise as possible on their approach. Behind him, Agent Munin managed to do credibly well in her own stealthy efforts. Of course, if she really was a descendent of Zwarte Piet, as Jeff had mentioned, stealth was more than likely in her blood.
Buddy’s mind raced as they moved further and further down the winding tunnel. How had Dwight Griswold found this spot in the first place? He had kidnapped these children from three different states — where was his vehicle? Assuming they found the children alive, how were they going to transport them all home? He supposed Nick could stuff them all in his sack, but that didn’t exactly seem the most comfortable way to travel. And if they managed to take Griswold alive, they’d have to see to his arrest as wel l…
While in the middle of thinking through that last idea, the tunnel opened up into a larger room lit by an old oil lamp. Buddy and Agent Munin moved to either side of Nick, flanking him, guns drawn but held low at their sides. They wanted to avoid confrontation if at all possible. There was no telling where a bullet set loose in this chamber would ricochet.
A man sat on a pillar in the middle of the room with a knife in his hands, his head bowed as if asleep. His hair was in disarray, his clothes were in tatters, and his beard looked as if it hadn’t been shaved in weeks. He smelled like he hadn’t showered in that long either. The fetid smell that reached Buddy was rank with body odor and sweat and feces. He wrinkled his nose, resisting the urge to cover it. He didn’t want to let go of his gun.