She abruptly turned to the store entrance, and he felt his heart sink.
“Christmas Eve,” he heard her say as the automatic doors slid open and she went inside.
“Christmas Eve,” he repeated, not exactly sure how he’d fulfill his promise.
But he was filled with a new determination nonetheless.
* * *
—
The skinny guy with the malformed arm cackled hysterically as he leaned back in the red vinyl booth.
“Oh, you kill me, Flynn,” Dougie said. “And by Christmas Eve?” He cackled some more before breaking into a nasty cough.
“I hope you fucking choke,” Flynn said, pulling his beer mug closer.
“I’m sorry,” Dougie said, sitting up straight again. “I can’t help but laugh at the stupid shit you get yourself into.”
Flynn said nothing as he lifted his mug and drank.
“Seriously,” Dougie said, reaching with his clawlike appendage to pull his own drink closer. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
“I want to see my kid again.”
“Yeah, that’s all well and good,” Dougie began. He used his good arm to lift the mug to his mouth and took a long drink before smacking his lips and continuing. “But do you seriously think anybody’s gonna hire you? You’re less than a week out of county, for Christ’s sake.”
Flynn remained silent, not wanting to acknowledge that his annoying friend was probably right.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Dougie snapped his fingers. “Maybe Santa’s hiring,” he said before bursting into hysterical laughter again.
“You’re a fucking riot,” Flynn said. He took one last gulp of his beer and slammed the mug down on the tabletop. “I’m getting out of here.”
Dougie managed to get control of himself as Flynn began to rise. “Wait up,” he said. “I actually do got an idea.”
Flynn stopped and glared.
“I’ll fuck up your other arm if you’re dicking me around,” he threatened.
“Nice,” Dougie said. “Seriously, sit down, I want to run something by you.”
Flynn was torn. Dougie’s ideas seldom amounted to anything good, but he was desperate, so he sat.
“What?”
Dougie stared at him as he drank more of his beer.
“What?” Flynn repeated, louder this time.
“I’m not sure I want to tell you now.” Dougie shrugged. “That shit you said about my arm…”
“I’m gone,” Flynn said, ready to leave this time for sure.
“All right, all right!” Dougie looked around and leaned forward. “I’ve been hearing about this place—building on Stewart Street, business below, apartment above.”
Flynn didn’t like where this was going, but listened anyway.
“Business was a junk shop, antiques and shit. Owner croaked, guy’s old lady didn’t want to keep it open, shop shut down. Word on the street is that there was some pretty valuable things in the shop, and that wifey took ’em upstairs for safekeeping.”
“Hey, man, I just got out of jail,” Flynn said, picking up his mug and downing the warm dregs, more spit than beer. “I promised I’m not goin’ back.”
“And that would only be the case if you got caught,” Dougie said. “How hard would something like this be for someone with your talents? You can do shit like this in your sleep.”
Flynn shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, I’m done with that life.”
“Okay,” Dougie said, sitting back. “Just lettin’ you know what’s out there.”
“You’re not gonna convince me,” Flynn said, shaking his head. He knew he should just get up and leave, but he remained.
“Not even trying,” Dougie said. “You told me no and I respect that.” He motioned for the bartender with his spindly arm. “Just let me know how it works out for you.”
* * *
—
Flynn sat on the bus, heading back to the fleabag hotel he was staying in. He’d lost track of how many applications he’d completed that day without even a glimmer of hope that anyone would call him back.
And now he found it particularly cruel that a water main break caused the bus to detour down Stewart Street.
“Shit,” he cursed beneath his breath, realizing where he was and trying to keep his eyes on the filthy floor of the bus. But he couldn’t do it. He lifted his head and allowed himself to gaze through the window as the bus slowly made its way down the traffic-clogged street.
There it was. The old sign hanging over the doorway said REED’S ANTIQUES, and his eyes focused on it as if he’d been searching for it his whole life. He saw the old building in all its glory—the antique store with its metal shutters drawn, and the dim lights from the two-story apartment above. The apartment where treasure was kept.
Treasure. What am I, a fucking pirate now?
The bus continued on its way, but Flynn could still see the building in his mind’s eye. He tried to push it from his head, to turn his thoughts to his current plan of action, but the sad realization that he didn’t have one dragged him back to the building and its potential.
Flynn pulled the cell phone he’d bought for ten bucks from a guy outside the liquor store from his pocket and checked it for messages. One message from one of the places that he’d filled out an application with would have been more than enough—something…anything…a sign that things would turn out all right.
But there weren’t any messages, and he felt his resolve begin to crumble.
* * *
—
The weather had turned nasty, a mixture of snow and rain, and Flynn was soaked through to the skin as he entered Gower’s Pub. He tried to convince himself that he was only stopping for a cup of coffee—even though he knew that Dougie was almost always there at this time of day.
He stood in the warmth of the doorway, suppressing a shudder that ran up his spine to the base of his neck. A few stools at the bar were occupied, but most of the tables were empty.
Most.
Dougie sat by himself at a table in the back, playing with his phone.
For a brief second, Flynn thought he would just turn around and head back out into the storm, but then Dougie lifted his head and saw him. A huge smile spread across his face as he waved Flynn over with his clawlike hand.
“Can I get a coffee?” Flynn said to the bartender as he passed on his way to the table.
“Flynn!” Dougie said, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. “How goes the job search?”
There was a smirk on his friend’s face that Flynn wanted to slap away.
“It goes,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite Dougie and sitting down.
The bartender brought his coffee and placed it in front of him.
“Thanks, Phil,” Flynn said. He reached out and grabbed a few sugars from the cup in the center of the table, tore them open and poured them into his coffee as Dougie watched. “Bus took a detour down Stewart today,” he said, slowly stirring his drink.
“You don’t say. How fortuitous.”
Flynn set the spoon down. “Fortuitous,” he repeated. “Do you even know what that word means?”
“I know what it means for you,” Dougie said with a smile that reminded Flynn of a shark he’d seen on television the other night.
Flynn silently drank his coffee. It was old, burnt, and scalding hot, but he drank it anyway, knowing he deserved far worse for being so fucking weak.
“What do I need to know?” he finally asked.
* * *
—
Flynn stood across the street from the shuttered antique shop, feeling as though he’d already been there.
Dougie was an observer. He could look at something and see all its weaknesses and strengths and the opportunities it could provide. That and his conn
ections made him especially good at casing joints for break-in. He took great pride in his work, as well as a 20 percent cut of the profit. His information was that good.
Flynn already knew there was no security system, that the old woman lived alone with no children, no pets, nothing that would prevent him from getting in, taking what he could find, and getting out. He wasn’t too keen on the fact that the woman would be home, but sadly that was his specialty.
The Creeper was what they used to call him, given his unique ability to get inside a place where the owners were home and pick it clean with no one the wiser.
Flynn considered his options once more as he stood in the cold rain on the dark, deserted street. He should forget the whole thing and go back to his room at the flophouse. But that meant facing another day of filling out pointless applications and enduring the suspicious looks of managers, all the while no closer to being able to spend time with his daughter.
His choice was obvious.
Without further hesitation, he crossed the street and walked quickly down a narrow alley to the back of the building where a set of old, wooden stairs led to the apartment above the store. Flynn glanced up and down the alley, looking for signs of life but saw none.
Dougie’s info was good. It always was.
Flynn felt himself settle into the familiar Creeper mode. Cautiously, he made his way up the steps, careful to stay on the sides where they were strongest to minimize creaks and groans. The lock on the door at the top was simple, and it was less than a minute before Flynn had it picked and entered the warmth of an open foyer, facing an ornate wooden staircase. He stood silently, listening to the sounds of the building around him. There was a steady hissing from an old steam radiator against the wall, but no other sounds.
Maybe this was his lucky night, and the old lady had gone Christmas shopping.
It was when he placed his sneakered foot upon the first step that the music began to play.
Said the night wind to the little lamb…
The song wafted down from a room at the top of the staircase.
…do you see what I see?
Flynn froze, a surge of panic coursing through him.
“Hello?” called a woman’s voice over the holiday song. “Are you down there?”
He held his breath, foot still upon the step. He thought he heard another voice, high-pitched like a child’s but unintelligible.
“Please come up. I…I need your help. Please.”
Flynn’s every instinct screamed for him to get out of there, something wasn’t right—but still he remained.
“You came to steal from me, I know,” the woman called out. “Everyone in the neighborhood knows about the poor old lady who lives alone above the antique shop and the valuables she’s hidden.” She laughed strangely then. “Valuables,” she repeated.
Flynn felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the weather and immediately went for the door. He was done. This was his last chance, and he couldn’t let it go.
“You can have anything that you want,” her voice drifted down the stairs accompanied by the strains of “Frosty the Snowman.”
His hand was already on the doorknob, about to turn it.
“Anything,” she said again. “Just please help me.”
Flynn turned back toward the stairs again. That tiny voice chattered excitedly before the old woman shushed it quiet.
“I know you’re still there,” she called to Flynn. “I promise, anything you want, but you must come up and help me.”
This was not at all how Flynn had imagined the job turning out—people never parted willingly with their belongings, but if she really needed help, maybe he could still come out on top.
“Okay,” he called up the staircase. “I’m coming up.”
He began to climb the stairs, no longer concerned by their squeaks of protest under his weight. He thought he heard the old woman sob beneath the strains of Handel’s “Messiah,” and utter words that could have been “thank God.”
He reached the top of the stairs and stood, searching the darkness of the hallway for signs of the woman. “Hello?”
“I’m in here.”
Flynn turned toward the sound of her voice and saw a faint glow coming from underneath a partially closed door. Cautiously he pushed the door open and stepped into the dim light of a sitting room of sorts. An old record cabinet sat against the wall to his left, Handel’s most famous composition sounding slightly static as it blared from the cloth-covered speakers. Directly across from him a large, well-worn sofa and an overstuffed wingback chair sat before an ornate fireplace where a burning log cast the only light in the room. A large curio cabinet stood against the wall to his right. Through its dusty glass doors, he could just about see a shelf filled with fancy baby dolls, all staring out at him. They were kind of creepy, but he bet his daughter would love them. Every surface in the room seemed to be cluttered with objects of value—tin toys, crystal vases, a vinyl folder that was likely full of old coins. The place was a gold mine, and Flynn wondered how he was going to carry it all out.
He heard a scuffling from the corner behind the door and stepped further into the room to see an old woman turn from a small table beside an artificial Christmas tree. She was slightly hunched with thick gray hair wild upon her head. She wore a heavy cardigan sweater, slightly threadbare at the elbows. She shuffled toward him holding a plate of cookies, then stopped abruptly, her eyes, large behind the thick lenses of her glasses, wide with surprise.
“You’re not who I thought,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice, either from fear or the advancement of years. Flynn couldn’t quite tell.
“Excuse me?” he said, feeling a sudden urge to flee.
“You’re not the man I was seeing from my window,” she said, moving past him and placing the cookies on a stack of newspapers atop the coffee table between the sofa and the chair. She turned back to Flynn, pulling her sweater tighter around her as if cold. “Skinny man, something wrong with his arm.”
Dougie, Flynn thought, watching the woman closely, wondering if he should just cut his losses and run.
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter,” she said with a sad smile. “You’re here…”
With those words, she picked up the plate of cookies and thrust it toward him with one hand, holding the front of her sweater tight about her throat with the other. “Cookie? I made them myself.”
They were Christmas cookies shaped like gingerbread men, candy canes, and Christmas trees.
Flynn reached for a Christmas tree as the plate began to shake in the woman’s hand. She seemed suddenly unsteady.
“Do you…do you need to sit down?” Flynn asked, taking the plate from her.
“I should, yes,” she said, sinking down into the wingback chair. “You’re welcome to sit.” The old woman nodded toward the couch as she began to stroke her left arm and shoulder.
Flynn placed the plate of cookies back on the table and turned to the sofa. He had to move piles of magazines and crossword puzzle books to clear a space.
“My husband would never ask for help,” she then said, staring into the fire. “Even when he began to realize what it was doing to him.”
“Was he sick?” Flynn asked. He could feel sweat beginning to drip down his back but wasn’t sure if it was from the heat in the room or the strangeness of the situation.
The old woman turned her eyes to him. “Eventually,” she said, continuing to stroke her left side as if attempting to massage away pain.
He ate his Christmas cookie as the woman silently watched him, the “Messiah” still playing behind her. The cookie was actually quite good, but he was becoming more and more unnerved.
“So,” he said, finally wiping the crumbs from his fingers and leaning forward on the couch. “You said that you needed help with something.”
The
old woman smiled dreamily. “If only someone had asked that question when Philip was still alive,” she said. “That was my husband’s name—Philip.”
Flynn nodded. “And he wasn’t big on asking for help.”
“No, not like this. He said it was his responsibility; he had found it and it was his burden. He gave it all he could,” she said wistfully. “But just couldn’t give it anymore.” She looked as though she was going to cry.
“I’m sure he did,” Flynn said, trying to sound sympathetic although seriously beginning to wonder if the so-called riches in the room were worth the oddness of the situation.
“He didn’t know what was going to happen when he passed,” she said. “He thought it would just leave…maybe go back to where he’d found it.”
Flynn cocked his head, totally confused now. “Where he found it? I don’t…”
“Philip was a picker. He loved the lifestyle,” she said. “I didn’t care for it, so I’d stay here to run the business while he drove off somewhere to search through old dusty barns and abandoned houses. The things he’d come back with.” The woman chuckled, shaking her head.
But her amusement was short-lived as she rubbed at her chest and shoulder. It must have been a trick of the light from the fireplace, but Flynn could have sworn that something moved beneath her thick sweater.
“I thought it was the ugliest thing he’d ever brought home,” she continued. “And he brought back some real whoppers, let me tell you. ‘Betty, you just don’t know what’s good,’ he’d say to me.
“We’d laugh every time he said it, and then he’d take whatever it was down to the store to sell.”
Betty paused, her expression pained.
“But he didn’t bring that downstairs,” she said. “He kept it with him…said it was special. Found it in an old orphanage in Kentucky. He didn’t find out until later that forty children died in a fire at that orphanage.”
Her hand stopped massaging her arm and this time Flynn was sure he saw something move beneath her sweater.
“Betty, what…?” he began.
Hark! the Herald Angels Scream Page 6