Darkness loomed over me like a suffocating blanket, and my throat burned with each new inhalation. The light from the house and garage was long gone, swallowed up by the night, buried beneath the horizon of a rolling hill. Even the plastic light-up Santa at the chimney was vanquished from existence. There was only Mr. Nettle, myself, and the trees.
I ducked under the wooden perimeter fence and into the trees at Reindeer Games. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
“Where are you?” the sheriff demanded. “I’ve dispatched another deputy to your parents’ home. Are you there?”
“No.”
“Then where the hell are you?” The words were pointed and lethal.
“Hiding.” The word lifted from my lips in a cloud of white steam that I was certain Mr. Nettle could see.
“Where’s Phillip?” he asked next.
“Who?”
“My deputy. The one protecting you,” he demanded.
A tiny sob escaped my trembling lips. What now? Speak? Don’t speak? Have a conversation while Mr. Nettle sneaked up and bashed my head with a wooden stake? “I’m in the trees at the farm,” I said as softly as possible. “Phillip is down.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Mr. Nettle taunted. His hot breath blew over my burning neck.
I tensed. A fiery battle of fight or flight warred inside me. I couldn’t outrun him. Not tonight.
A heavy hand landed on my shoulder, and I spun on instinct. Even before the decision was fully formed, I swung the stolen nightstick at the man behind me. My weapon connected with a sickening thud, and Mr. Nettle cursed. I dropped my phone in favor of a two-handed grip on the club and lashed out a second and third time until he released his grip on me with a shout.
My feet were in motion, carrying me over the snow, leaving a trail anyone could follow. I ignored my body’s protests—the pain in my ankle and the burn of the air.
I jetted through the field, guided only by the moon and an array of distant twinkle lights on rows of Reindeer Games’ trees. A renewed sense of hope rushed through me. I could do this. A killer had had his hand on me, and I’d earned my freedom. All I needed now was somewhere to hide until the sheriff or his deputy arrived.
A lump formed in my throat. My phone was gone. My already sprinting heart beat unfathomably faster. I’d lost my lifeline, but the sheriff knew I was in the trees at the farm.
I moved again, vanishing between rows of towering evergreens, begging the sting in my hands and feet not to mean what it could—frostbite. I slowed to rest my foot as the trees grew more and more sparse. “Why’d you do it?” I listened for signs of Mr. Nettle’s location in the dark.
“Do what?” his voice echoed through the trees, carried on the groaning wind.
I pressed my back against a mature fir and struggled for another painful breath. The adrenaline had run its course, and my body temperature was plummeting. My swollen ankle had become stiff and uncooperative. My fingers and toes had gone from burning to numb.
“Why’d you kill Mrs. Fenwick?” I pushed. “Was it because she caught you stealing the town’s grant money?”
I needed a better plan than waiting for help to arrive. Hypothermia was a frighteningly real possibility, and I didn’t have long before the effects took hold. The wet and freezing material of my pajamas seared my skin. It was too dark to see my fingertips, but they were undoubtedly the color of the snow. By now, blood had likely stopped trying to save my extremities in favor of keeping my organs pumping.
I swallowed a brick of ice and tried again to make Mr. Nettle talk. “When she sent the grant application to the Historical Preservation Society for the covered bridge, she learned that they’d already given money to Mistletoe this year, didn’t she? Did she come to you and ask why the HPS said they’d sent a check but you’d told her the grant had been denied? How many other grants have you stolen? How much do you owe this town?”
Projecting my voice stole the last of my energy, and soon my shaking knees gave out. I dropped into a squat against the tree and prayed to live.
There was movement in the row of evergreens opposite me. A shadow stretched and morphed under power of the moon and stars until there was no doubt—it was my hunter.
I mashed my chattering teeth together and scanned the greater picture. A squirt of adrenaline pushed me back into motion. I needed a new place to hide.
A familiar tree caught my eye as I slipped away, moving toward it as quickly as possible. The tree in my sights was separate from the others and possibly too good to be true. I strained to acclimate myself for confirmation. Had I really come so far on adrenaline and fear? All the way to the property’s edge in pajamas and slippered feet? I struggled to blink frozen eyelids, hoping it wasn’t a mirage.
Salvation was less than one hundred feet away. The sinkhole I’d leapt over for fun as a youth would save my life tonight. All I had to do was summon the energy to make it that far, through drifting snow, past the man who wanted to kill me, and jump.
My eyes warmed and blurred as I hobbled toward the pit. What if I couldn’t make the jump? What if I fell in and Mr. Nettle followed me down? He’d surely kill me like he had Mrs. Fenwick. What if I fell and he didn’t? He’d walk away, collect his car, and leave. I’d be long dead before anyone found me, frozen among the discarded limbs, and Mr. Nettle would get away with murder. Again.
He stepped through the trees, as if on cue, a crazed look on his haggard face.
I didn’t wait for him to speak.
I flew in the direction of the pit, yipping with every step. My twisted ankle felt suspiciously broken, but that wouldn’t matter if I failed.
“Stop running!” Mr. Nettle screamed. His fingertips brushed my elbow as I stayed just beyond his reach.
I raced toward the finish line. I ran for justice. For my town. For my folks. I couldn’t die on the land that had provided and sheltered us all these years. I wouldn’t.
The pit came closer with each new stride. I counted silently and with unmatched determination. Three . . . two . . . one . . .
I pushed off the ground with everything I had, leaping into the air, deftly clearing the pit, now camouflaged in darkness and snowfall. My victory was stunted as I bounced on my chest against the frozen earth. Wind expelled from my lungs with a deep whoosh.
Behind me, Mr. Nettle’s footfalls were replaced by a terrifying scream and a thunderous crack. He’d run directly into the pit.
My lids fell shut as the weight of my predator disappeared, and I dreamed immediately of my name on Sheriff Gray’s lips.
“I dropped the phone,” I whispered to the sky. What I heard wasn’t him. It was delirium. It was my body giving up and the cold sleep of death come to give me rest.
My hazy thoughts drifted to a brighter day, when Mom and Dad waved to me from their front porch rocking chairs and the sun warmed my cheeks. I relaxed into the memory until the light began to blind me.
I grimaced and shook my head as the beam seared my eyelids. Sounds of machinery and engines pulled me away from my family and back into the frozen night.
“BP sixty-two over forty,” an unfamiliar voice informed no one in particular. “Low but stable. Pulse is weak, but she’s got one. I count that as a win.”
My limbs sprawled and dangled a moment before being tucked against my sides. Something hugged my head and neck.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Sheriff Gray’s voice thundered like the Great and Mighty Oz. Whoever had crossed him in that disposition was unlucky to be sure.
I attempted to turn my head toward the sound but couldn’t.
“You’re going to be just fine,” the same unfamiliar voice promised.
Multiple flashes of light burst beyond my frozen lids. Was someone taking pictures?
“Griggs”—Sheriff Gray’s voice was sharp and deep—“get the hell away from here. What are you doing? Following me?”
A woman with round cheeks and a knitted cap smiled down at me. The little green-and-red yarn ball on top of her head b
obbed along with each of her steps.
“Where are we going?” My gummy tongue stuck to the roof of mouth, distorting my speech.
“You’re on a gurney, and we’re taking you to Mistletoe General for a few tests and a nice warm bed.”
“She going to be okay?” Sheriff Gray’s voice arrived nearby.
I wiggled on my little bed, straining to see his face.
“We’ll know soon,” the smiling woman said.
I had so many questions, but when I opened my mouth, a sob came out. Reality exploded in my heart and head like a hand grenade. I wasn’t with my parents on a warm summer day. I was cold and wet; I was nearly murdered by a middle-aged accountant.
“I’ve got her.” The sheriff’s face swam into view as I peeled my frozen eyes open. He bumped the lady out of his way and took control of my gurney. “How you doing, White?”
My vision blurred, and a hot streak swiveled over my cheek then landed in my ear. “I was hoping to run into you.”
Sheriff Gray produced a handkerchief and wiped the wetness away. “You scared me,” he said. His honest green eyes burned with emotion. “When I promised I’d keep you safe, I had no idea you were going to make it so hard.”
“Phillip,” I croaked, suddenly recalling the name of his deputy.
“He’s okay. He called from your parents’ landline thirty seconds after you hung up on me.”
“I lost my phone.”
The rosy-cheeked woman popped back into view. “That’s what she was saying when I got here. Mean anything to you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She needs another phone.” Red light passed over his face as we stopped behind the ambulance, and he released the silver bedrail. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most.”
Together, he and the woman hoisted my gurney into a well-lit ambulance, where a waiting EMT snapped an oxygen mask over my face and a glowing clip onto the end on my finger. I lifted it slowly like a doped-up E.T.
Sheriff Gray climbed inside and took a seat beside the woman preparing an IV. He leaned his face to mine and bound my hands in his. “You’re going to be feeling lots better as soon as that medicine kicks in.”
I fought heavy eyelids as the needle punctured my skin. “Don’t go,” I mumbled.
“I won’t.”
The vehicle rocked to life, and we began a slow roll away from my worst nightmare.
Sheriff Gray lowered his lips to my forehead and left a kiss behind. “You did good tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I woke in my old bed the next morning, rested but not. The hospital had discharged me after several hours of observation, and whatever they’d put in my IV had helped me sleep, but the night was filled with horrid dreams. I levered my stiff body off the bed and used the steam and massage of a hot shower to loosen my kinks. Recalling the looks on my parents’ faces when they’d arrived at the hospital was almost as dreadful as the reason I was there. I’d fallen asleep vowing not to worry them when I woke.
I took my time getting ready, sorting through my muddled thoughts and list of lingering questions while choosing something appropriate but comfortable to wear. A soft white cashmere sweater and my favorite black leggings seemed to fit the bill. It was Christmas after all, and people tended to stop by throughout the day for a taste of Mom’s custom cocoas and snickerdoodles. I was thankful in advance for the inevitable distractions. It hurt to bat my eyes and put on lip gloss. Fooling my mother into thinking I was less than miserable would take intense theater training that I didn’t have.
What I did have was another Christmas in my favorite place with the two people I loved most in the world, three if Cookie came to visit. I worked at my vanity for a long while, until even I couldn’t tell how shaken I still was by last night’s adventure.
Emotion clogged my throat, but I cleared it away. Mr. Nettle was a criminal. He’d badgered me, chased me, and threatened me, but in the end, he’d lost. Justice had prevailed. Karma had broken both his legs, and he’d spend his holiday in the infirmary ward at the county jail. I suspected his trial wouldn’t be much more fun. Good luck finding a sympathetic jury of his peers in this town. Those were my happy thoughts. They helped me deal with the other ones. The ones where I hated him for what he’d done to Mrs. Fenwick and for what he’d tried to do to me. I rolled my shoulders back and forced the anger away before I ruined my makeup. There’d be time to wallow later. Besides, letting him haunt me would be like letting him win. And I’d won.
Once there was nothing more to be done about my appearance, it was time I showed my parents that I was okay. I set my good foot on the top step and puzzled. The murmur of voices had risen into a low, happy roar. I took the stairs carefully, ever mindful of my fractured ankle and now booted foot. The crowd came into view as scents of cinnamon and coffee lifted up the staircase to my nose. Every face I’d ever met in Mistletoe seemed to be gathered in our living room, standing around the tree and in front of the fire, along narrow tables that had been erected at the front window and loaded with food in the mismatched dishes of a dozen homes.
I reached the landing before the crowd of faces turned to me.
Mom beetled into view. “There you are.” She waved me down while jogging up to meet me. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.” She offered her arm for balance and pressed warm lips to my cheek, surely leaving a print of puckered red lips behind.
Slow applause began at the center of the room and rolled outward in waves as Mom helped me into the midst of our neighbors and friends.
I sat on the couch, and Mom brought me a plate. Dad delivered the coffee, and Cookie fielded the trickle of questions about my recent ordeal for more than an hour. It was the closest thing Mistletoe had ever had to a press conference. Fortunately for me, the press seemed to be elsewhere.
I gave all the details I had freely, baring myself in an attempt to put worried minds at ease and dissuade gossip from springing up later. Better to issue the facts now than sort a thousand lies in the future. I didn’t want Mr. Nettle to become an urban legend. He didn’t deserve the honor of being remembered. It was bad enough he’d made history as Mistletoe’s first killer in forty years. I wouldn’t allow him to become infamous.
Mom sat beside me and stroked hair off my shoulders. “I still can’t believe Mr. Nettle did something like this. I should’ve seen him for what he truly was.”
A thief and a killer.
“Why would you have known?” I asked. “He was your accountant.” The obvious fell onto my head like a sack of bricks. “I’ll bet he’s the reason you and Dad never had anything extra. He probably took as much as he could without drawing your suspicions.”
“We think so,” she said. “Your father’s hiring someone to review the Reindeer Games financial records and an attorney to insist on restitution if we find Mr. Nettle was stealing from us too. That will all take time. Right now, I’m just glad you’re okay.”
I tipped my head against her shoulder.
The doorbell rang just after lunchtime, and the nearest guest answered it for us, as had been the custom all morning.
Caroline darted inside, carrying stacks of bakery boxes and knocking snow from her boots. “Merry Christmas!”
Cookie went to help with the boxes.
“There’s more on the porch,” Caroline said, nodding over her shoulder. “You could grab those.”
Cookie opened the door and stared out. “That’s enough cupcakes to feed an army.”
“Four hundred dollars’ worth.” Caroline passed her boxes into Mom’s waiting arms, then came to hug my neck. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you losing that big deposit because of some idiot’s decision to break off your engagement five minutes before the wedding.”
I glanced around the room, wondering who had heard her and who had already known.
Dozens of disgusted faces nodded in agreement.
Caroline peeled her coat and gloves off with a smile. “I used your deposit and the supplies we’d already p
urchased for the cake and made cupcakes instead. There are some sugar cookies and cutouts in there too, but those aren’t as good as your mom’s.”
“Thank you.” I hugged her back. “You’re a good friend.”
She rolled her eyes. “If that were true, you’d think I’d have more friends.”
“Me and you, then.” I smiled. “A team of two.”
Her face lit and her eyes twinkled. “I like that.”
Mom crammed the hot dishes together on the buffet tables, making room for Caroline’s bakery boxes, which were pushed into the free space and pried open immediately.
Glistening white cupcakes traveled through the room, passed hand to hand.
Caroline brought a little pink one to me. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said with a bright smile.
“Me too.”
“Me three,” Cookie added, rubbing frosting from the tip of her nose. Her eyes crossed as she worked. “Hopefully you’ve had such an exciting time this week, you’ll think of staying awhile.”
I scanned the room for my parents and found them laughing together near the fire. “I’m not staying for the excitement,” I said, “but maybe I could see how the jewelry-making business goes.”
Caroline settled beside me on the couch with a second cupcake. “To revived friendships and young female entrepreneurs.” She tapped her treat against mine and curved an arm around my shoulders.
“Hear, hear!” I smiled, then ate my cupcake with shameless enthusiasm.
It was late in the afternoon when Sheriff Gray arrived. I’d secretly hoped he’d make an appearance, and the sight of him stole my breath. A bad habit that seemed to be getting worse instead of better.
He made his way to me, hat in hand, and lowered into the place where Caroline had spent an hour regaling me with the funniest moments from her all-nighter of cupcake baking.
“Holly,” he said slowly.
“Sheriff Gray.”
His cheek kicked up in the boyish way I loved.
“Why do you call me that?”
I flicked my gaze to the place where his nametag hung on his uniform. “It’s your name.”
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 24