The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  But he loved her.

  The sudden weight of it forced the air from his lungs. He knew it was a foolish notion, a symptom of his weakness and her power over him. But the knowledge went no further than his head. His heart and loins knew different.

  One or two of the smokers outside the theatre noticed him, this slight figure with his coat wrapped tight around him. If he stood rooted to the spot much longer, they would remember him. When they heard the news the next day, they would recall his face. Cam the Hun thought of the ten grand the job would pay and started walking.

  For a moment he considered veering right, into the theatre bar, shouldering his way through the crowd, and ordering a pint of Stella and a shot of Black Bush. Instead, he thought of his debts. And there’d be some left over to pay for a home help for his mother, even if it was only for a month or two. He headed left, towards the Queen’s house.

  His chest strained as he neared the top of the hill, his breath misting around him. He gripped the railing by her door and willed his heart to slow. Jesus, he needed to get more exercise. That would be his New Year’s resolution. Get healthy. He rang the doorbell.

  The muffled rumble of Black Sabbath’s “Supernaut” came from inside. Cam the Hun listened for movement in the hall. When none came, he hit the doorbell twice more. He watched a shadow move against the ceiling through the glass above the front door. Something obscured the point of light at the peephole. He heard a bar move aside and three locks snap open. Warm air ferried the sweet tang of cannabis and perfume out into the night.

  “Campbell Hunter,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

  She still wore her hair dyed crimson red with a black streak at her left temple. A black corset top revealed a trail from her deep cleavage, along her flat stomach, to the smooth skin above her low-cut jeans. Part of the raven tattoo was just visible above the button fly. He remembered the silken feel against his lips, the scent of her, the firmness of her body. She could afford the best work; the surgeons left little sign of her childbearing, save for the scar that cut the raven in two.

  “A year,” Cam the Hun said. “Too long.”

  She stepped back, and he crossed her threshold knowing it would be the last time. She locked the steel-backed door and lowered the bar into place. Neither bullet nor battering ram could break through. He followed her to the living room. Ozzy Osbourne wailed over Tony Iommi’s guitar. A black artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner, small skulls, crows and inverted crosses as ornaments among the red tinsel. Men and women lay about on cushions and blankets, their lids drooping over distant eyes. Spoons and foil wraps, needles and rolled-up money, papers and tobaccos, crumbs of resins and wafts of powder.

  “Good party,” Cam the Hun said, his voice raised above the music.

  “You know me,” she said as she took a bottle of Gordon’s gin and two glasses from the sideboard. “I’m the hostess with mostest. Come on.”

  As she brushed past him, sparks leaping between their bodies, Cam the Hun caught her perfume through the room’s mingled aromas. A white-hot bolt crackled from his brain down to his groin. She headed to the stairs in the hall, stopped, turned on her heel, showed him the maddening undulations of her figure. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  Cam the Hun forced one foot in front of the other and followed her up the stairs. The rhythm of her hips held him spellbound, and he tripped. She looked back over her naked shoulder and smiled down at him. He returned the smile as he thanked God the knife in his coat pocket had a folding blade. He found his feet and stayed behind her as she climbed the second flight to her bedroom on the top floor.

  The décor hadn’t changed in a year, blacks and reds, silks and satins. Suspended sheets of shimmering fabric formed a canopy over the wrought-iron bedstead. A huge mound of pillows in all shapes and sizes lay at one end. He wondered if she still had the cuffs, or the—

  Cam the Hun stamped on that thought. He had to keep his mind behind his eyes and between his ears, not let it creep down to where it could do him no good.

  “Take your coat off,” she said. She set the glasses on the dressing table and poured three fingers of neat gin into each.

  He hung his coat on her bedpost, careful not to let the knife clang against the iron. She handed him a glass. He sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip. He tried not to cough at the stinging juniper taste. He failed.

  Somewhere beneath the gin’s cloying odour and the soft sweetness of her perfume, he caught the hint of another smell. Something lower, meaner, like ripe meat. The alcohol reached his belly. He swallowed again to keep it there.

  The Queen of the Hill smiled her crooked smile and sat in the chair facing him. She hooked one leg over its arm, her jeans hinting at secrets he already knew. She took a mouthful of gin, washed it around her teeth, and hissed as it went down.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course,” she said. She winked and let a finger trace the shape of her left breast. “And not just for that.”

  Cam the Hun tried to quell the stirring in his trousers by studying the black painted floorboards. “Oh?” he said.

  “There’s trouble coming,” she said. “I’ll need your help.”

  He allowed himself a glance at her. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The Davy Pollock kind.”

  His stomach lurched. He took a deeper swig of gin, forced it down. His eyes burned.

  “He’s been spreading talk about me,” she said. “Says he wants me out of the way. Says he wants my business. Says he’ll pay good money to anyone who’ll do it for him.”

  “Is that right?” Cam the Hun said.

  “That’s right.” She let her leg drop from the arm of the chair, her heel like a gunshot on the floor, and sat forward. “But he’s got no takers. No one on that side of town wants the fight. They know I’ve too many friends.”

  He managed a laugh. “Who’d be that stupid?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  He drained the glass and coughed. His eyes streamed, and when he sniffed back the scorching tears, he got that ripe meat smell again. His stomach wanted to expel the gin, but he willed it to be quiet.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” he asked.

  She swallowed the last of her gin and said, “Him.”

  He dropped his glass. It didn’t shatter, but rolled across the floor to stop at her feet. “What?”

  “I want you to do him,” she said.

  He could only blink and open his mouth.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ve cleared it with everyone that matters. His own side have wanted shot of him for years. Davy Pollock is a piece of shit. He steals from his own neighbours, threatens old ladies and children, talks like he’s the big man when everyone knows he’s an arsewipe. You’d be doing this town a favour.”

  Cam the Hun shook his head. “I can’t,” he said.

  “Course you can.” She smiled at him. “Besides, there’s fifteen grand in it for you. And you can go back to Orangefield to see your mother. Picture it. You could have Christmas dinner with your ma tomorrow.”

  “But I’d have to—“

  “Tonight,” she said. “That’s right.”

  “But how?”

  “How? Sure, everyone knows Cam the Hun’s handy with a knife.” She drew a line across her throat with her finger. “Just like that. You won’t even have to go looking for him. I know where he’s resting his pretty wee head right this minute.”

  “No,” he said.

  She placed her glass on the floor next to his and rose to her feet, her hands gliding over her thighs, along her body, and up to her hair. Her heels click-clacked on the floorboards as she crossed to him. “Consider it my Christmas present,” she said.

  He went to stand, but she put a hand on his shoulder.<
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  “But first I’m going to give you yours,” she purred. “Do you want it?”

  “God,” he said.

  The Queen of the Hill unlaced her corset top and let it fall away.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  She pulled him to her breasts, let him take in her warmth. He kissed her there while she toyed with his hair. A minute stretched out to eternity before she pushed him back with a gentle hand on his chest. His right mind shrieked in protest as she straddled him, grinding against his body as she got into position, a knee either side of his waist. She leaned forward.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  “No,” he said, the word dying in his throat before it found his vocal cords.

  “Shush,” she said. She wiped her hand across his eyelids, sealed out the dim light. Her weight shifted and pillows tumbled around him. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her breath warmed his cheek. Lips met his, an open mouth cold and dry, coarse stubble, a tongue like ripe meat.

  Cam the Hun opened one eye and saw a milky white globe an inch from his own, a thick, dark brow above it, pale skin blotched with red.

  He screamed.

  The Queen of the Hill laughed and pushed Davy Pollock’s severed head down, rubbing the dead flesh and stubble against Cam the Hun’s face.

  Cam the Hun screamed again and threw his arms upward. The heel of his hand connected with her jaw. She tumbled backwards and spilled onto the floor. The head bounced twice and rolled to a halt at her side. She hooted and cackled as she sprawled there, her legs kicking.

  He squealed until his voice broke. He wiped his mouth and cheeks with his hands and sleeves until the chill of dead flesh was replaced by raw burning. He rolled on his side and vomited, the gin and foulness soaking her black satin sheets. He retched until his stomach felt like it had turned itself inside-out.

  All the time, her laughter tore at him, ripping his sanity away shred by shred.

  “Shut up,” he wanted to shout, but it came out a thin whine.

  “Shut up.” He managed a weak croak this time. He reached for his coat, fumbled for the pocket, found the knife. He tried to stand, couldn’t, tried again. He grabbed the iron bedpost with his left hand for balance. The blade snapped open in his right.

  Her laughter stopped, leaving only the rushing in his ears. She looked up at him, grinning, a trickle of blood running to her chin.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  She giggled.

  “What are you?” A tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a hot trail behind it.

  “I’m the Queen of the Hill.” Her tongue flicked out, smeared the blood across her lips. “I’m the goddess. I’m the death of you and any man who crosses me.”

  “No,” he said, “not me.” He raised the knife and stepped towards her.

  She reached for Davy Pollock’s head, grabbed it by the hair.

  Cam the Hun took another step and opened his mouth to roar. He held the knife high, ready to bring it down on her exposed heart.

  He saw it coming, but it was too late. Davy Pollock’s cranium shattered Cam the Hun’s nose, and he fell into feathery darkness.

  He awoke choking on his own blood and bile. He coughed and spat. A deep, searing pain radiated from beneath his eyes to encompass the entire world. The Queen of the Hill cradled his head in her lap. He went to speak, but could only gargle and sputter.

  “Shush, now,” she said.

  He tried to raise himself up, pushing with the last of his strength. She clucked and gathered him to her bosom. He stained her breasts red.

  “We could’ve been good together, you and me,” she said.

  His mouth opened and closed, but the words couldn’t force their way past the coppery warm liquid. He wanted to weep, but the pain blocked his tears.

  “You could’ve been my king,” she said. She rocked him and kissed his forehead. “This could’ve been our palace on the hill. But that’s all gone. Now there’s only this.”

  She brought the knife into his vision, the blade so bright and pretty. “Close your eyes,” she said.

  He did as he was told. Her fingers were warm and soft as she loosened his collar and pulled the fabric away from his throat.

  The cathedral bells rang out. He counted the chimes, just like he’d done as a child, listening to his mother’s old clock as he waited for Santa Claus. Twelve and it would be Christmas.

  It didn’t hurt for long.

  BLUE MEMORIES START CALLING

  by Tod Goldberg

  Tod Goldberg is the author of over a dozen books, including The House of Secrets, which he co-authored with Brad Meltzer; Gangsterland, which was a finalist for the Hammett Prize; and Living Dead Girl, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. His nonfiction, journalism, and criticism has appeared widely, including in the Los Angeles Times, Wall Street Journal, Los Angeles Review of Books, and, recently, Best American Essays. Tod is also the cohost, along with Julia Pistell and Rider Strong, of Literary Disco, one of the greatest podcasts in the history of sound. He lives in Indio, CA and directs the Low Residency MFA in Creative Writing & Writing for the Performing Arts at the University of California, Riverside.

  They disappeared during the coldest winter on record. There was no special episode of Dateline. No jogger stumbled on a human skull. Instead, it was Scotch Thompson’s bird dog Roxanne who came running down Yeach Mountain, three days before Christmas, with a human hand in her mouth. And just like that, James Klein and his family were found.

  “Damndest thing I ever seen,” Lyle, my deputy, said. “All of them stacked up like Lincoln logs. Like they were put down all gentle. Terrible, terrible thing.” We were sitting in the front seat of my cruiser sipping coffee, both of us too old to be picking at the bones of an entire family, but resigned to doing it anyway. “You think it was someone from out of town, Morris?”

  “Hard to say,” I said. “It’s been so damn long, you know, it could have been anybody.”

  James Klein, his wife, Missy, and their twin sons, Andy and Tyler, fell off the earth sometime before November 12, 1998. Fred Lipton came over that day to borrow back his wrench set but all he found was an empty house and a very hungry cat.

  “You think it was some kinda drug thing, don’t you?” Lyle said but I didn’t respond. “You always thought Klein was involved in something illegal, I know, but I thought they were good people.”

  “I don’t know what I think anymore, Lyle,” I said. A team of forensic specialists from the capital was coming down the side of the mountain and I spotted Miller Descent out in front, his hands filled with plastic evidence bags. I’d worked with Miller before and knew this wasn’t a good sign. What Roxanne the collie had stumbled onto was a shallow grave filled with four bodies, along with many of their limbs. The twins, Andy and Tyler, were missing their feet. James and Missy were without hands.

  Miller motioned me out of the cruiser. “Lotta shit up there,” he said. Miller was a tall man, his face sharp and angular, with long green eyes. He had a look about him that said he couldn’t be shocked anymore; that the world was too sour of a place for him. “Like some kinda damned ritual took place. Animal bones are mixed up in that grave, I think. Need to get an anthropologist up here to be sure, which is gonna be hard with the holidays, but it looks like dog bones mostly. Maybe a cat or two. Snow pack kept those bodies pretty fresh.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “What’s the Medical Examiner say?”

  Miller screwed his face up into a knot, his nose almost even with his eyes. “Can I be honest with you, Sheriff Drew?”

  “Sure, Miller.”

  “Your ME about threw up when she saw all them bodies,” he said. “You know, I was in Vietnam so this doesn’t mean so much to me. I’ve seen things that’ll make your skin run, but she just, well, I think she was a little bothered by the whole thing. You might want to
have them bodies cut up by some more patient people upstate.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  Miller smiled then and scratched at something on his neck. “Anyway,” he said. “You still playing softball in that beer league?”

  I never knew how to handle Miller Descent. He could be holding a human head in one hand and a Coors in the other and it wouldn’t faze him.

  “Not this year,” I said.

  “Too bad,” he said and then he shuffled his way back up Yeach.

  I didn’t get home that night until well past 10 o’clock. I brewed myself a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table looking over notes I’d written when the Kleins first disappeared, plus the new photos shot up on the mountain. Since my second wife, Margaret, died, I’d taken to staying up late at night; I’d read or watch TV or go over old cases, anything to keep me from crawling into that lonely bed. The holidays, I barely slept. I’d sit in the kitchen, remembering the smell of pork roast, the kind with raisons and cranberries, that Margaret used to cook on Christmas Eve. Or I’d think about how we used to wake up early on Christmas morning and unwrap presents, Margaret always getting me things I didn’t know I wanted—one year, that was a kite, and every day after work for six months, I’d come home and fly it, like I was six. Or how she cried at the Christmas cards I made for her, every year. I used to carve them out of wood, so it would take me a few months to do it, but I found it relaxing, and it was better than getting her a sweater or something she’d leave behind on a plane. She’d see the plank of wood and she’d just tilt her head back and start sobbing, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, always ruining her make-up. “This is so silly,” she’d say, “I’m a grown woman.”

  But that night, my trouble was not with the memory of a woman who I loved for the last thirty years of my life, or my first wife, Katherine, whose own death at twenty-four still haunted me, but for a family I had barely known.