Towzer took a deep breath, rubbing his hands together in a curious washing motion, his own nerves completely unraveled. He looked down, lips trembling as he forced the bad news out between them: “It’s the candy canes.”
“What about them?” B.Z. took another gulp of beer.
Towzer glanced up at him, squirming. “This Patch guy . . .”
“Uh-huh,” B.Z. said, going restlessly to the refrigerator for another beer. It always took Towzer forever to get to the point; especially when the point was an unpleasant one.
“He told me he keeps that secret ingredient of his in cold storage because it comes from the North Pole.”
“Uh-huh.” B.Z. moved back to the table with his new can of beer.
“So when he started manufacturing the candy canes”—Towzer stared at the ceiling as a change from his feet—“it’s a very powerful mixture, you know—”
“Uh-huh,” B.Z. grunted again.
“So I just assumed I should refrigerate them, too.”
B.Z. glanced up at him, his strained patience snapping. “Darn it, man, tell your story! Don’t keep giving me these short sentences and making me go ‘uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,’ like some kind of a moron.” He sat back, glaring at Towzer, waiting expectantly.
And in her hiding place, crouched behind the closed doors of the dumbwaiter, Cornelia waited, too, straining to make out Towzer’s next few crucial words. Picking up Joe’s empty juice glass, which she had somehow managed to hold on to in spite of everything, she pressed it against the wall to let her hear better.
“I had to move one of the batches of candy canes to another part of the factory,” Towzer went on at last, still wringing his hands. “I left one box next to a radiator in the lab.”
“And?” B.Z. bellowed.
Towzer grimaced. “There’s no more lab!”
B.Z. choked on his beer, sputtering and coughing as if a noose had suddenly tightened around his neck. And on the far side of the kitchen, Cornelia swallowed her own gasp of horror as she peered out through the crack she had opened between the dumbwaiter doors, silently witnessing everything that happened.
“The candy canes exploded!” Towzer cried, waving his hands, verging on hysteria as the horrible secret he had been holding inside him for hours burst out of him at last. “They react to extreme heat and turn volatile!” He thought of the innocent children who could be hurt or even killed by overheated candy canes . . . he thought of their outraged parents, and lawsuits, and spending the rest of his life in prison. “We’ve got to stop this!”
B.Z. glared at him with just the expression Towzer had feared—and expected—to see. “Stop? Are you insane?” B.Z. growled. “Millions of dollars are pouring in every day, most of them in cash. Cash, man! Small, unmarked bills!” He rubbed the invisible bills between his thumb and forefinger.
Towzer held up his hands in useless protest. “B.Z., this stuff can kill people!” he whimpered.
B.Z. sneered. “Are you going soft on me?”
Towzer stared speechlessly at B.Z.’s face, which seemed to his distracted mind to expand until it filled the room, the way B.Z. himself dominated Towzer, body and soul.
“Look, you idiot,” B.Z. went on, thinking furiously, “who else knows about this?” There had to be some way to get around this nasty little complication . . .
“Nobody,” Towzer answered, “but—”
“What about Patch?” B.Z. snapped, looking up at him again.
“He was asleep on the other side of the building,” Towzer said hastily. “He didn’t hear anything.”
B.Z. nodded in satisfaction. That was one problem he didn’t have to worry about, at least. “Good. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell anybody!”
Cornelia cracked open the dumbwaiter doors another inch, biting her lip.
“But B.Z.,” Towzer whined, sweating profusely now, “these are children we’re talking about.”
B.Z. leered at him, his voice a parody of pious appreciation as he said, “Yes, and who adores them better than I?” He raised his own hands to his chest. “These industrious little boys and girls saving up their nickles and dimes to get the magic candy cane I promised.” His mocking façade fell away, and he snarled, “They’ll get what they paid for. If these people are so reckless as to have radiators in their homes—”
“Reckless!” Towzer exclaimed in honest disbelief.
B.Z. grinned at him, the smile stretching his face until he resembled Jaws. “Towzer, how does Brazil sound to you?”
Towzer looked at him blankly.
B.Z. took another swig of beer and began to stroll out of the kitchen, heading back to his study as unconcernedly as if there were suddenly no problem at all. Towzer followed after him, as nonplussed and uncomprehending as a loyal family dog.
Cornelia pushed open the dumbwaiter doors as they disappeared from the room, and crept out into the kitchen, listening to their voices trail away down the hall.
“Sandy beaches,” B.Z. said expansively, “tropical breezes, big rum drinks with pineapple in ’em, señoritas in string bikinis”—he glanced back at Towzer—“and, oh yes, no extradition proceedings.”
“You mean—?” Towzer gasped, comprehending B.Z.’s plan, and the fact that he was included in it, in the same astonished moment. Tears of pathetic gratitude welled in his eyes.
“You and me, Eric.” B.Z. put a hand around his chief designer’s shoulders, filled with good fellowship as he realized how simple the solution to all their problems really was. “We’ll take the cash and let the elf face the music.” He chuckled as the two men drifted companionably into his study, not bothering to close the door.
Cornelia, seizing her opportunity, tiptoed down the hall past the half-open door and crept silently back up the stairs to her bedroom.
Patch lay in his bed in the empty B.Z. Toy Company’s factory, enjoying the peace and quiet of the silent night, totally unaware that it was only the calm before a terrible storm. He had converted the rumble seat of the retired Patchmobile into a cozy elf-sized minibed, complete with a down mattress and comforter like the ones he so fondly remembered from his old home in the stable.
His eyes began to grow heavy with the complexities of the computer-robotics manual he had been studying (while he still had easy access to such things); yawning, he reached up at last to switch off his reading lamp. Then he pulled the rumble seat cover over his head, and settled down for the night in the cozy shell of darkness.
As Patch drifted into dreamland, B.Z.’s long black limousine pulled up before the factory like a cruising shark. Grizzard hauled Joe, battered, dazed, and half-frozen, out of its trunk and stuffed a gag into his mouth, tying it firmly in place. Then he dragged the sick, shivering boy into the cavernous darkness of the factory building. As he passed the Patchmobile, his utterly helpless captive firmly in his grasp, he heard what sounded like faint snoring; he glanced at the car in vague curiosity. Patch, sound asleep within it, heard nothing at all.
Grizzard dragged Joe down the black, echoing stairwell into the subbasement where, unknown to him, Patch had his secret store of magic dust hidden. Unconcerned, Grizzard dropped Joe’s limp body roughly onto the floor. Joe lay without struggling on the cold, dank concrete while Grizzard bound his feet together. Joe whimpered silently, completely overwhelmed by his captor’s brutal strength and the terrifying helplessness of his situation. The armor of his tough streetwise manner had been torn away, and he was only a ten-year-old boy again, a ten-year-old boy who believed with horrifying certainty that he was not going to get much older. Glistening unshed tears rose in his eyes, filling them until he could barely see.
Grizzard pulled out another length of rope and bound Joe’s hands to a water pipe, completing his imprisonment. “Listen, kid,” he rasped, “if you wanna die on me while I’m gone, be my guest.” He laughed hoarsely and started up the stairs again without a backward glance. The tears in Joe’s eyes overflowed as he watched Grizzard abandon him all alone in this freezing, empty cellar. He
slumped against the clammy wall, sobbing brokenly, as Grizzard’s footsteps faded into silence, utter silence.
Waking to a new day, Cornelia leaped from her bed. She had lain awake for hours last night, thinking about all she had heard downstairs, and worrying about Joe. At last, knowing that she could do nothing more until morning without her uncle growing suspicious, she had fallen into an exhausted slumber. Now, with the new day’s sunlight bright beyond her window, she knew exactly what she must do. She ran across the bedroom to her writing desk, and took out pen and paper. She sat down and began to scribble the words she had composed last night as quickly as her hand would form letters.
To: Santa Claus
North Pole
EMERGENCY. OPEN IMMEDIATELY!
She pushed aside the finished envelope and reached for her notepaper, whispering each word to herself as she began the most important letter she had ever written, making certain every word was clear:
Dear Santa,
You’ve got to help, right away. Joe has been taken prisoner by a very bad man. I’m sorry to say he’s a relation of mine, sort of. I’m scared he will hurt Joe, and—
Her head came up in sudden fright as her bedroom door was flung open. Miss Tucker stood there, her step-uncle glowering in the background. Cornelia started guiltily, covering her letter with her hands, but fortunately Miss Tucker did not seem to notice.
“Cornelia!” Miss Tucker said sharply. “What are you doing? You’re ten minutes late for breakfast.”
Cornelia nodded mutely and turned away from them, hiding her actions as she crammed the half-finished letter into its envelope. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she murmured, getting up from her chair. With seeming eagerness, she ran to the door and out into the hall before anyone could become curious enough to check on what she had been doing; she carefully closed her bedroom door tightly behind her.
The letter lay where she had left it on the desk in the quiet room, and for several moments nothing more happened. But then, as if the room itself were sighing, a gentle breeze began to stir the air. The breeze cupped the letter in its invisible hands, lifting it gently from the tabletop and carrying it toward the fireplace. In an eye-blink the letter had disappeared up the chimney.
Eighteen
In the stables of the elves’ village, in what had once been Patch’s home and was still home to the reindeer, Boog and Honka waited with worried faces. Vout removed two large, gracefully curling reindeer thermometers from the mouths of Comet and Cupid, and read them. “Just what I thought,” he murmured, frowning. He looked up again, his concern turning to sympathy as the two miserable-looking, red-eyed animals sneezed loudly, almost in unison, where they lay. They had come down with the flu. What next? Vout thought. It almost seemed as if the general air of unhappiness around the village was becoming physical. The reindeer had never had a sick day in their lives while Patch had been here to tend them. He sighed, shaking his head, and gave the other elves instructions for administering medicine and making sure the sick reindeer got enough fluids. Then he went to tell Santa. Even though Santa Claus was not himself these days, Vout was sure he would want to come and visit the sick animals.
Meanwhile Santa Claus was wandering alone through the now-empty toy tunnel, his footsteps echoing, his lantern casting eerie, lonely shadows on the bare shelves and walls. Standing alone in the scene of his former happiness, the place that had always symbolized everything he believed in, he found it sadly fitting to find the hall so empty. Sighing heavily, he turned and trudged back toward the high doors at the tunnel entrance. He still had to see Dooley today; his responsibilities refused to go away, no matter how he wished they would.
He reached Dooley’s office at last. The chief elf tactfully made no comment about his lateness. Santa sat down and began to thumb half-heartedly through the ledgers that Dooley set before him. A small fire burned in the fireplace at his back, the hearth being as empty of letters at this time of year as the toy tunnel was empty of toys.
“I think we ought to provide the first shipments of pinewood as early as April this time so we don’t run short,” Dooley said. “Don’t you, Santa?”
Santa nodded mechanically, giving the question none of his former quick attention or careful thought.
Dooley glanced away again as a sound like fluttering bird wings caught his attention. He looked instinctively toward the fireplace, started in surprise as he actually saw a letter drop down the chimney and sweep past the flames to land on the hearth.
“What’s this?” Dooley murmured curiously.
Santa Claus followed his glance. “Looks like a letter,” he said without much interest.
“In January?” Dooley raised his bushy eyebrows. “A bit early for next Christmas, isn’t it?”
Santa sighed at this new complication. “Maybe it got lost in the mail. You know the Post Office these days . . .” All he could think of was yet another child who would be disappointed in him. He got slowly to his feet, and went to the hearth to pick it up. He stared at the curious message written on the envelope: EMERGENCY! OPEN IMMEDIATELY! “Familiar handwriting,” he murmured.
Sitting down again, he tore the envelope open with practiced efficiency, and pulled out the letter. His eyes widened as he read it, and he leaped to his feet. Dooley stared at him in astonishment. Santa strode across the room, galvanized with energy. “It’s Joe!” he cried. “Hitch up the reindeer!”
Dooley’s mouth flapped; for once he was quite speechless. He had no idea of who “Joe” was, not to mention what was going on here. “But it’s only two weeks since they’ve been out,” he gasped at last.
“Sir—” Boog, Honka, and Vout burst into the office before Santa could reply, adding to Dooley’s already considerable confusion.
Santa Claus grinned at them. “Just the elves I wanted to see,” he said briskly. “Hitch up the team. We’re flying out at 0900 hours.”
The elves gaped at him, as Dooley was still doing. “But that’s what we came to tell you,” Boog protested. “It’s Comet and Cupid—”
Santa hesitated, seeing their worried expressions. “What about them?” he asked.
“They’ve got the flu,” Honka said.
Santa frowned, stroking his beard and pondering. “Hmm, what a bad break,” he muttered, deeply distressed. He couldn’t take them out on a winter night in that condition; they’d have pneumonia in no time . . . But Joe was in serious danger. Joe needed him. He looked up again, his decision made. “Well, I’ll have to make do with six of ’em, then,” he said. “Feed them! Hitch them up! Joe needs me!” He strode out of the room like a general heading out to rouse his troops, his eyes bright and alive, his soul-deep lethargy gone as if it had never existed.
Everything was made ready in record time, as both man and reindeer prepared for unexpected action. Anya, still wearing her yellow-striped nightshirt and cap (when Claus couldn’t sleep, neither could she), was stunned by the transformation that had come over her husband. It sent her own spirits soaring to see her beloved Claus acting like himself again. In fact, she had not seen him so bold and determined, his eyes flashing so brightly, for centuries. She had almost forgotten that look, in all these long years of peace and happiness. And as she watched him hurry away toward the tunnel and his waiting reindeer, she suddenly thought of something else she had forgotten for years. Rushing into their bedroom, she rummaged through a trunk for the one thing she had kept from their former life, through all these countless years. Finding it at last, she hurried after him, catching up with him as he reached the toy tunnel, which was empty now except for his ready sleigh. “Wait!” she cried.
Claus looked back at her; he had already reached his sleigh, which had only six reindeer hitched to its traces this time. “I can’t wait!” he shouted, waiting. “What is it?”
She ran up to his side, breathless, and thrust out the thing she carried. “Here,” she said, “you’ll need this.”
He took the offered item from her hand, and stared at it. It was
a tiny, ancient bottle of schnapps. He blinked in disbelief. “How long have you had this?” he asked wonderingly, looking up at her.
“Since the tenth century.” Anya smiled, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. “I was saving it for a special occasion.”
Claus grinned and tucked the bottle into his pocket. They kissed briefly but fondly, as Claus embraced her with the passionate urgency of a soldier leaving his family to fight the battle of his life. Then she turned with a last smile, one that begged him to come back home safely, and hurried away to find Dooley and his telescope.
Santa Claus strode forward along the length of the ancient but perfectly preserved sleigh to face his reindeer. Putting his hands on his hips like a coach before the kickoff, like a general exhorting his troops, he began to speak to the waiting animals. “Boys,” he said with quiet intensity, “I know it’s only a few weeks since Christmas. I know you’re still beat to your hooves. I know you’re looking forward to a year’s rest and relaxation, and believe me, nobody deserves it more. Nobody!” He leaned forward, clenching his mittened fists, meeting one pair of weary reindeer eyes and then another as he cried with heartfelt concern, “But boys, we’ve got ourselves one heck of a problem here. Our little friend Joe is in trouble. Big trouble.” He swept his hand across the dark, frigid sky, pointing south. “If we don’t help him . . .” His face turned grim and his eyes darkened as he imagined what might happen. The reindeer pricked their ears in sudden interest and concern at his expression. “I don’t even like to think of what could happen,” he murmured.
Santa shook his head; he took a deep breath, and his voice rose again, filling the echoing toy tunnel with the sweeping, irresistible power of a rising tide. “Now I know we’re two men short today, but this time you’ve got to fly like the wind!” He lifted his hand. “Can you do it for me? Can you do it for little Joe? Sure you can!”
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