65 Proof (59 page)

Andy said, “Holy shit,” then tore ass through the hole in the wall after Scott.

Kringle took a step forward, and Weston had an urge to pee; an urge so strong he actually lifted a leg. There was no way they could defeat Santa Claus. He was a monster. He’d tear through them like tissue paper.

Kringle appraised Weston, eyeing him head to toe, and said, “Robert Weston Smith. Werewolf. You’re on my list.”

Then he looked at Irena, who’d come to Weston’s side, clutching his paw.

“Irena Reed. Werecheetah. You’re on my list too. Want to sit on Santa’s lap, little girl?”

Irena hissed at him. Kringle’s eyes fell upon David next.

“And what the hell are you? A were-onion?”

David released the dead helper. “I’m David Kessler. Werecoral.”

“David Kessler. Yes. You’re also on my list. Now who is this crazy bitch?”

Phyllis put her hands on her hips and stuck out her jaw. “Phyllis Lawanda Marisha Taleena Allenby. Am I on your stupid ass list too?”

“No.”

“No? You sure ‘bout that, fat man?”

Kringle smiled. “I checked it twice.”

Phyllis’s eyes went mean.“You saying I’m not one of them? I’m one of them. I’m one of them in my heart, you giant sack of —”

“Enough!”

Ryan stood up and walked over to Kringle.

“And who are you, little human?”

“I’m tired of running, Christopher. I’ve been running for too long.”

Kringle’s brow furrowed.

“That voice. I know that voice.”

“I had some work done. Changed my human face. But I’m sure you’ll recognize this one.”

Ryan’s body shook, and then he transformed into a werewolf. A giant werewolf, several feet taller than Weston.

Kringle took a step back, his face awash with fear.

“Bob.”

Weston watched, awestruck, as this millennia-old battle played out before him.

Kringle snarled, raising up his awful Satan Claws.

Bob bared his teeth and howled, a gut-churning cry that reverberated to the core of Weston’s very soul.

But before either of them attacked, before either of them even moved, Kris Kringle’s head rolled off his shoulders and onto the floor by Bob’s feet.

Phyllis Lawanda Marisha Taleena Allenby, scythe in hand, brought the blade down and speared the tip into Kringle’s decapitated head, holding it up so it faced her.

“Am I on your list
now
, mutha fucker?”

Bob peered down at Phyllis, his lupine jaw hanging open.

“You just killed Kris Kringle.”

“Damn easy too. Why the hell didn’t you do that five thousand years ago?”

Scott, a round green hand pressed to his wrinkled old head, stumbled back into the room.

“What happened?”

“Phyllis killed Kris Kringle,” Irena said.

“You go, girl.” Scott gave Phyllis a high-five.

“You all fought bravely.” Bob stood tall, addressing the group. “Except for the pig. For your courage, you’ll now have full control over your therianthrope powers. You can change at will, and shall retain control of your inner creatures.”

“So how do we turn back?” Irena asked.

“Concentrate.”

Scott went first, morphing back into his human form.

Weston and Irena changed while holding hands.

David’s face scrunched up, but nothing happened.

“It’s not working,” he said. “I’m still coral.”

“How about me?” Phyllis asked. “I’m the one that killed that jolly old bastard.”

“I can turn you into a werewolf, if you so desire.”

“These guys offered me that before. But I don’t want to be no wolf, or no cheetah, or no turtle, or no dumb ass coral. No offense, David.”

“None taken. I’m concentrating, but nothing’s happening.”

Phyllis folded her arms. “My inner animal is a hippopotamus. That’s what I want to be.”

Bob’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Phyllis. That’s the extent of my power. But… maybe… just maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“I don’t know if this will work, because he’s dead.”

“Just spill the beans, Lon Chaney.”

“Try sitting on Santa’s lap.”

Phyllis raised a drawn-on eyebrow. “You serious?”

“He might still have some magic left. Try it.”

Phyllis walked over to the fallen Kringle and sat on one of his massive thighs.

“Now what?”

“Make a Christmas wish, Phyllis. Make your most heartfelt Christmas wish ever.”

She closed her eyes, and her lips whispered something Weston couldn’t hear.

And then Weston felt something. Kind of like a breeze. A breeze made of Christmas magic. It swirled around the room, touching each of them, and them coming to rest on Phyllis.

But nothing happened. She didn’t morph into a hippo. She didn’t morph into anything. A minute passed, and she was still the same old Phyllis.

“I’m sorry, Phyllis.” Bob helped her up. “I wish there was something else I could do.”

A sad silence blanketed the room.

Then badboy rapper LL Cool J strutted into the basement, sans shirt. He took Phyllis’s hand, gave her a deeply passionate kiss, and cupped her butt.

“Gonna take you back to the crib and make love to you all night, girl. But first we gonna stop by the bank, get your hundred million dollars.”

LL picked her up and carried her out.

“See you guys next week,” Phyllis called after them.

“Someone push me over to Santa’s lap,” David said. “This coral wants a house in Hawaii.”

“What about all of these corpses?” Scott made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “The police are gonna have a field day.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Bob rubbed his stomach. “I didn’t have any of the donuts.”

“Little help here.” David wiggled in place.

Weston felt a tug on his hand. He stared into Irena’s eyes.

“Want to, maybe, grab some coffee?” he asked.

“No.”

Weston died a little inside. Irena’s nose twitched, showing him a brief glimpse of her inner cheetah.

“Instead of coffee, I want you to come to my place. I’ve got a leash and a king sized bed.”

God bless us, everyone,
Weston thought as they walked hand-in-hand out the door.

T
he hardest thing about killing a hitchhiker was finding one to pick up.

Donaldson could remember just ten years ago, when interstates boasted a hitcher every ten miles, and a discriminating killer could pick and choose who looked the easiest, the most fun, the juiciest. These days, cops kept the expressways clear of easy marks, and Donaldson was forced to cruise off-ramps, underpasses, and rest areas, prowl back roads, take one hour coffee breaks at oases. Recreational murder was becoming more trouble than it was worth.

He’d finally found one standing in a Cracker Barrel parking lot. The kid had been obvious, leaning against the cement ashtray near the entrance, an oversize hiking pack strapped to his back. He was approaching every patron leaving the restaurant, practicing his grin between rejections.

A ripe plum, ready to pluck.

Donaldson tucked the cell phone into his pocket and got out of the car. He didn’t even have to initiate contact. He walked in to use the bathroom and strolled out with his car keys in hand, letting them jingle a bit. The kid solicited him almost immediately.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you heading up north?”

Donaldson stopped, pretending to notice the man for the first time. He was young, maybe mid-twenties. Short, reddish hair, a few freckles on his face, mostly hidden by glasses. His clothing looked worn but of good quality. Donaldson was twice his age, and damn near twice his weight.

Donaldson rubbed his chin, which he knew softened his harsh features.

“In fact I am, son.”

The boy’s eyes lit up, but he kept a lid on his excitement. Any hitcher worth his salt knew to test the waters before sealing the deal.

“I am, too. If you’d like some company, I can chip in for gas.” He hooded his eyes and quickly added, “No funny stuff. I’m just looking for a ride. I was hoping to get to Ogden by midnight. Got family up there. My name’s Brett, by the way.”

Well played, Donaldson thought. Friendly, a little desperate, making clear this wasn’t a sexual hookup and that he had people waiting for him.

As if any of that would keep him safe.

“How do I know you’re not some psycho?” Donaldson asked. He knew that was pushing it, but he liked the irony.

“There’s a gas station across the street. I can top off the tank, pay with a credit card. All gas stations have cameras these days. Credit card is a paper trail. If anything happens to you, that would link me to your car, and I’d get caught.”

Smart kid. But not that smart.

The really smart ones don’t hitchhike.

“Won’t need gas for a few hundred miles.” Donaldson took off his Cubs baseball hat, running a hand over his gray, thinning hair. Another way to disarm the victim. No one feared grandfatherly types. “Until then, if you promise not to sing any show tunes, you got yourself a ride.”

Brett smiled, hefted his pack onto his shoulders, and followed his ride into the parking lot. Donaldson unlocked the doors and the kid loaded his pack into the backseat of Donaldson’s 2006 black Honda Accord, pausing when he saw the clear plastic covers on the front seats.

“My dog, Neil, usually rides up front with me,” Donaldson said, shrugging. “I don’t like him messing up the upholstery.”

Brett flashed skepticism until he noticed the picture taped to the dash: Donaldson and a furry dachshund.

“Sheds like crazy,” Donaldson said. “If you buy a dog, stick with short-haired breeds.”

That was apparently reassurance enough, because Brett climbed in.

Donaldson heaved himself into the driver’s seat, the car bouncing on its shocks.

“Buckle up for safety.” Donaldson resisted the urge to lick his lips, then released the brake, started the car, and pulled onto the highway.

The first ten miles were awkward. Always were. Strangers tended to stay strangers. How often did a person initiate conversation on a plane or while waiting in line? People kept to themselves. It made them feel safe.

Donaldson broke the tension by asking the standard questions. Where’d you go to school? What do you do for a living? Where you headed? When’d you start hitchhiking? Invariably, the conversation turned to him.

“So what’s your name?” Brett asked.

“Donaldson.” No point in lying. Brett wouldn’t be alive long enough to tell anyone.

“What do you do, Donaldson?”

“I’m a courier.”

Donaldson sipped from the Big Gulp container in the cup holder, taking a hit of caffeinated sugar water. He offered the cup to Brett, who shook his head. Probably worried about germs. Donaldson smiled. That should have been the least of his worries.

“So you mean you deliver packages?”

“I deliver anything. Sometimes overnight delivery isn’t fast enough, and people are willing to pay a premium to get it same day.”

“What sort of things?”

“Things people need right away. Legal documents. Car parts for repairs. A diabetic forgets his insulin, guy loses his glasses and can’t drive home without them, kid needs his cello for a recital. Or a kidney needs to get to a transplant location on time. That’s the run I’m on right now.”