In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (15 page)

“Thank you. Miss Mavis made it for me. I
picked out the pattern and the fabric myself.”

“It’s very pretty.”

“Are you a deputy too? You don’t look like
one.”

“No, Merrie, I’m not,” Constance answered.
“But I’m a kind of police officer. I work for the FBI. Do you know
what that is?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “My daddy used to
watch it on TV, but it’s not on anymore.”

Constance was actually familiar with the old
show, even if it was somewhat before her time. “Did you watch it
too?”

“Sometimes. Do you have a badge?”

Constance nodded. “Yes. Would you like to see
it?”

“May I?”

Mandalay withdrew her badge case and opened
it with a practiced flip. Merrie inched closer and peered carefully
at the credentials. “Cool...” she muttered. After a moment she
looked up and smiled. “Do you have a gun too?”

“Yes, but I can’t really show it to you. It’s
only for emergencies.”

Merrie nodded. “Where are you from, Miss
Constance?”

“Right now, I live in Saint Louis.”

“Saint Louis! Have you ever been to the
Gateway Arch?”

“Yes, I have. Where I work downtown isn’t
very far from it, as a matter of fact.”

“Did you ever go up inside?”

“Yes.”

“Is it cool?”

“Yes it is. You get to look out the windows
and see everybody running around like ants down below.”

“You’re so lucky. I’ve only seen pictures,”
Merrie offered. “Daddy said he would take me to see it for real
someday. Maybe even this summer.”

Constance glanced over at Sheriff Carmichael
and shot him a questioning look by way of furrowing her brow. In
response he gave her a barely perceptible shake of his head.
Focusing back on the childlike woman, she said, “That sounds like
it will be fun. They have a theater underneath where they show a
movie about how they built it. Make sure you see that, it’s really
interesting.”

“So, Merrie,” the sheriff spoke up. “Would
you mind if we came in and visited with you for a little bit?”

“That would be fun,” she told him, stepping
back so they could enter. “Do you like The Captain and Tennille,
Miss Constance?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied as she followed the
sheriff into the room. In truth, she wasn’t really sure if she did
or not. If the earlier noise was any indication, however, she was
probably leaning toward not. But there was really no percentage in
saying as much.

“Me too,” Merrie said. “And I
really
like KISS, but Sister Conran from school says they play Satan’s
music.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but I will
say they do look a little scary.”

“I don’t think so. I think they look really
cool. How about Supertramp? Do you like them?”

“Definitely,” Constance agreed. Finally, that
was some classic rock she could get behind.

Beyond the door, the room looked much like
any average ten-year-old girl’s bedroom—provided one stepped back
in time thirty-five years. Stuffed animals were piled on the bed,
and what appeared to have once been a small stack of teen idol
magazines were haphazardly spilled across the floor nearby. There
was even a pinup page of a teen heartthrob from one of the
publications taped to the wall. It was faded and had definitely
seen better days, but it was still recognizable. All together the
tableau formed a solid, visual indicator that Merrie Callahan’s
mind was forever stuck in that tween wasteland between childhood
and puberty. Not only that, it was frozen at its own arbitrary
moment in time, much like the town of Hulis itself—yet another
oddity to be added to a growing list of things that were perplexing
about this case.

In the corner of the room was the source of
the earlier music, and it became readily apparent why the quality
had been so lacking. A black vinyl disk that showed visible
scratches, even at a distance, was spinning on the turntable of an
old, all-in-one stereo system. With the volume turned low, now only
a tinny background noise issued from the rectangular speakers
sitting on either side of the unit. And even it was almost
overwhelmed by the hissing sound of the stylus scraping in the worn
grooves of the record album.

“Pink or purple?” Merrie questioned without
warning.

“Pink or purple what?” Constance asked,
shooting another questioning glance at Sheriff Carmichael, who
simply nodded.

Merrie repeated the question in more detail.
“Do you like pink or purple?”

Mandalay shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”

“Pick one,” Merrie insisted.

“That’s hard... Okay. Pink. Why?”

“You’ll see.” Merrie scurried over to a chest
of drawers and rooted through a clear plastic box that was resting
on top. Momentarily, she returned with a small bottle in her hand
that she was shaking vigorously as she seated herself on the edge
of the bed. “Come here. I’ll do your nails.”

Constance glanced at her hand. Long nails
were one of the fashion accessories she
didn’t
cultivate.
She kept them trimmed short, otherwise they didn’t get along very
well with the trigger guard on the .40 caliber Sig Sauer that was
riding on her hip. She silently debated for a second, then stepped
over and draped her coat across the footboard of the bed, then took
a seat next to Merrie and held out her right hand.

“I like your shoes,” Merrie said as she
started brushing pearlescent pink lacquer onto Mandalay’s
nails.

“Thanks,” Constance replied. “I just bought
them.”

“I’ll get new shoes soon,” Merrie said. “I
always do for Christmas. They won’t be fancy like yours. They’ll be
just like these.” She kicked her leg out and pointed her toe to
display her footwear.

Constance glanced down. The shoes in question
were black Mary Janes with a silver buckle. The patent leather
showed scuffs and crinkles from age and daily use. Merrie was
wearing white knee socks with her dress, but at this angle
Constance couldn’t help noticing the old burn scars marring her
bare legs just above her knee. They were faded with time, but still
obvious as they marched up her thighs and disappeared behind the
hem of her dress. She remembered what Sheriff Carmichael had said
about Colson and the cigarette burns on the little girl’s body,
then felt terribly sick to her stomach. For the scars to still be
this visible this many years later, the original burns had to have
been horrific.

“When I get new shoes, they’re really just
for school and church,” Merrie explained as she continued laying on
the nail polish. “But since it’s Christmas, Mom will let me wear
them to dress up for a while. But then I’ll have to put them away.
I had another pair, but I lost one of them.”

Constance took the opening and gingerly
asked, “You lost a shoe? Did you look under your bed?”

“No,” Merrie answered, unfazed. “That’s not
where I lost it.”

“Where then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I just lost it,” she answered succinctly
and gave a quick shrug as she shook her head. In the next breath
she changed the subject. “Okay, I’m finished with this hand. Give
me your other one, but don’t touch anything until they dry or
you’ll mess them up. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Constance switched hands, splaying out her
fingers and inspecting the fresh manicure. Merrie had done a good
job. Of course, the color didn’t really go with her attire, not to
mention that it was definitely a disco era shade.

“I do manicures for my sister Becca,” Merrie
announced.

“That sounds like fun. What’s her favorite
color?”

“Pink. Like you, Miss Constance,” she
replied, then frowned and cocked her head to the side as she
continued to paint the polish onto Mandalay’s nails. “But Becca’s
not talking to me right now.”

“Why is that, Merrie?”

She answered in a matter-of-fact voice,
“She’s mad because I pushed her.”

“Why would you push your sister?”

“To protect her.”

“From what?”

Instead of answering the question directly,
Merrie replied, “I worry about Becca.”

“Why?” Constance probed.

“Because she still believes in Santa
Claus.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not,” she replied, rolling her
eyes. “Santa Claus is something grownups tell little kids to keep
them from being scared.”

“Being scared of what, Merrie?”

“The man in the red suit.”

“Santa?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Why
would you be afraid of Santa?”

Merrie ignored the dangling question. “Becca
is only five. That’s why she still believes, but she won’t for much
longer, I hope.”

“Why won’t she believe for much longer?”

“Because she’s already been learning to read.
That’s when you stop believing the story.”

“Why is that?”

“Umm...because...” Merrie rolled her eyes
like she was trying to remember something, then with a small dose
of young frustration in her voice, tried to explain. “There’s a
word for it, but I can’t remember what it is. Do you know what it
is when you can make a word out of another word, Miss Constance?
You know, when you rearrange the letters?”

“Yes. They call that an anagram.”

“That’s the word. Anagram. Sounds like
telegram.”

“Yes, it does a little bit.”

“Well, we learned about them in school, and
Becca will too. Then, just like me, she’ll know the truth.

“What’s the truth, Merrie?”

“That Santa is really Satan.”

“No, honey, Santa isn’t really Satan,”
Constance offered in a soothing tone.

Merrie continued painting Mandalay’s nails
and replied, “Yes, he is.”

“That anagram is just an unfortunate
coincidence,” Constance explained.

“I know that it’s true, Miss Constance. Know
why?”

“Why?”

Merrie stopped and looked up at her in
earnest. “Because he does very horrible bad things to little girls,
even when they’ve been very,
very
good.”

C
HAPTER
12

“BELIEVE
me now?” Sheriff Carmichael
asked.

He and Special Agent Mandalay were standing
at the back of his patrol car on the parking lot of Holly-Oak. The
visit with Merrie had produced nothing in the way of information,
but it most certainly swelled with an overabundance of
heartbreak.

“Yes,” Constance replied, nodding. “It’s not
that I didn’t believe you before. I just...”

“...had to do your job,” he finished for her
as he slipped a key into the trunk lock and gave it a twist. It let
out a dull thump as the latch released, almost as if underscoring
his added comment, “I know.”

“Speaking of jobs, ever have one of those
days when you really hate yours, Skip?” she asked. “Because I’m
having one right now.”

“December twenty-second through twenty-fifth,
every damn year,” he sighed, then repeated in a quiet mumble,
“Every blessed, goddamned year...” With that, he lifted the trunk
lid, extracting the key from the lock as it rose, then offered the
jangling ring to Constance. “Here. No need in you standin’ out here
in the cold. You might want to start it up and get the heater
going. I’ll just be a few minutes. I need to take this stuff
in.”

Mandalay glanced into the well of the trunk
space and saw three large shopping bags, each with festively
wrapped presents protruding from their depths. “I thought you
weren’t big on celebrating Christmas here in Hulis,” she asked.

“These are all for Merrie,” he told her. “The
new shoes she’s expecting. Some clothes. Mavis Crawford does sewing
out of her house, so she makes things for her. And, a few other
odds and ends. Whenever anyone travels or goes into the city, they
hit those vintage resale stores and pick up old records and such.
Things like that. We all carry a list in our wallets of what needs
to be under the tree. Of course, most of us have it committed to
memory by now.”

“I was actually planning to ask you about
that,” Constance mused. “Why are all her clothes and belongings
mired in the past?”

“It keeps her happy,” the sheriff
responded.

“But is it healthy?” she pressed.

He shook his head as he gathered the bags and
hefted them out of the trunk. “I suspect it’s as healthy as it can
get. Merrie doesn’t cope very well with change, I’m afraid.”

Since his hands were full, Constance reached
up and levered the trunk lid shut for him as she asked, “How
so?”

Sheriff Carmichael huffed out a heavy sigh
then grimaced noticeably. “Merrie Frances Callahan lives her life
in a year long continuous loop, Constance. For her, it’s always
nineteen seventy-five. That never changes. And, if you try to take
her out of her little world, she just shuts down. That’s what I was
trying to tell you when we were inside.”

“Shuts down?” she repeated. “Mentally, you
mean?”

“And physically,” he said, punctuating the
statement with an animated nod. “Last time a doctor tried to force
her into the here and now, she almost died. She reverted to a
catatonic state, was hooked to a feeding tube, and was just wasting
away. That was right around ten or twelve years before Tom and
Elizabeth died in that wreck, give or take. I was still playing
detective in Kansas City back then.

“I do remember that they were actually
expecting her to go at any moment. They’d already resigned
themselves to it. Made funeral arrangements and everything. She was
literally that bad off. It was gettin’ close to Christmas, and
Elizabeth was a sentimental sort, so she got out all of Merrie’s
old things and re-decorated her room back to how it originally
was.” He shrugged. “Then, like some kind of damn miracle, she got
better. Well...as better as she could, I guess. For most of the
time, anyway.”