Kristmas Collins (21 page)

“Ask them,” Duma said, pointing at the two girls sitting in adjacent chairs, wearing reindeer sweaters and plastic antlers.

“Our daddy said we’d get to spend time with Santa while he took care of some things,” Franny said. Or maybe it was Zooey. Duma always got them mixed up.

“I’m sure he was
taking care
of things,” Falcone said, returning his attention to Duma. “So why did you abduct Nicole Closs’ children? Was that also babysitting?”

“I didn’t abduct nobody. I saved them from being taken by one of Stone Scroggie’s thugs. Maybe you should check out the security video.”

“So your story is that you’re some sort of superhero who swooped in to save the day?”

Duma smiled. “I guess my suit didn’t give it away—I’m Santa Claus.”

Falcone’s face flushed with anger. “Where are the Closs children?”

“For the millionth time—they’re with their mother. Safe and sound … thanks to yours truly.”

“Then where is she?”

“What do I look like, her keeper? If I knew, you’d probably accuse me of stalking her.”

“I think she’s with Kris Collins,” Falcone said. “And for your information, we did check the security video.”

He picked up a remote and clicked a button. The video feed played on a monitor. It showed Nicole walking off with Kris outside of Santaland, right after Duma took the kids.

“Is that a crime?”

“If she didn’t go of her own freewill it’s a very serious one. And we both know she didn’t.”

“All that shows is her attacking him. The only gesture he made toward her is whispering in her ear—probably to comfort her, since that lunatic Jacqueline Helada was trying to steal her kids.”

“Since you had her children, I think he was using that as leverage.”

“Leverage to do what? Get the children back to her safe and sound?”

“When we find Ms. Closs, and she can confirm your story, then you’ll be free to go. Until then, you’re not leaving.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty? I’ll bet if I was a white Santa, you’d be giving me a medal for helping those kids.”

“Don’t even go there, Duma. The only thing color-related in this is that black and white security video that shows you running off with somebody’s kids … and then assaulting multiple people on the escalator to get away.”

“You’re just mad because I did your job for you. The FBI was lying down on the job while an average citizen had to step in to save the day.”

“I wasn’t lying down—your girlfriend dragged me down. She’s lucky that I didn’t bring her in for conspiring to assist in a kidnapping.”

“What’s wrong, Falcone—a girl was too tough for you? Maybe she was trying to alert the authorities that she’d tackled the real culprit. But it seems you decided to let Helada go. Are you working for Scroggie?”

The door of the detention room opened, and two Macy’s security personnel walked in with an elf.

“Where the hell have you been, Boersch?” Falcone asked.

“I was trailing Collins and Nicole Closs, and this clown apprehended me.”

“I’m not the one in an elf suit,” the head of security shot back. “He claims he’s one of yours—that you can vouch for him.”

“And thanks to you, a kidnapper might have gotten away with two children,” Falcone angrily spat.

“He had no ID on him, and was carrying a weapon. What were we supposed to think? We were not informed of any FBI investigation taking place in our store.”

“That’s because it was a highly confidential investigation—for your sake, we better get those children back.”

Falcone looked to Boersch. “What happened?”

“I followed Collins and the Closs woman to the elevator on the eighth floor. Then I backtracked to the main floor—even if they got off on another floor, they eventually had to get to the main floor to exit the store.”

“If security had been informed, we could have had a man on every floor, and locked down all exits,” the security guy stated, further pissing off Falcone.

“We didn’t have time. Children had been abducted—every second was crucial.”

Boersch pointed to Franny and Zooey. “They were on the elevator, along with their older siblings—what did they say happened?”

“They’re not talking—they lawyered up.”

“Lawyered up? They’re six.”

“Their mother is on the way—Libby Wainwright, the attorney. She instructed them not to say anything to us.”

“Just our luck, the only kids left on the planet who listen to their parents,” Boersch said with a shake of the head. “Anyway, when the elevator reached the bottom floor, it was empty … except for Collins’ two older kids. When I approached them to discuss the situation, I was taken into custody.”

Falcone rubbed his chin. “I apprehended Duma and Collins’ younger children on the third floor. Obviously, they met up and did the old switcheroo.”

“Does that mean this Closs woman is in on it?”

“She’s involved, but I don’t think she wants to be. Collins has her hostage.”

“We can lock down all exits, and set up checkpoints in the store,” Security said.

Falcone glared at him. “No, you’ve done quite enough already. You stay with Duma and the kids—I think the babysitter needs a babysitter.”

“They’re long gone from the building. I’ll put out an alert on Collins to all law enforcement in a ten-block radius,” Boersch said.

As Falcone headed for the door, Duma smiled at him.

“What’s so funny?” he snapped back.

“Santa Claus knows everything, so he knows you’re wasting your time.”

“We’ll see about that.”

We made it out of Macy’s and sped down Sixth Avenue.

Duma was able to hold off Falcone and the FBI long enough for us to get out of the store before it was locked down. But my bigger concerns were Scroggie and Jacqueline Helada, and the latter was still on the loose with her deadly scarf.

“Where are you taking me?” Nicole asked with frustration as we hit 33rd Street.

“Gimbels,” I replied.

“You do know that Gimbels closed in the 1980s, right?”

“Not all of it.”

I made a sharp right turn, falling in behind the heavy crowd that was entering the Manhattan Mall, which occupied the building that once housed the Gimbels department store.

“You’re safety plan involves bringing us to the mall?” Nicole asked with skepticism.

But her kids didn’t seem too upset. In fact, they were all smiles. I still hadn’t figured out the attraction the mall had for the modern child. When I was a kid, all shopping was evil, and time away from playing wiffle ball.

“Macy’s might have had a Thanksgiving Day parade, but Gimbels was one of the first department stores to have a bargain basement,” I said.

“Thanks, that really clears things up. Sorry to question your wisdom in bringing us to a populated area filled with security and cameras. There’s only a killer after my kids—I feel really safe.”

I felt like Columbus trying to convince folks that the world wasn’t flat. But before I got my own holiday, we had a lot of work to do.

We kept pace with the thick crowds, passing all the standard mall stores—Aeropostale, GNC, Radio Shack. From a Christmas point of view, going from Macy’s to the Manhattan Mall was like going from the North Pole to North Jersey, but the place was packed, which was good for our purposes. But it was also full of security, and I had no idea if there had been any type of alert put out on missing children, and their mother.

“I have one last Christmas gift I need to get,” I said as we entered the JCPenney anchor store.

“You really think this is the time for that?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, so it’s not like I have much of a choice.”

I found a section called “Home Environment” and picked out flashlights for each of us. A security guard eyed us a little too closely as I purchased them, and I felt my stomach tighten.

We made our way back through the store, and took the stairs down to the lower level. “This used to be the Gimbels basement. There is a direct entrance to the Herald Square subway stop,” I said.

“So we’ll be taking the subway out of here then?”

“Not exactly.”

As I pretended to browse through a rack of clothing, a man stepped next to me. He spoke in a low, guttural voice. “I’m looking to buy my kid a Jets jersey for Christmas. I’ve been searching for a Justin Duma one—he was my favorite player back in the day.”

He had my attention. I wasn’t fluent in code, but I didn’t need a translator either.

“And what the hell is a mall doing in the city? It’s like sacrilege,” he continued.

“Tell me about it—sometimes I miss the gritty New York of the past. Now it’s like a big theme park.”

“What if I told you I could take you back in time?”

“I think that would be the best Christmas gift I ever received.”

“It’s open, just make sure to lock up once you’re inside.” He handed me a badge. “And if anyone hassles you, just give ’em this, and they won’t be giving you any more problems.”

It was good to have friends like Duma who had friends in high places … or perhaps low ones.

I was already headed toward the entrance to the subway station when I saw the security guard from earlier—he was heading in our direction … and fast. Word had gotten out about us—it was just a matter of time.

The man remained calm. “And one last thing, Kris—remember to wait for your blockers,” he said as he moved toward the oncoming security guard.

Armed with only flashlights, we entered the subway station, and I could see that a checkpoint had been set up. But we weren’t going to be riding on any trains. We took a detour to a door marked
Off Limits.
I creaked it open, and slid inside. Nicole and the kids followed.

The Gimbels Passageway was an underground tunnel that ran from the east side of Broadway at Herald Square to the west side of 8th Avenue at Penn Station. It connected the basement of Gimbels, the Hotel Pennsylvania, and Penn Station. It was closed in the 1970s after it became a haven for drug dealers and rapists. There had been talk for years about revitalizing it, but nothing has ever come of it.

When we flipped on the flashlights, Nicole looked like she was going to scream. We’d awoken a rat the size of a small motorcycle, and it scampered across the narrow corridor. The smell wasn’t much better—the tunnel reeked of spoiled garbage.

But this was no time for the meek—we needed to move before they could trace us. We only had to go one city block, but it would seem like an eternity in this hellhole. I heard a noise, and couldn’t tell if it was a human or some sewer monster, and wasn’t sure which I feared more. The only thing we could do was move forward—one hand on the flashlight and the other over the nose—so that’s what we did.

Grimy signs still hung on the cinder-block walls like out of some apocalyptic movie. Including one for the
Gimbels Brothers
store, surrounded by graffiti. We almost tripped on rubble and the debris of construction past, and passed rattraps that I doubted would be any match for the vermin that called the tunnel home.

Finally, we saw the ancient sign for
Pennsylvania Station
, and after a few more spooky moments, we slipped into its basement through another door that was meant to be sealed shut. Back in civilization, we made our way up a staircase to the terminal, acting like tourists who’d gotten lost.

I braced, expecting to be jumped by someone as we stepped into the crowded Penn Station—I just wasn’t sure who it would be, or what they looked like. But since we were just spotted in the mall, and all exits and the subway were being guarded, they most likely thought we were still there, or at least in the vicinity. The tunnel, which had been locked off from the public for decades, would have been the last thing on their minds.

I checked the digital schedule to locate the train-line we were to catch—the Vermonter. We had five minutes. I purchased tickets, and we ran as fast as we could toward the tracks, Nicole gripping tightly to her children’s hands.

I could tell that she was questioning her sanity. But no matter what she thought of me, after witnessing Duma rescue her kids, and then deliver them back to her, she must have concluded that we were the best option to get her children to safety, and alerting the nearest security guard would be the same thing as alerting Scroggie.

As we boarded the train, I smiled at the engineer—Zee Thomas—before leading Nicole and her children down the aisle. They sat on one side of the train car, while I took a seat across from them, next to a military man dressed in his fatigues. He made room for me by removing his large army duffel bag from the seat.

I extended a hand. “My name is Kris, and I just want to thank you for your service.”

We shook, and he said, “Nice to meet you, Kris. My name is Herm, and I appreciate your support.”