The Santa Society (20 page)

I flip through the remaining pictures. All of them feature my parents together, or all three of us. It’s almost like we never used the camera again after Dad died. I reach the last one and stop.

This picture seems much older. A man stands by a tree, alone, wearing a Santa suit similar to Reason’s. I hold it up for study, vaguely wondering if it might be my dad. But in his features, I find Brother Cassius looking back at me. His smooth skin and sparkly eyes shock me.

My stomach sours. I return it to the back of the pile. I scan the remaining contents of the shoebox. I extract a paper umbrella, like the kind from a mixed drink. Odd, Mom never drank alcohol. I lay it down and pick up a button. It has a “C” on it that reminds me of the clasp on the cloak I wore the other day. I drop it in the box, and it clinks against something metal: a slender wedding band. On the inside, I see an engraving: With Love, Cassius.

I toss it back in and cover it with the stack of pictures. I grab the envelope and flip it over. It’s addressed to my mother. The postage mark shows August of last year. The return address is in Florida, but it doesn’t have a name. I slide the letter out and unfold it:

Dear Adelaide,

I felt I should write to you personally. We have received your request for assistance. As Senior Elder, I am moved by your story and familiar with its history. We do not customarily respond to such requests, but I could not ignore a daughter of the Society.

Please rest assured that I will personally ensure that your daughter has all she needs for her emotional recovery and protection following your death. And, as you have requested, I will ensure she does not lose the spirit of Christmas. We will monitor her and intervene if it should become necessary.

Further, I have moved to invoke her right to full membership status with the Society. In all honesty, your father is opposed to this order. He continues to believe she has greater opportunity in the civilian world. However, I do think he realizes it is not his decision. It is yours and hers.

Regarding her location, we will do whatever is necessary to impede her efforts should she attempt to sell the home in haste without proper time to grieve. I wholeheartedly agree that the home will be integral to her healing and feelings about Christmas. Further, it would be advantageous to keep her in the vicinity of the Christmasville Chapter.

 I realize this is beyond what you have requested, but I feel it is the right thing to do. Please take peace in knowing the Society will welcome her into our family at the proper time.

Peace in the Light,

Brother Alfonze DeMurio

I hold in my hand the answer to everything. It’s been here all along, the power to set everything right for Christmas, for Reason, and for me. My mother wanted to protect me. She thought I would need her help—somehow. Maybe she had the Gift too. But she didn’t want me to sell the house until I was sure. Until I could draw out of it the salvation of my own feelings toward Christmas. My mother must have known me much better than I ever understood. But all of this fades into the background. My hand trembles.

We will do what whatever is necessary to impede her efforts.

The Santa Society owns Reason’s realty company: the realty company who brought me the crazy lady with the hairless cat, and the militant family who insulted the house and desecrated Mom’s angel. The sewer leak—they posted a notice right on the for sale sign. The Society had an alliance with the city, providing permits when needed. Couldn’t they also falsify a violation?

Klaus
—I pronounce it like house, but couldn’t it also be short for Santa Claus? Goosebumps prickle my arms. I look around frantically, my eyes flailing about the room in search of something, anything to anchor me. I see nothing. Everything spins too fast in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The furnace went out
. I called the service company from the refrigerator magnet. The society owned that too, the big fat parent company that it is. Miraculously, Reason shows up at my door with firewood. I keep adding to it and adding to. Even with my eyes closed I can't stop the thoughts in my own head.

My heart beats faster.

This whole thing was staged. It hasn’t been real—none of it! I jump from the bed. My feet hit the floor hard, and I am off running to the living room where I start pacing.

The sewer department—I’ll call the sewer department.

They answer on the second ring, and then I’m passed to the supervisor five seconds later.

“Yes, Ms. Sinclair. I was just about to call you. I did locate your file. It seems there has been a mistake. It’s really quite funny—”

I want to scream at her. Is she in on this too?

“The leak is actually on the other side of town. We apologize for the damage to your property. The workers have replaced your sod. No need to worry about civil penalties, those have all been dismissed. The city has a benefactor. They’ll more than compensate you for your troubles. Let me give you the number.”

I scramble for a pen and jot it down.

She continues. “Things just get so crazy at Christmas. I hope your holiday season is filled with—”

I hang up on her and go to the window. The trucks, the tape—everything—has vanished. My sod has even been replaced, just like she said. It looks pristine out there, except for the fresh cut marks all over it, like sewn together scraps.

I dial the benefactor’s number she gave me. Someone answers on the first ring. “Good morning, how may the Society help you today?” It's Hannah. I swear it is.

“This is Erin.” I say through my clenched jaws.

I hear a long pause. Suddenly, music fills the line. Seconds later, it begins ringing again. I’ve been transferred. Someone answers with a thick Russian accent. “Good morning. How may Society help?”

I hang up. I don’t need their help—not anymore. I just need to get my hands on Reason MacCloud—or better yet, I need to get my butt out of here on the first flight to New York. Anger bubbles up in my chest, tight and painful. Tears begin to fall, hot stinging tears of betrayal.

The flight out of here will probably just be operated by Flying-S Airways.
They’ll fly me in one big circle and bring me right back here. I don’t know what’s real anymore or who to trust. What a fool I’ve been, a desperate love-starved fool.

Now I totally understand why my grandmother left Cassius and never went back.

Chapter 22

I IGNORE THE PHONE every time Reason calls. Rinse and repeat. I haven’t moved from my chair since I hung up on Russia.

Klaus stands across the room looking distressed. Finally, he turns around and disappears. I haven’t seen him use the dog door again since he came, but I hear him do so now. I could easily stand up and try to catch him, but I no longer care how he does it. He probably just shrinks and crawls through. Big deal. I mean, for all I know he wears a hidden camera in his dog collar, and I’m being broadcast across the country on Reality Santa TV.

I’m cold, but I don’t even bother to check the thermostat. It’s probably broken again, just another play in Reason’s game book. I refuse to call anyone. I’ll freeze first. I don’t want to talk to him or hear his explanations. I can’t be near him or see him. It would only hurt too much. He’d mess with my head and make me confused. The best thing is to stay away until the shock has worn off.

Then when I’m calmer, I can leave this town. My mother meant well, I think. She just didn’t know how far they’d go. That’s all. Because I can’t let myself think my dead mother is behind all of this. I just can’t.

The phone begins ringing again. I cover my ears until it falls silent again.

I start to shiver. Slowly, I move my eyes and then my legs and then my body. I need my coat. I move toward the coat rack. My eyes linger on the empty peg. I’ve forgotten to go get the scarf. I look at my watch: 5:20. If I leave now, I can probably get to the salon before it closes.

Numb, I grab my coat and slip my arms in. I feel for my keys and find them still tucked in the pocket. One foot in front of the other, I make my way through the door and down the steps. My eyes graze over a freshly filled hole in the ground where the realtor sign used to be. He must have pulled it up last night. After all, I did fire him.

I walk past it and pull my hood over my head. I wonder what Reason will send over next. With any luck, it’ll be a wrecking ball.

Cold wind washes over me as I pass Callie’s house. When I look up, I see her in the window waving at me. I raise my hand and send a wave back, then tuck in my chin and continue on. I cover the next few blocks in a mental fog. Before I know it, it's grown colder and night has fallen. I didn’t think about the darkness. But seriously, it’s Christmasville, Idaho. The crime rate can’t be very high.

I follow the sidewalk, making sure I turn where I need to, while forcing myself not to the think of Reason. But then, before I realize it, I am. I can't understand what’s happened, how I could feel what I felt, how he could lead me through the whole Gift thing, and that stuff about faith and what’s right. How do I make sense of this—ever? Could he play me like he did, and love me too?

Headlights reflect off the stop sign in front of me. The glare obscures the letters so I only see “OP” for a moment before the whole thing goes dark again.

I step off the curb and check for cars, to my left and then my right. Nothing moves. I hear a faint metallic clink, like the sound Klaus makes when he walks. I ignore it and step out into the street.

Something, someone grabs me from behind. I scream as I’m lifted completely off the ground. A hand slams down over my mouth sending a throbbing pain through my lip where my tooth slices into it. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. My legs kick as terror overtakes me.

I’m spun around to face a black Suburban parked by the curb a few feet away. The pressure squeezes my arms like a vice so tight it threatens to tear them from their sockets. The clink of metal grows louder.

As I’m carried toward the Suburban, I see Klaus running down the sidewalk toward me. The sight of him feels like a dream.
He’s followed me.
His paws hit the pavement full force and his muscles ripple through his body, moving him forward like a machine. The streetlights reflect on his coat with shimmery lights and shadows. He looks like a mythical creature.

He’ll save me.

His mouth distorts into a snarl. I hear his teeth biting at the air as he closes the last feet of distance between us.

“Hurry—” A man’s voice urges, his breathing rough.

I try to turn my head but something cold covers my face and everything goes black. A sweet, chemical odor fills my head and my mouth. A man screams in my ear, but my awareness muddies. I don’t care that I’m falling. My head strikes something hard, and I’m swallowed up in blackness.

I wake to the sound of water dripping, but when I open my eyes I see only darkness. Something feels tight around my head. I try to move it, but something presses into the back of it. The effort sends a sharp pain searing through my temple. I try to raise my arm, but an excruciating pain burns through my shoulders. My arms don’t work. Slowly, it dawns on me that someone’s tied them behind my back. Instinctively, I draw up my knees, but something tightens around my ankles as my pants snag over a rough surface.
Concrete—I’m on concrete
.

Four tiny feet scamper over my thigh. I cry out. The sound of it echoes back to me. When it fades, I hear voices rise in the distance. I strain to listen. It sounds like men arguing. A grating sound comes from somewhere close by like steel sliding over steel. It concludes with a sudden slam that sends shockwaves through my head like white-hot electricity. The voices speak beside me now.

“I think I need stitches.”

“Oh shut up. Who cares about the bite, why didn’t you get the dog?”

“How was I supposed to get him, eh? He came out of nowhere like some kind of hell-dog. I didn't see you doing anything to help.”

“Because I can stick to a plan.”

“Where’s my money? I’m done. I need stitches, for Chrisesake. I can't show my arms at work when I got stitches all over it. No arms, no tips.”

“You’re a hairstylist—not a stripper—get over it.”

“Thanks a lot, you idiot. Now she’s gonna know who I am.”

“She’s not gonna be talking to anybody—so just cool it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Nobody gets hurt, that’s what you said.”

“Well, you didn’t take care of the dog. I got no choice now. He’ll tell Reason.”

“The Dog? Dude, you’re nuts. Give me my money so I can get out of here.”

“The money’s over there, in the bag.”

I hear footsteps and a rushing movement. But it’s the next sound that sickens me, like something hard pounding against human flesh. Everything grows silent except for someone’s rapid breathing. Soon, I realize mine is the only breath I hear. The other person doesn’t sound like he’s breathing at all.

I try not to move or make any sound, but terror moves through me, grabbing my heart and my lungs in its fist. My body disobeys. I hear myself gasping. I can’t stop the fast bursts of air that escape me or the whimper building in my throat.

Something drags across the floor. My stomach heaves, but I don’t vomit. I gag and start choking on my saliva.

“Not so sure of yourself now, are you?” He grabs my arms and jerks me upright, then snatches the blindfold off my head. It takes some of my hair with it, and I cry out in pain.

Brice squats beside me. In the dim light, I see enough to know I am inside a concrete room. The dark figure of a man lies on the floor to my right. I strain to make out Rick’s face. He’s been tied too. The flesh of his lower left arm has been mangled and oozes with coagulating blood.

Klaus.
The dog that followed me home from the coffee shop, the one I wasn’t sure I wanted—he tried to protect me. It doesn’t matter if he came into my life only because Reason put him there. I just pray he’s okay as tears blur my eyes.