Kristmas Collins (39 page)

He hadn’t put up a tree, or any decoration of note, since the day she left—it was the day that served as the benchmark for almost all of his “last times.”

Ginny believed there was a universal theme about Christmas, whether it was seen through the prism of a religious holiday, or if it meant something else to others—that if you do the right thing, and strive to get on that “nice” list, mixed with a little belief and wishing, you would be rewarded in the end.

But the only thing it represented to Harry in recent years was loneliness. His belief had been swept away by the wind, and he had no desire to chase it down. He remembered back to Christmases past, in the days following the big day, he would feel a certain emptiness—post-holiday blues, they called it. But since Ginny left, he felt that way every day.

She was his hero, his muse, his inspiration. He knew she was the reason the Gin Rumy books sold like hot cakes—the world loved Ginny, just like he had. Without her, he was just that mediocre wannabe who shouldn’t quit his day job, as one literary agent once told him. He hadn’t picked up a pen to write since that day.

The last thing he wrote was the final chapter of the final Gin Rumy book, when the hero, who’d taken on everything from aliens to the CIA, and was able to miraculously survive the most dire of situations, succumbed to the most insidious enemy ever created—cancer.

Many of the fans were upset when he chose to “end” Gin Rumy. They wanted her to live on as a tribute to Ginny. To “keep her alive.” He understood the sentiment, and appreciated it on some level, but what they didn’t understand was that he didn’t create her … she was real. And now she was gone, and in many ways the author died with her.

He had been content to spend the rest of his life wallowing away on the ranch. But that was before Kris Collins returned. Just like he had once represented him in court, Harry felt that he was now representing Ginny. He was making her case from the Great Beyond that he shouldn’t waste another minute, because life is never as long as you think it will be.

There was something about Kris. He saw the same fierce loyalty in his eyes as he’d seen in hers. And the storyteller in Harry was attracted to the delicious, layered character Kris was, filled with honor and fault, gallant yet fallible, as he set out on his noble quest for redemption.

And Ginny had seen it too. She used to joke with Harry during his trial that Kris was like the son they never had. And that the arrest was a blessing that brought him into his life at a time when he was about to lose his best friend. She was always so accepting of her fate, while he refused to admit she would ever lose the battle. But with some reflection, he knew she was right … just like always. So when Kris needed help, Harry didn’t hesitate for a moment.

But Kris returned something else to him in the last few months—inspiration. Suddenly Harry was waking up in the middle of the night and jotting down a thought that came to him in his sleep, or losing track of time as his mind wandered to places he never thought it would ever go again.

He watched as the story unfolded in front of him, a classic story for the ages, centered around one of the most charismatic and mysterious characters ever created. And like Gin Rumy, it was a timeless character that the world had fallen in love with.

He walked to the Christmas tree and picked up the scrapbook he’d found in the cellar during his search for decorations. He’d brought it upstairs with him and left it under the tree. Ginny had made it for him during her final months, yet he had never looked at it. But tonight he took a seat in front of the fire and opened it.

He was in many of the photos, but he only noticed Ginny. Her look changed over the years, but the smile remained the same—from their hippie days with flowers in her long, straight hair, to the sophisticated woman in a sequined gown at some event where they were honoring Harry, to the bald woman sitting up proudly in her hospital bed, fearlessly living when everyone told her she was dying. He took a close look at their wedding photo, both of them clasping a knife as they cut the cake—it seemed like a million years ago and yesterday at the same time. It was a photo clipped from the local newspaper with the inscription:
The wedding of Virginia Johnson and Harold A. Crawford III.
She had crossed it out and written
Ginny and Harry.
That’s who they were. That’s who they would always be.

He shut the scrapbook and placed it back under the tree, a reminiscing smile on his face. As he did, he was drawn to the other objects he’d placed there. It was like they were taunting him, daring him to try avoiding them. Finally he gave in and took them into his hands.

He momentarily looked out the window at the falling snow that was welcoming the New Year, before returning to his seat by the fire. He had found his story, and the heroic but flawed protagonist to carry it out. He used to joke that he wasn’t a writer, but a writer-downer—he would watch the wonderment that surrounded Ginny and just write it down. And now he would do the same with Kris Collins.

He took the cap off the new pen and touched it against the empty paper. It felt exhilarating as he wrote the first words.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He’s just a lot different than we all thought …

Thank you for reading Kristmas Collins. I hope you enjoyed the book, and that you will leave a rating or review for it. Feedback and support also appreciated at:

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Also by Derek Ciccone:

Painless

The Truant Officer

The Trials of Max Q

Officer Jones

The Heritage Paper

It's like Christmas every day for me because I get to work with the best group ever in making these books come to light. As always, thanks to the incomparable Charlotte Brown for her great editing. Carl Graves for the cover. Curt Ciccone on the formatting. And Sandra Simpson's proofreading.

She lay still in her bed with her hands clasped close to her chest, pretending to sleep. The darkness was penetrated only by a trickle of moonlight sneaking through the curtains. But she could feel his presence.

The man was not the Grim Reaper, but she knew he’d be the last face she saw in this life.

“Has the great Nazi hunter come for me?” her voice sputtered and creaked. After nine decades of life, turning it on was like starting a car in a frigid Munich winter. She could no longer read an eye-chart without the assistance of a telescope, but she could still sense the surprised look on the man’s face. He had no idea she knew.

“Hello, Ellen,” he spoke in a hushed tone. “Think of me as a gypsy moth that has come to defoliate your evil family tree.”

“How did you figure it out?” she played naïve. She didn’t know if she’d fooled the man, but she sure had convinced her own family that she was a dementia-stricken loony tune. The most damning evidence occurred when they found her wandering the grounds in the middle of a cold night, and claiming to have spotted aliens.

“When I was a medical student, a wise doctor told me a story. It was about a young prostitute he treated in Munich named Etta. She had been impregnated by a German soldier and feared for her life if she elected to have the child. The pregnancy was further complicated by Etta’s lifestyle, which had included contracting a severe case of syphilis.

“The doctor risked his own safety to hide out Etta and nurse her to health … and she eventually gave birth to a baby girl. It wasn’t until many years later that this doctor realized he’d helped spread the seeds of evil—a knowledge that led to his murder.”

“And this is relevant to your presence here tonight?”

“You see, that child he delivered was named Ellen.”

She tried to smile, but the muscles in her face no longer cooperated with her demands. “There are those who claim that you no longer have the passion—that you’ve been diverted by your wealthy American lifestyle. But I can tell that the fire still burns deep inside you. It’s why I chose you.”

She strained through her foggy cataracts to see the surprised look on his face. But there was no time to savor small victories. She pointed sharply at the small end-table beside his chair, causing a painful tingle in her arm.

He pulled the chain on a desk lamp and a dull light illuminated the table. A gold cross glistened in the light.

The Nazi hunter appeared mesmerized as he took it into his hands, paying particular attention to the engraved symbol
v^988v^
. On the back was Ellen’s Apostle name of Andrew. Like the original, and more famous Apostles, there were twelve of them.

“I’ve seen this before—when we captured Bormann in South America, almost a half century ago. He told us if we ever saw the symbol again, it would mean the Reich was on the verge of regaining power. I thought he was just using it as leverage because …”

“You and your partner were about to kill him,” she finished his thought.

He said nothing, his silence admitting his guilt. That is, if killing a swine like Martin Bormann, the Führer’s personal secretary, could ever be associated with an emotion like guilt. Not only did he betray the Apostles, but he hurt Ellen in the most personal of ways. His Apostle name of Judas was fitting.

The Nazi hunter continued to peer at the cross. For all his “big game hunting” that took him across the globe, those he most dreamed of having stuffed on his mantle were right under his nose. But the ironies were just beginning.

“What does this symbolize?” he demanded.

“Why are you dragging this out? You came to kill me tonight—so get on with it,” she bristled at him.

“If you don’t answer me, I will not only eliminate you, but the rest of your family.”

His threat was laughable. He’d already begun to “defoliate” her family, and once the gypsy moth began spreading its larvae, it wouldn’t stop until the tree had died. She did find it interesting that his threat to kill her family was synonymous with the Nazi tactic of
sippenhaft
. She always found it fascinating that victims who sought revenge often ended up resembling those responsible for their pain.

“It symbolizes the seeds that have grown into a tree, which eventually became a forest—one that would one day spread over the land. And that day is here.”

“Why would you tell me this?” he asked, still staring at the cross.

“Because I believe you’re the only one who can stop it.”

He tried to conceal his surprise. “Why would a Nazi like you want to stop the expansion of this forest, as you call it?”

“The struggle has led to nothing but suffering for my family. My children have been taken from me, and now with the moment so close, I fear an even worse fate for those who remain.”

“Any suffering you faced doesn’t remotely compare to what you’ve inflicted. The only way to stop another generation of your evil is to remove the tree at its roots.”

“Evil is not passed on like brown hair or the shape of a nose—it is taught. Using your philosophy, you would kill all the flowers in the garden just to ensure there are no weeds. But all you would accomplish is to steal beauty from the world. Are you saying that all those SS men were genetically inclined to murder? And if so, why did most return to peaceful lives when the war ended?”

“What your family perpetrates is far greater than the acts of the common SS man, no matter how vile he was. Because you have the ability to transfer it to others and inspire them to spread your hatred.”

“Was my grandson transferring evil when you murdered him? He was an innocent victim—a father, a husband—just like those you claim to seek justice for.”

His tone remained cold and unyielding. “Once I learned of his heritage, there was no other option. He wouldn’t be able to help himself … it was his nature.”