Midnight Before Christmas (13 page)

B
ONNIE GAZED INTO THE
mirror on the sun visor above the passenger seat and reapplied her lipstick. Too many Chicken McNuggets had undermined her cosmetic work.

She smeared on the ruby-red, pressed her lips together, and frowned. She hated McDonald’s. The only edible food in the whole restaurant was the french fries, and they weren’t exactly conducive to a 114-pound hourglass figure.

Still, Frank had seemed to think it was important that they all trudge out to the dreadful place, not that he’d bothered to explain why. She thought it was strange. But not as strange as this business of stopping at a church—First Presbyterian, just off Robinson. As far as she knew, Frank never went near churches, and for a reason. But today, when probably half the congregation was crowding in for the Christmas Eve service, he did.

But even that was not as strange as what happened next. Frank returned from his brief sojourn inside the holy halls—wearing a Santa suit.

“I know the man who plays Santa here,” Frank whispered to Bonnie when he returned to the car. “He’s a good guy. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Bonnie shook her head in quiet amazement. Curiouser and curiouser.

Frank shut the door behind him, then twisted around to face Tommy, who was slumped down in the backseat. “Hey, Tommy. Tell Santa whether you’ve been a good boy this year.”

Tommy barely raised his eyes. “You’re not Santa.”

“But of course I am. Don’t you see this beard?” He pulled it down by its elastic string and popped it back against his chin. “Ho, ho, ho.”

Tommy averted his eyes and made a nasty face.

“Now, son—”

“I’m not your son!”

Frank lowered his chin. “Tommy, you have to answer Santa’s question. Naughty or nice?”

“Leave me alone.”

Frank made
a tsking
sound. “Naughty. Definitely naughty.”

They drove the rest of the way home in silence. Bonnie still didn’t know what was going on, so she decided to stop worrying about it. She tilted her seat back, relaxed, and waited to see what Santa would do next.

When they arrived at Bonnie’s house, Frank parked the car in the driveway. Tommy cracked open his car door.

“Not yet,” Frank instructed him.

Tommy frowned. “What are we waiting for?”

“You’re waiting till I say you’re not waiting.” Frank checked his watch.

A few minutes later, when the watch read almost nine-thirty, he spoke again. “All right then. Let’s get out now.”

Tommy sprang out of the backseat. He had almost reached the front door of the house when he heard Frank calling him.

“Tommy? I have something for you.”

“What?”

“This.” The instant Tommy turned around, Frank smacked him hard across the face.

Tommy staggered backward. He lost his balance and fell in a heap onto the concrete steps below the front porch.

Bonnie was utterly bewildered. “Have lost your mind, Frank?”

He looked pointedly at her. “Carl,” he said. “Have you lost your mind,
Carl.”

Bonnie stared at her Santa-suited boyfriend, and suddenly, she understood. All the pieces fell into place. “Carl,” she murmured, and then she turned the volume up. “Have you lost your mind, Carl?” she shouted.

“Yeah,” Frank muttered. “I’m out of control.” He reached down and hit Tommy again, this time clubbing him on the other side of his face.

Tommy screamed, but Bonnie screamed even louder. “Help! Someone help! He’s hurting my baby!”

Lightbulbs flickered on the porches of some of the neighboring houses.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Frank said. He raised Tommy up by the collar, then punched him in the soft part of the stomach.

Tommy hurt so badly he couldn’t speak. He doubled over and fell to the grass.

“You miserable brat,” Frank bellowed. “I’ll beat you till you can’t see straight.” He reared back a foot and kicked Tommy in the side.

“No!” Bonnie glanced over her shoulder. She could see silhouetted figures standing in the windows of other houses. The audience was assembling. “I can’t control him, Tommy! Run! Run!”

Tommy staggered to his feet and limped toward the house. Frank made a show of starting after him, and Bonnie made a show of trying to restrain him. “No, Carl. I won’t let you hurt my boy!”

“You can’t stop me,” Frank cried. “I’m gonna kill him!”

Even Bonnie was startled. Frank’s performance was becoming altogether too convincing. “No!” she shouted. “Stop!”

“I’ll teach that boy a lesson he won’t soon forget!” Frank shouted. He pushed Bonnie away, then raced into the house.

A moment later, Bonnie followed. She knew the neighbors were watching, knew that someone was undoubtedly calling the police. Everything was in place now.

Perfect.

Megan’s hands gripped the steering wheel. It seemed as if she had spent the entire day this way—racing through parking lots, careening through intersections, blitzing down I-35 at speeds way beyond what her little Toyota was used to handling. Now, for the second time today, she was racing to her new client’s home in Kensington Park. Only this time she had the dire feeling that if she didn’t get there soon, someone was going to end up dead.

She zoomed off the interstate and headed crosstown, by the fairgrounds. There was so much happening, she couldn’t possibly make sense of it. All she knew for sure was this—Carl Cantrell was not what he had been made out to be. He was being set up.

And why? Megan could only think of one possible explanation. And it sent chills down her spine.

The radio was on, playing some insipid Christmas song, dogs barking to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” She spun the dial, hoping to catch some evening news. On the third station she tried, she found what she wanted:

“… that the explosion was minor. Although a great deal of smoke and noise resulted, there was little actual property damage. Still, in the confusion, suspect Carl Cantrell managed to escape his police escort and is now running free. I repeat, at seven-thirty this evening, at St. Anthony’s Hospital, an explosion resulted from …”

Seven-thirty, Megan thought bitterly, glancing at the clock on her dashboard. And now it was almost nine-thirty. More than enough time for Carl to find his way back to Bonnie’s house. To see his son on Christmas Eve. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind—she knew that was what he would do.

An aching in her chest reminded her what was likely to happen the instant he showed up.

Too late, Megan saw the exit for the Kensington development. She crossed three lines of traffic, making an almost diagonal line across the highway. She heard the screeching brakes of cars in the other lanes as she sped in front of them. If she rolled down her window, she could probably hear a few choice remarks flung in her direction, too. She couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t worry about it. She knew she was driving recklessly, but she had no choice. She had to get to that house.

She careened down the exit ramp and screeched to a halt. Swerving left hard, she headed toward the Kensington. She barreled down the road, full speed ahead. She had to get there in time, she
had
to, no matter how impossible it seemed. Blast! If ever there was a time when she could use a little faith, this was it.

She glanced up at the sky, but she didn’t hear any voices speaking to her. The only voice she heard was the ballistics expert:

No doubt about it. That bullet came from inside the house.

And if a bullet came from that house once, Megan had no doubt that it could do so again.

Carl leaped over the fence, swinging himself by his hands. His agility was considerably hampered by the oversized black plastic boots he was wearing, not to mention the thick stuffing sewed into the suit. It might be important that Santa be a right jolly old elf during shopping mall appearances, but tonight, it was just a pain in the butt. He lost his balance, tipped sideways, and fell onto the wet grass.

It had been snowing for at least half an hour now, while he ran all the way crosstown to get here. And the truth was, Santa’s suit wasn’t nearly as warm as it looked. What’s worse, the pain medication was wearing off, and his arm was beginning to remind him that he had been shot today.

But he had to put all that out of his mind. Tommy needed him. Tommy was in deadly danger. He had to save Tommy.

He had no problem with coming through the back; he didn’t want to be stopped by any busybody neighbors either. After punching a few of them and creating major scenes in the front yard, he knew it wouldn’t take much to get their attention. At the very least they would call the cops, and Carl couldn’t let that happen. The cops would only haul him away. They’d leave Tommy in the clutches of Frank, and maybe his mother—whoever it was that was hurting him. No, it was important that Carl be able to get in, get Tommy, and get away.

He ran up to the sliding door in the back of the house. Sure enough, it was unlocked. He pushed it open and slipped inside.

Everything was quiet. Where were the sounds of misery he had heard over the phone? Or alternatively, the sounds of Christmas Eve revelry?

He raced upstairs to check for signs of life. Tommy’s room was empty. It was a mess, books and toys scattered all over, his Star Wars pajamas lying in a heap on the floor. But no Tommy.

He checked the other rooms as well. No Frank, no Bonnie. He couldn’t understand it. What was going on here?

Had they gone somewhere for Christmas Eve? Carl knew Bonnie didn’t have any relatives in the area. Maybe Frank? Maybe out to dinner? A million possibilities ran through his head, some of them positive, and some of them …

His imagination conjured hideous dark notions. What if Bonnie decided to do what he’d planned to do? What if she’d taken Tommy away, who knows where, to start over again without her ex-husband screwing everything up for her? What if they’d hurt Tommy, maybe bad, and taken him away to hide what they’d done? Taken him away—or taken the body …

Carl’s fists balled up with rage. Tommy was his boy; he was supposed to protect him. And he’d failed. He’d failed in the most desperate, pitiful, fatal—

He started abruptly. He’d heard something—some kind of a noise. But it wasn’t coming from inside the house. It was coming from the front yard. He peeked through the bedroom window. He could see Tommy and Bonnie and … and someone else in a Santa suit!

“You miserable brat,” the other Santa shouted at the top of his lungs. “I’ll beat you till you can’t see straight!”

What was going on? Was that Frank? It sounded like him. But why was he dressed in the suit?

The same suit Carl himself was wearing.

He didn’t have time to ponder these questions. He heard the front door open, then slam shut. He ran down the stairs as quickly as possible to see who had come in.

“Tommy!” he shouted from midway down the stairs.

Tommy looked up. He was clutching his side; his face was contorted with pain. As soon as he saw the Santa suit on the stairs, he panicked.

“It’s me,” Carl said, pulling down the fake white beard so the boy could see. “It’s me!”

“Daddy!”
Tommy ran toward him, meeting him at the foot of the stairs. He threw his arms around his father, hugging him like he’d never hugged him before.

“Daddy,” he said again, but more quietly this time. All at once his face was covered with tears, as if he’d been holding them back bravely as long as possible but just couldn’t manage it any more. “I knew you’d come, Daddy,” he whispered. “I knew you’d save me.”

Carl hugged his son back, squeezing with all his might. He’d dreamed of this moment. He’d been desperate for it for years. And now that it was finally here, he wouldn’t let anything interfere—

“Well, now, isn’t this a scene out of Currier and Ives?”

Carl whirled around, without releasing his son.

Frank stood in the entryway, still looking like Carl’s mirror image in red fur and fake whiskers. Bonnie was just a step behind him, closing the door.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Carl asked.

Frank was the picture of nonchalance. He sashayed past Carl, barely even glancing at him. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you hitting my boy!”

Frank flopped down onto the white plush sofa. “But that wasn’t me, Carl. That was you.”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t hit my own son,”

“Ah, but that’s not what the neighbors will say. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“What are you talking about? I was very careful—no one saw me come in.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Carl.” He flipped a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Everyone saw you come in. Everyone saw you flip out of control, like a drunken madman. Everyone saw you beating your son within an inch of his life.” He glanced pointedly at Bonnie. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the poor lad died from it.”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about, Frank.” Carl eased toward the front door, taking Tommy with him. “I’m leaving now and Tommy’s going with me. And you’re not going to stop me.”

“It’s true,” Frank said wearily. Another pointed glance at Bonnie.
“I’m
not going to stop you.”

Carl didn’t know what was going on, but he also knew it would be stupid to stand around trying to figure it out. The smartest thing he could do was make a run for it while he had the chance.

“C’mon, Tommy,” he said. He broke the boy’s embrace but scooped up his hand. “We’re leaving.”

Son in tow, he ran to the front door, threw it open, and ran into the front yard. “Do you feel well enough to run?” he asked Tommy.

Tommy’s head bobbed up and down, but Carl could tell his heart wasn’t in it. They would have to move slowly. Still, they should be able to get away. As long as there wasn’t any interference …

“Stop!”

Carl knew he shouldn’t stop, shouldn’t even look, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned.

Bonnie was standing on the front porch. In the few seconds he had been conversing with Frank, she had totally altered her appearance. Her clothes were torn; her dress was hanging from one shoulder strap and was ripped open in the front. Her makeup was smeared; her hair was a mess. Her face looked wet and bruised.