Santa Reads Romance (2 page)

Christ! He had hit somebody!

Hunter slammed on the brakes, sweat breaking out across his forehead. The car skidded to a stop, but Hunter was already out the door while the car was still rocking.

A red lump lay unmoving in the gutter. He ran to the huddled shape, falling to his knees in the shallow snow. Hunter had never been so scared in his life.

The man was dressed in a Santa suit.

Next to him, lying on the pavement, was a large sack full of presents. If possible, Hunter felt even worse. He had run over Santa Claus! Not even a disgruntled publisher would intentionally do that.

“Talk to me!” Gently he placed his hand on the man's shoulder. “I didn't even see you there, pop, I swear it! Hey, buddy, say something, please! Are you hurt bad?”

Leaning over, he worked his palm under the man's shirt to feel for a heartbeat. Something wet licked his hand.

“Jesus!” Hunter fell back in the snow. What the hell was that?

A piteous groan came from under the prone figure. It did not sound human.

Hunter blanched. He had read too many of Rex's books lately— they always seemed to involve horrific happenings in the backwoods of Maine…

“Don't just sit there gawking at me, boyo! Help me up!”

The acerbic words penetrated Hunter's fog-brain. He let out a sigh of relief. At least the man was conscious and speaking.

“You okay, mister? Maybe you shouldn't move.”

“And how am I supposed to be gettin' up if I don't move? C'mon now, help ol' Santa up. Benny's not happy.”

Against his better judgment, Hunter crawled toward the man, helping him to sit up. A wave of cheap gin assailed his nostrils.

Uh-huh. The picture was getting clearer. The old coot had probably fallen into the path of his car in a drunken stupor. Idly Hunter wondered what Benny was supposed to be a euphemism for. As if he needed to know.

“Santa” sat up, swaying slightly, his eyes round and bleary. He shook his head several times, slapped the back of his head twice, and hiccuped.

Hunter viewed him askance. “Are— are you sure you're okay, old-timer?”

“Fit as a fiddle. It's Benny took the brunt of it, poor little fellow.”

Hunter winced. Yeah, the old coot had probably landed right on his… well, he'd never heard it called a
benny
before. “Ah, yah, must've hurt like hell. Sorry.”

The man looked at him reproachfully. “And him being such a tiny little thing.”

Hunter stared at him. He blinked. What could he say to that? He rubbed his forehead. “Hey, you know, cold weather and all… ”

Santa raised one bushy eyebrow and, shaking his head, muttered under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like “twit.”

The old coot seemed okay. Drunk as a skunk, but okay. Impatiently, Hunter looked at his watch. He had a flight leaving from Bangor in a little over three hours and this was one flight he did not want to miss. The sooner he exited this horror-hotel the better; so far the trip had been one long nightmare.

Besides, the chances of him getting another flight out tonight during Christmas week were probably five trillion to one. Conservatively speaking.

“Well, if you're sure you're all right… ”

“I told ya, lad, I'm fine.”

Nodding, Hunter turned and started to walk back to his car, missing the old man's surprised look. He had just reached the driver's door when an ear-splitting yell pierced the night, shattering Hunter's ear drums.

“Me leg! I can't move me leg!”

Hunter raced back to him, face pale. “You are hurt! Don't worry, I have a cell phone in the car. I'll go call an ambulance. Stay put— I'll be right back—”

“I ain't getting into no meat wagon!” the voice wailed indignantly.

“But you—”

“You'll take me then, won't ya, sonny?” Santa looked at him slyly.

Hunter sighed. He was being sucker-punched and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. “All right.”

The old coot grinned. “Put your hands out so I can give ya Benny.”

Hunter's eyes widened. He stepped back. Three steps.

“Now, there's nothing to be afraid of. Benny's real friendly. I'm sure you're going to be very fond of him—”

“The hell you say!” Hunter took another step back.

Santa clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes heavenward as if asking for divine interference. Reaching into his voluminous velvet shirt, he extracted a small reddish-brown bundle of fur with floppy ears. A blue bow was tied around its neck.

A puppy. Benny was a puppy. I've been living in New York too long, Hunter concluded. He tentatively reached down and took the little guy from the man.

The puppy immediately licked his hand. Then, wagging his wispy tail, he looked up at Hunter with big brown eyes.

Cute little tyke.
Unconsciously, he petted the dog's head. “Nice puppy,” he murmured distractedly. He had never been around dogs much. “What kind of dog is this?”

“That there's a genuine long-haired dachshund. Don't see too many of them dogs about. Kinda special, they are. Benny's being relocated.”

“Relocated?”

“His old family didn't treat him none too well, poor mite. And him being the fine dog he is.”

Hunter stroked the soft little head. “Too bad. How old is he?”

“About a year old.”

Hunter was surprised. “I thought he was just a puppy.”

“He is; always will be. That's the magic of some dogs,” he confided before hiccuping drunkenly.

Hunter looked at him askance. “Ah, yah. Do you need a hand up?”

“Probably. But ya need to take me bag first.” He nodded to the sack lying near him on the snowy pavement.

Hunter quirked his brow. “Let me guess, gifts to be dispensed?”

“Right ya are, boyo. I was headed to the children's home before ya ran me down like some no-account slug in the gutter.” He speared him with a pointed look from beneath bushy brows.

“Now wait just a minute, old-timer, you—”

“The bag, sonny.”

Letting out a hiss of disgust, Hunter retrieved the huge sack of wrapped gifts, throwing it onto the back seat of his car. Then he helped the old coot into the front seat, almost passing out from the alcohol fumes.

He wondered if it would affect him like secondary smoke in the closed confines of the automobile.

The way his day had been going? Absolutely.

He could see it now. He would get pulled over by the Maine police and get arrested for secondary drunk driving, and while he was hauled away, he would babble pitiful phrases about million-dollar advances and an
ashram
in Sri Lanka.

Hunter decided he definitely needed a vacation.

“You'll just have to do it, boyo!”

“Santa” lay on the hospital bed, propped up by three pillows and surrounded by four pretty nurses. Never mind that the ER doctor could find nothing wrong with the old coot. For a man supposedly in pain, he seemed remarkably comfortable. And smug.

Go figure, but the young women couldn't do too much for the guy. Even his white beard looked as if it had the snarls combed out of it.

Hunter's brow furrowed. Odd how the man had seemed to sober up as soon as they entered the emergency room. Even the noxious alcohol fumes had mysteriously disappeared.

In response, the corner of Hunter's mouth lifted in a semblance of a sarcastic grin. “I don't think so, pop. I got a plane to catch.”

A screech of utter despair filled the room. “Aw, the children! How will they get their gifts?
The chi-i-l-l-dren!
”

The pitiful wail of anguish bounced off the green walls, causing the four nurses to cross their arms over their ample chests in unison and level looks of utter disdain at Hunter.

He felt like a first-class heel.

He tried to explain. “Look, I have to get back to New—”

Santa stopped in mid-wail to pin him to the spot. “Ya can still make yer plane! Won't take but fifteen minutes! Ya told me on the drive ain't no family waitin' home for ya anyway. Think of the children… ”

“Well, I… ” Hunter could feel himself caving in. How could he refuse? And live with himself. Just because he was alone and didn't have anyone to share Christmas with was no reason to be a Grinch. As long as he still made his plane, that is.

The old codger knew the instant he had won. He pointed to the red velvet suit draped over the chair next to the bed.

This was where C. Hunter Douglas drew the line. “Absolutely not, pop.”

A petite red-haired nurse joined in. “Oh, but you can't deliver the gifts to those poor children not dressed as Santa! That would be even worse than no gifts at all.”

Santa nodded vehemently in agreement.

Dammit.
He might as well just do it and get it over with. Maybe then he could get out of this godforsaken town! Anything was better than those five sets of dog-eyes staring at him. Make that six including Benny, who had started up a soulful whine in chorus.

He stormed over to the chair and grabbed the velvet suit.

“What about your beard?” the red-headed nurse asked.

“What about it?” he snapped.

“Well, you don't have one! The hat will cover your hair, but the beard… I've got it!” She snapped her fingers. “I'll make you one from some cotton batting and surgical thread.”

“Good idea, Rudy.” Santa praised the nurse's ingenuity.

She smiled broadly. “I'll be right back.”

“I can hardly wait,” Hunter muttered under his breath.

Hunter started to put the mangy outfit on over his Armani suit, came to his senses, and headed for the cubicle bathroom. When he exited all in red, his business suit was draped carefully over his arm.

“I never realized how fine I look in that suit.” The old-timer on the bed grinned wickedly at him. He was really enjoying this.

Hunter narrowed his silver eyes. The daunting effect was somewhat spoiled when the pom-pom at the end of the hat smacked into his nose.

“Here we go!” Nurse Rudy raced back into the room with a fluffy wad of cotton attached to a string. “Bend down and I'll tie it on for you.”

Hunter knelt his tall frame so she could tie it behind his ears. She began stuffing his wavy dark brown hair under the rim of the hat. “Can't let the kids see this. You know, I have some scissors in my pocket; I could trim it off… ”

“No!” Hunter abruptly stood.

Walking over to a small square mirror on the wall, he peered at his new high-powered image. “I look like a cross between a sheep's butt and a horse's behind.”

The nurses giggled.

Santa stroked his beard. “I will admit ya don't carry it off with quite the same flair I do.”

Hunter faced him. “You can have the job back any time, pop.”

The man's eyes twinkled. “Right ya are, sonny! Now, here's the directions to the place; I wrote them down for ya.” He handed him a heavily scrawled piece of paper.

Hunter scanned it. “Are you sure this is close by; it seems—”

“Country roads. Don't worry about that none, just follow those directions exactly and ya won't have no problem.”

Hunter stuffed the note in his pocket. Then he hoisted the heavy sack over his broad shoulder. “Well, see ya later, Santa. It's been… interesting.”

“Wait a minute!” Hunter turned around. The codger held the puppy out to him. “Ya forgot Benny.”

Hunter sighed resignedly, putting out his hand for the dog.

“He don't like the cold much!” Santa yelled after him.

Hunter waved acknowledgment without turning around.

Before he left the hospital he scooted the dog safely inside his shirt.

T
urkeyfoote Road.

Where in the hell was Turkeyfoote Road?

It seemed as if he'd been driving for hours, although his watch claimed it was only about thirty minutes.

He had left the outskirts of the village twenty minutes ago. The snowfall had picked up considerably; his wipers were just keeping up with it. If he didn't find the turn-off soon, he was going to turn back, drop off the gifts and Benny. The small dog was still nestled next to his chest, refusing to leave the warmth of his shirt.

At this pace, he might miss his plane. And he still had to drive to Bangor. These dark country roads were—

A small wooden sign staked to the ground seesawed in the wind to his left. It was placed next to— not a road exactly, more a trail.

On the front of the wooden sign someone had drawn in red paint what one might assume was a turkey foot.

It was a good enough indication for him.

He swung the car to the left and followed the narrow rutted pathway. After ten minutes of bouncing and sliding on the dirt track, he wondered what had possessed him to take that turn.

The snow was falling fast and furious now.

He had just decided to turn back when he rounded a bend and spotted some lights in the distance. About 300 yards up the road a house sat on a hill. It was too dark and snowy to see much of its shape, but Hunter had no doubt that it was the children's home. He had followed the directions exactly.

Unfortunately, at that point the road became steeper and rougher. In this snow, without four-wheel drive, he didn't think he'd be able to drive much further. The surface was slick and pitted with ice.

Deciding it was best to walk the remaining distance— he wasn't going to take any chances of getting stuck here— he stopped the car, grabbed the sack from the back seat, tucked Benny's head back in his shirt, and headed up to the house.

T
he lights flickered and went out.

May peered out the window. The storm was really picking up. Earlier she had tried to tune in a local radio station on her iPod Nano but all she got was static. Reception hadn't been the best these past few days, and she supposed with this snow…

The firelight cast eerie shadows on the walls.

She swallowed. This was creepy. She had never done anything like this before.
Why, oh why, had she come here by herself?

The wind howled outside. An eerie sonata.

Billy had told her there was a generator in the cellar, but she didn't have the foggiest idea how to use it. And even if she could use it, there was no way she was going down in that dirt cellar by herself in the dark! It was a
Tales from the Crypt
waiting to happen.