"Oh, Nittleigh," cried the old woman. "You remembered!"
Nittleigh said nothing, but cringed as his wary glance flicked between Plugugly and his boss, unsure from which direction his doom would come.
O’Henry’s eyes narrowed and widened and narrowed again, in a Morse code debate between his good and evil natures. His nostrils flared, his face turned as purple as Holly’s feather boa with the strength of his warring emotions.
In a distant part of the lodge, a choir of children broke into a chorus of “Snuggle Up, Honey, It Isn’t Hot Outside.”
"Yes," said O'Henry. “He did, indeed.” He handed the bottle to the old woman and wrapped the muffler around Nittleigh's neck. If he made it just a touch too snug for comfort, it was only by a touch. "Let me tell you about it."
He proceeded to spin a tale that rivaled the most treacly of the Compendium's collection, about the Brave Little Pratty, The Littlest Pratty Of Them All, who struggled through storm and cold and dark and sundry other obstacles to bring a head librarian and a beloved son to the bosom of their family for the Anti-Hot Solemnities.
"And now," he finished, "Blue Ruin for everybody!"
Carried away by the spirit of the occasion, Humbug Plugugly said, "And Free Trade mufflers!"
O'Henry, laughed and echoed the cry: "And Free Trade mufflers!"
Later, when all the Blue Ruin had been drunk in toasts to the season, Humbug Plugugly turned to Holly Jahangiri and said, "What kind of noise does a pratty make, anyway, Holly?"
And she told him.
"They go 'Baaaaaah,' Humbug."
FORCE OF HABIT, Marian Allen's sf/cop/humor novel from Echelon Press, features Holly Jahangiri and more of her books! https://MarianAllen.com
Believe
Do you believe?
by Connie L. Roberts-Huth
Somewhere behind me, I could hear the faintest notes of Joy to the World breaking through the otherwise painful silence around me. I tried to block it out, to focus on what had stolen the last breath from the body in front of me, but the melody was like an earworm, small and persistent. And a lie.
There was no joy to be had here. No joy for the family of this child this holiday season. The death of this perfectly placed angel at my feet would forever mar every Christmas from here until the end of time. For them. For the officers around me. Hell, even for me.
And I already hated Christmas.
Granted, the only other telltale sign of the holiday in this little southeastern corner of Arizona were the commercial decorations hung from the lamp posts and a little nip in the wind, but that was more than enough for me. It could be worse, I reminded myself. It was snowing back home in Baltimore.
I sighed and flicked a pebble. That wasn’t home anymore. Here was home now. Hiding away in a remote little town that I had never heard of until I’d gone looking for, well, a remote little town, had seemed like the best answer to the disastrous end of my last case out east. Sure, we had caught the murderers and the smugglers. We’d even killed a great naga and saved some babies. Way to go, good guys.
But I had lost the full use of my right leg in that last fight and walked with a cane at the age of 37.
And, I had lost Daniel.
I stopped, tears welling up again. Just thinking his name hurt. It wasn’t fair, not after everything we had been through, all those stupid obstacles we had overcome, that he was gone. I hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. Just…gone.
My heart hurt in places I didn’t even realize could hurt anymore.
So I had run away. Away from that familiar place and the far too numerous touchstones. Away from the faces of people who loved me but didn’t have the words—were there any words to be said that could change things?—to help me through this insanity. Away from the haunting whispers of the dead. But no matter how far I went, I couldn’t get away from the memory of him.
The agony was crippling, enough to shut out the new voices here in the remains of the wild, wild west and all its shenanigans. Except that I hadn’t been able to just blend, and I needed to work once the money in my savings account began its treacherous dwindle. So I made friends with the cops, and well, here I was, squatting in a parking lot in the middle of December.
Another sigh escaped my mouth.
The song seemed to go on forever. My hand hovered over hers. One touch would end the holiday gaiety. Just one touch. But as I sat there, knees bent, cool breeze creeping up my pants legs, in the middle of this abandoned parking lot, I had to admit to myself that I was afraid of what I was trading for that stupid song.
It had been my experience in the ten years I had been an asset to the police that the death of a child was rarely calm or peaceful. It was always tragic. Worse, if I was brought in, because that usually meant it was also horrific. So maybe that skewed my views on this topic a little. Then again maybe it was just because of the screaming. They always screamed.
Every. Single. Goddamned. Time.
So I hovered.
“Ma’am?” The detective’s voice had a slight drawl to it, a transplant to this little town tucked in the southeastern corner of Arizona. “Ma’am, do you need anything?”
I sighed and closed my eyes. The transition from Baltimore to here hadn’t been smooth, even though my reputation had preceded me, and while the Sierra Vista Police Department had been grateful for my assistance these last few months, they were still feeling me out. Which was fine. And it’s not like I could’ve explained to them how I worked anyway. Not really.
“Detective Henry?”
He glanced around nervously, which amused me. We had never worked together, before this case, and he did not look like he was comfortable having me around. Not that dark edge of disbelief—I don’t think he’d made a decision about me yet—but more that apprehensive calculation that spoke of restraint and years of being surprised by the unexpected.
And I was nothing if not unexpected.
“Ms. Delante.” He inhaled deeply and adjusted the length of his pea coat. Who wore a pea coat in Arizona? Yeah, this guy. “I’ve never done this before,” he whispered.
I bit back the sarcastic retort trying desperately to escape from the diving board of my tongue. This wasn’t my first real bite in the month I’d been in this town, but a girl should never look a possible gift horse in the mouth. Trojans? I shook the thought out of my head and faked my best ‘trust me’ smile. “It’s okay. No one should have to say that they talk to people like me on a regular basis. I just need…” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I just need some more time.”
Henry took a step backwards, hands open and offered in the universal sign of backing off. “Take all the time you need.”
I heard the words, but I saw the look in his eyes and heard the whispers around us. Time was never as plentiful as I could ever want. It was as simple and complicated as that. And I needed to just get it done and over with.
I sighed in one long breath, closed my eyes, brushed my fingertips against the cool surface of her hand, and waited for the inevitable. My touch, however, was met with silence.
Like every sound around me had simply disappeared, sucked into some vacuum of space. There was no screaming, though she still lay there on the ground before me, and no one else was in sight.
How odd. There were usually shadows along the fringe, of people who had been there before she died (places had memory, too), moving through life of their own accord and so within their own bubbles that they had not seen her laid out here, a perfect snow angel on the asphalt.
I pushed forward, pouring power into the vision. The edges cleared, clarified like someone had drawn sharper lines in my field of vision. I could see the potholes several rows of empty parking spaces away from me. And the flitter of moths in the streetlights along the sidewalk. I exhaled and my breathe came away in almost cartoonish lines.
But it shouldn’t have been cold enough for that, regardless of Detective Henry’s pea coat. Which could only mean one thing.
br /> “Can you help me?” the littlest of voice murmured from behind me. I froze—you’d think after all these years, I would be used to this whole mess, but there’s something about a disembodied child’s voice that always freaked me out--but that didn’t seem to dissuade her. She tugged on the hem of my jacket. “Miss Lady, can you help me? I’ve lost my mommy.”
I turned in almost movie slow-mo to see the little girl standing there, as perfect as she lay there behind me. “You’re dead,” I whispered before I could stop the words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…I’m usually better at this.”
The little girl shrugged in her little faux fur coat, all those dark ringlets gathered around her shoulders like so many puffs of dark clouds. Darker eyes peered at me from long lashes and she cocked her head to the side. “You’re not.”
I shook my head. “No, not dead.”
“But…” She considered me for a minute, her diminutive mouth pursing in thought. “Part of you is dead, though. Is that why you can see me?”
My hand flew to my chest, and I stifled my initial response. This was another reason I hated talking to dead children. They saw through you, more so than when they were alive, as if in exchange for losing their young lives, they were given the ability to just see. And I was in no position to be seen today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.
“Yes, I mean, no.” I shook my head again. “I can see you, because I was born able to do this, to talk to dead people.”
She frowned, and it would’ve been painfully adorable, had I not noticed an odd splotch on her forehead along the hairline. It was like watching a train wreck. In the back of my head, I knew what I was seeing, the aftermath of head trauma, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the growing crimson blob.
“Do you know who hurt you?”
“Santa.” She said that one word so succinctly, as if it summed up everything, and I guessed in a way it did. “He wasn’t really Santa, though,” she mused in that tone of knowledge kids had when they knew more than you. “The suit was a bad one. And he was wearing those things you put over shoes…um…”
“Shoe covers?” I offered.
She nodded. The blob moseyed down the side of her face, curved at the jaw line and dripped onto faux fur only to…disappear? The girl brushed her hair back and smeared blood into the curls, smudging the edges along her cheek. “Yes, those things. Shoe covers.” She started and smiled at me, bloodied hand outstretched. “My name is Eloise.”
I slid my hand over hers and braced for the wetness in her palm. Nothing. Curiouser and curiouser. “My name is Zoe.”
Eloise smiled that smile again. “I think I knew that. How could I know that?”
“I’ll be honest,” I conceded. “I haven’t a clue. I’ve never met you. I’ve only been here for a few months. I keep to myself. I only come out when people are dead. And you’ve only died this once, so no, I haven’t a clue how you could know my name.”
She shrugged. “It’s not important. It’s more important that you catch Santa, that fake Santa Claus, before he kills my mother, too.”
What a way to get my attention, huh? I knelt in front of her. “Eloise, do you remember where you were killed?”
She frowned, the downward turn of lips marring the angelic glow of her face. Dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment, something sinister peeked through. The hint of it, that darkness, took me aback, and I went from kneeling to sitting on my butt. I blinked and the moment was over. Else pushed back missed curls and considered me once more with a nonchalance usually reserved for adults.
"I know where I live,” she retorted, as if I'd asked the stupidest question in the universe.
Did I mention how much I hated dead kids?
I righted myself, dusted off my hands, and contemplated my words. "Eloise, I'm glad you know where you live, but I don't know where you live. And I can't save your mommy, if I don't know where you live."
The frown was back with the addition of crossed arms. Nice going, Zoe, piss off the kid. "I'm not a baby. I'm seven and a half years old," she said in that cold, creepy child voice that haunted scary movies about bad babysitters. "I was going to be a princess when I grew up, with a castle and horses and teacups and..." The words faded into a high pitched squeal I imagined dogs could hear in Mexico. Her eyes glistened with big, fat tears that poured over those thick bottom lashes and down her cheeks.
The squeal gave way to crying, then sobbing, and she reached for me, her energy flowing from her like so many fingers. It touched mine, that tight shield I’d held for so many years, and I felt her need warm against it, seeking passage, needing something solid in this nothingness.
"Oh, baby girl," I whispered as I gathered her up in my arms. "Eloise, Eloise, oh, poor Eloise. I'm so sorry that you're dead. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."
"I want my mommy," she cried into my shoulder. "I want my mommy, Zoe!"
"We're going to find her. I promise." I stroked her head, wanting so badly to wipe away the pain she was feeling. "We're going to find her, and we’re going save her." I don't know how long I held her, just the two of us in the middle of that empty parking lot, but my spidey sense tingled as her sobs subsided. I opened my eyes to see the edges of the vision unraveling, letting in the encroaching darkness of the crime scene.
I could hear the faintest whispers, frantic and concerned. Which meant I was probably passed out. Shit. There was a no touching rule invoked for every crime scene, because it could cause me to leave a vision early, but most cops could only let me lay there for five, maybe ten minutes. Then the EMT would be summoned, and I'd be out, whether I was ready or not. I was running out of time.
I peeled Eloise from my body. "I have to go..."
"No, you can't leave me here!"
"Eloise, I have to go, but I need to know where you live. I need your address." The voices were getting louder. Someone was saying my name.
She shook her head. "But you're going to leave me here all alone!"
The details were fading so quickly, I half-wondered what they were doing to me on the other side. "Eloise, please, I want to save your Mommy."
She paused and leaned against me. "1500 Bella Vista Drive," she whispered.
I sighed in relief. "Thank you. I'll make this right."
"I'm coming with you."
Before I could even get the surprise what out of my mouth, she stepped into me and the vision popped.
Or my ears did. I blinked twice and the real world came into focus. I saw an EMT with a big ass adrenaline needle headed toward me, and I raised one hand. “Oh, you can stop right there, mister.”
I felt hands on me. “Ms. Delante?”
“Oh, Detective Henry, I’m so…sorry about this,” I said as I let him help me stand. “I know it can be disconcerting when I pass out like that.” I saw the question in his eyes and nodded. “But yes, it was worth it. I know where we need to go.” I relayed the address to him, and as he rallied the troops and accepted my insistence that I was fine, minus the road rash I’d received from my fall, I leaned against my car to rest.
I didn’t know the town well enough to figure out how to get to the house, and if I was honest, my part was done. As long as they got there now, in the flurry of lights and sirens and miscellaneous other outbound activity, I shouldn’t be needed. If we were late…
Don’t say that!
Eloise’s voice startled me. I pushed off the car to look for her ghost and caught my reflection in the glass.
“Oh…oh, no.” I saw me, of course, but there, at the height she would’ve stood, I could also see the top of a little girl’s head. The image moved upward, as if she was now standing on tiptoe, and those curls gave way to eyebrows and lashes.
I’m going with you. I told you that. If I stood on my tiptoes, I would swear there’d be a pout on her lips, as clear as her tone. You promised you were going to save my mommy.
“I am…”
But you're just standing here.
I waved at the last vesti
ges of the crime scene crew. “I’m not a cop. I can’t just go busting in, guns blazing. Hell, I don’t even carry a gun!” I could feel her disappointment like a stone in my stomach, and I moved away from the car without looking back. Her body was draped in a white sheet, a gurney clicking over the asphalt from the ambulance to pick her up.
She whimpered as I walked closer. Don’t want to see me.
My feet stopped. “Guess not, huh?” Who would, really? I know when I died, I had no intention of revisiting my corpse. “Eloise?”
He’s coming.
I glanced around. Detective Henry was headed in my direction, all grim-faced. A sinking feeling that had nothing to do with my stowaway tightened in my stomach. “Tell me we’re not too late.”
He shook his head. “No, we’re not too late. We’re just at a standstill.” He rubbed one hand over his eyes. “There’s someone in there with her…”
Santa.
“Santa.”
He cocked his head at me. “Yes, Santa,” he drew the words out slowly. “How’d you…” A metallic clang caught our attention, and we looked to see the EMT struggling to get the wheel of the gurney out of a hole. Easier to do, when you don’t have a package on top, and he was definitely trying to maintain a modicum of respect for Eloise’s small body. Henry glanced at the gurney and then back at me. “She told you.”
I shrugged. No sense in lying about it. “She did. She told me about the fake Santa. He’s the one that killed her.”
“At the house?”
Eloise sighed, as I answered. “Yeah, at the house.” He doesn’t understand you. He wants to think you’re lying about me.
“I’m not lying,” I said to them both. “I could explain it to you, but I have the stinkin’ suspicion that we don’t have the time. How can I help you?”
The house looked familiar, not that I remembered driving through this neighborhood. It wasn’t like I had friends here, knew anyone, but this house, with its large front window and carport, struck a chord with me. I touched the glass on the passenger side of the cop car, and my breath made a small cloud.
Don’t make me go in there. She sounded small again. My hand rose of its own accord—though I suspected it was hers—and drew a smiley face in it. Please don’t make me go back in there.