Silent Night

  Silence.

  All three of them stood at the entranceway, their eyes ranging over the width of the store. Nothing moved. No sign of anyone.

  “The whole store is ours!” Mickey proclaimed jubilantly. “Wow!”

  Clay turned back to him angrily. “Don’t celebrate yet.” He held the pistol at his waist.

  “But this is neat!” Mickey exclaimed.

  Pam wished she could feel as excited. Her mouth felt dry, her throat tight. She expected someone to jump out at them at any moment.

  It’s stifling in here, she thought, unzipping her coat. They turn off the air at night. We’re breathing this afternoon’s air. Leftover air. We’re going to suffocate.

  I can’t breathe!

  She scolded herself for starting to panic.

  It’s too late for that. You’ve come too far to panic now.

  Taking a deep breath, and then another, she followed Clay and Mickey through the aisles of perfume and makeup counters, their sneakers squeaking softly on the hard floors.

  Silence.

  The silence is thick, Pam thought. I can feel it.

  Strange thoughts. But who could blame her?

  She stared up at the dark Christmas tree, then to the side of it to the balconies that overlooked them. Was someone standing on one of those balconies? Was there a security guard somewhere up there watching them make their way through the store?

  No. Of course not.

  Maywood would have thought of that. Wouldn’t he?

  Clay’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Up the stairs,” he whispered, pointing with the pistol. “We go past Santa Land up there, then down another set of stairs, and we’re in electronics.”

  “Wow,” Mickey whispered, just behind Pam.

  Someone was standing at the foot of the stairs.

  Pam gasped and held back, grabbing on to a glass counter, ready to back away, to run.

  But after a second of breath-stopping fright, she realized it wasn’t a person, but a mannequin.

  Behind her, Mickey let out a high-pitched giggle. He must have been frightened by the same mannequin.

  They hurried up the low stairway, crossed the Santa area with its fake snow, its wooden, toy-laden sleigh complete with a single stuffed reindeer, and a tall, jutting barber pole, labeled NORTH POLE. Then down another low stairway into the large electronics department.

  “We don’t need Santa Claus, man!” Mickey exclaimed, rushing ahead of Pam and Clay, picking up the first VCR he found.

  Clay scowled. He and Pam approached more cautiously. Pam’s eyes searched the area, from the wall of TVs on one side, past the CDs and stereos to the cordless telephones and video game players on the other.

  No one there.

  Silence.

  The only sound was the crackling of a faulty ceiling light above her head.

  “Where’s Maywood?” Pam whispered nervously, grasping Clay’s sleeve.

  He shrugged. “We can’t stand around and wait for him,” he said, his gray eyes hard and steady. “Let’s get busy here.”

  Mickey had already picked up two cartons from behind a display shelf. “Hey, Clay—” he called. “What do I do with these VCRs?”

  Clay uttered a low cry and slapped his own forehead. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “We should’ve brought big bags or something to carry stuff in. Why didn’t I think of it?”

  The boys were talking too loudly, Pam thought, feeling her muscles tighten. Every sound they made frightened her more. She felt as if she were wearing her nerves outside her body.

  The crackling of the overhead light was driving her crazy.

  Mickey and Clay seemed to have forgotten about her entirely. They were huddled together, trying to solve the problem of how to carry the stuff they stole. Clay kept cursing himself out, telling himself how stupid he was for messing up this detail in the plan.

  “Hey, I know, man. Maybe we can make several trips,” Mickey suggested, still holding the two VCR cartons.

  “Yeah. Of course,” Clay replied, somewhat cheered. “We’re in no hurry, right? We’ve got all the time in the world. We can take all night. Make as many trips as we want.”

  “Yeah!” Mickey agreed happily.

  “Okay. Let’s pile up the stuff,” Clay said with renewed enthusiasm. “As much as we can fit into Pam’s car.”

  Pam looked behind her, searched the long aisles, then stared back at the wall of TVs, dark and silent.

  I should be home watching TV, she thought.

  Home safe and sound with my parents. Watching the Grinch or something.

  “Oh!” she cried out as she heard a sound.

  Clay and Mickey froze in the aisle in front of her, staring back at her.

  “Did you hear that?” Pam cried. She turned toward the sound. It seemed to have come from a small office to the right of the TVs.

  “Hear what?” Clay asked, irritated.

  “A noise. Like somebody dropped something,” Pam managed to say, still staring at the office.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Mickey said.

  “But it was loud!” she insisted.

  Clay, the pistol raised, followed the direction of her gaze. “It came from over there?”

  “That office,” she said, holding on tightly to a countertop.

  All three of them listened.

  Silence now.

  “That office is completely dark,” Clay said, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “So?” she cried.

  “So don’t scare us again,” he warned coldly.

  “Listen—I didn’t make it up,” Pam insisted.

  “If you’re not going to help, at least don’t mess us up,” Clay told her, pulling out a carton of Walkmans.

  “Well, can’t you hurry it up?” Pam asked anxiously, her voice so high-pitched she didn’t recognize it.

  Clay didn’t reply. He only glared.

  She glanced back at the office. It was completely dark as Clay had said. She listened hard but heard only Mickey and Clay, pulling out CD players, and the annoying crackling of the ceiling light.

  When she turned back to her two companions, she saw the blue-uniformed security guard.

  He was very tall and tremendously overweight, Pam saw, with a beer belly hanging over his uniform pants. He was walking slowly, cautiously up the aisle behind Clay and Mickey. He had one hand resting on top of his gun holster.

  Pam opened her mouth to warn her companions, but no sound came out.

  She could only point.

  Her fear began to ebb when she realized the intruder must be Maywood.

  The guard stopped a few display cases behind Clay and Mickey. Despite his size, he had a baby face with big blue eyes and a stub of a nose. “Hello, folks!” he yelled cheerily. “Can I help you select anything?”

  Both boys cried out in surprise and spun around. Mickey dropped the carton he was holding. It hit the floor at his feet with a loud crash.

  “Hey—” Clay’s mouth dropped open.

  Why does Clay look confused? Pam wondered, her fear beginning to mount again.

  “You’re not Maywood!” Clay exclaimed. “Where’s Maywood?”

  The guard’s expression turned hard. “Don’t move. Don’t talk,” he warned.

  “But Maywood—” Clay started.

  “I mean it!” the guard bellowed, his large belly rising up as he screamed. “Any talking, I’ll do it, hear?”

  Mickey, all the color drained from his face, stared in disbelief at Clay. Pam, still leaning against the display case, felt her legs go weak. Her throat tightened.

  I can’t breathe, she thought.

  I’m too frightened to breathe.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Clay promised us nothing would go wrong.

  “Put your hands in the air,” the guard instructed, one hand gesturing, the other still on top of his holster. “Put them high above your heads and keep them there.”

  Obediently raising her hands, Pam saw Mickey do the same. But Clay hes
itated.

  “Listen—” he called to the guard.

  “Raise ’em!” the guard bellowed. “Now!”

  Staring hard into the guard’s unblinking eyes, Clay made no move to raise his hands.

  “Maywood told us—” Clay started.

  “Raise ’em!” the guard insisted. “Save your stories for the police.” Without warning he lumbered forward quickly, leaned down, and pressed a button hidden under a display counter. A deafening alarm bell blared through the store.

  “Run!” Clay shouted.

  Without thinking, Pam started to run up the aisle, running blindly and breathlessly, the displays and mannequins a dim blur beside her.

  She could hear Mickey a few yards behind her, hear his sneakers squeaking rapidly over the floor.

  She could hear the guard yelling, calling to them.

  At the low steps she turned and looked back.

  And saw Clay facing the guard, his pistol raised.

  “Clay—no!” Pam cried.

  No, please no! she pleaded silently.

  The guard, his baby face wide-eyed, startled, pulled his gun from its holster.

  A gunshot.

  The sound cut right through Pam.

  She pressed her open hands over her face, afraid to look, afraid to cry out. Afraid to stay. Afraid to run.

  “Clay—no!” Mickey shrieked from right beside her.

  Pam watched the guard go down, clutching his bloodied chest, falling like a heavy sack of flour.

  And now Clay, still holding the pistol, his face twisted in horror, was running, running to catch up with Pam and Mickey.

  The alarm roared in her ears. It seemed to get louder, louder, until it felt as if it were coming from inside her head, and she thought her head would explode, explode from the sound, from what she had just seen.

  And then the silence would return.

  The cool, soft silence.

  But, no. Clay caught up to them, pushed them both, forced them to start moving again. Up the low steps. Past the North Pole. Past Santa’s gilded throne.

  Goodbye, Santa Land.

  Goodbye, Christmas.

  Goodbye, childhood. Forever.

  We’re criminals now.

  Clay shot the guard.

  And now we’re running, running, running.

  Pam couldn’t control her thoughts. Everything was out of control now.

  They pounded over the floor. Through the aisles of sweet-smelling perfumes, past the smartly dressed mannequins.

  Goodbye.

  Goodbye to everything sweet smelling and good.

  And still the alarm shrieked, following them, staying with them, behind them, ahead of them as they ran.

  Through the narrow employees’ corridor. Then through the empty darkness of the receiving area.

  The siren surrounded them, captured them, held them.

  Pam saw the gray door up ahead. The door that led out and away. The door that led to the dark, cool night.

  The silent night.

  She reached it first, pushed hard, and the door swung open.

  Out onto the loading dock, the cold air rushing at her face. Mickey and Clay were right behind, gasping mouthfuls, their chests heaving as they struggled to breathe.

  And still the roaring siren followed her. Even louder out there.

  Got to get away. Got to drive away.

  Got to go!

  “Hey—” Mickey saw it first.

  Then Pam.

  “My car!” she cried. “It’s gone!”

  Chapter 17

  MURDER

  Trapped.

  Who could have taken the car?

  No time to think about it.

  Over the maddening wail of the alarm, Pam could hear the rise and fall of other sirens. Police sirens. Growing louder.

  Coming closer.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” she cried.

  And then she saw the car.

  It was right where she’d parked it at the loading dock to their right.

  “We came out the wrong door!” Clay realized.

  They had burst out onto the middle loading dock. Now, without hesitating, Pam jumped down, landing hard on the asphalt drive, and hurtled toward the car.

  As she ran, Pam pulled the keys from her coat pocket. All three of them reached the car at the same time, their breath puffing above them, steamy and white against the night sky, the sirens wailing.

  Clay slammed his fist on the trunk top, latching it.

  It’s empty, Pam found herself thinking.

  All that fear. All that worry. All that. . . blood.

  And the trunk is empty.

  Pam slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. The sirens followed her inside the car. Clay and Mickey piled in, resuming their places.

  The car sputtered, then started on the second try. Pam floored the gas pedal, and the big car squealed away, through the empty employees’ parking lot, lurching over traffic bumps, then back onto Division Street, through a yellow light about to turn to red, and away.

  Away, away, away.

  Two police black-and-whites, their sirens crying out, passed them going the other way.

  In the rearview mirror Pam watched them turn and pull into Dalby’s parking lot.

  In a few minutes they would find the guard. Lying in his own blood.

  And then . . . what?

  The dark stores gave way to dark houses. The streets whirled by silently.

  Silent, at last. Silent again.

  None of them spoke.

  What was there to say?

  Somehow Pam drove them home. Somehow Pam drove herself home.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The next morning she woke up in her clothes, the bed sheets and blankets in a tangled heap on the floor beside the bed.

  It was all a dream, she told herself.

  What a nightmare!

  But then, why was she still dressed in the same clothes as in the dream? And why had she slept so fitfully?

  And why was the dream so fresh, so vivid, so real in her mind?

  Because, Pam knew, it wasn’t a dream.

  It had all really happened.

  Yawning and rubbing her eyes, she bent to pull the bedclothes up off the floor, then glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. Saturday morning.

  She stood up, stretched, thought about changing into a fresh outfit, then decided against it.

  How could she face her parents this morning?

  She had the feeling that they would know. That they would know everything that had happened just by looking at her, by peering into her eyes.

  She thought of Foxy. He would know too.

  Everyone would know.

  Her life was ruined.

  She slumped into the bathroom, brushed her hair and her teeth. Then, feeling as if she hadn’t slept, still hearing the insistent wail of the store alarm in the back of her mind, she descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen to face her parents.

  The radio droned low in the background. Breakfast dishes were still on the table, but her parents were nowhere to be seen. At her usual place at the table Pam found a hastily scribbled note in her mother’s handwriting.

  The note read: “Your father still insists on paneling the den. I’ve gone with him to the lumber store so he doesn’t pick anything too ghastly. Back soon. Love.”

  Pam felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. She didn’t want to face her mom and dad this morning, but she didn’t feel like being alone, either.

  There were cereal boxes on the table, but Pam knew she couldn’t eat anything. Her mouth felt dry as cotton. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and drank it down, pulp and all.

  She was about to go back up to her room when the voice on the radio caught her attention. “A break-in at Dalby’s Department Store on Division Street last night,” Pam heard. She lunged for the radio, banging her knee against the counter, and turned up the volume.

  “Ed Javors, a veteran security guard, was f
atally shot,” the announcer reported. “The burglars got away with twenty-five thousand dollars from a main-floor office safe. Shadyside police have assigned four men to the case. I’ll have today’s tri-city weather forecast in a moment.”

  Her forehead throbbing, Pam clicked off the radio. Her head lowered, she stood grasping the counter, trying to catch her breath.

  Fatally shot.

  The guard was fatally shot.

  Killed.

  And $25,000 in cash taken from a main-floor office safe.

  This is impossible, Pam thought.

  This didn’t happen.

  The guard was killed and $25,000 was stolen.

  But how could that be?

  She pushed herself away from the counter, slumped onto the chair at the table, and buried her head in her hands.

  Got to think. Got to think. Got to think about this clearly.

  But her thoughts spun wildly, whirling, whirling to the wail of the alarm siren.

  Clay is a murderer.

  He killed the guard. I saw him. I saw him shoot the guard.

  And then—

  No!

  We didn’t open the safe. We didn’t take any money.

  We didn’t take anything!

  This story is wrong. All wrong. It has to be wrong.

  Without realizing what she was doing, she had gotten up, walked over to the wall phone by the kitchen door, and was punching in Clay’s number.

  He picked up after the first ring.

  “Clay—” Pam said. “Did you hear the radio?”

  “Yeah,” came the reply. His voice sounded hoarse, weary.

  “It’s wrong. It’s all wrong!” Pam shrieked, unable to contain her panic.

  “Tell me about it,” Clay said quietly. “My gun wasn’t loaded.”

  “Huh?” Clay’s words didn’t make any sense to her.

  I’m losing it, Pam thought. I’m totally losing it.

  “My gun wasn’t loaded,” Clay repeated. “I just carried it for show.”

  “You didn’t shoot him?”

  “No way,” Clay said, sighing loudly. “No way.”

  “That means—” Pam started, closing her eyes, trying to think.

  “That means someone else killed the guard,” Clay finished her sentence for her. “And someone else took the money.”