The Santas: A Christmas Story
Author: D J Molles
Date: 2021-02-23 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Santa's helpers don't always dispose of bodies, but that's what Tucker Smith is doing right now. Specifically, the body of his own Santa - one of thousands worldwide - who was just murdered in an apparent random act of violence. Now, Tucker will have to somehow manage to deliver Christmas to his assigned region while he struggles to patch things up with his family, all while training the replacement sent to him by The Organization and trying to uncover the mystery of who killed Santa. And there's only five days left until Christmas.
Publisher: Audible Studios on Brilliance

The Santas

A Christmas Story

By

D. J. MOLLES

We were dreamers

Not so long ago

But one by one

We all had to grow up

When it seems the magic slipped away

We find it all again on Christmas Day

--“Believe” by Josh Groban

December 20th, 12:45 a.m.

Santa’s helper wasn’t always called in to dispose of bodies. That’s just what Tucker Smith had to do right now.

The call came in just after midnight, five days until Christmas, while Tucker lay in his bed, staring at the little green light on his bedroom smoke detector, wondering if he’d lost the magic.

Handling dead bodies sure as shit didn’t help, but the worst part was that the body was Santa. His Santa. His boss. The man he’d called “Nick” for the last nine years, because he didn’t know his real name and it felt weird to call another grown man “Santa” all the time.

Nick’s last words to Tucker, huffed into a cell phone, were, “I’ve been shot. I don’t think I can make it back. You need to come get me.”

Tucker sat back on his heels, hunched over top of Nick’s body on the blood smeared front bench seat of a 2001 Ford F-150. He sucked wind. Felt the trickle of blood on the corner of his mouth from where Nick had burped up in the middle of that last round of CPR. He swiped at it with his hand, which was just as bloody, managing to only smear it around on his face.

“Dammit, Nick,” Tucker said between gulps of air. “What were you doing out here?”

He shoved his fingers under Nick’s jaw, looking for that carotid pulse. He already knew that it wouldn’t be there. Nick had been dead when Tucker had arrived. Somehow Tucker’s heart still managed to drop a little further.

He ducked his head to look out the windows. The truck was still running. Headlights casting shadows on the back of the warehouse where Nick had parked the truck, knowing that if he continued to drive he’d crash and cause a public scene. Which couldn’t happen.

Nick had had the forethought to die in secrecy.

Shit.

Santa was dead.

“Five days to Christmas and some asshole capped Santa,” Tucker murmured to himself.

For the first time, Tucker registered that the radio was still on. Bruce Springsteen was asking his audience if they’d been good this year, while sleigh bells jingled and the light, high notes of a piano tinkled.

Tucker shoved Nick’s legs out of the driver’s seat and sat. The fabric squelched. The seat of his pants immediately soaked through.

The best Tucker could tell, someone had shot Nick once, in the gut. He’d bled out, sometime between the call he’d made to Tucker, and when Tucker had arrived, a half-hour later.

Tucker had busted every speed limit and stoplight he could manage without getting pulled over. But he could do no such thing now. Now he needed to slow down and think this through.

He wiped his hands on his pants and then gripped the wheel. He looked at himself in the mirror. Spied the smeared blood. Tried to get it off with his sleeve. Some of it came away, but a lot had already dried.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe and think.

The emergency was over. He couldn’t bring Nick back to life. Nor could he take him to the hospital, or call an ambulance. That was just the nature of their work. Now it was just body disposal, as callous as it sounded to relegate the man to that. But the truth is harsh sometimes. The spirit had gone out of Nick. The lively color had drained from his dark skin, leaving it more ashen than brown. No more twinkle in his eyes. No more joyous laughter.

Just a body now.

Tucker reached out and closed the driver’s door. There was no bullet hole in it, Tucker noted, and the glass was whole. Which meant that Nick had been shot while the door or the window was open. Or perhaps he’d been outside of the car when it happened.

Tucker’s own 2009 Suburban sat to the left. He didn’t remember clipping the carabiner key-ring to his belt loop, but there it sat. He pawed for the Suburban’s key fob and locked it. He’d have to drive Nick’s truck out of here and come back for the Suburban later. Hopefully it would still be there. This was not a good area of town.

Step number one: He needed to get moving. He needed to get to a safe place where he could figure out what to do next, and that meant The Workshop. And he needed to get there without getting pulled over.

He pulled the shifter into drive and swung the truck around. He was only a few short turns from I-77, but because this was a shitty area of town, there were a lot of cops on patrol. Tucker knew this because he’d actually worked this area himself back in the day. However, he didn’t think the whole “Hey, I used to be a cop too” shtick would keep him out of trouble, seeing as how he was covered in blood with a dead man in the seat next to him.

But the Interstate was Highway Patrol’s jurisdiction, and they were always understaffed. Plus it was hard to identify that a man was covered in blood when he drove by in the dark at seventy miles per hour.

He could take I-77 to the I-485 loop, and be relatively certain of not being pulled over, provided he kept it at the speed limit.

He pulled onto Clanton Road, offering up a prayer of thanks that there were no blue and whites nearby. The interstate was dead ahead, and the skyline of Charlotte, North Carolina glimmered over the tops of some trees and seedy motel signs.

As he made the right turn onto the ramp, Nick’s body shifted, and Tucker couldn’t help but stare at it for a moment. In the flashing lights of the passing street lamps, his face looked peaceful.

Tucker’s adrenaline had subsided enough that he was able to feel something else.

A knot in his throat. Wetness in his eyes.

He blinked rapidly, putting his attention on merging with the flow of traffic.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Nick,” Tucker choked out. “You deserved better than a gut shot in the dark.”

Bruce Springsteen’s cheerful voice sang away in the background.

But Santa Claus would not be coming to town.

December 20th, 1:35 a.m.

Tucker pulled around back of The Workshop. It was a standalone building that used to be a bar off of Lawyers Road, just inside the beltway. Now the front door said “Tucker Private Investigations.” Tucker even had his PI license, to keep up appearances, but he’d never actually done any of that work.

The Workshop was private enough, but he still needed to use the backdoor. The front parking lot was well-lit, and close to the road. Passersby tended to get curious about people hauling bodies out of cars at this time of night. Or any time, really.

He unlocked the back door of The Workshop and then returned to the F-150, going to the passenger’s side. When he opened it, Nick’s head lolled out, his lips parted. Eyes beginning to open as the muscles tightened into rigor mortis.

Tucker swallowed hard and braced himself on the door. His breath shuddered in his chest.

Nick didn’t look much like your common depiction of Santa Claus. When Tucker had met Nick nine years ago, his short-cropped hair had still had more pepper than salt. The past decade had bleached most of that out, but it had never gone fully white. No snowy beard, though he did have a gray goatee on his lean face.

Nick was a fit sixty-five year old. No bowls full of jelly here. No kid had ever whispered to their parent about whether or not this man was Santa Claus, but if they’d gotten to know him they would have found that, past his gruff exterior, his eyes indeed twinkled.

“Not anymore,” Tucker breathed. Then he hooked his arms under Nick’s, and dragged the body out, and into the back of The Workshop.

Inside, there were no elves. Tucker was Santa’s only helper. No shelves of toys, though occasionally there would be gifts stored here for delivery. Calling it The Workshop was just one of Nick’s many droll-isms.

Just a wide open space, with a brown tile floor. A small reception room up front, which was just a prop in case anyone peered through the glass doors. An office off to the side with two rolling chairs and an aging Mac desktop. Even now, so many years after being converted to The Workshop, the faint scent of stale beer still haunted the place.

Tucker gently laid Nick down a few feet from the back door, then crossed the dead man’s arms over his chest, as though preparing him for burial. He straightened, breathing slightly elevated from the effort of carrying the body.

“Okay. What do you do now?”

Tucker was wide awake—which wasn’t unusual for him, even at this hour. But his brain still felt foggy and stretched. Not working with its usual acuity. It seemed that only catching four hours of sleep a night for the last month had a compounding affect.

Should he bury the body? Should he sink it in some water? This wasn’t Tucker’s first time having to get rid of a body—sometimes being Santa’s helper called for wet work, though only in extreme circumstances—but Tucker was by no means an expert.

Cutting it up or throwing it through a wood chipper seemed entirely too harsh.

Tucker squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with ice-cold fingers. A myriad of other concerns created a traffic jam in his head, muddying his thoughts even further. How the hell was Tucker going to complete all of their accounts by himself? At last count, he had twenty families left on his list. And those were just the long-term accounts. There were always short-term, seasonal accounts. Families that only needed a little boost to get them through the year.

It wasn’t as simple as just popping presents under the tree. Some of the accounts were very involved. They required subtlety and a deft touch. Working alone, it would require all of Tucker’s time between now and Christmas to get them done. Which meant that his grand plan to pull his family back together for Christmas was suddenly flambéed.

Could he just skip over some accounts? No. That wasn’t the answer. One of the first things that Tucker had learned was “You can’t help everyone.” A refrain that he often repeated to himself, and to Nick. You couldn’t help every family, and you couldn’t make sure every kid got a gift, though if Nick had had the choice, he would’ve tried. At least for their region, which was the greater Charlotte area.

But one thing they did not do was skip accounts. Once it was decided, and a family was put on the list, you completed that account, no matter what. Tucker would complete the accounts. And dammit, he was also going to find out who the hell had shot Nick. Tucker might not be a cop anymore, but he still had that same drive that had made him take the badge in the first place.

There was a darkness out there in the world, and Tucker’s job, both as a cop, and as Santa’s helper, was to fight that darkness. Sometimes you could keep it at bay. But sometimes you had to route it out.

Someone had murdered his friend. That was not a darkness that Tucker could ignore.

But how on earth was he going to complete his accounts, solve a murder, and still have Christmas Eve with his family?

Tucker would just have to figure it out. Maybe The Organization could send him some help from a neighboring region…

Shit. The Organization.

What were they going to say? Had this ever happened before? The law of averages told Tucker that surely, at some time in the history of The Organization, it had to have happened. But he’d never heard of it.

He needed to call them.

The idea made him inexplicably nervous. Tucker had the contact in his phone for emergencies, but he’d never used it. Nick had always been the one to coordinate with The Organization.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed the screen on.

The mapping application was still pulled up. Nick had shared his phone’s location with Tucker so that he could find him back behind the warehouses. The screen flashed, and the map changed, and showed both their phones as little icons, now nearly on top of each other, sitting off to the side of Lawyers Road.

Tucker looked at Nick again. He frowned and bent over the body. Nick wore a peacoat over a green sweater with white reindeer prancing across the chest. They weren’t white anymore.

Tucker lifted the peacoat open and rummaged through the pockets, wondering if there might be anything that would offer a clue as to why Nick was where he was tonight. Was he working one of the accounts? Where had the actual shooting taken place?

He came up with three items. The cell phone. An uneaten candy cane. And a Greyhound bus ticket from Charlotte to Durham.

He stared at that ticket for a long time, trying to make it fit into one of the accounts. But he couldn’t think of a single person, in any of the active accounts, that could make use of a ticket to Durham.

Solve mysteries later, he decided. Right now, he needed to make the call.

He brought his phone up and entered his contact list. It was there, labeled as an inconspicuous “Aunt B.” His thumb hovered over the contact for a moment of hesitation, and then touched it.

It rang twice against his ear, and then an older woman’s voice came on. Pleasant, if not a little high-pitched.

“Mr. Smith. It’s two in the morning. Is everything alright?”

Tucker was taken aback by the use of his name. Somehow he’d been expecting a less personable greeting, but he supposed it made sense that whoever was on the other line would have his number and know his name.

“Yes. I mean, no,” Tucker stumbled. “There’s been a situation. Nick has been…” he tried valiantly to come up with a coded way to say it and still make it clear what he meant.

“The line’s secure, Mr. Smith. Speak plainly.”

Tucker opened his mouth, but the words still didn’t want to come out. Maybe he’d been trying to code it for his own good. It seemed so rotten to say it out loud. “Nick’s been shot,” he finally husked. “He’s dead.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “This is terrible news, Mr. Smith. Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. I mean…physically.”

“I understand. This must be very distressing. I’m going to have to ask you some questions. They may sound callous, but I have to ask them.”

“It’s okay. Shoot.” He winced at himself. Bad choice of words.

“Is there any reason to believe that Santa has been exposed?”

“No. I don’t believe so.”

“Is there any reason to believe that The Organization has been exposed?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where are you located right now?”

“I’m at The Workshop. It’s located at—”

“I have the address, Mr. Smith, thank you. Were you able to retain the body?”

“Yes.”

“Is it with you at The Workshop?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any attention from law enforcement yet?”

“No.”

“Is anyone else aware of what happened?”

“Aside from whoever shot him, no.”

“Are you able to meet me tonight?”

Meet? Tonight?

He looked down at his bloody clothes. “I’ll have to change, but…yes.”

“Good. Skyland Restaurant in one hour, then. I’ll be the blonde lady wearing a red sweater and drinking hot cocoa.”

Tucker blinked. “Of course you will.”

December 20th, 2:55 a.m.

There’s nothing like driving along deserted nighttime streets to put you in a pensive mood.

From the backseat of an Uber, Tucker watched the street lights course by, the empty bars and their abandoned parking lots. Dark store fronts. The light gone out of everything. The hollow feeling in his gut, the ache behind his eyes from the vestiges of an adrenaline dump.

He sighed. Considered asking the driver to turn on some Christmas tunes to ward off the sudden melancholy, but he seemed to really be enjoying his Bollywood Dance Beats, and Tucker didn’t want to be culturally insensitive.

He really needed to get past this funk of his. The light—the magic—would return to him, just like it would return to these dead streets tomorrow night.

Right?

It wasn’t gone forever, was it?

He’d spent so much time preserving that magic in others, he’d never considered what would happen if it left him. Could he still be the father he needed to be to his five-year-old son? Could he still be the husband that his wife had fallen in love with?

It had been easy when he’d been full of that light. Easy to spark Michael’s eyes with wonder. Easy to make treasure maps, and secret hideaways, and decorate cardboard boxes to look like starships, and send his son’s imagination out into magical realms, while Sara watched, and smiled, and loved him for it.

It had been easy to preserve that magic when it’d shone so brightly in himself. But, like dominoes falling, one thing leads to another. A tough year leads to stress and sleepless nights. Sleepless nights lead to anxiety. Anxiety sucks the life out of everything.

And before Tucker knew what was happening, it had already happened. Treasure maps were just stupid pieces of paper. Cardboard boxes were just trash getting in the way. Secret forts were…shit, they were just exhausting. Sorry, Michael, not today. Sorry, Michael, Daddy’s tired.

Sorry, Michael.

Sorry, Sara.

Daddy’s feeling a little burned out, now please just let me drink a beer and putter around the lawn in peace.

Because menial household tasks kept the darkness at bay. His anxiety became a contagion, and he was self-quarantining. Silver lining: His lawn had never looked so good. Dark cloud: he interacted less and less with the people that he loved the most.

Tucker blinked, and realized that his rumination had led him to the parking lot of the Skyland Restaurant. He thanked the driver and got out, and tipped him on his phone before he forgot. Then he faced the restaurant.

“You’ll get it back,” he told himself, as he strode for the door, and the sounds of Bollywood faded down the street.

December 20th, 3:09 a.m.

The lady labeled as “Aunt B” on Tucker’s phone was a wisp of a woman with long fingers wrapped around her mug of hot chocolate. It didn’t look like she’d drank any. The red sweater was in fact a turtle neck that would have been tight on anyone else, but on her slight frame left a few fingers’ space around her throat.

She was older, but nice looking. Tucker put her in her mid-fifties. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, she bore a prim smile on a mouth that looked molded for big grins. Laugh lines around her eyes confirmed that most of the time, this was the case.

When Tucker stopped at her table, she looked up at him, as though coming out of a fog of memories. She smiled, showing perfect, white teeth. “Mr. Smith, I presume?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He offered his hand, but she rose and stood on tip-toes to embrace him. Her arms were bony, but the hug was warm. She smelled of peppermint and gardenia, just barely detectable beneath the haze of coffee and fried food that hung around the restaurant.

“You must be very distraught,” she said quietly. “Come. Sit down.”

He sat down, a little stiffly. She settled back into her spot, smoothing out her skirt and wrapping her fingers back around her mug, as though she needed the warmth.

She quirked a sculpted eyebrow at him. “You seem surprised, Mr. Smith.”

He managed a smile. “I guess I had been expecting a bit more cloak and dagger. And you can call me Tuck, if you want.”

“Very well, Tuck. You can call me Steph.” Her smile broadened, inching towards its full potential. “And this is an association of Santa Clauses we’re talking about here. The secrecy is necessary, but so is kindness and compassion. That is our business, after all.”

Tucker noted that she spoke in a normal tone, only slightly lower. He glanced around him, but there was no one to overhear. Skyland Restaurant was large, with several rooms, and Steph—if that was her actual name—had chosen a quiet corner booth.

He brought himself back to the lady across from him. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to order some strong, hot coffee. And then I want you to tell me how you feel.”

“How I feel?”

Steph finally raised the mug to her lips and took the tiniest of sips. Her eyes ranged over Tucker with a look of genuine concern. “You’re wearing all black, Tuck. Granted, the loss of a Santa is always a terrible tragedy. But he wouldn’t want you to be in mourning. Particularly not so close to Christmas.”

Tuck looked down at his attire. He was indeed wearing all black. His jeans were black. His jacket was black. His shirt was more of a charcoal, but it seemed asinine to point that out. “The other clothes were…messy. It’s just what I threw on. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize for it. Your region has had a rough year.” She shook her head. “So many accounts lost. I understand how that affects you. You put so much of yourself into them, and then to see the families get torn apart by violence and terrible decisions, to watch the accounts that you’ve spent years fostering simply go up in smoke? And then to have to do all the work to replace them? I know how emotionally draining that is.”

Tucker swallowed. Felt that now-familiar feeling of low-level sickness taking his gut. The first little hint of his anxiety, rearing its careworn head. Had he taken his medication that night? He was pretty sure he had. But he supposed that dealing with the murder of your friend might occasionally overpower 10 milligrams of Citalopram.

“I’m simply concerned for you.” Steph searched his face. “You look a bit like the light’s gone out of you.”

Tucker leaned back in his seat, wondering how much Steph knew about him. It was safe to assume she knew plenty. Nick would have told her all about him.

“The work can be difficult,” she continued. “And it can strain our faith. But if we stop doing it with gladness in our hearts, then the darkness wins. I know this is difficult. But that’s all the more reason to shine brightly.”

He nodded. Forced another smile. “I’ll be fine. I promise. It’s just been a long night.”

Actually, it had been a long month of nights. And he’d begun to wonder if he really would be fine. Could she see it in his eyes? Was it so obvious that something that had burned in him so strongly seemed to have been snuffed out?

The waitress swung by, and Tucker ordered a black coffee, though he thought about whether or not that was wise. He might still be able to catch a few hours’ sleep tonight. Lately, he’d been drifting off around 4 a.m., so he was still in the window of opportunity.

“How is your family?” she asked.

Tucker had an instinct to get defensive about his personal information. But he was so tired, and Steph seemed like such a nice lady. He didn’t have the energy to get defensive with her. He had the sudden urge to tell her everything.

“Sara moved out last month,” he finally said to the table top. He brushed at an old crumb. “Michael went with her. They’re at her mother’s house. It’s not like a separation or anything. Not really. She’s just…got work up there and…it’s complicated.” He straightened and took a breath. “But we’ll be together for Christmas Eve. If I can get all these accounts done.”

Steph smiled warmly. “That would be wonderful. It’s much easier to feel merry and bright when you’re with the ones you love.”

The waitress returned. Gave him a mug. Filled it from a fresh coffee pot.

Tucker leaned over his cup, smelling the steam. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage all the accounts by myself.”

“Of course not,” Steph nodded. “I will have a replacement Santa meet you at The Workshop tomorrow morning. He’ll be there by nine o’clock.”

“A replacement?” Tucker frowned. “From one of the other regions?”

“No. He’s a new Santa.” She gave him a searching gaze. “You’ll be training him to fill Frank’s position.”

“Frank?” Tucker pushed back against his chair, feeling lightheaded. “Was that his real name?”

Steph looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I recall that you used to call him ‘Nick,’ is that right?”

Tucker managed a nod.

She sighed. “We do try to protect the identities of our Santas. But I suppose it doesn’t matter much now. His name was Frank Post. Wonderful man. Both in and out of the suit, so to speak.”

“Frank Post,” Tucker murmured. Maybe he would have that coffee after all. He took a sip. It burned, but felt good.

The name didn’t seem to fit. He’d always known that Nick wasn’t his real name—just what they’d agreed upon. But after so many years, the man had become Nick in Tucker’s mind. Frank Post just seemed…wrong.

Now he had a new Santa. And he had to train him.

Tucker straightened up. “Look, Steph. Is there any way to get one of the Santa’s from another region? Someone who already knows what they’re doing? There’s got to be thousands of them, right?”

Steph allowed it with a small nod. “There are many. But they’re all just as busy as you are, dear. I understand that it’s a large ask. But it’ll be better than going it alone.”

Tucker grimaced. “I’m not so sure about that. All due respect to the new Santa, I’m sure he’s a great guy, but training someone is going to make things harder on me, not easier.”

“Well, he’s new, Tuck, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely ignorant. You won’t have to hold his hand. He’ll be able to help you in many different ways. All you need to do is just…show him the ropes.”

“I’ve got twenty accounts to be completed,” Tucker said, his eyes widening as the list in his mind began to grow. “Not to mention the temporary seasonal ones that are gonna pop up—they always do. I’ll barely have time to get them all done, let alone explain everything to him on the way.”

Not to mention trying to patch things up with Sara. Or finding out who killed Nick.

Steph reached out and placed her hand on Tucker’s. Her skin was dry and warm. “Tucker. Have some faith. You can do this. And your new Santa will help you. I’m confident in both of you.”

“In five days,” Tucker gaped.

“Well,” she patted his hand and withdrew her own. “Technically, it’s less than that now. But that’s neither here nor there.” She raised an eyebrow. “It does remind me of a question that I had, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you and Frank take on so many new accounts this year?”

Tucker hesitated. The truth came readily enough to his lips, but the truth was not something he wanted to admit. Not to himself and certainly not to Steph.

Because every one of those accounts we lost feels like a personal failure. Because it’s my job to shield those people from the darkness, and I failed. And maybe Nick felt the same way. And maybe we were trying to compensate for that.

“Well, we had to replace the ones we lost,” Tucker said. An oversimplification, perhaps, but at least not a flat-out lie.

Steph considered him for a few beats. If she saw deeper into what he’d said, she chose to leave it be. Instead, she gave him another smile. “A heroic effort, to be sure. But now, I think you should go home and get a few hours of sleep.”

“What about…” Tucker leaned in and lowered his voice. “What about the body?”

“I’ve already sent a team around to The Workshop.” She glanced at a delicate gold wristwatch. “Actually, they should be finishing up about now.”

“What are they gonna do with him?”

“They’re going to give him the proper rites that all Santas deserve.” She smiled sadly. “But now, stop your worrying about that, okay? You’ve done everything you can do. It’s out of your hands now. Go home.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Tucker rose. “Thanks.”

“Thank you, Tucker. If there’s anything that you need, don’t hesitate to call me.”

From anyone else, that might’ve sounded like an empty nicety. But from her, he thought she actually meant it. He almost asked her if she would give him a ride over to his Suburban, but he’d Uber’d his way to the restaurant. He supposed he could Uber it to his Suburban.

He left the restaurant and stood outside, his breath fogging in the air as he waited for the driver to reach him. He thought about the bed waiting for him at home. The empty one, in a house with not a single Christmas light on it or in it.

December 20th, 8:55 a.m.

Foggy-eyed and bleary-souled, Tucker stepped out of his Suburban clutching his thermos of coffee and trying hard not to look like he was glaring.

No other vehicle was in the lot of The Workshop. Whoever had come to claim Nick’s body had also taken care of his truck. The new Santa stood at the front door, as though he’d simply appeared there.

If Nick had been a far cry from the common depiction of Santa, this guy was even farther. He was older than Nick, and didn’t wear his age as well. It had stooped his shoulders, or perhaps he was slouching from the cold morning. He was neither fit, nor plump. His hair was thin and iron gray, and two bushy black eyebrows punctuated a clean-shaven and jowly face.

He wore black, Tucker noted. Black overcoat, and black slacks. However, a bright blue knit sweater peeked out from underneath, and he had a red scarf tucked into his coat. He held two items: A large book, bound in red leather; and a gold gift bag.

“Good morning,” the man called out to him as Tucker approached, slugging back the dregs of his coffee. “Thank you for being so punctual. I only just arrived.” He had a deep, sonorous voice with a loose, grandfatherly slur to it.

Tucker stuck his hand out, wondering if this guy was going to go in for a hug like Steph had, but the man shuffled the gift bag into his left hand and gave Tucker a firm shake.

Tucker introduced himself, telling the man to call him Tuck. “What should I call you?”

“Well, how does Nicholas strike you?”

Tucker shook his head. “Sorry. My last Santa was Nick.” He left it at that, feeling his throat tighten. He wasn’t fully awake. The walls around his emotions were still porous. He knew this about himself. Fresh out of bed, he’d sometimes come out on a cold morning and Michael would be watching The Polar Express—one of Tucker’s favorites—and Tucker would choke up with a wave of sentimentality. It was ridiculous.

“Oh.” The old man nodded and looked away. “Dreadfully sorry. Terrible tragedy. Is there something else that you would prefer? Something that would be easier for you?”

Tucker cleared his throat and made for the front door, jingling his keys around. It was too chilly this morning—at least by North Carolina standards—to be standing around outside. “How about Claus?” he suggested as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Warm air gushed out.

“If it suits you, then it suits me.”

“Come on out of the cold.” Tucker held the door for him. “And we might be working together for a long time. So you might want to make sure it’s something you’re okay with being called for the foreseeable future.”

The old man shuffled in, smiling. “That is an excellent and positive viewpoint. And Claus will do just fine. Thank you.”

Tucker closed the door, and motioned towards the back. “Well then, Claus. Welcome to The Workshop. As you can read from the door, it’s styled as a private investigator’s office. We’re not listed, so you don’t have to worry about people calling, but occasionally we’ll get a walk in. If you’re here when they walk in, just tell them we’re not accepting any new clients and send them on their way.”

“Understood.”

They went through the door in the staged waiting room. The motion-activated lights came on and revealed the big empty space beyond. Tucker’s eyes immediately went to the floor near the back door, as though he expected to find some evidence of Nick’s body having been there. Perhaps a blood stain. But it was empty and clean.

“Bit bleak for Santa’s workshop, don’t you think?” Claus asked.

Tucker eyed him as Claus looked around the room. “We really only use it to store items for delivery.”

“Hm. Could use a bit of Christmas cheer, though, yes?” Claus smiled, as though imagining it. “Perhaps some holly boughs? A pair of poinsettias for the back door? A string of lights or two?”

Tucker couldn’t help but smile back. “You’re right. I’ve been remiss.” He had an attic full of Christmas decorations that hadn’t gone up at his house, like they had every other year. He could’ve spared a wreath at least. It was shameful.

“It’s alright,” Claus chuckled. “You’ve been busy, as I hear it. If I can do nothing else, I can at least brighten the place up a bit while you do the heavy lifting, eh?”

Tucker nodded. “We’ll get some decorations in here. Stat.”

Claus stepped up to him and proffered the golden gift bag. “Excellent idea. I have a few things here to get you started. Merry Christmas.”

“Oh. Thank you. I didn’t think to get you anything.”

“Puh. I’m Santa Claus. You don’t need to get me anything.”

Tucker pulled a sheet of sparkling tissue paper out of the top of the bag—impeccably fluffed, he noticed. He reached in and drew out a small desktop tree. The base was wrapped in red foil, like a present. The branches were flocked. Tiny red and green ornaments dangled delicately from the frosted tips. White lights twinkled throughout.

“That’s very kind,” Tucker said, looking at the lights in a glazed sort of way. Why don’t you feel anything when you look at it? “I’ll put it on my desk.”

“There is one more item in there. Go on. Take a look.”

Tucker went back into the bag and discovered the second part of the gift. He pulled it out and held it up. A Santa hat. Not one of the crummy ones from the dollar store. The red velvet was actual velvet. The interior was lined in silk. The fur trim looked real.

“Wow. That is…a very nice Santa hat.”

“Put it on.”

Tucker glanced at Claus, a wry smile on his face. “Shouldn’t Santa be wearing the Santa hat?”

Claus rumbled out another of his weird, old-man chuckles: “Puh-huh-huh. I’ve never been partial to hats. Go ahead.”

Tentatively, Tucker placed the hat on his head. It was not one of those stretch-to-fit hats, and yet it was sized perfectly to his head.

Claus grinned at him. “There. You look wonderful. Doesn’t that feel better?”

Actually it did. The magic hadn’t exactly rekindled itself, but the gift was a kind gesture, and Tucker couldn’t continue to be a grump in the face of kindness. “It does. Thank you.”

Claus brought his hand down on the big red book with a slap. “And now, Tuck, I think there is work to be done.”

Tucker nodded, and jerked his head towards the office. The white ball of fur at the end of his hat bobbed as he did. “Right over here. I’m assuming those are our accounts?”

“Yes, indeed. Plus a few additional. Added just last night.”

Tucker’s feet hesitated, and the pleasantness fled from him again. Added last night? Hadn’t he told Steph they were barely going to be able to pull off the ones they already had?

He plowed on into the office, swallowing down the pressure. “Okay. Right. A few more. We had twenty. What are we up to?”

“Thirty-seven.”

Tucker whipped around. “Thirty-seven?”

Claus nodded as he set the book down on the desk near the old Mac. His face was grave. “I know. While I love the ability to help, it still hurts my heart that so many families in our area find themselves facing troubles in a time when they should feel at peace.” He sighed. “I know that it will be difficult, but I simply had to add them.”

Tucker thrust a finger under his new hat and rubbed his hairline, staring at Claus. “You added them?”

Claus gazed back innocently. “Yes. Last night. I am Santa. It’s my job now.”

“Yes. It is your job to add accounts to the list—”

“Families.”

“What?”

Claus shrugged. “If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to call them families. What’s in a name, right? But ‘accounts’ strikes me as so…cold.”

Tucker blinked. “Alright. Families, then. It’s your job to add families to the list. But we are already overbooked. And you can’t help everyone.”

Claus nodded. “A sad fact, of which I am well aware.” A wistful smile. “But wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could?”

“It would. But we can’t.”

“Well, rest assured, the seventeen families that I added last night will not be everyone. Just a few extra who need it the most.”

Tucker gripped the back of his office chair and faced the still-sleeping computer. “Thirty-seven. In five days. Four days, actually.”

“One hundred and eleven hours, to be precise.”

“Thanks. Thirty-seven accounts—families—in a little over a hundred hours. Not to mention the seasonals.”

Claus clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Puh-huh-huh! Tuck, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! I hope it’s a Christmas ghost. The ghost of Christmas Present was always my favorite.”

“No, no. I’m fine. I’m just…a little afraid that we might not get it all done.”

“There’s no room for fear at Christmas. Christmas is about love. And love casts out fear, doesn’t it? If you view it as a task to be done, then you take out the fun. But if you do it with love then anything is possible.”

Tucker swung the seat out and sat in it. “Well, they’re certainly not going to get done by me staring at a blank computer screen. Come on. Let’s get started.”

Claus drew the other chair out and sat in it, taking his leisurely time to do so. Tucker woke up the computer and as he waited for it to clatter its ancient way through its boot up, he noticed that Claus sat somewhat close. Facing him, rather than the computer.

Tucker gave him a sidelong glance. “What?”

Claus held onto his genial smile. “Before we start, I’d like to know about you, Tuck. How did you get involved in all of this?”

Tucker’s heart did a skip and a jump and a small flush hit his forehead. They were up against the clock and this guy wanted to sit and get to know him better? He didn’t need to know him right now. Right now, he needed to do work. They could get to know each other later, after they’d taken care of all the new accounts—families, dammit—that the guy had so ignorantly piled onto them.

Tucker’s fingers drummed on the desktop. His knees bounced.

He’s still the boss. He’s Santa. You are Santa’s helper. You do what Santa asks.

“There was this lady,” Tucker said, breathing out the tension, and trying to breath in some positivity. “Back when I was on the force. She had a couple kids.”

“Do you remember their names?”

Tuck leaned back. “She was Francine Gill. The kids were Danny, Maggie, and Madison. Eight, ten, and thirteen. She was parked at a gas station over on Woodlawn. The clerk called because he wanted her to buy gas or get gone. But it turned out she didn’t have any money for gas. They were living out of the car. Didn’t have any place to go, and couldn’t have got there if they did. Not a penny to her name. And it was cold. It was mid-January, and it was going to drop into the single digits that night. They would have froze in that car.”

Claus frowned. “Couldn’t you have taken them to a shelter?”

Tucker grimaced. “I hate those places. I mean, the people try to do good work. But I wouldn’t want to take my kid there. I just didn’t have the heart to send her there.”

“So what did you do?”

“I was a bit strapped myself. Sara had just quit her job, so we were just on a police salary. I had to work at least four nights of off-duty every week in order to buy groceries. I had fifty dollars in my bank account. Sara would have shit a brick if we over-drafted, so I decided to buy the lady twenty dollars’ worth of gas. So she could at least keep the car heater running.”

“That was very kind.”

Tucker smiled, not at his own kindness, but at the memory of how it was received. “While I’m at the pump, this guy walks up and asks me what’s going on. I give him the low-down, wondering to myself if he’s just a busy body or if he wanted to chip in and help a little. He hands me four hundred dollars. Tells me to put her up at the Four Seasons down the road for two nights. Tells me to give anything leftover to Francine so she can get food for the kids. Then he hands me two business cards. They both had just a name and a phone number on them—nothing else. He says, ‘This one is for her. Tell her to call me. I have a position I think she might be qualified to fill.’ Then he gives me the other card and says, ‘And this one is for you. I have a different position that I think you’re qualified to fill.’”

“Ah.” Claus sat back, grinning. “That was Nick, wasn’t it?”

Tucker nodded. “And the rest is history.”

Claus clasped his hands together. “What a wonderful story. Humor an old man for just one more moment.”

Relaxed into the memory, Tucker felt more obliging now. “Sure thing.”

“Why did you do it?” Claus asked. “Why did you agree to leave your police job and become a part of all of this?”

Tucker stared at the Christmas tree twinkling on his desk. “I thought, I can’t help all of the people all of the time. I can’t even help some of the people all of the time. But I can help some of the people some of the time. And if I could help them hold onto that feeling, that magic, even for just one season out of the year, if I could help them put aside the darkness for even just a little bit and believe that someone has their back and everything is going to be okay…well, then that would be the greatest thing I could ever do with my life.”

Claus sat there beside him, nodding slowly and hmm-ing softly in thought. “Good. Good.” He flipped the big red book open to the first page. “Let’s get started.”

December 20th, 9:45 a.m.

Tucker sucked on a candy cane and handed a yellow hard hat over to Claus. The old man took it and turned it over in his hands like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

“Put it on,” Tuck said. “I won’t make you wear the vest as long as you stay in the van.”

“Oh. Alright.” Claus placed the hard hat awkwardly onto his head. “Don’t think there’s much danger of head injury in here.”

“Two guys in a white van makes people think of rapists,” Tuck advised. “But two guys wearing yellow hard hats in a white van just look like utility workers.”

“I see.”

Tucker palmed his own hard hat and moved to doff the Santa hat.

Claus made a little negative noise and held up his hand. “Why don’t you leave it on?”

Tucker moved the candy cane over to the corner of his mouth. “Because I need to put the hard hat on.”

“You can put the hard hat on over the Santa hat, can’t you?”

Tucker stared at Claus for another second. He’s Santa. He’s the boss. “Right. Yeah. I guess I can do that.”

Claus beamed. “Excellent. It’ll be better that way.”

Tucker squashed the hard hat down on his head and settled back into his seat. The radio hummed softly, the sounds of the season, on K104.7. Jimmy Durant bustled his way through “Frosty the Snowman.” Not one of Tucker’s favorites, but Frosty had not been his thing as a kid. We all have our bugaboos.

Claus leaned forward, peering somewhat obviously through the windshield. “So. Karisa’s house is which one?”

Tucker consulted the satellite image on his mapping application, his blue waypoint down the street and partially into a curve. The red point of interest sat over a dwelling seven houses up. Tucker counted mailboxes up to the right house. “It’s that one with the blue shutters. Blue door. White siding. Left side of the street. You see it?”

Claus nodded and sat back. “Yes. Good. How long do we wait?”

“USPS hits this street right around now. The nanny should be here shortly after.”

“Oh dear. Will she have time to make the interview?”

Tucker removed the candy cane. “She’ll make it.”

Of course, occasionally, you pulled everything off, but the person was so defeated they just sat there like a stick in the mud. It reminded Tucker of a horse he’d seen once, trapped in a half-frozen pond. It just gave up and the owners had to drag it out with a winch and a tractor.

Tucker was not above doing some dragging. On the few times where he’d pulled off an account particularly well, and the person in question didn’t open the door when opportunity knocked, he would occasionally break that door in for them. A well-timed phone call, and once, a literal knock on the door and a stern conversation, usually set things right.

One time, three years ago, the person told him to fuck off. But as he so often quoted, “You can’t help everyone.”

“Oh!” Claus breathed and patted his arm excitedly. “Here comes the mail car!”

Tucker hunched down a bit and brought a pair of binoculars up to his eyes, peering through the small gap between the steering wheel and the dashboard. The mail car was the classic little white Jeep, with the blue eagle on the side.

If all went according to plan, the mail carrier would put the package directly into Karisa’s hands. He’d had to put the three, $100 Wal-Mart gift cards into a box just big enough that it wouldn’t fit into her mailbox. Unfortunately, though this was the season of giving, it was also the season of stealing. You didn’t want your carefully laid plans destroyed because some young thundercat was out swiping packages.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Claus straighten in his seat. “Um. Bogey. Six o’clock.”

Tucker almost laughed at the ridiculous words, but then caught sight of the sideview mirror.

He pulled back quickly, shoving the binocs under his thigh and snatching an old, useless radio up. It wasn’t on. Probably wouldn’t even hold a charge. But it was a good prop. Radios made you look official and completed the utility-worker ensemble.

He brought it up, plain and obvious. Pretended to ignore the kid in the hooded sweatshirt as he came abreast of the driver’s side door, giving Tucker a serious side-eye. Tucker wore mirrored aviators, so he was able to look at the kid without seeming like he was.

The kid was in his teens. His steps slowed.

Everyone is suspicious of a white van. Though, mostly in this neighborhood they thought it was a police raid van, rather than a predator. The kid’s eyes hit the hard hat, and then the radio, and the suspicion went out of his face.

Tucker turned his head towards the kid, as though just noticing him there. He gave him a flick of the radio antenna and a nod. The kid nodded back, then continued on his way, hitching his pants up from where they hung over his ass.

“Boom,” Tucker smirked. “I told you. Hard hats. They’re like cloaking devices.”

Claus appeared satisfied. “Good work, Tuck.”

“He’ll probably still tell his friends that we’re cops, but that’s okay. We’re not looking for drug dealers.”

“I wonder what he wants for Christmas?” Claus said brightly.

Probably a Glock Forty, Tucker wanted to quip, but restrained himself. The acerbic side of his sense of humor was a holdover from his police days. He tried not to think like that anymore, but old habits die hard. He chose instead to quote Michael Jackson: “Love and peace for everyone.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Claus said earnestly.

“Alright, Karisa,” Tucker retrained his focus forward, though he chose to forego the binoculars now—the kid might still turn and look at them. “Zero hour is upon you.”

The mail car pulled to a stop in front of Karisa’s mailbox. Tucker couldn’t see the driver, but figured he was eyeing the opening to see if he could cram the box in somehow. Tucker had made sure this would be impossible. After a brief evaluation, the driver pulled the car into the driveway, honked the horn twice, and hopped out, toting a box under his arm.

Karisa appeared after a few seconds, holding her newborn with one hand, and a bottle in its mouth with the other. It was just her in the house. She’d been living in Grier Heights, but then her mother had died and left her this house.

This neighborhood wasn’t all that much better than Grier Heights—which was a train wreck—but the house was paid for.

She met the mailman on the walk. An exchange of pleasantries. He passed the package to her. She finagled the baby and bottle with one arm and managed to hook the package under her other. She peered at it, and though Tucker couldn’t tell for sure at this distance, she was probably somewhat confused.

She had zero money to be ordering packages, so she wasn’t expecting anything.

Claus chuckled under his breath: “Puh-huh-huh.”

Karisa went back inside with package and baby. The mail man departed to continue his rounds.

Tucker eyed the clock on the dash. 9:55. 10:00 was the appointment, but this was a punctual nanny and she always came five minutes early. Nannies were a frequent commodity used by Santa, and Tucker had a whole list of good ones, but this one was one of his favorites. She reminded him of Mary Poppins.

She arrived in a more practical mode of transportation than a floating umbrella, parking her white Honda CRV respectfully at the curb, so as not to block Karisa in. She took the driveway and walk, rather than treading on the lawn, which was more brown crabgrass and dirt than anything else.

Tucker reached over into the center console where another device sat that looked much like the radio to an untrained eye. Only it had no transmit button. It could only receive from the bug Tucker had planted at the base of one of Karisa’s mother’s lamps. He clicked it on.

Karisa’s voice came over, loud and clear, mid-exclamation: “…my God. Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?”

Tucker smiled. The words were coarse, but the surprise behind them was genuine.

Claus laughed, not put off at all. “Splendid!”

The nanny reached the door and knocked. A half-second later, the sound of those knocks came through the listening device, rap-rap-rap.

“What?” Karisa whispered. Disappointment dragged her voice back down from its excitement. “It’s been a mistake. He gave me someone else’s package.”

A few moments later, the door opened.

“Yes?” Karisa asked, hesitant.

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Cheryl Maddow. I’m an accredited nanny. I brought all of my credentials for you.” On Karisa’s doorstep, Cheryl passed over a file folder. “I was contacted by an anonymous party that said you might need my services today in order to make an interview?”

“Uh…wow. Okay. I’m sorry. I wasn’t…I…Who did you say sent you?”

“They wished to remain anonymous. But they knew you had an interview today. It might’ve been the company’s HR department that did it. I’ve heard of some companies doing that.”

“Okay. Okay. Uh…How much do you charge?”

“All of that’s been taken care of, ma’am. The gentleman that hired me paid in advance for my services.”

“Oh my God.” There was a choking quality to Karisa’s voice now.

She was crying.

Victory.

When Karisa had gotten control of herself, she asked, “How long do I have you for?”

“As long as you need, ma’am. I’m here for the day. And should you get the job, I have an optional contract to remain with you for a period of six months, if you choose to keep me on.”

Karisa devolved into various sounds that had no linguistic value, but communicated plenty just the same. From a distance, Cheryl seemed a little taken aback, but adapted quickly and moved into encouragement mode. Hugs were exchanged. Karisa’s earnest and almost desperate, Cheryl’s a little surprised and hesitant.

The baby started squalling. They moved inside and the door shut.

Claus let out a satisfied breath and opened his big red book, thumbing a pen.

Tucker held out a hand. “Hold on. Don’t cross her off just yet.”

He sat for a moment longer, listening. Seeing what would happen. As excited as Karisa was, it’s difficult for a new mother to hand her baby off to a virtual stranger hired by some “anonymous gentleman.” Of course, Cheryl had all her ducks in a row, because that was just the way Cheryl rolled, and Tucker had no doubt that the file folder and some quick googling would set Karisa’s mind at ease.

But people are funny sometimes.

Sometimes the freezing horse just doesn’t want to get out of the water.

Through a barrage of questions and exclamations, Cheryl’s voice came through.

“What time is your interview?”

“Eleven o’clock!” Karisa nearly shouted. In all the fracas she’d probably forgotten that she had just an hour to get ready for an interview at a job she’d been trying to get for months now.

“Well, I can take the baby so you can start getting ready.”

“Hold on one sec,” Karisa said.

Tucker’s heart didn’t exactly drop, but it just sort of hung there, like it was afraid to take another beat. There was a long silence, or at least a long absence of speaking. The baby was definitely not silent. Someone was shushing it. Tucker thought it sounded more like Cheryl than Karisa. Had Karisa handed the baby over?

“Hello. Yes.” Karisa’s voice. “My name is Karisa Pickett. I spoke to someone an hour ago…yes, sir.” She was on the phone. “I spoke to someone an hour ago, and I had to cancel my appointment for an interview because I wasn’t able to get a sitter for my newborn. But…” slight strain in the voice again. “…But something’s come through. I can still make the interview, and I can be there on time, at eleven o’clock.” Now cringingly hopeful: “Is the appointment still available?”

Tucker and Claus held their breaths. Even the baby took a second to stop crying, like it understood the sudden gravity in the atmosphere.

“Thank you so much!” Karisa squeaked. “I’ll be there at eleven! Eleven o’clock!”

Tucker clicked the listening device off. No need to listen into others more than necessary. He’d retrieve the bug some other time. He had plenty of them.

He nodded to Claus and pointed at the big red book. “Now you can cross her name off.”

December 20th, 10:30 a.m.

Tucker pulled his van up next to the blue-and-white in a disused parking deck.

The officer in the driver’s seat eyed him, and then quickly recognized him, despite the Santa hat, which Claus had insisted he continue to wear. The officer grinned and raised his head in greeting.

“Just chill out in here,” Tucker advised Claus.

“Is this one of our families?” Claus asked, sounding hopeful.

“No. This is some other business.” Tucker shoved his door open and stepped out. “Just hang out in here.” He closed the door behind him.

The officer shoved his hand out, grinning broadly, and showing a gap on his top row of molars where a tooth had been knocked out in a fight several years ago and he’d never bothered to get it fixed. “Put ‘er in the ol’ vice!” the officer hollered.

Tucker grabbed the other man’s hand and was quickly slammed into a bear hug. He grinned the whole time. You couldn’t not grin in the presence of John Gire. Unless he was mad at you. And then you suddenly didn’t want to grin anymore.

John thrust Tucker away, blue eyes dancing. “How the hell are ya?”

“Good, brother. How about you?”

John was more interested in the vehicle behind Tucker, and its occupant. “You driving rape vans now? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Who’s the old guy?”

Tucker waved it off. “Just some dude I’m training.”

“Training? Like job training? Shit, man. He should be retiring.”

“Well, you know how it is. You get bored in retirement. Want another crack at life.” Tucker rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Now I gotta babysit him and make sure he drinks his Ensure on time and takes his Centrum Silver.”

John cackled. “Poor fuck. He can probably hear everything we’re saying.” He waved at Claus. Tucker turned and observed Claus waving enthusiastically back.

John settled himself out of his fit of greetings-inspired joviality and raised one of his wiry blond eyebrows. “So what’s up? What you need, brother? You only call me when you need something.”

“Oh, bullshit. I call you all the time. I was at your house watching the game last Sunday.”  Tucker spread his arms. “And besides. Don’t I always take care of you?”

“Yeah, I’m just fuckin’ with you.” John gave him a shove on the shoulder. “So, what’s up?”

“I need you to pull some calls from last night.”

John’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t Tucker’s usual line of questions. Technically, by the letter of the department SOP’s, John wasn’t supposed to be giving information out to civilians like this, but there was nothing illegal about it and the two had been partners for a good bit before Tucker left the force. He quickly overcame his doubts and nodded.

“Okay. Sure. Come on.” He walked back to his open squad car and sat in the driver’s seat, one leg hanging out. He pulled his computer over to him and accessed the server that would answer Tucker’s questions. “What, where, and when?”

“It would’ve been a shots fired call. Maybe an ADW call. Last night around midnight. In Adam-Two. Maybe David-Three.”

“Aight. You say midnight? So like, between eleven-thirty and twelve?”

“Yeah. That’s a good range.”

John typed away on his keyboard, entering the information that Tucker had given and running a search. He leaned forward to read the results. “Let’s see. Got an ADW at eleven-forty-three. Says two guys in an argument outside of Club Onyx. One’s going to his car. Gets out a gun and fires at the other. No injuries. That what you’re looking for?”

Tucker shook his head. “Nah. Anything else?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Not in that time span, anyways. Should I take it out past midnight?”

“No, don’t worry about it.” Nick had called Tucker right before midnight. Maybe he’d been shot for a while? “Try doing it from eleven to twelve.”

John redid the search. “Same results. Just that one ADW. Shockingly enough.”

Tucker folded his arms over his chest, thinking. So, no one had called in the shooting that had killed Nick. Which meant that it had happened somewhere out of the way. Nobody else witnessed it. Or at least, nobody that cared to call 911 about it.

He was relieved that there wasn’t a police investigation. But also irritated that he had no leads on Nick’s killer.

John turned his gaze on Tucker, his face becoming marginally serious. “There something I should know about, boss?”

Tucker pulled himself out of his thoughts and shook his head. “Nah. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Anything else you need me to check on?”

“No, that’s all I had for you.” Tucker lifted his chin. “What you drinking these days?”

“Oh, little of this, little of that.”

“Or a lot of it,” Tucker jibed.

John lifted his hands in surrender. “Occasionally.”

“Can’t go wrong with scotch, though, amirite?”

John smiled and gave him a thumbs up. “No, you cannot.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, hey, you told me to tell you about Christmas burglaries.”

Tucker’s stomach tightened. He glanced over his shoulder and discovered that Claus was opening his door and stepping out. Dammit. He turned back to John, begrudging. “Yeah. Sure. What you got?”

Claus sauntered around the front of the van and parked himself at Tucker’s left elbow. “Good morning, officer. Are you a friend of Tucker’s?”

John leaned around Tucker and extended his hand. “I am, sir. John. Nice to meet you.”

For a moment Tucker braced for Claus to introduce himself as “Claus” but he just shook John’s hand and said, “Brian. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Well, any friend of Tuck’s is a friend of mine.” John offered a discreet, questioning glance at Tucker. Is he cool to listen in?

Tucker’s opportunity to avoid an additional bomb dropped on his workload was slipping away. He watched it leave his imaginary fingertips with desperation and longing. Then he steeled himself by baring his teeth in a rictus grin that John understood to mean, I’m only doing this because I have to.

“Yes. Well.” Tucker harrumphed. “John was just asking me if we wanted to know about some Christmas-related burglaries.”

“Christmas-related burglaries?” Claus echoed, as though it was the most heinous thing he’d ever heard of. “How can a burglary be Christmas-related?”

“Well,” John folded his hands solemnly. “Sometimes, right before Christmas, guys will break into houses and take all the presents under the tree. Along with the TVs and Playstations.”

Claus looked genuinely shocked by this. “Oh my. What a despicable thing to do to somebody!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up.” John caught himself. “Pardon my French.”

Claus waved him off. “I agree whole heartedly.”

“Alright,” Tucker sighed. “Whatcha got?”

John reached over and grabbed a stack of papers off the passenger seat. “String of B ‘n’ Es last night.”

This just gets better and better, Tucker inwardly groaned. “A string, huh? How many?”

John handed him the stack of papers. It was terrifyingly thick. Tucker had the brief notion to smack them up into the air and use the flying papers as a smoke screen to run.

“Seven,” John supplied.

“Seven!” Claus cried.

“Seven,” Tucker deadpanned. “You kidding me right now?”

“Cleaned ‘em out.” John shook his head. “Buncha kids’ presents, too.”

“Not the kids’ presents!” Claus moaned.

John flicked an amused look at Tucker. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Tucker grunted. He waggled the papers in the air. “Thanks for this. You sonofabitch.”

“Hey, I didn’t break into their houses. You asked me to keep tabs on that shit.”

“I know, I know.”

“What’re you doing with them anyways?”

Tucker slapped the papers against John’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Secret squirrel motherfucker.” John’s eyes twinkled merrily. “Festive secret squirrel, too, huh?”

Tucker smirked. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

John stood up and grabbed Tucker into another embrace. “Well, I think it’s pretty damn cool. You know. Whatever you’re doing. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.”

They traded parting sentiments and agreed to get the families together, maybe for a New Year’s Eve party at one of their houses. Tucker agreed, not mentioning the fact that Sara was not even in the same house. He’d almost told John last Sunday, but trying to explain how it wasn’t a separation, and all the little reasons why it had happened, and trying to convince John that it might be better for him and Sara in the long run, and that Tucker was just trying to do the best thing for her and Michael…well, it all just felt like too much to take on.

Tucker and Claus clambered back up into the van, and John’s squad car pulled out and roared away, off to serve and protect the good citizens of Charlotte.

“Wonderful man,” Claus said, holding his hands in front of the heater vent. “I like him a lot.”

“Yeah,” Tucker said absently as he leafed through the reports. “Good guy. One of the best.”

“You didn’t tell him about Sara.”

Tucker looked at Claus. “I didn’t tell you about her either.”

Claus shrugged, undeterred. “Santa knows things.”

“You mean Steph knows things and relates them to you.”

Claus nodded. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Tuck. These things happen in life. Relationships are difficult. I hope you don’t feel that I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I just want the best for you, and I’d like to help in any way that I can.”

Tucker again had the instinct to be defensive, but, just as with Steph, Claus was so genuine and kind that he just couldn’t muster it. Everything Claus said was true, and Tucker knew it without having to analyze it. The man just wanted to help.

“Well, one thing that would help would be if we were able to get all our accounts—families, sorry—done before Christmas Eve so I could spend some time with Sara and Michael.” Tucker hissed quietly through his teeth and tapped the stack of reports in his hand. “Which looks less and less likely.”

“Oh, it’s not all that bad. It’s only seven new families.”

“These are the worst, though.”

“The worst? How so?”

Tucker flipped to the back of the first report, and held up the itemized list of everything that had been stolen. “Because you have to replace all these very specific things. Some of it can be ordered online, but a lot of it we’re going to have to track down in a store. And then you have to get it in there.”

“You could always just leave it on their doorstep,” Claus suggested, though he was giving Tucker a measuring look.

Tucker shook his head. “No. That’ll take away from the magic.”

Claus grinned. “The magic, eh? Puh-huh-huh. Yes, indeed. I couldn’t agree more.”

December 20th, 10:40 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.

From the seven burglaries, there were 143 items to be replaced.

Concern numero uno was always for the children’s gifts, but a valiant effort was always made to take care of the parents too. Most parents were more distraught by the fact that their kids wouldn’t have gifts under the tree on Christmas morning, but it could do wonders for the children to see the magic spark in their parents’ eyes too.

It’s not about the getting. It’s never been about that.

It’s about knowing that someone out there cares. It’s about knowing that, yes, there is bad in the world, but there’s also good.

So, 143 items to be replaced. 109 obvious children’s items, ranging from stuffed animals to board games. 34 items that were more likely for adults or older children, ranging from laptop computers to gas grills.

Tucker didn’t mind the gas grills. They were bulky, but you could also leave them on the back porch.

Tucker transcribed the entire list into a Google Docs file and shared it with Claus, so they could both access it with their phones. Then they agreed to split up.  Tucker took his Suburban to Wal-Mart and Lowes Home Improvement, and Claus took the van to Target and Kohl’s.

As they found the proper items, they deleted them from the shared document, which updated live, so neither ended up double-buying. In the end they were able to replace 120 of the 143 items. The remaining 23 would be bought on Amazon, with Prime free two-day shipping, which Tucker considered one of the greatest inventions of the modern age.

They met back at The Workshop to begin their trek through Amazon.

December 20th, 1:01 p.m.

Claus still wouldn’t let Tucker take the Santa hat off, but he was starting not to mind. It was quite toasty and comfortable, and the wind today was what Tucker called “nipply”.

They sat at the office desk, Tucker manning the Mac, while Claus read the items from his phone. As Tucker added “Animoodles Magnetic Jada Panda Stuffed Animal Plush, 7.5-inch”, Claus sat back in his seat, deleting the item from their list.

“So. What happened with Sara?”

Tucker sighed, sensing that any deflection would only postpone this conversation for a short while. Claus’s good nature was determined to offer solace, and likely some good ol’ grandfatherly advice.

But hell. Maybe Tucker could use it.

“There a Mrs. Claus?” Tucker asked, leaning back and relinquishing the keyboard for a moment.

“There is,” Claus replied. “Forty-three years, next June.”

“Ah, a June wedding. Same here.” Tucker looked at the other man. “Would’ve pegged you for a Christmas wedding type of guy.”

“Puh-huh-huh. It’s a good thing I didn’t—I’d end up having to work on our anniversary. My wife has the patience of a saint, but even that would go too far.”

“Good point.”

“So, you’re June too, huh?”

Tucker nodded. “June eighteenth. What’s yours?”

“June tenth.” Claus put his phone down on the desk and folded his hands in his lap. “How many years have you been married?”

“Fifteen. Sixteen, next year.”

“That’s a good accomplishment. People don’t stay together anymore.”

Tucker couldn’t help but wince at that. Claus hadn’t meant anything by it—Tucker didn’t think the man had a malicious bone in his body. But it still stung. Even though this wasn’t a separation.

“You look as though I slapped you.”

“No. You didn’t say anything wrong. I just…was very proud of how long we’d been together. Up until a year ago, everything was fine. Then I went and screwed it all up.”

“Mmmm,” Claus rumbled. “Was it another woman?”

Tucker jerked a little at the implication. “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing like that. Geez, Claus. I’m not a douchebag.”

“Well,” Claus held up his hands. “It’s not uncommon, unfortunately. But I’m glad to see you didn’t make that mistake.” He interlaced his fingers in his lap again. “But usually, except in cases of infidelity, and maybe even sometimes then, there is some shared responsibility for things going wrong.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,” Tucker allowed. “But this one was all me.”

Tucker took a deep breath, wishing he could get back to ordering things online, but knowing that the truth would come out of him. These words were like vomit. Bitter and uncomfortable, and once you got started, you wouldn’t stop until you were empty.

“About a year ago I started experiencing…” he bandied about for the right word, but there really was only one word, he just didn’t like it because it made him feel lame. “Anxiety. It’s stupid, I know. Seven years on the police department, I never dealt with anxiety. Working as Santa’s helper, and then it starts to upend my life. It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s ridiculous. I’m sure there is a reason for it.” Claus looked concerned. “Is it the work?”

“No,” Tucker said quickly.

Though this year had definitely gone haywire, he loved this work. It wasn’t just a job, it was a calling. He identified with it like he’d never identified with any other job in his life. He didn’t want to give Claus—or Steph—the impression that he was fading.

“No, I love my job.” Tucker considered the wall for a moment. “It’s just…everything that happened after last season. The accounts that we lost. Well, I’m sure Steph filled you in.”

Claus nodded. “It must feel like a tragedy when a family is so far gone that you can’t help them anymore.”

“It feels like being punched in the gut. Worse. Because you feel it every time you think about them. And you do think about them. You can’t not think about them. There were families that we spent years trying to help, Claus. Years. And seeing them fall apart like that? It takes a toll. And then to add to that, we went and immediately replaced them with a huge number of new families. Which was great, but…God, the workload to try to get them all up and running, to learn all the things you need to learn about them and coordinate everything in time for Christmas this year...”

Tucker waved a hand in the air as though shooing a fly. “Anyways, long story short—Anxiety. Or whatever. At first it was pretty easy to deal with. It would only happen every so often. Maybe once or twice a month, I’d have a bad day. But then bad days started turning into bad weeks, and days when I felt normal were becoming the exception and not the rule. And it got worse. I’d feel it coming on, almost like how you feel right before you get sick. Like you can just sense that something’s not right. And then it would just go downhill from there.”

Tucker twiddled his thumbs, disliking himself very much at that moment, and at the same time trying to practice some of that self-compassion he’d read about. If you can’t be compassionate towards yourself, how could you be compassionate towards others? And that was kind of his job.

“Anyways,” he said. “At the worst point of it, it would come on, and it was like everything would change. Even the light seemed washed out. People’s smiles looked like sneers. Laughter sounded sinister. Everyone had ulterior motives. No one was truly kind, not me, and not Nick. Not even Sara, and you have to understand that Sara is, really, one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. But when this shit was happening, I just couldn’t see anything positive. It was like I’d never be happy again. Like all the goodness just got sucked out of life, and it left behind this bloodless, negative zombie. It looked like life, but it was all wrong. Like being stuck in a waking nightmare.”

Tucker cleared his throat. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”

Claus reached over and patted his shoulder. “That’s okay, Tuck. You can ramble. I don’t mind.”

Tucker grimaced, baring his teeth briefly. “I thought…hell, I didn’t think. I panicked. That’s the truth of it. I thought that I could keep this, this thing, from affecting my family, but I saw it happening to them—I saw the light going out of them too. And I panicked. And the only thing I could think of to protect them was to keep them away from me.”

“Hmm,” Claus intoned. It wasn’t a judgement. But Tucker had a hard time not hearing it that way.

“I failed them,” Tucker said, his voice blank, but his stomach in knots at the truth of it. “I should have protected them. I should have shielded them from that shit. That’s my whole job in life, Claus. To shield people from the darkness. And I couldn’t do it for the two people that matter most to me.”

“When did Sara decide to leave?”

“She didn’t. I…encouraged her to leave.” Tucker tilted his head back and regarded the acoustic-tile ceiling. “You gotta understand, Claus, I’m watching this beautiful, bubbly, happy woman, and this wonderful, imaginative, joyful child, just going dark. Because of me. I’m watching the life drain out of them, because I can’t get my shit together and be the person they need me to be. And she’d been doing travel-nursing, dealing with a two-hour commute both ways, twelve hour shifts. And her mother was approaching the holidays, which is always a little rough on her since her dad died. And so I thought, ‘Just get them out from under you. Get them out from under your cloud.’ And I figured, if I could just buckle down, get these accounts taken care of, and muscle through this anxiety thing, then I could have everything put back together by Christmas Eve.

“So…” Tucker lowered his gaze from the ceiling to his interlocked hands. “I encouraged her to go and be with her mother. Finish up her travel-nursing contract, without having to do a bunch of commuting. And I didn’t tell her this last part, but in my mind, I thought, ‘And when you come back you’ll have your real husband back, and Michael will have his real father back, and then we can move on from this.’”

Tucker looked earnestly at Claus. “Is that fucked up of me? That I thought some time apart would help us both? Help her and Michael get their positivity back? Give me a chance to settle things?”

Claus gave him a consoling smile. “I’m sure you were just trying to do the right thing by her. Has there been any positive steps?”

Tucker nodded. “I think so. I’ve really been working on trying to reframe the way that I think. And I’m making progress. Also…taking medication.” He said it like he was revealing a dark secret. He, who had judged society so strongly for the modern over-reliance on pharmaceuticals. “It’s helping. I feel more like myself. Which is why I wanted to get us back together for Christmas.”

“There’s still time,” Claus said. Then he leaned forward onto his elbows. “But, if you’ll indulge an old man for a moment…”

Tucker gave him a questioning look.

Claus appeared to be choosing his words. “Maybe you’ve seen a little too much of the bad side of the world. But you have a good heart. I can see that in you. I can see that you want to do the right thing. You want to protect people.” He looked thoughtfully upwards. “But…you can’t shield people from the darkness, Tuck. By its very nature, a shield casts its own shadow. You can’t keep people from the darkness by casting a shadow.”

Tucker frowned, thinking perhaps the metaphor was being extended past its breaking point. But Claus found his gaze again, and seemed to be very serious in what he said, and so Tucker decided to let him say it.

“The only thing that beats darkness is light.”

Tucker brushed needlessly at his pants leg. “Yeah, well. Sara and Michael had the light. And I feel like I snuffed it out.”

“Nonsense. You can’t ever snuff out the light. You can only dim it.” Claus pointed at him. “You have the light in you, too. It’s just…glowing very weakly right now.”

Tucker cleared his throat and grabbed his phone, checking the time. This conversation had suddenly gotten a little too close for comfort. Claus didn’t know the half of it. How Tucker lay awake at night, thinking of how he’d banished his family, wondering how in the hell he was ever going to get that light shining again. The magic that, while it might burn low at other points in the year, always rekindled strongly inside of him during Christmas time.

It had not rekindled this year. He hadn’t been able to coax any life out of those embers. It seemed he had only a bed of ash.

The time was 1:15. But a convenient out lay waiting on his home screen: A text message that he’d been waiting for.

Don Juan: Up in the spot. U comin??

Tucker stood up, tapping out a quick response. “Hey, Claus. I got someone I need to meet up with.”

“Oh? May I ask what about?”

Tucker sent his text, telling Don Juan he’d be there in twenty, then pocketed his phone. He looked at Claus and briefly considered lying to the man. But that was a shitty way to start a relationship with your new boss. And, as he’d observed already, Santa knew things.

“I got a CI that might have some information on who killed Nick.”

Claus looked troubled. “Is that really what you should be worrying about right now?”

Tucker grabbed his jacket and slung it on. “Claus, if there’s some shithead running around, capping random old dudes sitting in cars, don’t you think we should know about it?”

Claus frowned—an expression that seemed odd on his face. “Ah. I see.”

“I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“And what should I be doing with myself?”

“Well, you can finish ordering the rest of the stuff off the list. And if you get done with that…” Tucker peered through the open office door at the piles of items now cluttering the open space beyond. “There’s a hundred and some odd gifts that need to get wrapped.”

Claus brightened considerably. “Of course! Wrapping presents is one of my favorite activities.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out two candy canes. “One for the road. And one for your CI.”

Tucker laughed at the absurdity, but found himself taking the candy canes. “Thanks, Claus. But I think my CI would prefer a forty of King Cobra.”

December 20th, 1:40 p.m.

Don Juan was a friendly old drunk who doddered mostly around the intersection of West and Remount, but would occasionally wander as far as Reid Park in search of people willing to give him a quarter, which he pronounced as “quotah.”

He was the perfect informant because no one in the history of West and Remount had felt threatened by Don Juan. He was five and a half feet tall with a dirty old hat perched precariously atop a mound of graying afro, was always smiling, and never had a bad thing to say about anyone. Mostly, he worked with three phrases, like he only had a limited soundboard to choose from.

#1: “Hey, you got a quotah?”

#2: “You know me! I’m Don Juan, baby!” (except it sounded more like DahWAH).

#3: “Aight now!”

Everyone talked to Don Juan, and, though it seemed like he’d drank his mind away a long time ago, he was shockingly astute at recalling things.

Tucker drove around back of the BP gas station and parked it there next to the defunct car wash. Don Juan was plying a quotah from a fat man in a windsuit, and departed with a loud, “Aight now! DahWAH, baby!”

Tucker always smiled when he met Don Juan. How could you not?

“DahWAH!” he called out, leaning back against his driver’s door. The air of this particular intersection always pulled him back to his time on the department. A base coat of nasty dumpster, with layers of exhaust from passing cars, and burgers and fry oil from the Jack In The Box across the street. Tucker could have identified West and Remount with his eyes closed.

Don Juan cackled merrily and hobbled over, counting his change. A forty of King Cobra cost a buck sixty-eight. He’d collect just enough—to the penny—and then buy his forty. And by the time he got done with that forty, it would be time to start collecting again.

“Haha, you know me, baby! You know me!”

Tucker bumped knuckles with the old man and slipped him a five dollar bill which Don Juan made vanish like an expert magician. “How many you had today, Don Juan?”

“Oh, you know.” Don Juan waved him off. He typically deflected this question, but Tucker always asked. There were a few times that Tucker had come out and found Don Juan incoherent. His eyes were a little watery today, but he was still cogent.

“Whatchoo got for me, Big Tuck?”

“That depends on what you got for me, Don,” Tucker replied, not unfriendly. “Someone got shot last night. An older black guy. Somewhere around here. Maybe in Clanton Park.”

“Oh shit. He dead?”

Tucker nodded. “Don’t worry about it. Police don’t know. They’re not involved.”

“Oh shit.” Don Juan betrayed himself by glancing around, for just a split second, showing the sharpness of thought that Tucker knew lurked inside there. “You tryna find the shooter?”

“Just wanna know who might’ve done it. You heard anything?”

“Shit naw. I steer clear of them young bucks, out here shootin each other up all the time. Liable to shoot ol DahWah for askin for a quotah.” He shook his head and went back to counting change. “Mm-mm. Steer clear of them.”

“Who’s carrying out here lately?” Tucker asked.

“Shiiit. Erbody carryin out here.” Don Juan nodded to Tucker’s right hip. “You carryin too.”

Tucker squeezed his elbow against the Glock 17 on his hip. Yes, Don Juan was a lot more perceptive than people gave him credit for. “Well, shit, Don Juan, you ain’t being very helpful right now.”

Don Juan knew the five bucks was a gimme. He always got at least five bucks from Tucker. It was a good faith offering. He also knew he’d get twenty for good information. He glanced up at Tucker, seeing his opportunity slipping.

Tucker was used to the song and dance. There were certain things that had to be pried out of people, even confidential informants. Don Juan would point out every jackass that was holding drugs at West and Remount right at the moment, without having to ask twice. But drugs were petty shit. You were in and out. Violence was different. Not only did you get in more trouble for it, but squealing on someone who’d already killed another person carried with it its own inherent danger.

But twenty bucks could buy a lot of King Cobra. And some Jack In The Box, too.

Don Juan came to his decision. “Aight now.” More subdued than his usual proclamation. “Gimme a quotah.”

“I’m not giving you a quarter, Don. But I will give you twenty dollars if you tell me who shot the old man last night.”

“Shit. Should get a hunnit for that.” A gleam of hope in his eyes.

“Pff. You’d get robbed and killed yourself.”

Don Juan shrugged, knowing Tucker was right. Even twenty bucks was dangerous. Hence why Don had made that five-spot disappear so quickly.

Don Juan hemmed and hawed about it for a few minutes, like he wasn’t quite ready, but Tucker could tell that the information was on its way out.

“Aight now. So, you know Big Mac?”

Tucker coughed out a laugh. “You gotta be kidding me. Who’s he hang out with? The Hamburglar?”

Don Juan stared, not getting it.

Tucker sniffed. “Nevermind. I’m not familiar with him. What’s his game?”

Don Juan finally pocketed his loose change. “He and his boys out here robbin everybody. But, lately, they been out here talking bout killin a cop. Flashin pieces and shit.”

Tucker was unimpressed. “Don, these guys are always talking about killing cops. It’s like, their thing.”

Don Juan held up a hand. “I know it. Don’t I know it? But I’m just sayin. Been serious lately. One of em got a choppa. Lookin to use it on some twelve.”

Twelve being the current fashion of slang, replacing the classic “five-oh” as a reference to police.

“Well, this guy they shot,” Tucker said. “He wasn’t a cop. Just an old guy. Driving a pickup truck. Regular clothes on.”

“Right-right-right.” Don Juan raised a bushy eyebrow. “But what he look like? Hm?”

Tucker frowned. “Sixty-five. Black male. Medium build.”

Don Juan rolled his eyes and waved that away. “Naw, naw. That’s not what I’m sayin. What he look like? He look like you? Cause you look like a cop.”

Tucker considered this for a moment. He was well aware of his own “cop-ishness.” Folks that lived on the edgier side of the law had spotting cops down to a science. They could pick you out based on the clothes you wore and your general demeanor.

And now that he thought about it, Nick had had that same vibe about him. The erect posture. The stern look. The eyes that kept scanning. Tucker didn’t know about Nick’s background. For all he knew, Nick had been a cop back in the day.

“Alright,” Tucker nodded. “So maybe he does look a bit like a cop. But I told you, he wasn’t one.”

“Right-right-right, but they don’t know that.” Don Juan rapped the back of his hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Let’s say you one of these young bucks, you got a choppa, itchin to use it on some po. You see some guy in a pickup, he got that cop look about him. Look like he undercover or some shit. Easy mark. Young bucks, they scared of the uniform, but undercover ain’t got all them big guns on em, so it looks easy. See?”

Tucker chewed the inside of his lip. It actually made sense, in a way. It was entirely possible that it had happened exactly as Don Juan described.

“So Big Mac. Alright. You know his real name?”

Don Juan shook his head. “Only ever know him by Big Mac.”

Tucker sighed. “Come on, Don. Gimme more than that.”

“He drive a green Buick.”

“Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. You wouldn’t have a tag number, would you?”

“Mm-m. Nope. He got that paper plate on there.”

“Like a thirty-day tag? A temporary tag?”

“Yeah, that’s what it is.”

“Alright.” Tucker discreetly dipped his hand in his pocket, palming the twenty. “Big Mac, in a green Buick, with a thirty-day tag. Anything else?”

“It’s got rims.”

Tucker slipped the bill over and it poofed to an unknown locale. “I appreciate it, Don Juan.”

“Ha!” Don Juan slipped seamlessly back into his usual role, the sharpness going out of his eyes. “You know me! I’m DahWAH, baby!”

December 20th, 1:50 p.m. to 11:30 p.m.

Tucker had to put his investigation on the backburner. For now. He needed to focus on the rest of the open accounts, and completing the temporary ones from the burglaries. So the rest of the day, and a good portion of the evening, was spent in The Workshop.

Claus had gotten more gift wrapping done that Tucker had expected, and had also put some poinsettias by the back door. They finished up what was left to be done. They now had completely replaced and wrapped the stolen items from three out of the seven burgled houses. The other four were waiting on a slew of Amazon packages that would arrive tomorrow, and the day after.

After a couple hours of ardent gift wrapping, Tucker and Claus took a break and stood, sleeves pushed up and hands on hips, surveying their progress. Brightly colored wrapping and shining bows were strewn about them, organized into seven piles, each pile a family.

“You know,” Claus observed. “We could just wait and try to do them all at once.”

Tucker shook his head, swiping a bit of sweat that was trickling out from under his Santa hat. “I like to get them in as soon as I get them completed. Reason being, I don’t want the parents to decide to send themselves into credit card debt, trying to replace all this on their own. The sooner we can get them in, the sooner we can take that burden off the parents.”

“Ah,” Claus smiled. “A gift, in and of itself.”

After the wrapping was finished, Tucker did a bit of Googling, and then they took a drive. By then it was dark, and getting on dinner time, so Tucker drove them through Zack’s, over at Scaleybark and South Boulevard. Because if Claus was going to work the Charlotte area, he needed to experience a Zack’s hamburger.

They scarfed down messy burgers and shoe-string fries, and washed it down with four ounces of Coke filling the cracks between 22 ounces of pebble ice. Then they hit the road again.

It was a quick trip over to the Sedgefield neighborhood, which was half up and coming, and half old and dilapidated. The burglaries had happened in the old and dilapidated portion. Lower middle class, blue collar families on budgets as shoestring as Zack’s French fries. These people could barely afford to give their kids one good Christmas, and certainly not replace one that had been stolen. What had been stolen from them wasn’t just “stuff”—it was months of layaways, long nights of overtime, and PB&J’s for Mom and Dad’s brown bag lunches, six weeks straight.

Tucker identified the houses, looking for good entry points, and of course, alarm company signs, though most of the people in this section couldn’t afford such luxuries. None of the houses had alarms. Which was probably why they’d been hit in the first place. Bad for the family, but it made Tucker’s job easier.

When Tucker had reconned enough, he took them back to The Workshop, and they prepped to deliver the stolen Christmases back to three of those families.

December 21st, 2:01 a.m.

94 hours until Christmas Day. Actually, 93 hours and 59 minutes.

Tucker felt each passing minute like something that was being forcibly wrested out of his hands. It was difficult to sit still, but sit still he must. Now it was time to wait, and to move slowly, and be stealthy.

They were in the van, for the simple pragmatism of being able to carry more cargo. They’d managed to fit all three houses in the back, and Tucker had arranged them in order of whose house he thought would be completely asleep first.

Claus had insisted on coming along so that he could “get a feel for how things were done.” What he was getting a feel for was how to sleep upright in the passenger seat. Which he accomplished with much snoring and snuffling and shuffling about.

Tucker sipped black coffee from the 7/11 up the street, having reconciled himself to the fact that he probably wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyways. Maybe there would be a bit of downtime tomorrow and he could catch some Z’s then.

The first house was the Ramirez’s. Family of five. Husband, wife, girl, boy, girl, in order of birth. All younger kids. Still in their toy phase. Gabriel—a good, Christmasy name—worked on a road crew, and currently was widening an interstate somewhere in Charlotte that probably should have been widened twenty years ago. Elizabeth worked as a server at a Mexican restaurant down on South Boulevard. She got home around midnight and relieved her sister-in-law from watching the kids while they slept.

The last light of wakefulness had gone out about an hour ago—the blue glow of the TV. By now, Elizabeth should be asleep. The house was dark. She’d extinguished the lights on the Christmas tree in the living room, which had glowed valiantly, as though unperturbed by the fact that there were no gifts under its boughs.

Would this have been easier to do in the morning? Possibly. Most B&Es happened in the mid-morning hours while everyone was at work and school. Unfortunately, the kids were out of school, and Tucker hadn’t had enough time to do enough reconnaissance to know for sure whether the kids would be home tomorrow, or being babysat at another house. Besides that fact, he assumed that since Gabriel was a third-shifter, he’d be home in the mornings anyways.

So it was a crap shoot either way.

At least this way, there was a certain undeniable magic to it. That Elizabeth might wake up to hear the delighted squeals of her children as they discovered that, though the space under the tree had been bare when they’d gone to bed, they’d awoken to find it filled again. Almost as if Santa had come early.

“Claus. Wake up.”

Claus sniffed and came awake gently. “Is it time?”

“Yeah. You ready?”

“Oof.” Claus sat forward, wincing. “The old back does not like being in a car for this long.”

“Hell, you’re practically twice my age, and my back hurts. You’re holding together pretty damn well. But…”

“What?”

“I think you should stay in the van.”

“Don’t trust me to creep quietly enough?” Claus said it without malice. Just an observation.

Tucker nodded. “Maybe when we’re not in a rush. Don’t worry. You’ll get to do some. But besides that fact, I think you should keep watch. Make sure no one rolls up on us. Especially cops. After a string of B ‘n’ E’s they’ll probably up the patrols.”

“Alright. And how should I communicate to you?”

Tucker plugged an earpiece into his phone and set it in his ear. “We’ll stay on the line with each other while I’m working. If you see something, just let me know and then hide in the cargo area. Got it?”

Claus looked as militantly determined as a seventy-year-old man delivering presents could manage. “Got it.”

Tucker pulled the shifter into drive, but left the lights off. As they rolled down the street towards the Ramirez’s house, he dialed up Claus on his phone, and when Claus answered, he put the phone in his pocket.

Tucker pulled the van straight into the driveway. It might’ve been more convenient to back in, but then the reverse lights and brake lights would shine right on the house. Every advantage of stealth had to be taken.

He turned the van off, and killed the dome lights. Sat there for a moment, watching the house to make sure no lights came on, alerted by the sound of a car pulling up. All remained quiet.

“Alright,” Tucker whispered. “Goal is to be in and out in ten minutes. They’re all smaller packages, so this should be doable.”

“Good luck!” Claus said, his words strained with excitement.

Tucker exited the van, easing the door closed behind him and pushing against it until it clicked shut. He turned to the house, giving a quick glance over his shoulders, up and down the neighborhood street. All was dark and silent. Somewhere on South Boulevard, a car stereo boomed past, fading into the night.

Tucker moved around to the back door, pulling on blue nitrile gloves as he went. No motion-activated floodlights—he’d already checked that. And probably no dogs. If there were dogs, the place wouldn’t have gotten broken into. Burglars knew to knock and listen before busting in.

At the back door, which had been the burglar’s point of entry too, Tucker went with a far subtler method than kicking the door in. He knelt on one knee, and pulled his lock pick set from his coat pocket. It was a skill he’d worked long on mastering. Sometimes, just to test him, Nick would bring in some new, pick-resistant doorknob that he’d found at a hardware store and challenge him.

Since mastering the skill, Tucker had yet to find a lock that he couldn’t pick in one minute.

This one was a breeze. Builder-grade locks. Very basic. Tucker set the pins on the doorknob within ten seconds, and had the deadbolt done in another twenty. He turned the knob slowly, holding the pick and torque bit in his mouth. The little springs inside pinged and panged quietly.

He eased the door open an inch, watching for a security chain. There wasn’t one.

The door creaked.

Tucker kept his right hand on the knob, and with the other slipped out a little pocket-sized spray can of DW40. He stuck the red tube right into the weather stripping at the hinges, and gave all three a solid dousing. Eased the door back and forward a couple times to work the lubricant in, then pushed it open all the way. It slid soundlessly.

Boom. Child’s play.

He stepped into the dark kitchen. Through the opening into the living room, he spied the Christmas tree. Darkened, but still lovely. A white, artificial tree. Sara thought they were tacky, but Tucker harbored a secret adoration of them.

Under the tree, a candy-striped skirt, barren.

Tucker identified the path he would take to the tree, and any obstacles that might be in his way. He’d been sitting in a dark car for the last three hours, so his eyes were nicely adjusted, and despite the dark, he saw that the way was clear.

He moved silently through the kitchen, leaving the door open. Into the living room. Each step as cautious and quiet as a creeping cat. He tested suspicious bowings of the floor for creakiness, identified the better places to go.

Through his earpiece, he heard Claus shuffling about.

“Claus to Tuck,” the old man said, like it was a radio. “Is everything alright?”

Tucker grit his teeth, then retreated out the backdoor. Around the side of the house, he frowned at Claus through the windshield as he went to the back of the van and opened the double doors.

Claus perched himself eagerly between the two front seats, beaming.

“You don’t need to ask me if everything’s alright,” Tucker whispered briskly. “I’ll let you know if anything is wrong. Other than that, no one should say anything. Unless there’s someone coming. Got it?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Claus snickered like a schoolboy. “Still learning!”

Tucker grabbed the first red velvet bag and slung it over his shoulder. The bag wasn’t just an affectation. Tucker had found it to be very practical in these specific circumstances. He was able to get most everything in a single trip, and the thick velvet muffled the crinkle of the packages inside and was much quieter to manipulate than, say, a black plastic bag. The red? Well, maybe that was an affectation.

Tucker pressed the van doors quietly shut and made for the back of the house. These operations always got his heart thumping. A weird mix of thrill, excitement to do good, and anxiousness over getting caught.

He wore an old pair of Merrills for this. The soles were worn in and soft, and when he rolled his feet on the outsides, they were virtually silent.

He picked his way through the course he’d chosen to the Christmas tree, setting the bag down gently on the floor, easing all the weight down until he was sure it was settled and wouldn’t shift. Then he opened and got to work unloading.

The Ramirez’s were very fairness-minded, Tucker had noted. Four gifts per child. A board game that appeared to be a group gift to all three. Two smaller gifts to and from Elizabeth and Gabriel.

“Mayday!” Claus’s voice hissed in his ear. “Mayday! There’s a police car coming down the street!”

Tucker paused only long enough to register what Claus had said, then dove for the last two packages. He set them swiftly under the tree, and then stood with his bag in hand. He positioned himself with the tree between him and the window, and peered around it so he could see through the open blinds and down the street.

A pair of headlights drifted towards him. That specific speed a squad car takes when they aren’t going any particular place, but are prowling for ne’erdowells.

Shit, shit, shit.

Tucker glanced to the back door, wondering if he should make an attempt to close it. Depending on how with-it this cop was, he might identify the van as being non-native to the neighborhood. Then he might stop and check it. Then he might find Claus—even if he had hid in the back as Tucker instructed. Or he might go around the back of the house and see the door hanging open.

Please be a lazy cop. Please don’t know the cars in the neighborhood. Please don’t stop…

The squad car pulled adjacent to the Ramirez house and stopped.

A nice, new Dodge Charger. Back in Tucker’s day, they’d still been beating the wheels off a fleet of Crown Vics. Now they all had fancy Chargers and Ford Explorers.

Tucker hid behind the Christmas tree, cringing, and continuing to pray.

Please be a fat cop that doesn’t like to get out of his car…

The driver’s door opened. A young, lean police officer got out, his face all eagle-eyed suspicion.

God was apparently not in the mood to make things easy on Tucker tonight. But, as they say, God never throws you a test that you can’t handle.

Tucker dove into one of his coat pockets and drew out a burner phone. It was a prepaid hunk of shit, but it could do something special: It could make police officers disappear. Especially young eager beavers like this guy.

Out on the driveway, the cop shined his flashlight on the license plate, and then ducked back into his squad car to run it. Probably to see if it was registered to this address. Which it was not. It was a rental. And, as any cop worth their salt knows, rental cars=crimes afoot.

Tucker tapped out a text message, and sent it to 9-1-1. It was new technology for the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department, but Tucker had used it before.

I’m locked in the bathroom of the Burger King on South Boulevard. It’s getting robbed.

The second the text message went through, Tucker broke the cellphone open and dug the battery out with his fingernails. He put the pieces back in his coat pocket. He’d need to toss it down a drain ASAP. Provided he managed to survive the night without getting locked up for burglary.

The young cop got back out of his squad car. The suspicion on his face was harder now. He’d seen that it was a rental. He was moving into full investigation mode. He approached the rear of the van, shining his flashlight all over it. His hand went to his lapel, keying his radio mic.

It was so still and quiet that, with the backdoor open, Tucker could hear the cop’s voice.

“Twelve-ten, start me one more, regular traffic.”

Great. He was calling for more cops.

The response was even fainter, but still audible to Tucker’s hyper-tuned ears.

“Twelve-twelve, I can start his way.”

“Ten-four,” the bored dispatcher’s voice came back.

Somewhere at the Law Enforcement Center in downtown Charlotte (or “uptown,” if you were a local, for reasons unbeknownst to any local) a third-shift 9-1-1 operator was evaluating how seriously to take an unverified text message.

Please take it seriously.

The cop outside was on the other side of the van. Probably working his way to the passenger’s window, to shine his light around. How suspicious would he find a series of red velvet bags? And dear God, please let Claus have clambered his old body out of sight.

“Any available units,” the dispatcher’s voice sounded again. “Priority one robbery at the Burger King, twenty-nine-oh-one South Boulevard.”

Every muscle in Tucker’s body was clenched.

But the Burger King on South Boulevard was less than a mile from this young hard-charger outside. And when you’re a young, hard-charger, being close to a priority one robbery when it’s called out is like winning the lottery. It’s a chance to do all the cool shit you dreamed of in your most elaborate rookie fantasies.

Tucker had been a young, hard-charger himself, once. He remembered the feeling.

The cop outside appeared again, sprinting back to his squad car and practically yelling into his mic: “Put me on that, I’m close!”

Thank you sweet baby Jesus in a manger, Tucker allowed himself to exhale. One more request: Don’t let him put on his siren.

Rookies loved putting on their siren.

The cop vaulted into his seat and slammed his door shut, the sound loud and pronounced with the backdoor open. The siren would be even worse. The Charger’s engine screamed as the cop jerked it into a tire-squealing U-turn.

Tucker was already moving for the back door. Blue lights flickered on, strobing across the Ramirez’s living room. Tucker tossed the red bag onto the grass outside and swung the backdoor shut, managing to cinch it closed against its weather stripping just as the siren started to wail.

“It’s okay, baby Jesus,” Tucker whispered to himself. “One outta four ain’t bad.”

He knelt in front of the door again. He had to re-lock it. He wasn’t going to leave the Ramirez’s in an unsecured house. He snatched his pick and torque bit out again and completed the most rapid re-locking he’d ever performed as he breathed into the mic of his earpiece.

“Claus! Get in the driver’s seat! No lights, drive away as quietly as you can. You can pick me up somewhere else.”

Door knob locked. On to the deadbolt…

“Okay, I copy, Tuck!” Claus murmured, amid shuffling and heavy breathing as he fought his way into the driver’s seat of the van.

A light came on inside the house.

“Come on, come on, come on…” Tucker forced calm movements out of his fingers. You couldn’t muscle lock picking. It had to be done slow and deliberate.

“Mama!” a child’s voice cried out somewhere inside.

The deadbolt snicked closed.

The van’s engine rumbled to life, along with the clunk of the transmission shifting into reverse. The slight scraping of tires angling themselves on asphalt.

Tucker stuffed the pick set in his pocket and bolted for the freedom of the dark back yard, grabbing the red bag up as he went. He made it into the thin line of trees between this street and the next one over and glanced behind him just long enough to spy the van heading back towards South Boulevard with its lights off.

“Okay,” Tucker said, as he ran through the trees, the houses flying by to his left. “Lights on, Claus. Stop a few more houses up. I’ll meet you there.”

He vaulted over a fence.

A pitbull immediately exploded out of its doghouse, wasting no time in barking and snarling and charging at this ill-fated intruder with the red bag and Santa hat.

Tucker accelerated as fast as his middle-aged legs could carry him, considering tossing the bag at the dog as a distraction, but that violated one of his chief tenements: Leave no trace.

It was impossible, but in his mind, he imagined that he could feel the hot, moist breath of the canine on his ankle as he threw himself over the other side of the fence, not even bothering to grab it and vault, but simply heaving himself across, head first.

He somersaulted in the air and landed hard on his back. He thought he heard several of his vertebrae shift into new and complicated formations. The breath shot out of his lungs like a pneumatic cannon, and his diaphragm did not seem willing to let him suck in any more.

The pitbull hit the fence on the other side, snapping and snarling.

Tucker rolled, dog-spittle spraying in his face as the beast on the other side attempted to chew on him through the chainlink.

“Good boy,” Tucker wheezed, because hey, the dog was just doing its job.

He struggled to his feet and did his best to make all haste, which was less of a run and more of a hobble. Somewhere around the time when his vision started to sparkle at the edges, his shocked lungs and diaphragm decided that they’d rather stop pouting about the abuse and not asphyxiate, and Tucker sucked in a big, stinging breath of cold air.

“Are you alright?” Claus asked in his ear. “I heard barking.”

“Fine,” Tucker grunted. “Just dying.”

Concern: “Are you really dying? Do you need my assistance?”

“No. I’m only dying a little.”

Tucker straggled his way between two dark houses, and found the van stopped just a few yards from him. He ran around the back of it and got in the front passenger seat. He slammed the door and then melted back, huffing air and grimacing as his lower back gave him a most curious crunching sensation.

He waved forward. “Go. Just go.”

Claus started driving. “You did a very good job, Tuck. Is it always so exciting?”

Tucker closed his eyes, measuring his breaths and trying to situate his body to relieve the sensation of slipping disks. “I try to make it as unexciting as possible. But sometimes it just goes that way.”

“Well, you handled it very well. Are you okay? You seem to be in pain.”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.”

“Maybe we should go back to The Workshop.”

Tucker opened his eyes, feeling a pitch of disappointment in his gut, but knowing that Claus was right. “Yeah. Take us back. This van’s burned. We’ll need to get a new vehicle and try again tomorrow.”

“Oh, good,” Claus seemed pleased. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

“I could definitely use some sleep,” Tucker said, but thought, Probably not gonna happen.

December 21st , 4:00 a.m.

He did manage to get some sleep. A grand total of three hours, spent on his couch during the wee morning hours of the 21st. The king-size bed seemed too large for him now, the empty space where Sara should have been making it cavernous and uncomfortable.

On the couch, he could imagine that she was in there, and that he’d simply fallen asleep on the couch, as he sometimes did after a long day capped off with a few whiskeys. He could imagine that everything was okay, and that he lived in some alternate universe where he’d never voluntarily isolated himself, in some attempt to save his family from his own shitty attitudes.

Would he ever see the light in their eyes again?

Would he ever see his boy grinning at him in awe?

He dreamed of Michael, in a spaceship made of cardboard boxes. How it was real for him because his father told him that anything could be real, if you believed in it.

He rose at seven, still fully clothed, with mud on his pants from his adventures with fences and pitbulls. His back was stiff and whiny, and didn’t seem inclined to let him make any sort of twisting movements. He took a long hot shower, popped on new clothes, and for a brief moment, standing beside the couch with its rumpled pillows, stared at the Santa hat that lay there where his head had been.

He thought about leaving it behind. Sure, it was comfortable and kept his head nice and toasty. But it just seemed so damned jovial, and he just felt so damned worn out. In the cold, dark living room that should have been alive with Christmas lights, the excitement to do good that had peeked out during the Ramirez operation, like the sun through a break in a dreary drizzle, seemed to have clouded over again.

But he was not quite willing to throw in the towel just yet. Maybe he was done—maybe he would never have the spirit necessary to be Santa’s helper again. And maybe Claus would eventually see that, and maybe they would have a talk, and Tucker would have to find himself a new line of work. Perhaps put that PI license to actual use.

But for today, he was still willing to put on a show. For Claus. And maybe for himself. One last ditch effort to get it all back. Or maybe this was called denial.

So, though he didn’t feel an ounce of the spirit that the hat represented, he snatched it up and crammed it stubbornly down over his shower-damp head.

He got to The Workshop around eight. Returned the van to Enterprise Rent-A-Car, and then Uber’d himself to the Avis Rental at the airport, where he picked up a new cargo van, this one burgundy. He drove this back to The Workshop and got to work.

Claus showed up promptly at nine, and together they managed to finish the accounts he had intended to finish the previous night, plus two more. They hit the houses in the mid-morning hours like an intelligent burglar should. Sure, it wasn’t quite as magical, but time was starting to take precedence.

The Amazon packages arrived at the appointed time, the UPS and FedEx and USPS workers all giving Tucker intrigued expressions as they unloaded box after box.

A mountain of brown packages with blue smiles now dominated the center of The Workshop. Claus emerged from the office and clapped his hands together.

“Well! We have a lot of unboxing to do!”

Tucker shucked his phone out of his pocket, and checked the time. It was 1:12 p.m. “Yeah. But it’s gonna have to wait. We got two families hitting go time in forty-five.” Tucker looked at Claus. “We’re gonna need to split them up.”

Claus brightened. “Ah. The Parris’s and the Johnstons, yes?”

Tucker slipped his phone back into his pocket. “You take the van. I’ll use my Suburban. You comfortable taking the Parris’s solo and I’ll take the Johnstons?”

Claus gave him a sly squint. “You’re not trying to protect me, are you?”

The Johnstons lived in a neighborhood just north of Tucker’s old police stomping grounds. Not too far from where Nick had been killed.

Tucker scratched his temple. “Well. The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Puh-huh-huh. Very well, Tuck.” Claus seemed to be okay with it. “You take the Johnstons.”

December 21st, 1:45 p.m.

Not every account required a stakeout like Karisa had. Just the delicate ones that needed a lot of coordination to make sure things went off correctly. And if there had ever been a delicate account, it was the Johnstons.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnston were grandparents to two young boys. The father was completely out of the picture. The mother—Mr. and Mrs. Johnston’s daughter—had a drug habit and had voluntarily given over custody.

The Johnston’s were barely surviving on their meager Social Security and a pension from the pipe foundry where Mr. Johnston had retired after fifty years of work. Suddenly providing a home for two school-age boys was a shock to their system. And a social worker was due at their house at 2:00 p.m. to render the court’s judgment as to whether the home was fit for the two young boys.

The Johnstons were likely stressed (and a little mortified) about the only spare bedroom they had for the boys, which had no mattresses, and only pillows and blankets for them to sleep on, their small stash of clothes still overflowing from their tattered backpacks.

Luckily for the Johnstons, a bedroom set was due to be delivered at any moment, complete with a bunkbed, mattresses, dresser, and new school clothes, shoes, and book bags for the boys. Not to mention some gift cards for Christmas presents and groceries, because anyone who’s raised kids knows they will eat you out of your house.

All Tucker had to do was be present to listen in, and confirm that the social worker found everything up to spec.

He pulled into the neighborhood, fiddling with the receiver in his cup holder. He glanced down at it, waiting for it to pick up the listening device inside the Johnston’s living room. A crackle of static came through, but no voices just yet.

He looked up.

A green Buick turned onto the street, driving towards him.

He stared at it for a moment, a spark of adrenaline shooting through his system as his brain suddenly shifted gears from completing the Johnstons account, to his investigation of Nick’s killer.

Green Buick.

Big Mac.

The sunlight flashed off the Buick’s windshield. Tucker did his best not to look like he was staring, but tracked the progress intensely from behind his sunglasses. He got a glimpse. Three occupants. Two in the front. One in the back. But little else.

The Buick passed him.

The receiver in the cup holder buzzed: “…be some sort of mistake. We didn’t order…”

Tucker stared at his sideview mirror, watching the tail-end of the Buick, retreating down the street.

A 30-day tag on the back.

His hesitant tension turned into full-blown heart-pounding.

“No, sir,” a voice murmured through the receiver. “It’s no mistake. This is the correct address, and this bedroom set is bought and paid for, to be delivered to the Johnston residence…”

It rambled on, but Tucker’s mind had been consumed. An old, familiar feeling from his days as a cop. If cops were like dogs, then seeing a car that matched the description of the suspect you were looking for was like spotting a squirrel.

It was nearly irresistible.

Tucker clenched his steering wheel, his pulse thudding in his head like a kick-drum had been installed at the base of his skull.

The voices on the receiver were getting clearer, less static. He was just a block or two from the Johnston’s house.

In the sideview mirror, the green Buick stopped at the intersection of the main road, then eased into a right hand turn.

They’re getting away.

Tucker glanced at the clock. 1:48.

He had 12 minutes before the social worker was due.

Was that enough time?

He could make that work. Couldn’t he?

Tucker couldn’t deny his instincts any longer. He slammed on the brakes, whipped his Suburban into a driveway, turned around, and sped back towards the main road. Praying that the green Buick hadn’t ghosted on him.

He rolled through the stop sign, cutting off an oncoming car. A horn beeped behind him, the indignant driver waving at him in his rear-view mirror. Tucker barely noticed, eyes focused forward.

Straight ahead, the tail-end of the Buick disappeared around a curve.

Tucker accelerated, tailgating the next person in line as he craned his neck to see above the tops of the cars, trying to catch another glimpse of the Buick before he lost it.

The signal on the receiver was gone again. Just a low hiss of static now.

Tucker, what are you doing?

His inner voice sounded oddly like Claus in that moment.

“Just gonna check it out,” Tucker murmured aloud, tamping down a flush of guilt as he imagined Claus’s concerned eyes upon him. “I’ve got time.”

The road straightened out.

The Buick approached a stale green light at a main intersection. It trundled across the intersection, continuing straight.

As Tucker and the cars ahead of him approached the light, it turned from green to yellow. Two cars eased through, but the car directly ahead of Tucker decided to be a good citizen and stop.

Tucker swore. The light was just turning to red. There was that magical space of time between when your light turns red and the other lanes turn green, and the intersection is clear.

It was all the opportunity Tucker was ever going to get.

He curbed the Suburban, and roared around the car ahead of him, busted the red light, and sped through the intersection before any other cars could fill it.

He glanced at his rearview, hoping there were no blue-and-whites present. There weren’t.

Tucker immediately slowed, not wanting to follow the Buick too closely. He could see it up ahead, and he just needed to keep it in his sights.

The hiss of empty static from the listening device sent a sharp note of guilt into his stomach, which he quickly tamped down.

I’m just seeing where they go. I’m just seeing if I can get more information.

But how long would that take? How far from the Johnston’s was he willing to drive?

The social worker was going to get there any minute. But it would take them some time to inspect the house. Tucker didn’t need to be there for that, did he? Just to hear them say that the Johnstons were good to go. Then he could mark the account as complete.

He was on Beatties Ford Road, heading north. He followed the Buick at an inconspicuous distance, mixed in with the regular flow of traffic, and through the next few intersections he caught green lights and didn’t have to struggle to stay with them.

Another glance at the clock.

1:55.

This is a bad idea.

The thought was very clear. And it was in his own voice.

But he didn’t stop, and he didn’t turn around. He was locked in. All forward-momentum.

Up ahead, the Buick took the left turn lane for Hoskins Road, then sat at the red arrows, waiting.

Tucker eased up, coasting along and waiting for other cars to fill in behind the Buick. But, naturally, no one else wanted to go onto Hoskins Road at this particular time. Tucker was forced to pull into the turn lane directly behind the Buick.

He tried his best to look completely disinterested. Staring out his windows as though the nearby businesses were utterly fascinating to him. Definitely not looking at the Buick. Nope. The white, cop-looking guy in the Suburban behind you isn’t even interested in you. And he’s definitely not the same white, cop-looking guy in the Suburban that passed you back in that neighborhood.

The red arrows turned to green arrows.

The Buick pulled left onto Hoskins Road, and Tucker followed. Hoskins was two-lanes in either direction. The Buick went for the right lane, so Tucker went for the left, doing everything he could to look like he wasn’t following them.

Less than a mile onto Hoskins Road, the Buick hung a right-hand turn onto Maplegrove Drive, and Tucker had no choice but to pass them by. Maplegrove Drive led into a pretty big neighborhood. A lot of turns. A lot of entrances and exits.

You’re gonna lose them!

The second he knew that he was out of sight of the Buick, he slammed on the brakes and cut an illegal U-turn. He accelerated rapidly back towards Maplegrove, then slowed to a crawl as he neared it. Irritated drivers swerved around him.

He peered down Maplegrove. And couldn’t see the Buick anymore.

Swearing under his breath, he waited for a break in the oncoming traffic, then yanked the Suburban onto Maplegrove Drive.

Where did they go? Did they know that they were being tailed? Was this an evasive maneuver? Had they done the smart thing and, the second they were out of sight, hit the gas and took a few turns to break the tail?

1:59.

You’re about to screw this up, Tucker.

No, I’ve got time. I just need a few more minutes.

Maplegrove ended in a T-intersection at Northcliffe Drive. Sitting at the stop sign, Tucker looked left, where Northcliffe ended in a cul-de-sac. No sign of the Buick. He turned right.

Where to now? Neighborhood streets branched in all directions. They could have gone anywhere in here. They could be back on Beatties Ford Road by now.

Tucker made a loop through the neighborhood. His only chance to glean anything useful from this entire episode was if they’d parked somewhere. Then he might be able to get an address, and an address could help him begin to build connections.

It was 2:03 when he spotted the Buick, backed into a driveway at the north end of Cricketeer Drive. It was a Buick. It was green. And he was almost positive it was the same one. But with it backed in, he couldn’t confirm the 30-day tag on the back.

He rolled by the house, glancing at the address marker.

3314 Cricketeer Drive.

He finagled his cell phone out of his pocket as he sped up, and headed for the neighborhood exit. I can still complete the account. I still have a few minutes.

He called John Gire.

“Tucker,” John greeted him. “Two calls in a week? I’m starting to feel spoiled.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tucker smiled tensely. “I don’t have a lot of time to chat, sorry. Can you run an address for me?”

John sighed dramatically into the phone. “I’m gonna need two bottles of scotch, or I’m going to start thinking you take me for granted. Let me pull over real quick.”

Tucker waited impatiently as he headed back to Beatties Ford and looked at his clock again. The social worker would already be there. Already be doing their inspection. How long would it take them?

The light at the intersection for Beatties Ford was red. Tucker stopped, unable to make a right turn because of the cars ahead of him. He tapped an irritable rhythm on the steering wheel.

“Alright,” John said. “What kinda search you want me to run?”

“Just run it in KBCOPS,” Tucker said, referencing the department’s reporting software. “It’s three-three-one-four Cricketeer Drive.”

John made some thoughtful noises. Tucker could hear the sound of keys tapping.

The light turned green. Tucker jerked his vehicle onto Beatties Ford, heading back towards the Johnston’s now. And was immediately stopped at another red light. Of course.

“Hm,” John grunted. “Not much there. Got a communicating threats report with that address listed as the victim’s address, back in twenty-eighteen. That’s it.”

“Alright. Can I get the names on that?”

“Let’s see. Trina White was the victim. Suspect was Nathaniel White. Looks like they’re married.”

Tucker frowned. “Got an age on them?”

“Uh…both mid-thirties.”

“Shit.”

“I’m assuming that’s not what you were hoping to find.”

“No.” Mid-thirties was too old. Big Mac was likely in his twenties. Probably too old to be a child of Trina or Nathaniel.

“May I ask what this is about?”

The light turned green, and Tucker sped down the road, managing to catch every single red light thereafter. It formed a knot in his gut. He kept telling himself he had time, but with every agonizing minute, he was less and less convinced.

You’ve screwed it up. You’re not going to be able to complete this account.

“You got any BOLO’s out on a green Buick with a thirty-day tag?” Tucker asked, threading his way through slower moving cars, his palms beginning to sweat. “Maybe reference a robbery?”

“This doesn’t seem like your usual stuff, Tuck.”

“It’s related. Less you know the better.”

“Right.” John sounded a little hesitant. “Well, I don’t recall any active BOLO’s for that vehicle description. I can check around. How discreet do I need to be?”

“As discreet as you feel comfortable with. I need a name. I need to know who drives that Buick. All I’ve got is an alias: Big Mac. That ring any bells for you?”

“I’ve heard it around town, but don’t have a real name to pin to it.”

“Alright,” Tucker shook his head. “Well, if you hear anything about that vehicle or that name, I’d like to know. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course, brother.”

“I’ll get you a whole case of scotch if you can give me a name.”

“Well, I appreciate it, but I’d help you out anyways.” A pause. “Hey, Tuck.”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. I don’t know what you’re getting into, and I don’t even want you to tell me. Like you said, the less I know the better. But be careful. You ain’t got the badge and backup anymore.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Tucker said. “I’m always careful.”

They said their goodbyes and Tucker hung up. He squeezed through hateful red lights that seemed perfectly timed to screw him over, and made it back to the Johnstons’ neighborhood by 2:19 p.m. As he approached their house, the receiver remained silent. No voices. No social worker talking about what they’d found. No grandparents talking about their plans to house the kids.

When he rolled past the Johnstons’ residence, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Johnston on the front stoop, watching the social worker in her pants suit, file-folder under her arm, descending the driveway to her silver sedan.

Tucker tried at a glance to determine from their facial expressions whether they looked happy or sad, but he passed too quickly.

The receiver stayed empty and quiet, giving him no confirmation of anything, and no clue as to whether the Johnston account had been completed.

December 21st, 3:00 p.m. to December 22nd

Claus was in high spirits when he returned to The Workshop.

Tucker, not so cheerful himself, forced a smile for Claus’s benefit. “I take it everything went well?”

“Oh, the Parris’s were wonderful!” Claus exclaimed, looking beatific in his memories. “It would have been wonderful regardless, but when you hear how taken aback the family is by the work you’ve done…” Claus sighed, satisfied. “It is very gratifying what we do.”

Tucker nodded, feeling a little left-out of that sensation.

“And how were the Johnstons?” Claus queried.

Tucker bit his lip, considering once again whether or not to lie. But as in all other times, it was best to tell Santa the truth. “I wasn’t able to complete the account.”

“Oh no!” Claus looked thunderstruck. “What happened?”

“I got there a little too late.” A lie by omission is still a lie. But perhaps a slightly more innocent one. Or so we tell ourselves.

“But you left with ample time.” Claus frowned. “Was traffic that bad?”

“I hit every red light possible.”

“Oh dear. So how do you complete the account now?”

Tucker sighed, heading for the office. “Well, I’m gonna have to do a little extra leg work to find out what the social worker’s decision was.”

Claus followed him into the office. “Stress not, dear Tuck. There are still a few days left.”

Yes. There was still a few days left. But what about Nick’s killer? What about the address, which had turned out to be a dead end?

He shook his head as he sat at the computer. “Nothing to be done for it now. We have other families to see to at the moment. I’ll loop back around to the Johnstons when I get a free moment.”

He almost laughed at that. As if he would have a free moment between now and Christmas Day.

They worked late that night and managed to complete all but one of the seven houses that had been burgled. They closed shop around 1 a.m., and Tucker departed for another few hours’ sleep, not knowing whether he was more rankled by the Johnston account being unfinished, or by the dead end he’d reached with Nick’s killer.

The following day was a productive one. Crossing several families off their long-term list did wonders for the salty attitude with which Tucker had concluded the previous day’s work.

The Tidwells were shocked to discover their lights did not go out, and that their power bill had been paid, and their Duke Energy account credited with enough money to get them through the winter.

The Edwards received a letter from the bank, notifying them that the foreclosure proceedings had been canceled, in light of the fact that their mortgage had been paid for six months running.

Sam Jenkins, who had spent the previous ten months bicycling ten miles to and from his clerk job at a local gas station, six days out of the week, and in every manner of foul weather, found a pre-owned (certified, of course) Toyota Camry in the driveway of his aging mother’s house, whose medications and hospice care used up most of his clerk’s wages. It came with a gas card for $500.

April Phillips found that she would not have to quit the nursing program at UNCC after all. Her unwillingness to dive into crushing student loan debt had led her to working three jobs. And while it was admirable from a financial standpoint, it had resulted in an untenable schedule, in which her grades were beginning to suffer. Out of the blue, she received a letter concerning her acceptance into a tuition grant that she didn’t recall applying for, which paid enough of her tuition that she only needed one job. She decided on the spot to leave the two waitressing positions, but keep the job at the no-kill animal shelter, even though it paid the least. Those dogs were the bright spot in her life.

Interestingly enough, her boss, a portly woman whose gruff exterior concealed a gooey caramel center, discovered that she wouldn’t need to max out her own personal credit cards to feed the thirty dogs they cared for. On the morning of the 22nd, she found a crate sitting in the parking lot that contained somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand pounds of kibble, along with stacks of blankets, and thirty Nylabones with red Christmas bows on them.

Both the Collings and the Millers had their busted furnaces replaced with new, high-efficiency units they would have never even hoped to be able to afford. For the first time since their heaters had shit the bed last week, they luxuriated in not having to wear their winter jackets indoors and muck around with the chintzy space heaters in their kids’ bedrooms.

Several families received deliveries of the items that they’d tried mightily to provide their kids by use of layaway programs, but after several unfortunate financial hiccups (car repairs, a broken arm, a septic tank disaster, to name a few) had been forced to let the store reshelf the items and refund the deposit. Then had come the gut-sinking conversation that no kind-but-broke parent wants to have with their hopeful kids: “Listen. Christmas is going to be a little light this year.”

It’s just stuff, after all. They would make sure the kids had at least one thing to unwrap under the tree, even if it had to come from the second-hand store, and they’d have a merry Christmas regardless. And roundly, all the kids—with the exception of seven-year-old Brian Stillwell, who bawled, but later apologized—held stiff upper lips and told their parents that they understood. In the case of Jake Bowers, he’d run to his piggy bank and choked his old man up by offering his $5.35 to the cause of paying bills.

They were all right. It was just “stuff.” You didn’t need it to make a Christmas happy. All you needed was each other.

But, boy, did those parents feel like heroes when they were able to announce, with a gleam in their eyes, “Guess what happened today? You should go look under the tree.”

Tucker had once asked Nick, in his very early days as Santa’s helper, where all the money came from to be able to do the work that they did. Nick had just smiled and winked, and said, “The Organization has several wealthy benefactors.”

By the end of the day on the 22nd, Tucker and Claus had together managed to cross off nineteen out of thirty-seven families. They were by no means out of the woods, but Tucker still found himself smiling as they closed up The Workshop at 10 p.m.. They’d reached a stopping point, and wouldn’t be able to proceed until early tomorrow morning.

Gradually, the high of accomplishment melted away as he drove home. The prospect of pulling into the driveway of his dark, empty house seemed to have that effect on him. The gutters should have been hung with gaudy multi-colored C9s. The tree should be sparkling in the front window. Sara should have been there, making heaps of cookies with Mariah Carey’s Christmas album on in the background—at this point, Tucker would have even been happy to hear the N*Sync album she occasionally snuck in on him. Michael should have been hovering around the tree, poking at presents and occasionally shaking them when he thought his parents weren’t looking.

Tucker was suddenly overcome with the need to speak to Sara. To hear her voice, and perhaps, in his hopeful imaginings, to hear some cheer in it, to hear that the light had come back to her, that all of this stupid separation had ultimately been a good thing.

He called her while he drove, tense about it, and feeling how wrong that was, to feel apprehension about calling the person he loved most in the world.

Just about when he thought it would go to voicemail, she answered.

“I was wondering when you were gonna call.”

Married couples have an interesting form of communication. Like old friends, there’s a whole gamut of information that’s imparted in word choices and tones. To a stranger, it just sounded like a simple greeting. But Tucker could hear the tiny nuance in the way she hung on the word “wondering,” and he didn’t know what he’d fucked up, but he was pretty sure that he had.

He frowned at the road ahead of him as he drove. “Uh…Yeah, sorry. Long day at work. Just got done.”

Sara wasn’t mean about it—whatever the mysterious wrong was that he was sure he’d done—because she didn’t have a mean bone in her body. But it was obvious to Tucker that he was missing something here, and she was waiting for his admission of guilt.

“Oh? Long day watching cheating spouses canoodle in seedy hotel rooms?”

Tucker scratched at his temple, wracking his brains. “Hey, now. It’s work, isn’t it? I called as soon as I could get clear. But I’m getting the distinct impression you’re not real happy to talk to me.”

Sara sighed into the phone. “No, Tuck. I’m happy to talk to you. And I know that you have work to do, and I shouldn’t belittle it.”

Silence hung.

Tucker cringed against it. “So…?”

“So today is the twenty-second.”

“The twenty-second.”

“Ring any bells?”

Well, it was certainly ringing alarms.

“Clearly I’ve forgotten something,” Tucker admitted, choosing to raise the white flag and play the bumbling-husband-card.

“Michael’s Sunday school Christmas pageant?” she prompted.

Have you ever woken up, looked at your clock, and realized that you were late for an important meeting—let’s say an interview—and as you stare in disbelief, you realize there’s no possible way you can make it? You’ve officially screwed the pooch. The hands of time will not be turned back, no matter how hard you stare at that clock.

That leaden feeling in the pit of the stomach was what Tucker felt at that moment.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yes,” Sara said. “Oh, shit, indeed.”

“I totally forgot.”

“Well, that’s pretty obvious, Tuck.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Hon. It was the usual Christmas pageant with kids crying when they forgot their lines and screaming out songs. I don’t blame you for not wanting to come.”

“No, no, I wanted to come. I just forgot.”

“If it was important to you, you wouldn’t have forgotten.”

Heart, meet knife.

“It’s just been very busy at work.”

Sara wasn’t having it. “Honey, I know it’s busy at work. It’s busy at my work too. Everyone’s busy. That’s not a valid excuse.”

Dammit, but the woman gave no quarter when it came to her child.

“You’re right. I screwed up. I should’ve put it in my phone.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Give me some grace and love me despite the fact that I’m an idiot?”

“I love you, Tuck. Even though you’re an idiot. Even though I told you multiple times to put the twenty-second into your phone and not to forget.”

“You did. I remember that now. Is Michael still up?”

“It’s ten thirty at night. Of course he’s not up.”

Tucker rubbed his face, feeling the gnawing guilt in his chest that only came about when you’ve been a shit parent. “Well. You know. I thought maybe he would still be awake, crying because his father’s a deadbeat.”

“He didn’t cry. He did look very disappointed. He was the saddest Christmas donkey you’ve ever seen.”

Tucker groaned. “Twisting the knife, Sara. Not necessary.”

“No, no, I’m gonna twist the knife, Tuck. Because I had to cover for you and give a bunch of lame excuses to Michael about how his dad was so very busy spying on cheating couples.”

“That’s not all I do,” Tucker griped.

“This is your penance. Accept it.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Good. You should feel terrible. Maybe next time I tell you to put something in your phone, you’ll listen to your very wise and all-knowing wife.” She let out another heavy breath that Tucker understood was the sound of wiping the slate clean. “Moving on. How are you doing?”

It seemed a bad time to bring up all his little problems. So he went with, “I’m hanging in. I miss you guys.”

“Well, maybe we should come home. It’s only a few days until Christmas. How much longer are you intending to keep us in exile?”

Wound, meet salt.

“I’m not exiling you, Sara,” Tucker huffed, stirring about in his seat, knowing that it was a flat-out lie. “You needed to spend some time with your mother, and your commute was ridiculous, and it was just adding stress, and—”

“Being away from my husband at Christmas time is adding stress, Tuck. Michael asking me where his Daddy is is adding stress.”

“Sara—”

“Tucker.”

He pulled into their neighborhood. Drifted along the quiet streets. He couldn’t stop dragging his palm across his face, like he could wipe away the exhaustion, along with the stains of his stupidity.

“Yeah?” He sighed.

“You can’t keep shutting us out.”

“I’m not shutting you out.”

“You’ve been shutting us out the entire year. I don’t know what’s going on, whether it’s work stress or something else you’re just not telling me. But if you keep it up, then I don’t…I don’t know.”

Guilt turned to dread in Tucker’s stomach. That was getting dangerously close to separation talk. He found himself reeling back from it, his ears humming and his neck getting hot, as a pillar of his existence suddenly quaked and cracked at the base.

What if his family was better off without him? What if Sara was beginning to realize that?

“Christmas Eve,” he blurted. “We’re still going to be together for Christmas Eve. That’s a promise. I’m going to make it happen, no matter what.”

“Well, maybe we should just come home right now. Michael wants to be home. He wants to see the house all decorated. I want to be home, with my own tree, and my own decorations.”

As she said this last part, Tucker pulled into the driveway of his dark, lightless house. Nary a decoration to be seen.

“Uh…well…” How to put this?

“What?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I haven’t put any decorations up.”

There was a long, shell-shocked silence. “Surely you have a tree. At least.”

Tucker let the empty air answer that question.

“Tucker. We’ve been married for fifteen years. You’ve never once failed to go all-out on Christmas decorations. What the hell is going on over there?”

Tucker shut the car off, staring at his Scrooge-ly abode. “There was no one here to appreciate it,” he answered lamely.

“Who are you and what did you do to my husband?”

Tucker could tell she’d tried to make it playful, but it hit a painful truth that was bound up in everything he most feared about himself. He slumped forward, forehead banging on the steering wheel.

“Sara. I’m going to make this right. I just need a little more time.”

“It’s three days to Christmas, Tuck!”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that. Thank you.”

When she spoke next, it was with compassion: “What’s going on with you, Honey?”

“Nothing I can’t figure out in time for Christmas.”

“Don’t shut me out. Please.”

Tucker deflected. “Christmas Eve. I promise. I’ll even put it in my phone.”

Sara was silent for a long time. Tucker even pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the call was still active. It was. In the dead air, he could almost hear her churning thoughts.

“Honey,” she finally said. “I don’t know what you need to do. I don’t know what you need to figure out. But figure it out. In time for us to be together for Christmas. I’ve covered for you with Michael, but I will not—will not—tell him we can’t be together for Christmas.”

“We will,” Tucker said. “I already promised. I’ll make it happen.”

December 23rd, 6:15 a.m.

Tucker was just heading for the shower the following morning, when a knock hit his door. The first thought that jagged into his mind was that the police had somehow tracked his string of reverse-burglaries, and were now at his door with a whole lot of questions.

But the knock had been too soft. That wasn’t a police knock.

He pulled his shirt back on over his head and went to the front door, spying the figure on the other side through the mottled glass sidelights.

His stomach flip-flopped. “Shit,” he breathed, taking a glance around him as though to confirm that, no, his house had not magically decorated itself in the last ten seconds. It was still dim and dismal by December standards. Bereft of the holiday cheer in which it would normally be filled to the brim at this time.

He opened the door.

Claus stood outside with two cups of coffee in his hand. He smiled pleasantly, but one eyebrow was quirked in question. And Tucker felt he knew what the question was.

“Good morning, Claus,” Tucker offered, still standing in the doorway.

“Good morning to you!” Claus held one of the coffees out. “Have you already had your morning cup? I got it black. That is how you like it, isn’t it?”

Tucker took the cup of coffee, feeling something like shame creeping up the back of his neck. He felt exposed. Like Claus had caught him red-handed in some embarrassing act. “Yes,” he managed. “Black is perfect. Thank you.”

Claus rocked on his heels, still smiling, and watching Tucker expectantly.

Tucker cleared his throat and pushed the door open. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sure! I figured I’d come pick you up this morning,” Claus said, stepping through the threshold and taking in the halls that were decidedly un-decked. “I’ll admit. I was nosily curious to see you in your…hmm…natural habitat.”

“Well,” Tucker closed the door and took a sip of coffee. “This isn’t how it would normally look, Claus.”

“Oh?” Claus sauntered into the living room and did a slow circle. “How would it normally look?”

Tucker parked himself at the back of the couch and self-consciously shuffled the pillows and blanket so it wasn’t so obvious that he’d slept there and not in his own bed. “Well, for one, there’d be a ten-foot tree right there at the window.” Tucker’s eyes circulated the room, seeing all the things that should have been there, but weren’t. “Lit garland on the mantle. And on that cased opening there. Paper chains on the ceiling. Those are some of my favorite. They really fill in the room.” He realized he was smiling, and let it fall with a sniff.

“It sounds wonderful.” Claus sat at the edge of one of the living room chairs. “Don’t mind if I take a load off? The knees are a tad achy this morning.”

“No, go right ahead.” Tucker came around the couch and sat, now facing Claus from across the room.

Claus took his time getting to it. He gingerly popped the lid off his coffee. Blew a gentle breath across the top, carrying a puff of steam. Took a sip. Looked satisfied. His coffee looked light and creamy.

“It seems like this is your difficult year,” Claus finally observed.

“My difficult year? What’s that mean?”

Claus gave a minimal shrug and pushed himself deeper into the armchair. “Everyone has a difficult year, Tuck. At some point or another, every person has a moment when they seem to forget, or perhaps just have a hard time remembering, what this is all about.”

Tucker frowned. “I thought you just started with The Organization.”

“One does not have to be a part of The Organization to consider the importance of Christmas. Is it the presents? Is it the giving of things? The receiving of things? Is it the holiday parties and the forced socialization and the family obligations?” As Claus spoke, the sunny cheeriness with which he appeared to approach everything didn’t exactly fall away from him, but a new aspect of him peered out from between the brightness. An older side. A more human side. A side that said his seventy years on this earth had not all been hot cocoa and candy canes.

“Is it all of those things?” Claus went on. “Is it none of them? Do the trappings and trimmings of the season have anything to do with it at all, or is it just stuff to be bought and sold and a profit to be made, gilded in a false sense of altruism? Is it simply a season to be excessive, wrapped in a moral bow?”

Tucker stared at his coffee cup, considering. It was difficult to surprise him. He’d seen and done enough in this world that he considered himself able to handle most anything without being shaken too badly. But to hear these articulations come out of Claus—someone who seemed so far above such simplistic views of the season—left him feeling dismayed.

“Well, I don’t think it’s about the presents,” Tucker said. “Or the parties. Or any of that.”

Claus held up a hand. “It’s nothing that needs to be explained to me, Tuck. But why do we do the things that we do? Why exchange the gifts? Why host the extravagant meals? Does any of it have any meaning?”

“Yes. I think so,” Tucker said, unable to keep himself from sounding defensive. “It all has meaning.”

“So you say. And I could guess you’re thinking that, surely the fact that a few people have gone around and perverted things for their own selfish reasons doesn’t take away from the meaning of it?” Claus squinted at him, his eyes sharp and sly. “But what meaning could it possibly have to give more toys to already over-stimulated children? What meaning could it possibly have to double your grocery bill to impress your neighbors when they come over for a Christmas party?”

Tucker leaned forward, his coffee forgotten in his hands. “We give gifts because we were given a gift. Our time and our money may seem like silly things, but these are the things that we have.”

Claus’s eyes brightened. “Of course. The spirit behind the giving is what matters. To be open-handed. To give freely of the resources that you have at your disposal. To show others that, at least once a year, we’re capable of remembering that we’re not all separate tribes of people, that our lives are not in competition to each other—we’re in this together.”

Claus paused, and his brow furrowed, as though confused by something. “But what of the over-eating? Surely there’s no excuse for that. The turkeys, and the hams, and cranberry sauces and stuffings and sides too numerous to fit on your plate? All the desserts that you barely have an appetite for because you gorged yourself at dinner? Simple gluttony.”

Tucker frowned and shook his head. “I think that completely misses the point. They represent something much more important than just eating.”

Claus thrust a finger at him. “Exactly! Hundreds of years ago, before you could go to the store and buy whatever you wanted, this was a dark time for people. The end of the year. The harvest had passed. Winter had come, and people literally didn’t know if they would have enough to last them until the next planting season. And yet…” Claus waggled his finger in the air. “And yet, those people, the people that didn’t know if they had enough to get their own families through winter, they would come together! To celebrate something much more important. They would open their doors to each other. Do you understand the power of that action? In their darkest, most doubtful time, they would recognize the need of others, and they would say, ‘I don’t know if I have enough to survive the winter, but what I do have, I give to you.’”

Tucker nodded, still confused about what Clause was driving at. “You’re right. That’s powerful. And it does mean something. It meant something then, and we may not live in those times anymore, but I still think it means just as much today.”

Claus smiled at him. “And yet, there are no lights on your house. No tree in your window.”

Tucker reared back, completely taken off guard. “What the hell does that have to do with it?”

Claus slapped his hand loudly on his knee. “Because of everything! Because this is no time for close-fistedness and pedestrian concerns of financial responsibility! This is a celebration! It’s a triumph, Tuck!” He gestured expansively, as though the room was suddenly bedecked as it should have been on December 1st. “The triumph of light over darkness! Here, now, at the winter solstice, we live in that time of year where there is the least light. The darkest days of the year. And yet we choose this time to string lights on our house, and put a tree in our window that shines brightly out at everyone that can see it. In the darkest time, we choose to shine the brightest! The spirit in which we decorate for this celebration is just as important as the spirit in which we give!”

Tucker was silent in response, realizing how deftly Claus had guided him to this conclusion. And he wasn’t even mad about it. His eyes came up from Claus’s, which now had regained their merry twinkle, the worldly-wisdom stowed away where it belonged.

Tucker slumped back into the couch. “Oh Lord. I really screwed the pooch this year.”

“Puh-huh-huh.” Claus rose. “The pooch is not yet screwed, Tuck. There’s still time left.” He checked his wristwatch. “But if we’re to take advantage of it, then we really should be getting a move on.”

December 23rd, 8:00 a.m.

They opted to split up to cover more ground. There were several families that needed completion down in the Gastonia and Lincolnton area. All the legwork had been done, but confirmation was needed that the loose ends got tied up nicely and no further input from Santa was required. They were easy, stake-out style jobs. Claus offered to take them on, as Tucker had a few others to tend to, along with a 10 a.m. appointment that he had to keep.

Tucker got to work the second that his butt hit the office chair. He spent thirty minutes logging in and checking various shipping trackers from FedEx and UPS, confirming delivery of items.

Then he called the Service Department of the Lowes Home Improvement. The Crouch’s water heater had crapped out on them a few weeks ago—not that it had ever been enough for their entire family of six. They’d been taking cold showers, and had tightened their already constricting budgetary belt, hoping to have enough by mid-January. Because the next course of action was to sell Mr. Crouch’s twenty-year old Chrysler, and he’d just use the bus.

Not that there’s anything wrong with public transportation, but it would have added thirty minutes to Mr. Crouch’s commute, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to help get the kids out the door every morning, which meant Mrs. Crouch would have to talk her asshole boss into letting her show up thirty minutes late every day, and that wasn’t going to happen.

The representative from Lowes Home Improvement assured Tucker that a brand-new tank-less water heater had been delivered and installed at the Crouch’s. No more cold showers. Mr. Crouch could keep his car, and they could loosen their belts enough to enjoy the holidays.

Tucker found himself smiling as he called the roofing contractors next. He was told that the horribly leaky roof that capped the Brown’s house had been fixed on time, albeit a tad over budget, due to the rush job requested. Tucker told them it wasn’t a problem, and settled the remainder of the account.

The construction company in charge of shoring up the canyon that had emerged in the foundation of Ms. Conway’s house, had only been able to inspect the foundation the previous day, but promised that they would have the work done by close of business today.

At 9 a.m. sharp, Tucker dialed a friend of his, who worked in Child Protective Services. She believed that Tucker was a private investigator, but had helped him out with information on previous accounts.

“Well, Tucker Smith!” Judy answered after two rings. “It’s been a while.”

Tucker smiled. “It has. How’s tricks?”

Judy chuckled. “Should’ve retired two years ago. Instead I took a supervisor’s position.”

Tucker perked up at this. If she were a supervisor, it might make it easier for her to get him the information he needed. Then again, it might make her a little more reticent to break confidentiality.

“Congrats on the new position,” he said. “Retired life not attractive?”

“Oh, it’s attractive. Gets more attractive every day. But the work still needs doing.”

You’re telling me.

“So.” She sounded like she was settling in. She’d probably just gotten to her office. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

Tucker leaned back in his chair. “Well, Judy…I need a tiny bit of information on a family.”

“Mmm.” A long pause. “Like, the kind of information you can’t get through public records?”

Tucker cringed a bit. “Yes and no. In a roundabout way, I guess the information is confidential. Maybe.”

Judy waited for him to continue.

“There’s a family. And I have a client that would like to…oh, let’s just say he’s all caught up in the season of giving. Anyways, this family just took on custody of their grandchildren—two boys—and my client would like to know if there is anything that they really need in order for social services to decide the placement is okay.”

Judy made a small negative noise. “Details of child placement are confidential.”

“Right, right. I understand that. And I’m not asking for the adjudication of the case, or the case notes, or any of that actually confidential stuff. Just wondering if there was anything that the social worker made note of that would have prevented this family from taking custody of their grandchildren. Anything that maybe my client could provide.”

Judy let out a longsuffering sigh. “Jesus, Tuck. You know this could get me in trouble.”

“But it won’t,” Tucker said. “Because we’re just talking about a discreet gift. I don’t need to know all the confidential stuff. You don’t have to tell me anything about the case, really. All I need is to know if there was anything the social worker noted that the family lacked and really needed. Or maybe there’s nothing. Maybe she decided it was a healthy environment. And if so, then great.”

“Alright.” Judy sounded like she was shuffling around. “But only because it’s Christmas. And only because the information you’re asking for isn’t really confidential. Even though I can still get in trouble. Anyways. What’s the name of the family?”

Tucker provided Judy with the name and address of the Johnstons.

“Okay,” Judy said. “Let me do a bit of digging and I’ll call you back in a few.”

“Sounds perfect. Thank you so much, Judy. You’re a rockstar.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Tucker hung up with Judy and checked the clock. 9:07. He still had a bit of time to kill.

He piddled around with checking the stats on their ten remaining open accounts. But there was nothing that Tucker could do about them right now. The balls were in the air. He just had to be patient and wait for them to all come down in the right places.

He spun around in his office chair a few times. Then righted himself and drummed his fingers on the desktop. Checked the time. Drummed some more.

So many things to do, and so little time, and having a period of time in the middle of it where you had nothing to do seemed like heresy.

At 9:18, his phone rang. He snatched it up, expecting it to be Judy, but the name on the face of the phone was John Gire. He frowned and brought the phone to his ear.

“What’s up, John?”

“What’s goin’ on, Tuck! Hey…” John’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. “Listen. You asked me to tell you if I found out anything about that green Buick. Well, I might just have a name for you.”

Tucker’s stomach tightened. A weird mix of excitement and guilt—guilt mostly because he knew this wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing with his time, but the drive to uncover Nick’s killer would not be denied. It was just a part of who Tucker was.

“Whatcha got for me?”

“Alright, last night—”

Boop-boop.

His phone rang a demur tone in his ear, cutting over John’s voice. Tucker jerked, looked at the screen. It was Judy.

But he could still hear John talking, ignorant that he’d been interrupted: “…in a robbery last night. It was at a gas station—”

“Wait, back up.” Tucker squeezed his eyes shut. “The green Buick was used in a robbery last night? Is that what you said?”

The Johnston account. Judy is calling you back with information on the Johnston account.

“Yeah,” John continued. “I just got out of the gas station. I only got a few seconds and I gotta get back in there and burn it to a DVD for the detective, but I watched it, and I think I got a good name to go with Big Mac.”

Tucker opened his eyes. John only had a few seconds to talk. Judy could go to voicemail and leave the information there. He pulled the phone away briefly and touched the button on his screen marked IGNORE. Her call dropped.

“Okay. I’m with you, John. Go ahead.”

“Alright, so I think the driver was this ‘Big Mac’. He had two other dudes with him. I don’t have a positive ID on them, but I recognized the driver, and, sure as shit, I pulled up his mugshots. I arrested him last year for possession of stolen goods.”

“Yeah, John, I don’t mean to be rude, but give me the damn name.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Name’s Marquis Terrance. DOB four-twelve-ninety-eight.”

“And that’s a positive ID?”

“One-hundred-percent. I’m about to deliver this info to the robbery detectives, right along with the DVD. But I figured I’d call you up first.” John gave a long pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “There anything I should know about going into this?”

“Nope,” Tucker answered quickly. “You guys do your thing. I appreciate the information.”

“We’re not gonna find this guy floating in the river or something?”

Tucker managed a laugh that sounded a little brittle to his own ears. “Come on, John. I’m a PI, not black ops.”

“Alright, man.” John seemed mollified. “Well, hey, I gotta run.”

“Sounds good, brother. Stay safe out there.”

The second that Tucker hung up the phone he dived into his voicemail…and discovered that there was no message from Judy.

Of course there wasn’t. He swore at himself. She was giving him information that she could lose her job over. Leaving him a voicemail or a text message would create a trail.

He glanced at the clock. He would need to leave shortly to get to his 10 a.m. appointment. But he still had a few minutes. He dialed up Judy again, taking his volley at the old game of telephone tennis, and got her voicemail. He didn’t leave a message either. Judy would see that he’d called her back.

In the meantime, he logged into the best tool for tracking criminal activity that had ever been invented: Facebook. People posted all kinds of nonsense on their Facebook accounts. Including photos of them holding guns in threatening positions, and saying they were going to kill cops, or whatever had them bothered at the time.

Mostly, it was just tough talking. Which was probably the case with Marquis Terrance, AKA Big Mac. But, then again, Nick had wound up dead, and Don Juan’s theory—surprisingly enough—was pretty sound.

Maybe one of them had seen an old guy in a bad area and figured him for an undercover cop—an easy target.

Tucker did a simple Facebook search for Marquis Terrance in the Charlotte area. And found him. Just like that. It was stupidly easy.

On the third post under Marquis Terrance’s account, Tucker found three faces staring back at him. They were huddled in a bedroom with white walls. Three of what Don Juan referred to as “young bucks.” Two of them had guns pointed at the camera. The third, not having a gun, but still needing to look cool, was tossing up gang signs.

A quick peek at Marquis Terrence’s cover image revealed him to be the charming young man with the black and silver Taurus pistol. But Tucker didn’t care about him in that moment.

It was the one in the middle that had caught Tucker’s eye.

He knew that kid.

He had his hood pulled up, but his face was clearly visible, though the lower half of it was obscured by the muzzle of a Hi-Point pistol, held at an angle, because apparently sideways shooting was way cooler.

Tucker stared at that face for a long time.

Geoff Williams.

The post was dated a week ago: Fuq 12, opps be scheming, don’t be sleepin, pull up get clapped. No cap.

Tucker didn’t need Google Translate—he was fluent.

“Fuck the police, they’re planning to arrest us, pay attention, if they approach we will shoot them. No lie.”

Tucker leaned back in the seat, scratching at the five o’clock shadow on his cheek.

Geoff Williams. Tucker had recognized him instantly, but Geoff would never recognize Tucker. Or Nick. Despite the fact that for three years they had watched over him, and listened to the secret things he prayed for at night. They had tried their best to show him that goodness still existed in the world, to shield him from the darkness.

They’d done the best they could. But Tucker didn’t think he’d ever forget the sounds of a kid being beaten by a grown man.

Five Decembers Ago

“We can’t just leave him in there, Nick.”

Two men, huddled in a booth, staring at untouched cups of coffee, round about two in the morning. It was two weeks until Christmas, and the Williams account was shaping up to be a disaster.

“We’re not taking the kid out of the home,” Nick responded. “His mother is still there, and she’s recovering. She hasn’t touched a rock in over a year. We need to give them a chance to be a family.”

Tucker tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “You heard the same shit I heard.”

Nick winced and looked out the window at the streetlights hovering out there in the darkness, like stars on a clear, cold night. “That’s the downside of bugging people’s houses, Tuck. Sometimes you hear some things you’d rather not.”

The dull thud of a man’s fist into a kid’s gut had taken the wind out of Tucker as much as if it had been him that had received the blow. He knew that people abused kids. But listening to it firsthand had turned something in Tucker that he didn’t think could be turned back.

He’d nearly driven out to the Williams’s apartment in Southside Homes that instant. He had a very clear image of himself charging up the stairs to the second level where Geoff’s bedroom was, kicking the door open, and blowing his stepdad’s brains out right then and there.

His name was Curtis Grier. Not even a stepdad, really. Just his mother’s boyfriend.

But as they’d listened, Nick had seen the switch being flipped in Tucker, seen the tension rising up in his body, and he’d placed his hands firmly on Tucker’s shoulders, almost as though to press him back into the seat he was about to explode up from.

The beating had been brief, but savage. By the time they had discussed whether or not to call the police and if it would even do any good if they did, it was over. They listened to the sounds of Geoff’s sobbing, and in those breaths, Tucker had listened intensely for wheezing, or groaning, or anything that would come through on the speakers that might give a clue as to the extent of Geoff’s injuries.

It wasn’t the first time that Curtis had beaten Geoff. Only the first time they’d listened to it happening.

In the booth at the diner, Tucker took a breath to force his chest to loosen. “I wasn’t talking about that part, Nick. I was talking about what Geoff said later.”

Which had been a whisper, barely audible over the speaker, and they might not have made sense of what Geoff was saying, if he hadn’t repeated it a dozen times: “God, please make him go away.”

Nick put his elbows on the table and rested his gray goatee in his interlaced fingers. He stared at Tucker for a long, silent moment before murmuring from behind his fists, “You know how The Organization feels about wet work.”

Tucker raised his hands indignantly. “You don’t think this rises to their standards?”

Nick shook his head. “It’s a beating. It’s terrible. But it doesn’t rise to the level of exigency.”

“He could kill the kid.”

“I’m not going to allow it.” Nick’s tone was not harsh, but it was firm. Nick didn’t often “put his foot down,” but Tucker had learned that when he did, he was immovable.

“Fine,” Tucker said. When met with an obstacle, you attempt to move it. If it is immovable, you go around it. “What if it’s not wet work?”

Nick smoothed his goatee. “What are you thinking?”

“We black bag the motherfucker,” Tucker said. “I know where he goes. I know where he hangs. I can take him out.”

“That could easily turn into a shootout.”

Tucker shook his head. “Nick, have some faith in me. You know I can do this quietly.”

Nick’s lips flattened. He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me what you’re planning. Plausible deniability. I only need two things from you. First, tell me you know what you’re going to do with him when you catch him.”

Tucker nodded. “I’ve got an idea.”

Nick leaned forward. “Second, promise me he doesn’t wind up dead.”

“I can’t control every variable—”

“Promise me.”

“I’ll do everything in my power.”

Nick looked like he might insist on more assurances than that, but then his shoulders loosened, and he nodded. “Alright, Tuck. Answer this kid’s prayer.”

28 Hours After That

When Curtis Grier awoke, it was to the sound of a 747 thundering overhead, coming in for a landing. He stared foggily at the silhouette of the plane against a dawn-blushed sky. As his mind slowly came back to him, he tried to piece together how exactly he found himself in his current position. The last clear memory he had was taking a piss in the back alley behind a pool hall. And then…

Someone had grabbed him. There’d been a bunch of thrashing. And now this.

He blinked a few times, tried to move his arms, and discovered that they were both handcuffed to the steering wheel of his Honda Accord.

Curtis stared at them like he wasn’t sure whether or not he was dreaming. He did what anyone would do, and immediately started to yank at them, like a coyote in a trap.

Sitting comfortably in the center of the backseat, so far unnoticed, Tucker decided to make his presence known. He did so with a cheerful whistle, and prodded the back of Curtis’s head with the muzzle of his suppressed Glock.

Curtis jumped like he’d been electrocuted, then twisted in his seat. His eyes flared into rage, but then saw the pistol, and that rage immediately cooled into fear.

“What the fuck—?”

“Ssh,” Tucker put a nitrile-gloved finger to his lips. “No talking, Curtis.”

There’s something very convincing about the muzzle of a gun. Somehow it’s even more convincing when it’s got a suppressor on it, because then you start to wonder, who is this person? A professional hit man? A government assassin?

No. Just Santa’s helper. Making Christmas wishes come true.

“I made a promise to a very good friend of mine that I wouldn’t kill you, Curtis Grier. I will try very hard to honor that promise, but my patience has limits. Also, I did not promise that I would not maim you. And I’ll just be really honest with you, because I’ve been awake for thirty hours now and I’m super tired: the threshold for me getting mad and blowing your kneecaps off is pretty damn low. M’kay?”

Curtis’s eyes widened. He believed Tucker. And he was right to do so. Gradually, Curtis nodded his head.

“Do you know where we are?” Tucker asked.

A dry tongue darted out of Curtis’s parched lips. He glanced out the windshield. Saw the giant parking lot full of cars. Saw the planes taking off and landing.

“Airport?” he husked.

Tucker nodded. “Specifically, the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. That’s Atlanta, Georgia, just to be clear.”

Tucker watched the realization crash over Curtis’s face. It made him smile, not with rancor, but with genuine satisfaction at seeing justice done. Wrongs righted. Or, at least, beginning to be righted.

Curtis twitched anxiously in his seat. The handcuffs jingled and clattered against the steering wheel. “What’s this all about, man? What are you doing to me?”

“Curtis Grier,” Tucker sighed. “I’m going to give you a new lease on life. Call it a Christmas miracle. Yay for you. But you’re going to start living right. So, the first thing you’re going to do is pay the price for whatever child you sexually assaulted here in Georgia—”

Curtis’s eyes shot wide again. “I didn’t do that shit! That was bullshit! She lied!”

Tucker held his finger up for silence again, and got it. “It doesn’t matter, Curtis. The warrant exists in Georgia, and even though they weren’t willing to extradite you from North Carolina—which is kind of bullshit in my opinion; I think sexual assault of a minor should be extraditable no matter where you go, but hey, I don’t make the rules—it’s neither here nor there. Because guess what, Curtis? We’re in Georgia now.”

“Fuck,” Curtis breathed.

“Indeed.” Tucker pressed on. “So, dealing with your past mistakes will be step number one. Step number two: Whenever you get that court case behind you, you’re going to get a job. Here in Georgia. And you’re going to work it. And you’re going to keep it. And you’re going to be a conscientious employee. Are you catching all this?”

Curtis nodded.

“Alright, last thing, and this one is the most important. Step number three: You are never to leave the state of Georgia again. No matter what. You are never to have any contact with Deborah Williams, or her son Geoff, again. You are not going to google them. You are not going to Facebook stalk them. You are going to strike them from your mind as though they never existed.”

Curtis glared at him, the sore spot touched. “You can’t do this.”

“I can, and I will, Curtis.” He reached out with the suppressor and tapped Curtis gently on the side of the head. Normally he wouldn’t get his muzzle anywhere close to a bad guy, but Curtis was restrained. Tucker wasn’t worried about getting his weapon taken away.

Curtis winced at the taps and immediately put his momentary rage aside in the interest of self-preservation.

“I’m going to keep tabs on you, Curtis. From now until the last day of your life, be it natural or unnatural causes.” hint, hint. “There may come a time when you think to yourself, maybe he’s not watching me anymore. He can’t possibly have the time to keep track of me forever! But I promise you that will be the last mistake you ever make. Between now and when they put you in the ground, whenever that may be, I will be watching you, Curtis. I’ll be making sure that you take all those steps I told you about. And if I ever feel that you are straying from them, I’m going to do the world a big favor and remove you from it permanently.”

Ten minutes later, standing outside of the Avis Rent a Car, next to a shiny white Impala, Tucker used his burner phone to dial 911. He explained to the dispatcher that there was a man with a warrant for sexual assault on a minor, and he was currently handcuffed to his steering wheel, in the long-term parking lot adjacent to the Avis Rent a Car.

Then he hung up and dismantled the burner phone, not particularly interested in answering any of the dispatcher’s questions.

He got into the non-descript Impala and sat behind the wheel, eating a mint-chocolate Clif Bar, and waiting for the cops to arrive. It took them five minutes to locate the Honda Accord with the handcuffed fugitive in the driver’s seat.

Tucker watched just long enough to see them extract Curtis Grier from his vehicle and secure his hands behind his back, and then Tucker drove away.

December 23rd, 9:35 a.m.

Tucker sat in the office of The Workshop, remembering this with a mix of feelings.

He’d been true to his word. To this day, he kept tabs on Curtis Grier. He had been jailed without bond for nine months, and then sentenced to two years in prison. They gave him credit for time served in jail, and he’d been released after fifteen months. He’d got a job in a warehouse, which he still held today.

For that, Tucker allowed himself to feel good.

But unfortunately, the Williams account had ended up “pulled,” which was to say, Santa could no longer reasonably take care of that family. Deborah Williams had gotten back on crack cocaine. Then she had started to sell it. Then a search warrant had kicked her out of her house, because you can’t deal drugs out of a Charlotte Housing Authority apartment. Right about that time, Geoff had split, taking to the streets.

Tucker remembered a long, dispirited discussion with Nick, about whether to attempt to keep the Williams account. Eventually, Nick had come around to realizing there was nothing they could do. The family had been ripped to shreds, despite their best efforts.

“You can’t help everyone, Nick,” Tucker had tried to console his Santa, who’d always had a soft spot for Geoff.

Nick had grimaced at the harsh reality, but nodded. “I know that, Tuck. But everyone’s worth helping.”

And now Nick was dead. Through suspicious circumstances. Doing something in the area of Clanton Road. Something he hadn’t told Tucker about, which was odd. In reality, the only connection between Nick’s death and Geoff Williams was a theory championed by an old drunk. But something about it tickled in the back of Tucker’s brain.

He tore his eyes off the picture of Geoff Williams pointing a gun at him—the same young man who had prayed to be saved from his mother’s boyfriend; the same young man whose screams and dull grunts of air being punched out of his lungs were as clear in Tucker’s ears as the time he’d listened to them in this very chair.

He minimized the Facebook window. The desktop was a tidy one—something Nick insisted on—and there were only a few icons on it. The background was a charming old illustration of a Coke-a-Cola-style Santa painting toy cars and trucks by hand in a quaint little workshop. Tucker clicked on the icon labeled Accounts. Inside were three other files: Active, Seasonal, Pulled.

Tucker went into the Pulled files and scrolled down. Each one was something of a dossier, containing everything they had learned about these families until the point when the decision had been made to pull them. Which wasn’t always because the family screwed up. Sometimes it was for positive reasons. Sometimes those families managed to dig themselves out of whatever hole they’d gotten themselves into, and no longer needed help from Santa. It was a source of personal pride for Tucker that he could accurately say that most of those pulled files were in that category.

He located the Williams file, which was actually labeled Williams.Deb.Geoff to differentiate it from the other six Williams families.

He perused the information inside, which was organized by certain categories. Under “family relations” Tucker found the little thing that had been ringing silvery sleigh bells in his head.

Geoff had a grandmother, on his biological father’s side. His father wasn’t in the picture, but Grandma Eugenia Franks still sent Geoff a birthday card, a Christmas card, and a Valentine ’s Day card, each with a ten dollar bill in it and warm wishes written in that type of perfect penmanship that nobody practiced anymore. Many of those cards never reached Geoff, as he and his mother were rarely in the same place for long enough for the postal service to catch up.

Eugenia Franks lived in a little town called Gorman, NC. A quick search online confirmed Tucker’s suspicions: Gorman was right outside of Durham. The same Durham to which that Greyhound bus ticket was destined.

Tucker leaned back in his seat, frowning deeply at the computer. Was that bus ticket for Geoff? Was Nick trying to get him out of the toxic cycle of crime and jail for which he was heading? Geoff was almost eighteen now, which meant that in a few short months two things would happen: Eugenia Franks would send him another birthday card with a ten dollar bill; and Geoff would be tried as an adult in the North Carolina legal system. If Nick wanted to get Geoff out of the cycle, now would have been the prime time to do it.

But why would Nick not tell Tucker what he was doing? Perhaps because he didn’t want to deal with Tucker’s gruff attitude about it? Perhaps because he didn’t want to hear the old can’t-help-everyone refrain again?

Tucker pressed his eyebrows with the heel of his palms, groaning softly to himself.

Even if that bus ticket had been meant for Geoff—which was still only a theory—it didn’t mean that Geoff had killed him. But now the pieces were starting to point in Geoff’s direction, and Tucker knew the natural next step: He needed to talk to Geoff.

How that talk went would be up to Geoff. And what Tucker would do next would depend on what Geoff told him, if in fact he spoke to him at all. But Tucker was pretty good at getting people to talk to him—no waterboarding necessary, lest that’s where your mind went.

Tucker pulled up his cellphone and sent off a text to Don Juan. He included a picture of Geoff, and a promise to pay nicely if Don Juan could give him a current location on the kid.

A glance at the clock on his phone told Tucker he needed to get a move on. It was nearly 10 a.m. and he was needed in downtown—or uptown—Charlotte.

As he walked to his car, Don Juan responded with a curt I b lookin.

December 23rd, 10:10 a.m.

Tucker was parked outside of the Mecklenburg County Sheriff’s Office in time to see Amelio Duran exit the doors, his property bag wadded up in his hand.

Amelio was a tall, good-looking kid, with a soft, self-deprecating nature. He hung his head a bit as he walked out of jail, a slight smile on his lips as though glad to be out, but somewhat ashamed that he’d been in.

If it were up to Tucker, he wouldn’t have been in, but it wasn’t Tucker’s call.

Amelio had stolen a stack of tuna cans from a Family Dollar around the corner from his girlfriend’s apartment. He was sixteen. She was fifteen. He’d gotten her pregnant. She had a craving for tuna. He had no money. What’re you gonna do?

Whoever had been running the Family Dollar must’ve had a bad day, or maybe Amelio had had the ignoble distinction of being the umpteenth shoplifter the clerk had dealt with that day. Tucker had seen many a clerk wave it off, demand the goods back, and tell the shoplifter to get lost, no charges necessary. But that hadn’t been the case this time.

Tucker rolled down the passenger side window and inched up along the curb, catching Amelio before he could head for the Transit Station a few blocks up. “Yo. Amelio.”

The kid jerked at hearing his name and peered at Tucker. Random white guy. Suspicious.

“Yo,” was Amelio’s hesitant response, though he drew closer to the car so that they didn’t have to shout.

“You need a ride home?” Tucker asked.

Amelio smiled, but Tucker saw in his eyes he wasn’t about to hop in with a stranger. “It’s cool, bro. I’ll catch the bus.”

“You ain’t got money for a couple cans of tuna, you probably don’t have it for the bus.” Tucker waved him closer. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

Amelio stepped up to the door, but didn’t get in. He put his elbows on the window and looked at Tucker. “You a cop or something?”

“Or something,” Tucker responded. “You can think of this as one of those community outreach things. You know? Give a guy a ride from jail. It’s a new program.”

Amelio squinted at him. “How’d you know about the tuna?”

Tucker shrugged. “Public record, man.” He smiled disarmingly. “You really do it for your girl?”

Amelio hung his head. “Shit, man.” He blew out a breath. “I was just tryna…provide or something. Hell, I dunno. Dumb.”

Tucker shook his head. “Not dumb to try to provide for your pregnant girl. Maybe dumb to try and steal it, but, hey, we all make mistakes. You gonna hop in or do you need me to pass a lie detector test or something?”

Amelio’s eyes were still dubious. “I don’t know you, man.”

“Maybe not. But I know you, Amelio.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you got a big heart, but you don’t let on. You got good motivations. Which puts you ahead of ninety percent of the dudes you hang out with. Let me do something nice for you. Come on. It’s Christmas.”

That’s the funny thing about Christmas. Deep down in even the hardest of hearts—and Amelio’s was not hard by any stretch—there is always a yearning to believe that there is something special that happens this time of year, some inarticulable goodness that comes out of humans, or perhaps is sprinkled down on them. You need only invoke the name of Christmas to remind people that the magic still exists, if they can be willing to accept it.

Amelio smiled, warmly this time. “Aight, man. What the hell. I’ll roll with you.”

“Where you wanna go?” Tucker asked as Amelio got in. “How about your girl’s house?”

Amelio cringed. “I dunno…”

Tucker started driving. “I think she’ll be glad to see you. It’s only been twenty-four hours. Maybe she still wants that tuna.”

Amelio looked at his hands in his lap. “I ain’t got no tuna.”

“It’s in the back,” Tucker said. “Along with a few other things. I wasn’t sure what type she wanted so I got a bit of everything—chunk, albacore, in water, in oil. She can take her pick.”

Amelio frowning at him. “Who are you, man?”

Tucker grinned at him. “Just think of me as Santa’s little helper.”

“You ain’t that little.”

“No, I guess not. But hey, do me a favor.”

Cautiously, as though he suspected Tucker was about to ask for a blowjob: “What’s that?”

“When we get to your girl’s place, I’m gonna pop the trunk. There’s a box in the back with some stuff to help you give her a merry Christmas. The favor is, don’t mention me. If she sees me, just tell her I’m with a community outreach program.”

“The give a guy a ride from jail program?”

“Yeah, that.”

“How you know where she lives?”

“It was in the police report.”

“Oh.”

That was a lie, but Tucker couldn’t tell Amelio the truth. He couldn’t tell Amelio that he’d been one of Tucker’s longest running accounts. He couldn’t tell Amelio that he’d watched over him since he was eight years old. He couldn’t explain to Amelio how his parents, who were always broke as a joke, had managed to pull off the Christmases they’d given him for the last several years running. He couldn’t tell Amelio how Tucker’s secret hope was that he’d somehow had a hand in fostering the gentle kindness that Amelio showed others. How he hoped that the warmth with which Amelio viewed the season would stay with him through the trials that lay ahead.

Because this was Amelio’s last year. He’d gone and grown up and started this new family of his, which, Tucker truly believed, Amelio would try very hard to keep together.

And who knew? Maybe a few years down the road, should Amelio and his new family need it, Tucker would move their account into the active files again, and help them keep the magic alive. The thought was a good one, but Tucker also wanted to see Amelio succeed all on his own. So while Tucker was willing to help in the future, he hoped, for Amelio’s sake, that it wasn’t necessary.

Besides, there was a little something for Amelio in that box in the trunk too.

He pulled into Amelio’s girlfriend’s apartment complex ten minutes later. Tucker didn’t get out. He just popped the trunk. Amelio moved to the trunk with a bit of circumspection, which Tucker totally understood. Amelio might have a little more faith in humanity than his peers, but that didn’t make him a rube.

He relaxed when he saw that there was nothing threatening in the trunk. Just a large box with Christmas tree wrapping paper and an open top—so that Amelio could be sure that he wasn’t bringing a bomb or a human head into his girl’s house.

Amelio hoisted the box and shut the trunk and then came around to Tucker’s open driver’s side window. There was a lightness in his eyes now. A smile on his face. He’d seen the things that the box contained, though probably not all of them. The obvious items were, of course, the cans of tuna, but also the Christmas ham, and the yams—Tucker knew they were one of Amelio’s favorites. Also, a box of newborn diapers, wipes, a selection of swaddling sacks—both blue and pink, as Tucker wasn’t sure of the baby’s sex yet—and some gripe water.

He’d stolen the idea from Sara. Those were her go-to baby shower gifts.

“You know, man,” Amelio said, with a slight quaver in his voice. “You really are like Santa Claus.”

Tucker smiled, but shook his head. “Just community outreach.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, Amelio,” Tucker replied. “For keeping your heart. Don’t ever lose it. And hey, there’s a little something in there for you, too.”

Amelio blinked rapidly. Perhaps a slight glimmer at the bottom of his eyelids? Perhaps a slight tremble in his lips?

Tucker started rolling up his window. “Get in there and give your girl a merry Christmas. Remember not to mention me.”

Amelio started towards his girl’s apartment and then turned and hollered, “Merry Christmas!”

Tucker stuck his hand out the last six inches of open window. “Merry Christmas to you!”

Then he drove away.

The gift that Tucker had left for Amelio was a simple envelope. In it would be a letter from a local IT training school, confirming his acceptance and first year’s tuition paid through a scholarship that no one had ever heard of, on the proviso that he graduate from high school.

Amelio would be alright. Tucker believed that. He was one of the good ones. One of the success stories. One of those files that would be put into the “pulled” category, but for all the right reasons.

As Tucker pulled out into the flow of traffic, smiling to himself, his cellphone chirped. He had a message from Don Juan.

Your boy here at the fish market.

December 23rd, 11:15 a.m.

Tucker decided to go in hot. It was a meeting point of prudence and expedience. Yes, there was the chance that by goading Geoff into running, he might get dusted by the seventeen year old. But Tucker had been running his sprints diligently, and he needed to get Geoff away from his crew.

He thundered his Suburban into the cracked and pitted parking lot of the West Boulevard Shops, slamming on the brakes and skidding through the thin layer of asphalt gravel.

He had the presence of mind to doff his Santa hat before bailing out of the vehicle. What he did take with him—besides the Glock on his hip—was that old radio that didn’t work anymore. Because he needed to look like a cop, and cops have radios.

Maybe it was a stretch, but as Tucker went sprinting around the front of his Suburban, holding a radio and making a line straight towards Geoff and his two companions—perhaps the squad from the Facebook photo?—they all jumped, eyes going wide.

It was dangerous, but Tucker was counting on Geoff to be packing that Hi-Point today. Carrying a concealed weapon without a permit in North Carolina generally ended in jail time. All the more reason to run from the pissed off guy that looked like an undercover cop coming straight at you.

Of course, Geoff might also decide to cap him—like he might’ve done to Nick—but Tucker had taken the offensive, and he thought he knew which way Geoff would swing.

His boys split, hauling ass in one direction, Geoff in the other, heading for the nearest corner of the buildings.

Tucker bounced off the brownstone wall that they’d been holding up seconds before, and threw himself into the chase. Geoff had about three yards on him. He might be a tad faster than Tucker, but Tucker had staying power.

Geoff hit a railing over a retaining wall and opted to vault over it. He hesitated at the top of the railing, realizing he’d have to drop about ten feet now in order to head for the safety of the woods behind the shops.

Tucker gained one of those yards back before Geoff jumped.

Tucker opted to go low, grabbing the bottom rung of the railing and swinging himself through, feet first. The move immediately tweaked his back where he’d fallen on it a few nights ago, and when he hit the ground on the other side his knee cracked and buckled.

Yes, he had staying power, but he was also getting older.

He recovered from a stumble and sprinted to catch up, Geoff’s fur-lined jacket swinging wildly as he pumped his arms and looked back over his shoulder at Tucker, the whites of his eyes visible over his gaping mouth.

“Geoff! Stop!” Tucker shouted—but that was all he had the air for.

He’d succeeded in getting Geoff separated from his crew. Now, the sooner Tucker could end the foot chase the better.

However, Geoff didn’t appear inclined to stop.

He hit the woods with a crash of tree branches. Tucker hit them right behind him, while they were still swinging back. Twigs slapped and cut at Tucker’s face. Most of the leaves had fallen by now, and Tucker could see Geoff pushing through the weedy underbrush, bogging down as runners and vines snagged him. But he was taking the brunt of them, and clearing a path for Tucker.

Tucker closed the gap.

Geoff cast another glance behind him, saw how close Tucker was. His hand dove for his waistband.

“Don’t do it!” Tucker shouted, and then hit him full on, elbows up and checking Geoff right in the chest. Geoff went sprawling, the black outline of a pistol flying out of his pants.

Tucker had a flash of anger at the kid. Sure, he had goaded Geoff into running, and sure, Geoff was probably scared witless at that moment, but damn him for going for the gun! Once upon a time, Tucker had tried to give this kid good Christmases, and now he was about to catch a bullet for it?

He came down on Geoff’s legs. The kid was already trying to scramble up, both frightened and enraged. Tucker grappled his way up Geoff’s body, managing to hook his fingers on the kid’s low-slung pants.

Geoff tried to kick him off, but Tucker batted the shoe out of the way before it could meet his face. Then he got his own feet under him and hauled upwards on the back of Geoff’s pants, deadlifting the kid off the ground in one explosive move. Geoff cried out as he was yanked up, body folding around his beltline, hands reaching towards the spot where his pistol had fallen.

Tucker swung him away from the gun. His sides felt like they were splitting, his rearranged discs slipping all over the place. Tucker slung the kid as hard as he could, grunting against the pain and effort. Geoff toppled through the air and crashed into a patch of briars.

Tucker was on him before he could manage to recover. He pinned the kid to the ground with all of his body weight, which was significantly more than Geoff’s youthful frame. He put an elbow to Geoff’s chest, keeping control of his hands.

“Don’t fucking fight me!” Tucker hissed in his ear.

“I didn’t do nothin!” Geoff mewled, hands up in a surrender position.

Tucker righted himself into a slightly more stable stance over top of Geoff, then snagged his wrist and wrenched him around onto his belly. “Don’t fight, just put your hands behind your back.”

“Okay! You got me! You got me!” Geoff put his hands behind his back.

Tucker drew the handcuffs that were—thankfully—still in his back pocket after all of that. He clicked them expertly over Geoff’s wrists, and then immediately downshifted.

He leaned back onto his heels, keeping one hand on Geoff so he could feel if the kid started bucking again. He sucked in a few big breaths to calm himself and level his exploding heart.

“Hey, we’re cool,” Tucker said, once he’d got enough wind back to talk in a reasonable tone. “You be cool with me, I’ll be cool with you.”

“What you lockin me up for?” Geoff whined.

“For that gun,” Tucker tossed out off the cuff. Let the kid think he was a cop. Sometimes that made people less cooperative, sometimes more. It seemed to have the desired effect on Geoff.

Maybe Geoff had just been intending to throw the gun away. Maybe he hadn’t intended to kill Tucker with it. Hell, Tucker didn’t even know if he’d had anything to do with Nick getting shot.

“I’m seventeen!” Geoff proclaimed. “You can’t take me to jail!”

“I can for a gun,” Tucker lied. “Weapons violations are an exception. But we’re gonna be cool with each other, remember? Geoff? Remember? Don’t fight me.”

“I ain’t gonna fight you, man!”

“Good, good, good,” Tucker soothed, patting Geoff on the back. “That’s great. Let’s start this thing out on the right foot. Maybe I can help you out. Maybe we can work something out. Okay? You willing to let me try to help you?”

“Fuck you! You just threw me around! That’s police brutality!”

“Geoff, you were pulling a gun on me.”

“I didn’t have no gun.”

“Geoff, just stop. This isn’t helping.” Tucker was becoming exceedingly aware of the fact that he’d left his Suburban, unlocked and still running, in one of the worst parts of town. Granted, it seemed like his impersonation of a police officer—which was a felony, unfortunately—had worked, but then again, sometimes people got squirrelly and tried to make off with squad cars. He needed to get this wrapped up double quick.

Tucker stood up and bent over Geoff, groaning as a spike of pain shot through his back. He certainly wasn’t twenty-one anymore. He patted Geoff down quickly, making sure he didn’t have any other weapons.

“Geoff, I’m gonna grab that gun, okay? Because I don’t want some kid to find it and do something stupid. But I want you to just sit right here and don’t move.”

“How you know my name?”

“I’m the police. I know everybody.”

“Pff. Whatever. You don’t know me.” Geoff slumped sullenly into the briars, mumbling curses, but at least he didn’t look inclined to fight anymore.

Tucker quickly backtracked a few paces to where he’d seen the gun drop. It lay there, half covered in some leaves. He grabbed it up, dropped the mag, and jacked the round out of the chamber. Then he stuck it in the back of his pants.

Back to Geoff, he rolled the kid over onto his butt, and then helped him up, handling him gently, and speaking calmly all the while: “I’m gonna help you stand up now, okay? One, two, three. There we go. You okay? Anything hurt?”

“Yeah, man! Them briars got me all cut up!”

“Yeah, well, don’t run from the police.” Tucker didn’t say it with the snap that he would have nine years ago on these same streets. He checked the kid’s face to see if there was any bad cuts from the thorny briars. He had a little nick on his cheek, but it wasn’t even bleeding.

He walked Geoff back up to the shops, continuing to speak calmly, and though Geoff seemed to still want to maintain an attitude, Tucker knew that part of that was just because he needed to maintain his credibility. Can’t be seen being too friendly with the po. People might start to talk.

Tucker’s Suburban was where he’d left it—Thank you, baby Jesus in a manger—but a small crowd had gathered to rubberneck. None of them were Geoff’s friends. They wouldn’t come back for a while.

“What he bein locked up for?” someone hollered.

“Not your business,” Tucker hollered back.

So this was not an ideal situation. But one had to adapt and overcome.

Tucker sat Geoff in the front passenger seat of the car where he could better keep an eye on him while he drove. He buckled the kid in. The rubberneckers inched a little closer, distracting Tucker for a moment. He spun and pointed at them.

“Back the fuck up.”

They backed up a single step.

“What’s your badge number?” another one demanded. “I don’t see no badge.”

“I’m undercover, genius. Badge number ninety-ninety-one. Feel free to call it in.” That badge number didn’t exist, and the person who asked it was already on the phone. It was definitely time for Tucker to get the hell out of there.

He stalked around to the driver’s seat and got in, trying not to rush his movements. He didn’t want the people to detect his fear of them. As soon as you looked scared, people took advantage of that.

He slammed his door and immediately started driving.

Behind him, one of the rubberneckers snapped a pic of his license plate.

December 23rd, 11:45 a.m.

“Man, where you takin me?” Geoff demanded, as Tucker pulled into the parking lot of The Workshop and drove around to the back. Geoff shifted in his seat, looking around with obvious discomfort. “This ain’t no fuckin police station.”

Tucker simply nodded as he pulled his Suburban to a stop. “I’m gonna explain everything to you, okay, Geoff? Just stay cool with me, and I’ll be cool with you.”

“What is this?” Geoff’s eyes were getting worried. “You drivin me around back of a building. This some dirty cop shit.”

“I promise, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Tucker sighed. “Unless you try to hurt me. And you’re not going to do that, right? Because we’re cool.”

“The fuck I’mma do? You got me in handcuffs, man.”

Tucker put the shifter in park, plucked the keys from the ignition and got out. He walked around the front of the Suburban, opened Geoff’s door and stood there for a moment, taking a reading from Geoff’s body language.

Geoff was tense. Oddly still. Like he was waiting for Tucker to do some “dirty cop shit.”

Tucker leaned on the open door. “Geoff, I’m gonna unbuckle you. And then I’m gonna switch your handcuffs to the front. No tricks. Just…don’t get squirrelly on me.”

Geoff peered at him, his mouth working, but didn’t respond.

Tucker leaned in and unbuckled his seatbelt. He half-expected Geoff to panic and try to run, or maybe bite his ear or something crazy like that, but the kid remained plastered to his seat, clearly still under the impression that a beating with a phonebook was next.

Tucker smirked at himself. Phonebook? This kid doesn’t even know what a phonebook is. Do they even make those things anymore? He was dating himself.

“Alright,” Tucker said. “Lean forward. I’m going to take the handcuff off of one wrist, then you’re going to put your hands in front of you, and I’ll secure them in the front. It’ll be more comfortable for you.”

Hesitantly, Geoff leaned forward.

Tucker did as he’d said, and when he had Geoff’s handcuffs secured in the front, he stood back and raised his own hands in a placating gesture. “See? No funny business. Just two guys talking.”

Geoff’s eyes narrowed, but he still didn’t speak.

Tucker pointed to a Bojangles bag which he had secured prior to charging up on Geoff. It was always good to have a peace offering to begin an interrogation. The red and yellow bag sat on the center console. “You mind handing that to me?”

Geoff looked at the bag like it might contain something far worse than a few Cajun Filet Biscuits. He eventually grabbed it between thumb and forefinger and shoved it quickly into Tucker’s hands, like he was afraid to get his DNA on it.

Tucker opened the paper bag. Felt the warmth of the greasy biscuits and their heavenly aroma waft up at him. He looked earnestly at Geoff. “I’m gonna be straight with you, Geoff. I’m not a cop.”

Geoff chewed on that for a second. “Then what the fuck are you? This like some CIA shit?”

Tucker shrugged. “Not really. I work for a private organization. I have no affiliations to any government or law enforcement. I just acted like a cop so I could get you in here. Do you like Bojangle’s Cajun Filet Biscuits?”

Geoff seemed taken aback by the question.

Tucker took one of the red-wrapped packages out, holding it out to Geoff.

Geoff eyed the package, then frowned at Tucker. “This like the good cop thing? You think giving me a fuckin biscuit’s gonna make us friends or some shit?”

“No. I was hungry,” Tucker fibbed, keeping the biscuit held out. “I figured it would be rude not to get you something too. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want. I was just being polite.”

“Polite?” Geoff scoffed. “You ran me down and threw me in them thorns, brah. That’s some bullshit.”

“You had a gun. We’ve been over this.”

“I wasn’t gonna use it,” Geoff mumbled. “I was just tryna throw it away.”

Tucker allowed it with a nod. “I understand. But look at it from my perspective. All I see is you pulling a gun out. I couldn’t wait to see what you were gonna do with it. I think that you would have done the same thing if you were in my shoes.”

Geoff didn’t respond to that, which Tucker thought was a good step. At least he wasn’t going to argue for the sake of arguing. He was capable of seeing reason.

Tucker waggled the biscuit. “You want it or not?”

Geoff reached out and took it. “You get it with cheese on it?”

“Egg and cheese. That okay?”

“Yeah. It’s aight.”

In truth, Geoff wasn’t too far off base when he asked if this was just a “good cop” ploy. Tucker had long ago learned that all the tough talk and chest thumping and coercion didn’t really get you anywhere in an interrogation. Tucker had done some research into this, and the science backed up his own anecdotal evidence: People talked if they felt like they had someone worth talking to. Most of the time, they just wanted someone to understand them.

Geoff took care to riffle through the chicken biscuit, inspecting each layer, as though he expected to find a suspicious substance in there. Tucker watched him with a bemused look as he leaned against the open door and took a bite of his own biscuit.

“I didn’t put anything in it, Geoff,” Tucker said. “You can have mine if you want. See? I’ve already taken a bite out of it.”

Geoff snorted. “I don’t want your half-eaten biscuit, man.”

“Fair enough.”

Finally satisfied that poison and drugs were not on the menu, Geoff folded the biscuit back together and took a giant bite. A few crumbs dribbled out of his mouth as he chewed, and then spoke around it.

“So you ain’t a cop. You with some private organization. What’s that got to do with me?”

“Hm.” Tucker wiped his mouth. “Well, it’s complicated, Geoff. I can’t tell you certain things, but I’m gonna do my best to explain what I can. First off, you’re not under arrest.”

“So I can leave?”

“No, you can’t leave.”

“Then I’m under arrest.”

“Well, I’m not a cop, remember? I can’t arrest anyone.”

“So what is this?”

“A guess this is a kidnapping.”

Geoff stopped chewing. “Oh, shit.”

Tucker patted a placating hand in the air. “Now, don’t get all hung up on the word, Geoff. Essentially that’s all being under arrest is. It’s a legal kidnapping. Now, me kidnapping you isn’t exactly legal, but I operate a bit around the laws a lot of the times, but I do it for good reasons. I do it in order to help people. Does that make sense?”

“You tryna help me?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I need to know some things first and I was hoping you could fill me in. I knew you wouldn’t talk to me if I just walked up to you on the street, so I had to come up with another plan to get you to talk to me.”

“Like kidnapping me and feeding me a biscuit.” Geoff coughed out a laugh. “Man, that’s some bullshit.”

“Yeah,” Tucker laughed, seeing the humor of it. “It is pretty fucked up, huh? But that’s the stuff I have to do sometimes. I’m not trying to hurt people or upset them. And hopefully we can get along in here and you can go on your merry way.”

Geoff gave Tucker the side-eye, then focused on his biscuit.

Tucker leaned back, tonguing some biscuit out of a molar. He watched Geoff and considered how exactly to go about this. You always come in with a game plan, but then again, you know what they say about plans.

“When’s the last time you saw your mom?”

Geoff scowled. “My moms? The fuck you wanna know about my moms for?”

“I dunno. It’s Christmas. She’d probably like to see you.”

“Pff. Christmas. Get the fuck outta here, man. She don’t wanna see me. All that bitch want is another rock.”

Tucker couldn’t help but feel a melancholy fall over him. Sometimes this was just how accounts went. Sometimes you tried your best, but you couldn’t keep the worst of human nature in check.

“Geoff, I’m not gonna act like I know everything about you and your mom.”

“Yeah, you don’t.”

“But I know she’s an addict,” Tucker pressed on. “Which means that she prioritizes getting that high over everything else. And yes, that is pretty fucked up. It’s fucked up that she would want drugs more than her own son. But life ain’t black and white. There’s gray areas in there. She might be an addict, and a terrible mother. But she’s a human being. She’s still capable of love. And she loves you, just like every mother loves their kid.”

“She don’t love me.” Geoff mumbled, hanging his head, and Tucker thought he spied a welling of emotion there that Geoff was fighting to strangle down.

He chose not to push it any more. There were too many walls there. Too many bad memories. Tucker wasn’t going to lead Geoff to the truth in the small amount of time that he had with the kid. The history was too bad, too rotten, to be overcome in such short order.

Tucker decided on a different tack. “Are you curious how I know you, Geoff?”

Geoff shrugged noncommittally, hunkered defensively over the last half of his biscuit.

Tucker had lost interest in his own. He folded the greasy paper back over the remains. “Five years ago,” Tucker said, feeling his heart ramp up just like a gambler pushing all his chips into the pot. “You were beaten by your mom’s boyfriend.”

Geoff stiffened. He raised his head and his eyes burned so furiously at Tucker that he almost shut his mouth and didn’t go on. Maybe this had been a bad strategy to employ. But he was committed now.

“Hear me out, Geoff. I know this sucks, but I need to bring it up to explain.”

Geoff’s mouth worked soundlessly, then snapped shut. His greasy, crumby fingers trembled.

“I heard it happen,” Tucker said, his stomach tightening. “And I wanted to bust in your door and…” kill him. “…Stop him. But I couldn’t. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you,” Geoff husked.

Well, this was going well.

“I heard something else,” Tucker continued, watching the walls being erected and trying to scale them quicker than they were built. “Later on, while you were laying in your bed. I heard you pray that he would go away.”

“How you know that?” Geoff’s voice was tight, higher than it had been before, as though the memories had transported him back to his childhood body.

Tucker shook his head. “Don’t worry about how I heard it. All that matters is that I heard it. I heard it, and while I couldn’t stop him from hurting you that time, I made sure that he would never hurt you again.”

The next thing Tucker knew, a half-eaten biscuit hit him in the face in a cloud of crumbs and fried poultry, and Geoff had launched himself out of the passenger seat. Tucker just managed to sprawl his feet into a balanced position before receiving Geoff’s handcuffed fists to his throat.

He twisted, deflecting Geoff’s haphazard attack. Geoff stumbled into the side of the Suburban and tried to come back again, but Tucker knew how to handle himself, and Geoff might’ve been on the mean streets all his life, but hand-to-hand isn’t something that you learn out there. As Geoff tried another attack, Tucker sidestepped and swept up behind him, yoking him easily with a forearm across his throat. He put his back against the Suburban and slid down, carrying Geoff with him, who was unable to resist the man that outweighed him by a solid fifty pounds. He struggled mightily, but Tucker brought his legs up and over Geoff’s and pinned him there.

“Easy, easy,” Tucker said softly into the kid’s ear.

Geoff didn’t respond with words, only noises of pain and rage.

Tucker let it happen, like weathering a storm. “Go ahead. You thrash on. I can sit here all day.”

A slight exaggeration, but Tucker was in a relaxed position, and he had Geoff secured tight, and he could maintain that for a good long while. He could let Geoff burn himself out.

It was like watching all the stages of grief in fast-forward. Denial and defiance that he was even in this position, manifested in a continual effort to free himself. Anger and rage, in which he contorted his body violently and tried to elbow Tucker viciously in the ribs, which Tucker took with gritted teeth. Bargaining, as Geoff found his words again and begged to be let free, and Tucker simply told him he wasn’t going to get up until he was calm. Depression, as Geoff began to sob. And a few minutes later, as Tucker’s grip was beginning to wane, and his muscles tire, acceptance. Geoff turned to slag in his arms.

It didn’t turn into a hug. The two people slumped against the Suburban didn’t suddenly become friends. Tucker didn’t try to stroke his head or whisper sweet nothings or be his long-last daddy. He just eased up by increments. At first, cautiously, wondering if Geoff would start to fight again. And then more and more, as it became obvious that the fight had gone out of Geoff.

Eventually, holding the kid on the concrete just seemed weird to Tucker, so he quickly extricated himself, trying to keep a tactical mindset even in the midst of trying to reach out and show this wreck of a human some compassion. He got some distance and stood back, making sure his body was positioned to block Geoff from trying to sprint off into the woods behind The Workshop.

But Geoff just slumped against the back door of the Suburban, then drew his knees up, making a ball of himself, closed off.

Well, shit. Where do you go from here?

“Geoff,” Tucker said, voice tired. “I’m gonna keep talking to you. Mostly because the silence is really awkward. I’m not trying to convince you that I’m your friend. I don’t need you to like me. But I do need you to understand that I’ve been on your side for a very long time. Maybe I fucked it up. I know that’s possible. Maybe I made things worse. Maybe I made them better. I’ll never know. Life’s not a video game—I can’t save it and go back in time and try it a different way. I did what I did because I thought it was the best thing I could do for you.”

Geoff raised his eyes to Tucker. They were red and watery. Blank, but for a thin veil of defiance. “Who are you, man?”

“I’m just a guy that tries to help. Sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Why are you telling me all this? The fuck does it matter now?”

“Because I wasn’t alone. There was another guy that I worked with. And he cared for you a great deal. I think you might have seen him recently. He was an older black guy with a gray goatee.”

Tucker saw it, plain as day, and knew it all in a second. Geoff’s face told the truth, though his mouth said nothing.

“He was in a white pickup truck,” Tucker finished.

For the first time, the defiance went fully out of Geoff’s eyes, and what was left was just pure terror. They started to glance around, as though looking for a way out. His chest started heaving. He looked like a dog backed into a corner, unsure whether to lash out or try to run.

“Listen to me,” Tucker snapped, drawing Geoff’s attention back to him. “Don’t do anything stupid, Geoff. We’ve already gotten this far. We’re almost done.” He said the words, but his stomach was dropping through the floor. His mind jagging in a million directions at once.

Geoff had killed Nick. Tucker could see it in his eyes, he could see it in his face. The guilt, the fear, the desperation. He had no proof beyond that of his senses, and yet it was, for Tucker, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

What are you going to do about it?

This kid committed murder. He killed the man that was trying to help him.

What would happen if Tucker let him go? Could Tucker do that and live with himself? Could he not let Geoff go and live with himself? How can any man know what the future of another looks like? Would Geoff go on to murder someone else? Was he irredeemable?

How the hell do you make that call about another human life?

“His name was Nick,” Tucker said, voice calm and quiet again. “He was my partner. And he’s dead. He called me, and told me he’d been shot, but by the time I got to him he’d already bled out. I couldn’t save him.” Tucker evaluated as he spoke, arranging his words as best he could as he estimated their effect on Geoff in real-time. Desperation. Fear. Primal emotions for self-preservation.

But something else, too.

Horror. Regret.

“I don’t know why he was out there,” Tucker said. “He never told me what he was doing. But I found a Greyhound bus ticket in his coat pocket. It was a ticket to Durham. Don’t you have a grandmother out that way?”

Geoff didn’t answer. He was sinking into himself, now only his eyes visible above his drawn-up knees, and they went every which way, half in this world, and half in the terrible memories of three nights ago. But they were terrible memories for Geoff. And that was what kept Tucker talking.

“I think something bad happened. I think Nick went out there to try to give you a bus ticket out of this shithole. To try and give you a last chance to get free. I don’t know what happened after that, Geoff. But I think…I think maybe someone made a really bad mistake. I think you didn’t know what the hell was going on and I think you might’ve done something that you regret.”

Geoff sunk fully behind his knees. He looked like a pill bug, a roly-poly, as Tucker used to call them in his childhood, all curled up and trying not to get squished.

From behind the defensive wall of his knees, Geoff spoke for the first time in several minutes, his voice anguished and muffled. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. How the fuck was I supposed to know all that shit?”

Tucker squatted down in front of Geoff, but didn’t reach out to touch him. That would have broken the moment like a hammer on fine china. “I know you didn’t know, Geoff. You’re not a killer. You didn’t want to kill him. And you didn’t know who he was. How could you? He was just some random guy in the middle of the hood at night. What were you supposed to think about that?”

“I didn’t know!” Geoff wailed from behind his wall. “I thought he was just some dude lookin to score.”

Tucker tilted his head, watching a few pieces fall into place. Don Juan’s theory that Nick had been mistaken for a cop was wrong. Nick had been mistaken as someone that was in the neighborhood to score drugs.

That realization brought something else home to him. He’d never really believed that Geoff was capable of cold-heartedly killing a cop. But he was capable of robbing someone who he thought would have cash for drugs on him.

Tucker stood up, just far enough to lean on the open passenger door. He supported his suddenly heavy body with one hand, and rubbed his face with the other. “You didn’t know,” he told Geoff. “You just thought you could make a couple bucks off some asshole. Why would you think any different?”

Geoff’s eyes came up over his knees, streaming tears and looking for absolution. “He tried to pull a gun on us!”

Tucker twitched. Frowned. “Wait. Us?”

Geoff drew back, as though realizing he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

“Who was with you, Geoff?”

“Don’t matter.”

“Yeah, it does matter.” Tucker peered at him, rapidly reevaluating, shifting his strategy. “Nick didn’t have a gun on him. All he had was that bus ticket. It was in his inside coat pocket. I think that’s what he was reaching for. But you thought it was a gun. So you shot him.”

Geoff recoiled, his tear-stained eyes widening. “What? No! I didn’t shoot him!”

“Well, who did, Geoff?” Tucker took a step towards him. “The guy you were with? Was it Big Mac? I know his name’s Marquis Terrance. Was he the one that took the shot? I’m serious with you right now, you need to tell me straight up.”

Geoff’s mouth worked, but he didn’t speak. The truth was right there, right at the tip of his tongue, but he wouldn’t let it out.

Tucker found the back of his neck getting hot. “If Marquis shot Nick, then you need to tell me, Geoff. I’m not playing around with you.”

“The fuck’s it matter at this point?”

“It matters to me.”

“Man, you done fucked me up!” Geoff suddenly belted out. “Everbody seen you snatch me up! They think I’m talking to the police! He gonna fuckin kill me cause you snatched me up! Why’d you do this to me, man?”

“Was it Marquis?”

“I ain’t tellin you shit.”

“I need to know.”

“What’re you gonna do? Hunt him down and kill him?”

Tucker froze, his fists balled at his side.

Was that your plan? He asked himself.

Right the wrong? Fight the darkness? With violence, if necessary?

His thoughts were shattered by the sound of a vehicle. He snapped his head up, looked over the top of the Suburban, and watched the burgundy van pull into the back lot, Claus in the driver’s seat.

December 23rd, 12:15 p.m.

They stood at the back of the Suburban. Geoff had been piled back into the front passenger seat, and the door closed again. Claus sat against the rear bumper, his hands clasped in his lap, looking up at Tucker through his wiry gray eyebrows.

“So you kidnapped the boy.”

Tucker sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told you why I did it, Claus. You think he would have talked to me if I’d just walked up to him on the street? Oh, hey, Geoff, you don’t know me, but, by chance, do you know who killed my friend?”

“I’m not questioning why you chose to kidnap him,” Claus said, calmly. “I’m questioning why you felt you needed to speak to him in the first place.”

Tucker gawked, wide eyed, at the supreme naïveté. “Claus. Your predecessor was murdered.” Tucker pointed towards Geoff’s slumped shape and lowered his voice. “It doesn’t even matter about the predecessor part. Someone committed a murder. And he knows who did it.”

“Yes, apparently he does,” Claus nodded. “And it seems, from what you relayed to me, that it was all a very tragic mistake.”

“Nick’s still dead. It doesn’t matter if they thought he was pulling a gun. Geoff’s friend killed my friend.” Tucker’s feet did a little jig of frustration underneath him. “Nick was a good man, Claus. He spent his entire life trying to help people. And then someone kills him for it? It’s not right! Nick didn’t deserve this. How am I supposed to stand for that? How am I supposed to let someone get away with murdering him? Murdering my friend.”

“Forgive me if I’m mistaken, I was under the impression that you’d turned in your police badge some time ago.”

Tucker pinched his lower lip, staring at Claus, deadpan.

Claus was unaffected. “I understand the pain this must put you in, Tuck. To have your friend taken from you in such a callous way. But…this is not a matter for Santa Claus. This is not the business of The Organization.”

“Whose business is it then?”

“It would appear to be police business.”

Tucker pointed a finger at him. “Exactly. It would appear that way. Except for the fact that the police don’t know about it, and can’t know about it.”

Claus stroked his chin. “But that doesn’t mean that it’s your business.”

Tucker growled, exasperated. “Somebody had to do something about it! What was I supposed to do? Sit on my hands while a murderer gets off scot-free?”

Claus raised an eyebrow. “What you were supposed to do is irrelevant at this point, I think. We can’t go back and undo it. I think a better question is what exactly you think you’re going to do now.” Claus chuckled, though some of the good humor was gone from it. “Are you going to track down this Marquis Terrance and execute him in cold blood, Tucker?”

Tucker flashed his teeth in an angry grimace. “Justice still needs to be done, Claus! I’m supposed to protect people from the darkness! I know that there is someone out there that’s willing to kill in the middle of a stupid fucking robbery, and I’m just supposed to not do anything? What if he does it again? What if the next person he caps in the middle of a robbery is a father? A mother? What if it’s one our families? What if it’s someone I’m supposed to protect? And I sat around and did nothing!”

Claus stood up from the bumper, his movements slow, as though his hips or his back were aching again today. He extended a gentle hand and laid it on Tucker’s shoulder. His eyes were kind, but maybe a little weary. “Tuck. You’re a good man. With a good heart. I see that you just want to protect everyone.”

“You can’t help everyone,” Tucker said, almost automatically, like a flinch response.

Claus smiled. “You say that. But I think that deep down inside, it hurts you that you can’t protect everyone. I think that, if you had it your way, you would help everyone. You would protect everyone.”

“I would,” Tucker admitted. “But it’s impossible. So you have to choose your battles.”

“Indeed, you do. Is this your battle, Tuck? Is this really what you want to involve yourself in?” Claus lowered his chin and looked at Tucker earnestly from under his dark eyebrows. “Is this what Nick would have wanted?”

Tucker hung his head. He had no answer to that question. There were too many consequences to every choice. That was, he thought, pretty much the nature of a dilemma: All the choices sucked.

Claus squeezed his shoulder, and ducked his head so that Tucker was forced to make eye contact with him again. “It’s Christmas, Tuck. Remember?”

“I’m well aware that it’s Christmas.”

“Puh-huh-huh. Aren’t we all?” He let go of Tucker’s shoulder. “Christmas is a celebration of the redemption of humankind, my friend. Without redemption, there is no Christmas. Without Christmas, there would be no redemption. Light in the darkness.”

“Good over evil,” Tucker challenged.

“Come now,” Claus shook his head. “You’re better than such black and white viewpoints. Evil is just another word for human nature. A nature from which we try to free ourselves. At least once a year.”

“So you think people shouldn’t have to pay for their crimes?”

Claus sighed heavily, then cast his old eyes around the back parking lot, some of the world-weariness coming back to them that Tucker had seen before. And yet he still managed to smile through it. “Lest you believe that I do not value justice, let me put that to rest. The darkness must be fought—that we agree on. But there are many ways to do that, Tuck. You were a police officer, and I think because of that, you tend to see this infinite struggle in only one way: You fight the darkness with righteous anger. And that is not wrong. The world needs people like that. But…” he met Tucker’s eyes again. “There also must be those that provide the light. Because you can rage against the darkness all you want, but if there is no light to replace it with, then the efforts of those who fight it are null and void.”

Staring at him, Tucker realized that Claus’s eyes ranged across his face, the way you would look at someone who is slowly drifting away from you.

Claus slipped his hands into the pocket of his coat, as though shielding himself from a coldness that only he could feel. “Everyone that wishes to leave the world better than they found it must make a choice. It is a simple choice, because there are really only two options. You can fight evil with righteous anger, or you can be a source of good. So whenever I’m faced with a tough decision, Tuck, I simply have to ask myself, ‘What is my business?’”

“And what’s that, Claus? What’s our business?”

“Our business—the business of Santa—is to be the light in the darkness,” Claus returned, evenly. “Which, I’ve found, is very hard to do when you are covered in the mud and blood of human nature. So you must ask yourself, ‘What is my business?’ And then I think the decision will make itself.”

Something shot through Tucker’s mind like a ghost, but before he could really seize on it, his cellphone rang. The thought dissipated. It was Sara’s ring tone.

He dove into his pocket, turning away from Claus.

“Hey, Babe,” he answered. “What’s up?”

“I think my mother had a heart attack,” Sara’s voice came through, clenched and anxious. “I need you to come to the hospital.”

December 23rd, 2:30 p.m.

It was all coming down around him, Tucker realized. The drive to the ER in Lenoir was a long one, and provided him ample opportunity to sit and brood. His mind took his myriad problems and ran off like a dog escaped from its leash.

What to do about Geoff? Tucker had been forced to let him go. There simply was no other option. Even though he hadn’t been the one to kill Nick, Tucker still wasn’t going to leave him alone with Claus, and Claus sure as hell wasn’t going to turn jail keeper.

Tucker had gone so far as to suggest that he keep Geoff locked in the broom closet in The Workshop. The second that the desperate words had left his mouth, he’d felt ashamed. What the hell are you saying, Tuck?

Claus had had the good grace to allow Tucker to realize how terrible that idea was all on his own. After Tucker had blinked a few times and shaken his head with a grimace, he’d lowered his voice. “Alright. I’ll drop him at a bus stop.”

And that’s just what Tucker had done. At the first uninhabited bus stop, he’d uncuffed Geoff, thrown a twenty-dollar bill at him, and told him to beat feet.

Geoff clearly wasn’t going to give up the shooter. But the implication had been plain enough: Marquis Terrance had pulled the trigger.

So what are you going to do about it? Tucker demanded of himself as he drove for Lenoir.

What was he going to do about the man that had killed Nick?

And what to do about the accounts that still needed to be completed in the next twenty-four hours?

What to do about Claus, who clearly doubted Tucker’s ability to continue? And what of Tucker’s Christmas spirit? Was The Organization going to let it stand, or would he be looking for new employment on the 26th? Would he go back to policing? No, that wasn’t likely. He could use the private investigator license. He had some attorney friends. They might be able to throw some business his way.

Would it be enough? The Organization paid well. Tucker would be hard pressed to make the same salary as a private investigator, especially in his first year.

What to do about Sara and Michael? What to do about her mother?

What to do about himself?

Round and round we go.

When he reached the ER, he found Sara and Michael in a bland waiting room that smelled of anxiety and disinfectant.

Sara stood up from her chair, managing a smile as Tucker came in. Michael beamed and bolted for his father.

“Dad!” he slammed into Tucker’s leg, preventing him from going any further. “I missed you. I thought you were going to come see us at Nana’s house. Are we coming home for Christmas?”

Tucker roughed his son’s hair and bent to give him a squeeze, which was awkwardly done because the kid was still adhered to his leg. “I don’t know, Buddy.” He kissed the top of his son’s head. He missed that smell. “I miss you too. Let me talk to your mom for a minute and we’ll get everything worked out, okay?”

Drooping disappointment: “Okay.”

Sara reached him and Tucker drew her into a hug. He breathed in deep, the smell of her filling him up and making his heart ache. What the hell had he been thinking, pushing them away?

“Hey, Honey. How’s your mom?”

“I don’t know, Tuck,” Sara responded, pulling back. “They’re taking her back for a CT scan. They haven’t told me much. I’m not even sure it was a heart attack at this point.”

“What happened?”

“She was taking a shower, but she’d been in there for an hour. I went in and found her sitting down in the tub. The water was ice cold.” Sara’s blue eyes flashed with irritation. “She’s so stubborn! She didn’t even call out for help! Kept telling me everything was fine. But she was dizzy and couldn’t stand up and after I grilled her for five minutes on what she was feeling she told me that her chest hurt. That’s not exactly how a heart attack presents in most women, but I didn’t want to take the chance.” Sara ran a hand through her short black hair. “I don’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Tucker said, rubbing her back. “How are you? You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sara answered, which was a pretty typical answer from her. Not the type to complain. More the type to shut down. “I feel bad for getting mad at her, but she should have called out for help! Anyways, she’s been conscious the whole time. Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it nothing. You did the right thing taking her to the hospital.”

“Maybe I should have called an ambulance.”

“It doesn’t matter now. She’s here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Sara closed her eyes, her lips compressing. She touched her forehead as though trying to divine the future. “What are we going to do about Christmas?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. Worry about your mom. Focus on that first and we’ll work the rest out later.”

She opened her eyes and fixed Tucker with a serious look. “You need to take Michael.”

Tucker blinked a few times, then realized his hesitancy might be interpreted as a lack of desire. “Okay. Um…”

“I don’t know how long this is going to take. I didn’t bring anything for him. He can’t just sit in a hospital waiting room for the next eight hours. Can’t you just take him back home?”

Tucker’s heart was starting to ramp up. He felt the beginnings of that sick feeling in his gut that heralded incoming anxiety. His scalp prickled feverishly. “Hon, it’s not that I don’t want to see Michael or take him home. But I have so much work that has to get done, and it has to get done before Christmas.”

Sara nodded. “I know you’re busy. Just take him to the office with you. He can play on your computer or something.”

Tucker’s jaw worked. “Um. That’s not really possible.”

Sara frowned. “Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’m barely in the office. I’m usually out…gathering leads.”

“Isn’t there someone that can cover you?”

“I don’t have any employees, Sara.”

Sara reached up and gripped Tucker by both shoulders. She wasn’t mean about it, but her eyes were stern. And she only ever showed him stern eyes when she was about to pull out the big guns, which had only ever happened a handful of times, so Tucker took note and shut his mouth.

“Tucker. I need you right now. Michael needs you. Your family needs you. I know that you are very busy right now. And I’m sorry to dump this on you. But you need to prioritize your family over your clients for once.”

For once?

Ouch.

He put the brakes on a sharp retort. Reeled himself back in. Don’t get defensive.

“You’re right,” he forced out. “You guys are more important. I’ll take Michael back home with me. I’ll, uh…I’ll figure something out with work. You just focus on your mother right now. Okay? I’ll figure out the rest.”

Sara wilted a bit. “Thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“It’s okay. Give me a kiss.” She did. “Everything will work itself out. You gonna be okay here by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got Instagram to keep me company.”

“Alright.” He managed a smile. “Don’t rot your brains out.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Call me when they tell you what’s going on, okay? Keep me in the loop.”

She promised that she would. She thanked him again, and he again told her that it was no problem, even though she’d unwittingly dropped a bomb on him. Nothing to be done for it. She didn’t know what he did for work. And she was worried about her mother, and about Michael. That was normal. This was normal.

Tucker left and took Michael with him, and on the long drive back to Charlotte, he cranked up some Christmas tunes and fought back nausea and tried not to obsess about how exactly he was going to piece the shambles back together.

December 23rd, 5:30 p.m.

“How come there’s no decorations?”

Michael stood in the entryway, frowning as he looked around him, like he didn’t recognize the house he’d lived in his entire life.

Tucker shut the front door behind him, taking his eyes off his phone for a moment to evaluate how accusatory Michael was about to get. “Well. There was no one around to appreciate them. And I’ve been super busy.”

“But you always decorate.”

“Yes. I usually do.”

“No. You always do.”

“Okay. I always do.”

“There’s no Christmas tree. You didn’t get us a Christmas tree.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why?”

Tucker sighed. “Same reason I already told you, Mike.”

“Nana has a Christmas tree.”

“Oh yeah? That’s cool. Is it a good tree?”

Michael shrugged. “She only puts white lights on it. I like the colored lights more. I like the way you decorate the tree better.” He stared at the empty space in the living room where it should have been. “But…I guess…no Christmas tree.”

Kids. They always know just what to say.

Tucker stood there with a plastered smile, waiting to see if there would be a further grilling. Michael sauntered into the living room, still gazing around as though mystified. Tucker looked back to his phone.

He’d had a bright idea on the way home. He had this database full of certified nannies. Why not see if one of them was available to come and watch Michael? Then he could get back to work.

Work.

His work. His business.

But the thing that was driving him wasn’t finishing the families. The thing that nagged at his attention, demanded that he invest himself into it, was finishing his interrogation of Geoff, and figuring out who killed Nick.  And then…

And then?

Tucker frowned at his phone, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention to any of the information as he scrolled through the nannies. He’d just been picturing Geoff. And Nick’s dead body. And Claus’s disappointed, world-weary face.

What is my business? And then, I think, the decision will be clear.

“Dad?”

Oh Lord. “Yeah, Mike?”

“Do you not love Mommy anymore?”

Tucker rocked into full attention, heat exploding out of his chest. And then turning ice cold. He blinked at his son’s guileless face, brain going every which direction, trying to manufacture the right answer that would dispel the insecurity in his son’s expression.

“Yes,” he blurted, realizing his locked up mouth might be interpreted wrong. “Yes, of course I love Mommy. You don’t ever have to worry about that.”

“Then why won’t you let us live with you?”

Tucker rubbed a finger across his brow, discovering a greasy sweat had broken out at his hairline. “No, no, no. That’s not what happened. I want to live with you both, and very soon, we’ll all be together again. It’s just...it’s really complicated, Michael.”

But that was just an excuse. That was a classic parent line whenever the kid was getting too close to the truth. You just tossed it out like chaff out the backend of a fighter jet with a heat-seeking missile on its ass. You just made the kid think that they couldn’t possibly fathom such immense things, when, in reality, you couldn’t even fathom it yourself.

Michael looked away. Missile into chaff. Boom. No more target-lock. “Okay.”

Tucker breathed with relief, though he couldn’t shake the nagging anxiety. He was just a little overwhelmed at the moment. Having a hard time keeping things straight.

Frowning, Tucker raised his phone again. “Alright. Michael. I’m going to have a very nice lady come and babysit you for a little bit because I have a ton of work that still needs to get done, but I will be back as soon as I possibly can, okay?”

Michael didn’t respond. Tucker heard him slump onto the couch.

Patricia Mealy. A nice older lady. She was available. That sounded nice. She had a good, matronly look about her.

“Daddy?”

Tucker tried hard to focus on the “call” button that would put him in contact with Patricia Mealy. His thumb hovered over it. All he had to do was press a button, foist his child off on someone else, leave him alone with a stranger in a dark house bereft of Christmas cheer, and then go and do his business.

His business.

What’s my business?

“Daddy?”

Tucker licked his lips, feeling a little unsteady. He looked up, squinting as though a spotlight was on him. “Yeah?”

Michael peered at him from over the top of a mound of cushions. “Why don’t you like Christmas anymore?”

Tucker opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut.

He saw it all in a flash. An epiphany that struck him like a surprise freight train in the darkness of a tunnel.

All the people that he’d helped this last year. All the people who he’d protected from the darkness. He’d helped them hold onto the magic, for just a little while longer. He’d helped them believe that, at least once a year, people could open their hearts by one consent, and be better than they usually were.

He’d helped all those people hold onto their light.

But he hadn’t done it for Michael.

He hadn’t done it for Sara.

For the two people in the entire world that mattered most to him, who he loved with a bone-aching ferocity, he hadn’t protected their light. The fierceness of his protective nature had twisted him up inside, and he’d watched a nightmare in his imagination, and that nightmare told him that he was darkening them.

And you know what? He wasn’t wrong. He had darkened their spirits. He’d sapped the magic out of them, like the anxiety in his heart had made his own magic go supernova, and the place where it had been was just a black hole that sucked in everything in its vicinity.

He’d been right that his anxiety had affected them.

But rather than trying to fix it, he’d done the worst possible thing: He’d pulled away from them. When they needed him most, he’d put them at arm’s length. And in his desperation to help them keep their light, he’d snuffed it out.

All those decisions that you think are great ideas in the moment, how pale and washed out they look in the light of the truth.

How pale and washed out Michael looked.

He’d had a light inside of him, just as strong and bright as his mother’s. And now Tucker was watching it, dwindling before his very eyes.

Don’t make another bad decision.

But how do you make a good one? According to Claus, you asked yourself what your business was, and then the decision made itself. Could it be that easy?

What is my business?

What is my business with my family?

What is my business with my son?

Not to protect them from the darkness, he realized. Not this time. His family didn’t need a shield. Because a shield casts its own shadow. They needed a light. Because the only thing that defeats darkness is light.

And that was Tucker’s business. That was Claus’s business, and The Organization’s business, and Santa’s business.

Shine a light.

“You know what?” Tucker said, his voice over-loud in his ringing ears. He exited the database with all the nannies on it. “I’ve got an idea. Now, hear me out, because this is gonna be hard, and I’m gonna need a strapping young man to help me. Are there any strapping young men around here that can help their decrepit old dads?”

Michael smiled, a gleam coming to his eyes. He raised his hand. “Me. I can help.”

“Fantastic.” Tucker stepped up to the side of the couch. “Now, it’s too late to get a live tree. But we have the big old artificial one in the attic. I think we should bring it down. I think we should bring it down, and put it up, and put all the colored lights on it that we can find.”

Michael rocketed out from the lethargic grip of the couch cushions. “Yes! I want the colored lights!”

“Yeah,” Tucker nodded enthusiastically. “You know what? I want the colored lights too! And I want the lights on the house. And I want the garland on the mantle, and the garland over the door. And I want the little mini-tree with the twinkly fiber-optic crap on it. And I want to bake a stupid amount of Christmas cookies. And I want to turn on Aaron Neville’s Soulful Christmas, and make this place look like it should’ve looked a month ago!”

“Can we do all that?” Michael looked hopeful, and doubtful, and excited, and…light.

Tucker grabbed his son around his narrow shoulders. “Yeah we can. Hey. Look at me.”

Michael looked up at his father.

“I’ve been really dumb. I’m sorry for that. I’ve made very bad decisions. I was trying to make good ones, but I didn’t know the right questions to ask to get to the right answers. No more of that now. It’s Christmas time. And we need to shine a light.”

“We need a lot of light.”

“You’re dang right we need a lot of light. We need all the lights. Every single box you can pull out of the attic. Climb up there with your little monkey legs and start tossing ‘em down.”

Michael whirled off the couch, spraying pillows in his wake, and hauled for the attic access.

“I’ll be there in just a minute,” Tucker called after him, then remembered his son was just five. “Don’t try to lower that ladder without me!”

“Okay!”

Tucker then raised his phone again, but this time not to dial a nanny. He didn’t need another person here for his son. He was here. Michael’s father was here.

So he dialed up Claus. A tiny note of anxiety wormed up from the middle of his upwelling of positivity. But rather than sit there and ponder it, and obsess about it, he noted that it was there, and he extended himself some compassion for it—after all, this was a big thing he was about to do—and then he set it aside. There was nothing to be done for it. He’d made up his mind.

You can’t help everyone. But you can always help your family.

“Tuck?” Claus answered. “Is everything okay? How is your mother-in-law?”

“Everything’s fine,” Tucker said, and realized that he was smiling. Still anxious, still thinking farther ahead than perhaps he should have. But smiling all the same. “She’ll be okay. But look. I had to take Michael. He’s at home with me.”

“Oh, I see. Perhaps someone from The Organization can provide you with childcare for a brief time, I know that it’s a challenge sometimes—”

“No. Claus. Listen. I’m sorry to leave you with incomplete accounts—”

“Families.”

“Okay, families. But I am going to stay at home with my son. It’s two days to Christmas, and I don’t have any decorations on my house. Claus, you were right: That’s just wrong. And I know this is going to be tough for you, but it’s what I got to do. I’m going to stay here and put the tree up, and decorate this house.”

“Hm.” Claus lapsed into a long silence.

“I understand,” Tucker swallowed. “That this might cost me my position.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No. I love what I do, Claus. Maybe I love it now more than I ever have. But I need to prove to my family that I can still be who they need me to be. If I don’t, then I might not even have a family come Christmas Day. When my wife gets back from the hospital, she’s going to have a tree, and a decorated house, and a husband who’s pulled his head out of his ass. And my son’s going to have a father that does more than just yard work, dammit. We’re going to make a spaceship. And he’s going to keep the light on inside of him. I’m not going to let him lose that.” Tucker paused. Took a breath. “I understand that The Organization needed me tonight and I’m dropping the ball. I wish I’d realized this sooner so I wouldn’t be leaving you in this situation. But I have to do this.”

“Well.” Claus breathed deeply. “We do a very special thing here. We give people Christmas when they need it the most. Who needs it most right now, Tuck? The families that we have assigned to us? Or your own?”

“I think I’ve already answered that question, Claus. But listen. I know I’m not in any position to ask favors of you, but I need one right now.”

“Yes?”

“Geoff has a grandmother. She lives near Durham. You’ll find her information in Geoff’s file. See if you can’t get ahold of her, and see if she’ll come pick Geoff up. This is what Nick wanted. He wanted to get Geoff out of his downward cycle. And I think we should honor that.”

“We don’t have Geoff anymore,” Claus observed.

“I know that. But if you can get his grandma to come get him, I can get ahold of Geoff. I found him once, I can find him again.” Probably.

“And what about Nick’s killer, Tuck?”

Tucker stared down at his shoes.

“Dad!” Michael shouted from down the hall. “Come on!”

Tucker took a deep breath, and he let it go. Because you couldn’t shine brightly when you were covered with the mud and blood of human nature. “You were right, Claus. You can make the world better by fighting the darkness, or you can make the world better by being a source of good. I’m not in the business of justice anymore. I spent years trying to make the world better that way, and I don’t regret it. But that’s not what I do anymore. I’m going to shine a light. And right now, I’ve got to show that to my family.”

December 23rd, 6:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.

They hauled out the holly. Or at least the 9 foot artificial tree. They hung up the brightest string of lights, and then about thirty more. Tucker had grown a little sadder and grown a little older, and he needed a little Christmas.

They decked the halls. And the mantle. And the spot over the front door. Garlands and holly and mistletoe and paperchains. They listened to Aaron Neville’s Soulful Christmas, and when they’d gone through every song on the album, they started it over again from the top.

Tucker untangled lights and tested bulbs and replaced bulbs. C9s. C7s. Mini lights. Incandescents. LEDs. All the lights, as promised. Michael strung them on the tree until he could reach no higher and then Tucker finished the top. They flung ornaments on in a flurry of glass balls and trinkets and tiny statuettes from places they’d visited and bought ornaments as souvenirs, always with the date on the bottom written in Sara’s neat hand.

It wasn’t a panic. It wasn’t rushed. It was victorious chaos. It was celebration.

Tucker did his best to follow a sugar cookie recipe. He destroyed the first batch. But he got it the second time around. Michael cut paper snowflakes and dusted the windows with snow spray. As Tucker pulled the last tray of cookies out to cool, right about six o’clock, Sara called.

Tucker paused the music and answered. “Hey, Honey. How are things?”

She sounded relieved. “It’s good. They’re good. They weren’t sure after the CT scan, but after the MRI they said she’d had a pulmonary embolism.”

“What is that? Is it serious?”

“Well, yes, it’s serious, but she’s going to be okay. It’s a blood clot in the lungs. Not a heart attack. It’s not as serious as a heart attack. But she’ll need to be on blood thinners.” Sara took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Oyoyoy. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

“Sure it could have. It could’ve happened on Christmas Day. How long does she have to stay at the hospital?”

“They want to keep her overnight. I think I’m going to stay with her. I don’t know. Get a hotel room or something. Can you keep Michael?”

“Of course I can, but…” Tucker leaned against the counter, looking at the cookies and then out at all the decorations. “But I think you should just come home, Honey. It’s not like you’re going to be able to sit there and hold her hand the whole time.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Just come home. I’ll tell you what, tomorrow, we’ll all drive up and get her, and then we’ll take her back here with us and she can spend Christmas here.” It wasn’t a difficult offer for Tucker to make. He was blessed with a mother-in-law who was as kind as the daughter she’d produced. Tucker didn’t mind having her around at all.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive.”

“But the house…”

“Hey, you let me worry about the house. You just come on home, okay?”

“You sound very chipper,” Sara observed, and for the first time in a long time, Tucker heard in her voice the lightness of spirit that he’d come to know and love from her.

“I am very chipper, Sara. I’m fantastic. And it’s Christmas. Did you know that it’s Christmas?”

Sara laughed, almost a little disbelieving. “Yes, I know that it’s Christmas!”

“Well, come on home then! Gotta be home on Christmas.”

“Alright. I’m coming. I’m gonna swing by Mom’s house and pick up some of our things and I’ll be on the way after that.”

“Okay. Quick like a bunny. But don’t speed. Drive safe. Can’t wait to see you.”

Tucker hung up with her, grinning.

“Was that Mommy?” Michael asked.

Tucker pocketed his phone. “Yes. She’s on the way. Which means we only got a few hours to put lights on the house. You wanna help me?”

“Can I climb up the ladder?”

“Yeah, you can climb up the ladder.”

“Yes!”

They hauled out the big ugly C9s that Tucker loved so much. You just couldn’t beat them. They were an absolute pain in the ass, the bulbs constantly going out, and you could only string four of them together without blowing a fuse, so he had to be a little creative with his extension cords, but it was a labor of love.

Sara had tried to get him to switch to LED C9s once, but he wouldn’t have it. The LED versions just weren’t the same. As long as they kept manufacturing these dinosaur lights from the ‘70s, Tucker would keep putting them on his house.

It was dark out now, but the lights glowed brightly. Orange and red and green and blue. Ensconced in bundles of glowing bulbs, they glimmered in Michael’s eyes. He stared at them like they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. A wonder that you only get to feel one month out of the year.

And there it is, Tucker thought, looking at his son, the energy, the awe. I can still feel it.

The light hadn’t gone out of him after all. Just as Claus had promised him. It was still there, still burning inside of him. He’d just covered it up with too much of the mud and blood of human nature. He’d sullied himself with worries and fears. He’d sludged through his anxiety and mucked himself up with it, with thinking about things that didn’t need to be thought of. He’d lost his ability to simply be in the moment, because he was constantly trying to peer into the future, as though life was a chess board that you could somehow strategize out.

But men plan, and God laughs.

Nothing had gone according to Tucker’s plans this year.

And you know what? That was okay.

It’s smart to plan. But it’s wise to be flexible. To allow yourself to bend, rather than break.

Tucker had, perhaps, just become brittle. There was joy in letting go. In realizing that you didn’t need to control everything. You couldn’t control everything.

Actually, you could control very little. Just like Tucker couldn’t protect everyone, or help everyone.

You do the best you can, and when it all goes belly up, you laugh with God.

Tucker and Michael climbed up to the top of the roof and stood there—Tucker with a protective arm around his son—looking out on the work that they’d done, and loving it, the glow of the lights all along the rooftop, like candies on a gingerbread house. Their breath steamed out of smiling mouths.

“Hey, Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I pee off the roof?”

“Yeah,” Tucker laughed. “You can pee off the roof. Don’t splash the lights, though. They’ll zap your pecker off.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m just messing with you. But seriously, don’t pee on the lights.”

Michael unzipped with enthusiasm and had a grand time of relieving himself.

They climbed down the ladder after that, Tucker going first so he could hover under Michael and steady him, though the kid was proficient at climbing and didn’t need any help. Off the ladder and done with the roof, Tucker cracked a Sam Adams Winter Lager. And then a few more after that.

They stuffed the bushes with lights. Multi-colored ones, but also some white ones, because those were nice too.

They finished around 9 and stood in the front lawn, admiring their work.

“It looks like a gingerbread house,” Michael breathed.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Can I have some of your beer?”

“You can have a sip inside so the neighbors don’t judge me too hard.”

“Well. They probably saw me pee off the roof.”

“Yeah, well. Screw ‘em. Merry Christmas, Michael.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

Sara pulled into the driveway while they were still out in the front lawn, Tucker explaining to Michael his strategy to raid the Lowe’s and Wal-Mart on the 26th and buy more lights for 75% off, and what exactly they were going to do with them next year. Michael didn’t quite get the concept of discounts, but he shared in his father’s excitement, mirroring it.

“Mommy’s here!” Michael jumped and ran for the car, immediately barraging her as she stepped out of the car. “Mommy! Do you see what we did? I did those lights. Daddy let me climb up and help him. And I peed off the roof.”

Sara spun around, staring at it all with her jaw on her chest.

“You like?” Tucker inquired.

“You did all this in three hours?” She gawped.

“Well, more like five. And I had some help.” He grabbed her and pulled her in close to him, smelling her like he hadn’t just seen her a few hours ago. He kissed her, and then pulled back. “Sara, I need to apologize to you. First off, I want you and Michael back in the house. Second off, I should have never encouraged you to go in the first place.”

“Oh thank God,” Sara groaned and buried her head in his chest. “You’re such a stubborn asshole. I can’t believe it took you this long.” She reared back and gripped his shirt like she was about to shake him around. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“That’s what I need to apologize to you for.” He slipped his hands into hers and massaged her grip on his shirt until she relaxed a little. “I made a lot of mistakes. I let myself get caught up in stupid worries and I let it drag me down. And then, even worse, I let it drag you and Michael down. And then I freaked out, and the only thing I could think of was to try to get you away from me as fast as possible.”

“That is…” Sara seemed flummoxed. “Ridiculous!”

Tucker couldn’t help but laugh, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Michael was still pre-occupied.

“Why didn’t you just open up to me?” She demanded. “Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on with you?”

“I wanted to protect you,” Tucker said, sheepishly.

Sara reached up and grabbed his face. Not exactly a tender gesture, but a gesture that spoke to Tucker nonetheless. Because with his face in her angry grip, he knew that she loved him as fiercely as he did her.

“You can’t protect us when we’re a hundred miles away!”

“I know. I know.” Tucker took her hands again and pried them away, smiling as he did. “Geez. You got some grip.”

“You got me so damn frustrated lately, Tuck.”

He made sure he had a good grasp on her hands so that they wouldn’t grab him again. And gradually, they relaxed. “I should have talked to you. I should have explained myself. But that’s just the nature of who I am, Sara. I’m always going to want to protect you and Michael. And sometimes that makes me do stupid things. I can’t promise that I’ll never do something stupid again, but I can promise you that I’m going to change. I’m going to keep the light on inside of me.”

Sara frowned at him, but her mouth smiled. “You sound different.”

“Well, I’ve been talking to a guy.”

“Like a therapist?”

“Something like that.” Tucker pointed to the house. “Now, I say we go inside, and we eat a stupid amount of Christmas cookies, and we watch A Christmas Carol.”

They did indeed do all of that. And it felt right. It was all the things they should have been doing. They felt the way they should have felt.

But Tucker’s night wasn’t quite finished.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Geoff. That’s just what happened with families—even the ones that get pulled—you never stopped thinking about them.

It pulled at Tucker, a little note of tension in his chest. A sense of unfinished business.

It was the scene with Jacob Marley that did it. And the ghost of Jacob Marley was the ghost that had flitted through his head when Claus had urged him to ask himself what his business was.

“Business?” The ghost of Jacob Marley cried on the screen, and Tucker stiffened when he heard it, yanked out of the movie as sure as if those spectral chains had been tied around his own body and pulled by some unseen hand.

“Mankind was my business! The common welfare was my business! Charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business! The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

Sitting so still on the couch, with Michael sandwiched cozily between he and Sara, Tucker had no reason for his heart to start thumping, but it did.

Tucker had the unique privilege of having his trade and his business as the very same thing.

Mankind was his business.

Charity. Mercy. Forbearance. Benevolence.

The rest of the scene was lost on Tucker as he sat there with his heart pounding, suddenly itching to move. Geoff was business that needed finishing. The need of it flared up in him like his bones were on fire. And even though he’d asked Claus to do him that favor, he needed to see it done. He would never be able to relax if he didn’t know.

Right about the time that Scrooge humbugged his way to bed on the screen, Tucker could take it no longer.

He snatched up the remote and paused the film. “I’m sorry. I have to make a quick phone call and check on something.”

Sara leaned forward, peering at him suspiciously from around Michael. “Tuck…”

He raised a placating hand as he stood up and made for the privacy of their bedroom. “It’s okay. I just…I need to make sure something happened.”

He dipped into the bedroom before Sara could object any further, closed the door, and then further sequestered himself in his closet. He pulled out his phone and dialed Claus.

The old man’s voice sounded like he’d been expecting the call. “Yes, Tuck?”

“Claus. I need to know…were you able to get ahold of Geoff’s grandmother? Is she able to come get him?”

“I made inquiries with our colleagues in her region. It appears that Miss Eugenia Franks is not getting around too well these days. She would not be able to travel here to retrieve Geoff.”

“Shit,” Tucker breathed, massaging his face. His eyes found his holstered Glock, on the top shelf of his closet. “Listen. Claus. I gotta go.”

Claus sounded cautious. “May I ask what you intend to do?”

“I’m going to finish my business,” Tucker answered, reaching for his gun. “I need to see this through. For Nick. And for me.”

Tucker hung up the phone before Claus could question him further. He strapped his Glock to his hip. The Ghost of Christmas Present might go about with a rusted scabbard that had no sword in it—because peace on earth and goodwill towards men—but the Ghost of Christmas Present was relatively impervious to being shot, so Tucker felt well justified in being armed.

He could show compassion and still be ready to defend himself.

Actually, being ready to defend himself allowed him to take bigger risks in the service of compassion. Like driving around the hood in the middle of the night, looking for someone who didn’t want to be found.

He stuffed his feet into some sneakers, grabbed his peacoat, and exited the bedroom.

Sara and Michael sat, staring at him like they weren’t quite sure what to think about this. Was he a little off his rocker? One too many Sam Adams Winter Lagers? Or was it something more benign? Perhaps he felt the need for some last minute shopping.

“Sara. I have to go do something,” he announced.

“Like…go out?”

He nodded, crossing to the couch. “Yeah. I need to go out. I have to take care of something.”

She skewered him with a severe look. “Is it for work?”

“No. It’s for me, Honey.” He bent and kissed his wife, and roughed his son’s hair. “It won’t take long. Or, at least, I don’t think it’ll take long. Go ahead and watch the movie without me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sara twisted around as Tucker made for the front door. “Are you going to be back before bed?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

He shut the door behind him and ran for his Suburban.

December 23rd, 11:45 p.m.

Tucker drove around for nearly an hour, trying to find the kid. He circled around West Boulevard, going behind businesses and cruising through alleys, drawing hard looks from the gangbangers who tried to determine if he was predator or prey.

He drove through Clanton Park, and Reid’s Park, and all the other places that were nearby where Geoff and his so-called gang might be. But the streets were quiet, and he found no trace of them.

He went through Southside Homes, because Geoff had lived there once, and might know someone. There were people out at the basketball courts, and they didn’t care for Tucker eyeing them, but he took his time, looking at each, and found that Geoff was not among them.

Where would he go after being released from The Workshop?

Where do you run off to after being kidnapped?

Tucker would have liked to park and think, but he kept his car moving, not wanting to become stationary and give someone the opportunity to carjack him.

Eventually the thought occurred to him, and he pulled up his mapping application and plugged in a street name. He couldn’t remember the address off the top of his head—he would need Claus to access the Pulled files to get it, and he didn’t want to explain himself to Claus right now. The street should be enough.

He found what he was looking for at Camp Greene and Tuckaseegee.

A figure in a fur-lined, hooded jacket, slumped on a bench at the bus stop.

He drove past him, watching him as he did, wondering if the kid would recognize him and run. But Geoff never looked up. His hood hung over his eyes. He looked like a homeless man, bundled up for the night.

Tucker parked on the sidewalk down from the bus stop and stepped out. He was maybe fifteen yards from Geoff. The slam of his car door brought the kid’s head up. He looked at Tucker. His whole body tensed for flight.

Tucker stopped and raised his hands. “It’s cool. We’re cool, remember?”

Geoff didn’t move. He didn’t relax either. Both hands in his pockets. Had he been able to score himself another weapon? Maybe. It was a risk Tucker was going to have to take. But Geoff wasn’t a killer. That much had been clear. He was just a scared kid.

“Can I come closer to you?” Tucker asked. “Or are you gonna run from me?”

“Do I need to run from you?” Geoff shot back.

“No, you don’t need to run from me. And if you did, I wouldn’t chase after you. We’re done with all that shit now, okay?”

Geoff shifted on the bench. He said nothing.

Tucker approached, slowly at first, and then at a normal pace. He let his hands fall, but kept them where Geoff could see them. He stopped, just inside the overhang for the bus stop. There was six feet of bench between him and Geoff.

Geoff eyed him up and down. “Why you keep botherin me, man?”

“Sorry. I’ll leave you alone after this. Promise.” Tucker eased himself onto the bench. Geoff shifted further away but didn’t get up. The cold metal seeped through Tucker’s pants. He looked across the street at the rows of old houses. Some of them in disrepair, some of them at least partially maintained. None of them terribly inviting. “Which one is your mom’s?”

“My moms don’t have a house,” Geoff said sullenly. “She just crash places.”

Tucker looked at him. Waiting.

Geoff sniffed. Wiped his nose on a jacket sleeve without taking his hands out of his pockets. Eventually, he nodded towards an old house with yellow siding. Peeling paint. Plastic on the roof. Moldy plywood over a window. “It’s that one.” Geoff pushed himself back up against the bench. “She ain’t there,” he mumbled.

“Hm.” Tucker thought about that for a moment. Where would Deborah Williams be?

“Prolly out scoring another rock,” Geoff said, but in his voice there wasn’t the heat that there had been. More of a resignation.

“You gonna wait up for her?”

“I dunno.”

“Geoff, look at me.”

Geoff turned his head, his eyes tired and old. “What?”

Tucker raised his hands again. “I’m gonna reach into my left coat pocket. But that’s not where my gun is, okay? We cool?”

Geoff snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, man. We cool.”

Tucker put his hand into his pocket—Geoff watched him the whole time—and drew out a Greyhound bus ticket. He scooted just close enough on the bench that the ticket was within reach of Geoff.

Geoff just stared at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s a bus ticket,” Tucker answered. “It’s what Nick wanted to give you. It’s yours.”

“I don’t want it.”

Tucker shrugged. “It’s still yours.”

The ticket hovered there in the air, Geoff glaring at it.

“Just take it. If you choose not to do anything with it, then fine—that’s your call. But at least take it.”

Geoff snatched it out of Tucker’s fingers. Held it up in front of his face, reading it. Then he chuffed and flipped it into the air like a dealer shooting cards. It fluttered down onto the sidewalk.

Tucker didn’t move to retrieve it. He sighed, watching his breath steam in the air. “You remember your gramma? The one that sends you all the cards with the ten dollar bills?”

Geoff twitched. “How you know about that?”

Tucker just looked at the kid across the bench. “Geoff, she’s getting old. She can’t get around too well anymore.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Tucker nodded to the bus ticket on the ground. “That ticket is to Durham. From there, it’s a quick drive over to where your gramma lives. She could use someone in her life, Geoff. You could help her.”

Geoff huffed. Shook his head. “I don’t even know her.”

“That doesn’t stop her from loving you. She thinks about you. Every birthday, every Valentine’s Day, and every Christmas.”

Geoff hunched his shoulders. “Man, why don’t you just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Well.” Tucker rose. “Merry Christmas, Geoff.”

“Yeah, fuck you, man.”

Tucker just smiled at him, and turned away.

“The fuck you tryna do anyways?” Geoff called after him.

Tucker stopped and turned, raising an eyebrow.

“You out here gettin in people’s business and shit. Ain’t your business.”

“It is my business, Geoff,” Tucker replied softly. “It’s my business to try to help. And sometimes that works out, and sometimes it doesn’t. But that’s not up to me. I do my best and the rest is up to God.”

Geoff shook his head. “You a dumb fuck. Out here, you gotta look out for number one. And that’s it. You can’t help everyone.”

Tucker nodded. “You’re right about that, Geoff. You can’t help everyone. But everyone’s worth helping.”

Geoff had nothing more to say to Tucker, and Tucker had nothing more to say to him. He turned and walked back to his car, the cold wind blowing in his face. He got in and cranked it up.

Just before driving away, he glanced into the rearview mirror, and watched as Geoff rose from the bench, took the bus ticket off the ground, and shoved it in his pocket.

December 24th

He had the Christmas Eve that he wanted to have.

His plans hadn’t originally included a four hour round trip to and from the hospital in Lenoir, but he was with his family, so it was alright. It was still the Christmas Eve he wanted. Just…bent a little bit.

They picked Sara’s mother up, who was in high spirits. She was not the type to wallow in self-pity, but she was the type to talk openly about her medical issues and happily gabbed away at her daughter about blood thinners, MRI machines, CT scans, and everything that every medical professional had told her in the last 24 hours.

They went by her house and Sara packed up some of the things that she’d brought over for her and Michael, but left the bulk of it for later. They needed room for the presents, and her mother’s stuff, since she was staying with them for a few days.

On their way back to Charlotte, Judy finally returned Tucker’s phone call. She was a tad exasperated that he’d sent her on a fact-finding mission, and then hadn’t answered her call. Tucker sheepishly apologized, then cringed as he waited to hear about the Johnstons.

“So…” Tucker glanced in the rearview at his passengers, but no one was paying him much attention. They just figured it was work stuff. “Is there anything that the family needs?”

“Nope,” Judy replied. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I know your client wanted to do a little Christmas miracle for someone, but the Johnstons don’t need anything at the moment. In fact, it appears from the social worker’s notes that someone beat your client to the punch. The Johnstons were gifted all kinds of stuff for the kids.”

Tucker breathed a sigh of relief. “So, the home is good? The kids are gonna stay?”

He could tell that Judy didn’t want to be too specific with her answer. But there was a laugh in her voice when she responded: “The Johnstons don’t need anything, Tuck. They’ve been taken care of.”

“Well.” Tucker’s chest felt like it had released some pressure he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I guess that’s good news after all. I think my client will just be happy that everything’s been taken care of. And hey, Judy…thanks for doing this for me.”

“Uh-huh. You owe me.”

“I always do.”

“Merry Christmas, Tuck.”

“Merry Christmas, Judy.”

When they arrived back at the house, Tucker had every intention of dropping everyone off and braving the last-minute crowds to grab what they needed for a Christmas Eve dinner. But trundling through the front door with his mother-in-law’s luggage piled in his arms, Tucker discovered that someone had been in his house.

He halted, standing in the cased opening between the living room and kitchen area. His mother-in-law hadn’t stopped to take a breath in the last ten minutes, and she ran on behind him while Sara dutifully uh-huh’d.

There on the center island in the kitchen, sat two nicely wrapped gift baskets. Through the clear plastic—done up with big, red Christmas bows—Tucker spied a ham, potatoes for mashing, yams and green beans for casseroling, little jars of condiments and spices, and, of course, a few cans of cranberry sauce. A little, pre-packaged Christmas Eve feast.

“Oh, look at that!” his mother-in-law exclaimed, moving around him. “Tucker, you have everything all prepared for dinner. You’re always so great about the holidays!”

Tucker slowly offloaded the luggage, and he and Sara stepped up to the kitchen island. She frowned at the gift baskets. “Did you set this all up? It’s wrapped so nicely.”

“Well…” Tucker wasn’t quite sure how to explain the magical appearance of the feast. “It’s from a friend.”

Sara reached out to the basket with the ham in it and plucked a small card from the top. Tucker had the impulse to grab it before she could read anything incriminating in it, but when she opened it, it simply read Merry Christmas! –Mr. C

Sara quirked an eyebrow and looked at Tucker. “Mr. C? Like Santa Claus?”

“Haha!” Tucker laughed, a little forced. He took the card from her. “It’s a colleague of mine. Inside joke.”

“Well!” Sara clapped her hands together, smiling brightly. “I say we fire up the oven and stove and get dinner going! So glad you don’t have to go shopping right now. I’m sure the stores are a madhouse.”

“Yeah,” Tucker nodded, sharing her smile. “My colleague. He thinks of everything.”

As dusk fell and the lights came on, glowing brightly in the winter darkness, Tucker stepped outside. The air in the house was warm and pleasant, filled with cinnamon and clove, and boiling potatoes and baking ham, and conversations that fought merrily to be heard over the Christmas music which no one had any intention of turning down. Stepping through the front door, the cold, crisp air met him, clean and bright, and just as good a smell as the ones inside.

He walked out to the street, toting his beer with him. A wonderful, mild buzz made everything glow just a bit brighter. He stood at the curb and looked at his house. In the living room window, the Christmas tree twinkled. In the kitchen window, Sara and her mother bustled about with dinner preparations. Tucker would be needed to mash the potatoes and make the gravy, but he had a few moments to himself, and he spent them looking at his house, exactly as it should have been. Filled to the brim with brightness and cheer. A triumph of light over darkness.

Cares melted away. The future was unknowable, but it would eventually become the present, and Tucker would know it then, when he was in the proper moment. For now, this was his moment, and he lived in it fully.

An occasional car whispered by on the neighborhood street, and he took no note of them until he heard a car door close to his left.

Taking a sip from his beer he turned and found a blue sedan parked in front of his driveway, facing him. Claus on the passenger’s side, approaching. Tucker was aware that there was someone in the driver’s seat, but he couldn’t see who it was past the headlights. Steph perhaps? A meeting to let him know that his services would no longer be required?

Tucker suspected as much. He’d worry about it later.

“Merry Christmas, Claus,” Tucker said, raising his beer in salute.

Claus stopped, bundled in his coat, much as he had looked the first time that Tucker had met him outside The Workshop. He smiled warmly at Tucker and extended his hand. They shook like gentlemen.

“Merry Christmas to you, Tuck.”

Tucker put a hand on Claus’s shoulder and squeezed him earnestly. “Thank you so much for dinner. You don’t know how much easier that made tonight.”

“Puh-huh, it was the least I could do. It’s important for you to maximize this time with your family, not spend it fighting the crowds for the last Honeybaked Ham.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Claus turned and looked at the house, and Tucker watched his eyes brighten with the same childlike wonder that he’d seen in Michael’s. Perhaps, if he could see his own eyes, Tucker would have seen it there too.

“The house looks wonderful!” Claus exclaimed.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

They stood there a few moments, just taking it in. Christmas Eve. All the lights on. The magic the strongest it would ever be, almost audible, like a faint twinkling of chimes.

“Did you manage to complete all the accounts?” Tucker asked.

“Oh, yes. Everything got done properly.”

“No thanks to me.”

“Much thanks to you,” Claus corrected. “You did the brunt of it. I only finished it up.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.”

Claus turned and faced him. “You had other priorities. And that’s okay, Tuck. That’s how life is sometimes.”

Tucker nodded. “Ah well. What’re you gonna do?” he asked, rhetorically. “Did you pull in help from a neighboring area?”

“No, actually. I had help from a gentleman that I’ve been investigating to be your replacement.”

Tucker was determined to maintain his cheer, but he couldn’t help his heart falling just a little bit at that. A confirmation that his time with The Organization was done. He knew that it was likely, but still had held out a small hope that his actions wouldn’t be judged too harshly. In the end, though, he’d done what he had to do, and The Organization couldn’t employ people who ran off willy-nilly when there was work to be done.

“Well, Claus,” Tucker sighed. “I’m glad you were able to pull it through for all our families.”

“Yes. Me too.”

“If I can be bold here,” Tucker shifted. “Do you think you could convince The Organization to issue me some sort of severance package? Something to help me get my feet under me in a new business? Maybe lease a new office space or something? I’m assuming I won’t have access to The Workshop.”

“Puh-huh-huh!” Claus smiled kindly at him. “You misunderstand me, Tuck. I wasn’t investigating your replacement because you’re being fired. I was investigating your replacement because you’re being promoted.”

“Wait. What?” Tucker stared at Claus, entirely taken off guard now. He had no particularly strong feelings in that moment except for abject confusion. “Promoted? How can I be promoted? Is there another level of Santa’s helper or something? I was under the impression that we were all two-man operations.”

“You’re right. We’re all two-man operations. Santa’s helper. And Santa.”

“But you’re Santa.”

“No, Tuck. You are.” Claus held up a finger, and reached into his coat pocket, drawing out a bundle of red and white. “You forgot something at The Workshop, by the way. You’ll be needing this.”

Tucker took it from his hands. Velvet and fur. Silk lined. The Santa hat Claus had given him.

“Go on,” Claus pressed. “Put it on.”

Tucker slipped it onto his head.

“There. Doesn’t that feel better?”

It did. Tucker nodded. He stared at Claus’s old, jolly face for a moment, then tilted his head, piecing it all together. “You were never going to be the Santa for this area.”

“No, Tuck. I was here to, I suppose you can say, interview you.”

“So the last few days has been—”

“An interview, yes.” Claus grinned at him.

“I feel like I bombed the interview, Claus.”

“No. On the contrary. You did exactly what you should have done.” Claus turned and looked at the house again, this time not at the lights, Tucker perceived, but at the people within. “I asked you who needed you the most, and I think you made the right decision. Your family is always who needs you the most. How can you care for others if you haven’t cared for the ones under your very own roof? That is not how Santa operates. You made the choice that any good Santa would have made. And I’m very proud of you for it.”

Tucker laughed. He couldn’t keep it in. It burst out of him in one long gust. All the frustration, all the angst, all the worries—in the light of the present moment, it was quite hilarious. So Tucker laughed, and he thought Men plan and God laughs, and so he laughed with God.

Claus laughed with them, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be a fine Santa.”

When Tucker had regained himself and wiped the tears from his eyes, he looked back at the car, still unable to see the other occupant past the headlights. “So the other guy. My replacement?”

Claus nodded. “He’ll be your helper from now on. I’ve been watching him. After I got off the phone with you, I decided to call him directly and ask him how he felt about starting work effective immediately. He was very willing. He has a wonderful heart.” Claus turned to the sedan and waved, beckoning whoever was inside. “I believe you know him.”

The car door opened, and out bounded a stocky, blond-headed bundle of energy.

Tucker grinned when he saw him approaching, because you couldn’t not grin in the presence of John Gire.

“How the hell are ya?” John bellowed, forgoing the “ol’ vice”, and pulling Tucker straight into a backslapping hug.

“John! What the hell?” Tucker laughed.

John separated and quirked an eyebrow at him. “What the hell me? What the hell you! You keeping secrets from your best friend? It’s quite the operation you got here.”

Tucker managed to look serious for a moment. “John. How much do you know about what we do?”

“I filled him in on the broad strokes,” Claus put in. “But you’ll need to work out the finer details.”

“What about the police department?” Tucker asked.

John grimaced, but it quickly turned into a grin. “Well, about that. I kind of committed several felonies last night. So, I figured it’s as good a time as any to hang up the badge and gun.”

Tucker grabbed his friend by the shoulder and shook him with excitement. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Maybe keep the gun. The Organization frowns on wet work, but it occasionally comes in handy.”

John did not seem bothered by this, but Claus held up a stern finger between them. “Only very occasionally.”

Tucker acquiesced with a bow of the head. “Charity, mercy, and forbearance.”

Claus’s expression softened back to a smile. “Yes. Precisely.”

John snapped a finger. “By the way, I thought you’d like to know: They signed warrants on Marquis Terrance. Also, he’s a felon, and the ATF seem pretty keen to pursue federal charges for possession of firearm by felon.” John quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not entirely sure why you were so interested in him, but he’ll being going away for a long time.”

Tucker nodded. “Yeah. Well. On the one hand, I’m relieved. On the other hand…that’s not my business anymore. And pretty soon, it won’t be your business either. You’ve fought the darkness, John. Now it's time to shine a light.”

“I’ll need a month,” John said. “Put in my notice and all. But they should put me on desk duty during that time. After that?” he raised his hands as though to say, I’m all yours.

Tucker nodded. “Of course, brother. The hard part’s done for now. We’ve got the whole year to prepare for next December. Come February, we’ll get to work.”

John’s eyes glittered in the glow of thousands of Christmas lights. “I can’t wait. No better time. New Year, new beginnings. I love that sort of shit.”

Claus raised his hands and clapped both men on the back. “And with that, gentlemen, it’s my time to leave. I have my own family to attend to, and I believe you both do as well. Go home. Be with them. Give them the merriest Christmas you can.”

John gestured to the sedan, which Tucker now recognized was his. “You need a ride?”

Claus was already stepping away from them. “No, I have another ride coming. You just get home, John, straightaway.”

Tucker frowned, and then stepped out and caught Claus’s arm before he could walk any further down the dark neighborhood street. “Hey, wait.”

Claus stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“How long have you really been with The Organization, Claus?”

Claus smiled. His eyes twinkled. Somewhere in his face, Tucker saw how he must have looked when he was much younger. It was difficult to see through the laugh lines, but were those the remnants of dimples?

“A long time, Tuck,” Claus answered. Then he looked skyward at the stars. “A very long time.” Back to Tucker, he gave a nod. “Merry Christmas, Tuck. Merry Christmas, John.”

And then Claus began to walk down the quiet neighborhood street, a lone figure in the dark road, with lights on all sides.

Tucker and John looked at each other, both of their eyes wide and wondering. John shrugged. Tucker shrugged back. The silent communication of longtime friends: The hell was that about? and No clue.

When they looked back, Claus was gone.

“Whoa,” John grabbed Tucker’s shoulder. “Where the hell’d he go?”

Tucker laughed again. “I don’t know, man.”

“No shit,” John marveled. “That’s a crazy old man you found.”

“It’s magic, John,” Tucker said, not caring a bit for how childish he sounded. John did not seem inclined to view it as childish. Deep down they both believed in it. That was what gave two old beat cops the ability to have a light inside of them.

Tucker turned back to his house and chugged down the rest of his beer. He smacked his lips, burped, and smiled. “You can call it what you want. Magic or mysticism or some sort of weird cosmic energy.”

“Like quantum mechanics,” John whispered, conspiratorially.

“Right. Something like that. But once a year, when we all decide to open up, when everyone opens up at the same time, I think we must let out some sort of magic into the air.”

He gave John a mischievous sidelong glance, and found his friend smiling at the lights.

“It’s Christmas, brother,” Tucker said. “Anything can happen at Christmas.”

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

D.J. Molles is the New York Times bestselling author of The Remaining series. He is also the author of Wolves, a 2016 winner in the Horror category for the Foreword INDIES Book Awards. His other works include the Grower's War series, and the Audible original, Johnny. When he's not writing, he's taking care of his property in North Carolina, and training to be at least half as hard to kill as Lee Harden. He also enjoys playing his guitar, his violin, drawing, painting, and lots of other artsy fartsy stuff

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Facebook.com/DJMolles

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http://eepurl.com/c3kfJD

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Table of Contents

- December 20th , 12 : 45 a.m .

- December 20th , 1 : 35 a.m .

- December 20th , 2 : 55 a.m .

- December 20th , 3 : 09 a.m .

- December 20th , 8 : 55 a.m .

- December 20th , 9 : 45 a.m .

- December 20th , 10 : 30 a.m .

- December 20th , 10 : 40 a.m . to 1 : 00 p.m .

- December 20th , 1 : 01 p.m .

- December 20th , 1 : 40 p.m .

- December 20th , 1 : 50 p.m . to 11 : 30 p.m .

- December 21st , 2 : 01 a.m .

- December 21st , 4 : 00 a.m .

- December 21st , 1 : 45 p.m .

- December 21st , 3 : 00 p.m . to December 22nd

- December 23rd , 6 : 15 a.m .

- December 23rd , 8 : 00 a.m .

- Five Decembers Ago

- 28 Hours After That

- December 23rd , 9 : 35 a.m .

- December 23rd , 10 : 10 a.m .

- December 23rd , 11 : 15 a.m .

- December 23rd , 11 : 45 a.m .

- December 23rd , 12 : 15 p.m .

- December 23rd , 2 : 30 p.m .

- December 23rd , 5 : 30 p.m .

- December 23rd , 6 : 00 p.m . to 10 : 00 p.m .

- December 23rd , 11 : 45 p.m .

- December 24th