Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

I met Roy back in the sitting room, at the foot of the stairs. I called out before I came down-when I saw his eyes I was glad I had. He was staring every which way and pacing. His gun shivered in his fist like a live mouse.

I said in my calmest deadpan, “Nobody home, Roy. You should make your visitors sign a guestbook. You get such a lot of them.”

He relaxed. “Yeah,” he said and coughed. “I’m beginning to think I should sublet this place.”

“I-” I stopped as Howie came out of the kitchen and lounged against the doorway.

“Nice try, Nathan,” he said, looking sideways at Amy and Paul. He was pale. “Pretty good crime, huh? Lock us in, then finish us off.” He didn’t look like he enjoyed playing anymore. “I wouldn’t even have guessed, if I hadn’t poked around the basement.”

“Jesus!” I was closest. I ran to the kitchen and fumbled frantically with the basement doorknob. Roy was right behind me before I got it open.

It was in the corner near the hot-water heater. Not too surprising, since it was right in front of Roy’s fuel-oil tank. It was small, shapeless and attached to a clock. Anybody over three who watched television could see it was a bomb.

It didn’t look powerful. It didn’t have to be, so long as it set off the fuel-oil tank. I picked up a broom and was shoving the bomb along the floor gingerly, away from the tank, as Paul and Amy slipped past Roy and danced around me, chanting, “We caught Nathan!”

Howie looked relieved. I suppose I looked pretty silly, doubled over and poking delicately from a broom’s length away at a wad of clay, a battery and an alarm clock whose hands were nearly touching.

“Go back upstairs,” I said. Softly. Roy said it louder. They giggled and shook their heads. We couldn’t drag them all out. We might not have time, and if they kicked too hard-

I tossed the broom to Roy, saying, “Shove the bomb in the corner,” in a conspiratorial tone. Then I snatched up Amy and continued, “While I kidnap the girl. Ya ha ha.”

I tucked her under my arm and dashed up the stairs, with Amy laughing and struggling and Paul and Howie in hot pursuit. As I left I called out, “And set it off with your bowling ball!” I hoped he understood.

I only glanced at the front window. I’d never get the kids out in time if the boys caught up with me and tried to “arrest” me before I could break it open. I ran upstairs, to the kids’ bedroom in back; I locked the door for a second while I threw open the window and climbed onto the roof, still carrying Amy. The boys burst in and followed, right on out the window.

We were right over the pile of snow at the end of the driveway. Far below me, through the window, I could hear the muffled grind of a bowling ball rolling slowly across the basement floor; the sound was nearly covered by the hasty slap of flat feet on the basement stairs.

I snarled, “You’ll never take us alive,” wrapped Amy in my arms and rolled off the roof to land on my back in the snow nine feet below.

The wind was knocked out of me, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my right side. Above me, the boys were hesitating at the roof’s edge.

As Amy yelled, “Jump! It’s easy,” there was a loud boom from the basement, and the chime of broken glass on the other side of the house as Roy leaped through the front window. The boys jumped and sank in the snow almost to their waists.

I rolled Amy off me as Roy came running up, still in his bathrobe, bleeding from a small cut on his right hand. He felt my side where I was clutching it, said matter-of-factly, “Yep,” and slipped his bathrobe off to put under me.

Then he stood there in his pajamas, looking foolish and cold. “I’ll get you to a doctor. Thanks, Nate.” He shuffled, and looked at the kids, dazed. Amy was still unruffled, but her eyes were shining. Howie and Paul were jumping up and down with excitement.

He looked back at me. “Do you feel all excited too, Nate?”

Talking hurt. It felt that I should slip the words out edgeways. “Gee, Uncle Roy, can we do that again?”

He chuckled, but his jaw jumped as he looked at the back door. I rolled my head cautiously and looked myself. There was a two-by-four across it. Screwed into the doorframe at either end; a U-bolt went around the door knob. If that bomb had ignited the fuel oil, we’d never have gotten out in time.

Suddenly Roy was as cool as I’ve ever seen him. I said, “Roy”-quietly-but he didn’t hear me.

He added, even more quietly, “If it turns out that guy knew the kids were here, I’ll make sure he doesn’t see the inside of a courtroom myself.”

He was shaking, and he wasn’t cold, and even in his pajamas he didn’t look silly at all.

The hospital bed had the usual sheets-snow-white, rigid with starch and smelling like the underside of a band-aid. There was a single Christmas-tree ornament hanging on the bedside lamp, and a cardboard Santa lay on the night stand looking round and two-dimensional. Cut-out letters on the mirror read, Merry Christmas.

Roy looked at his reflection, rubbing his chin-he hadn’t shaved-and said, “You’re supposed to take it easy, and this is the easiest I can get for you.”

I scratched and winced; I could feel the pain all along my side. “My timing’s rotten. Sorry, Roy. You won’t even have the bandage on long. You cracked a rib, not broke it.”

“If you’re not gonna be cheerful, I’m not gonna talk.” I leaned back and sulked while he left, whistling.

I settled back into the pillow, wishing I felt like taking it easy. There was a murderer loose who wanted to kill Cartley, one who wasn’t losing any sleep over killing a few kids in the process. I was in the hospital for twenty-four hours and restricted for much longer. And my partner and best friend was thinking seriously about murder. I tried to take it easy, feeling cold-blooded.

Painful as it was, I shifted restlessly and tried to think. The bombing had been disturbingly amateurish. The bomb itself had been inefficient and the house-barricade childish. Even the first murder smacked of cheap detective shows. Only the break-in showed any professionalism; the first break-in had all the class of Gillis’s and Petlovich’s best effort.

Irrelevantly, I wondered what Gam and Mary did with those nights out on the town. It couldn’t have been anything much; apparently Mary had enjoyed herself, or else wasn’t talking. I pictured a tired thug and a bored woman, eating something Cordon bleu and taking turns reading each other their rights.

I was dozing when the phone rang. I could have ignored it, since Marlowe wasn’t on duty, but I remembered where I was and what was going on before it stopped ringing.

“Yeah?”

“Boy!” It was Howie. “You sure took a long time to get to the phone.”

“Don’t whine. It’s a big room. I was clear across it, dusting the grand piano. What’s up, Howie?”

“Just wanted to tell you I figured out what you’re doing, and why.” He sounded half lighthearted, half scared-strained. I was reminded of Cartley’s call the other morning.

I said, “What?” then had a thought. “No, I take it back. Howie, Amy and Paul aren’t on the extension, are they?”

“No.”

“But they’re in the room behind you.”

“Yes.” On cue I heard them talking in the background, a long way from the phone.

“Howie,” I said cautiously, “you’re pretty sure that bomb this morning wasn’t anything your uncle and I did, aren’t you?”

He let out a quick sigh, then said, “Sure.”

“Do the others know?”

“No way.” He was very firm, almost military.

“Right. Well, we’re not playing, and you know it, so what did you call about?”