Heather Graham - The Last Noel

And Quintin didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him.

Craig knew they’d worked with another guy before, who hadn’t been arrested, and hadn’t been found dead. He had just disappeared. And that was how Craig had gotten in.

Well, he’d wanted in, and he’d gotten what he wanted, Craig thought, and swore silently to himself. This wasn’t the way it should have gone. And now he was going to have to do something about that.

Scooter still looked ready to shoot. The situation was rapidly turning violent.

Craig reached nonchalantly behind his back for the Glock he carried tucked into his waistband. Before he could produce it, Quintin slammed him on the shoulder. “You’ve got no bullets, buddy,” he said softly.

Craig frowned fiercely, staring at him.

Quintin stared back, dark eyes cool and assessing. “Were you planning to shoot the old man—or one of us?” he asked. “I took away your bullets, friend.”

“Why’d you do that?” Scooter demanded.

“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t trust him not to shoot one of us,” Quintin said, then turned back to Hudson. “Come on, asshole. It’s now or never.”

“You’re the asshole, Quintin,” Craig said. Damn it, he thought. What was he going to do without any bullets?

Finally the old man turned and started turning the dial on the safe. As soon as it opened, he stepped away, staring off into the distance, as if none of it meant anything to him anymore.

Craig felt a sudden deep, overwhelming surge of sadness. What the hell was this old man doing alone on Christmas Eve? Where was the son listed on the sign? Where was the rest of his family?

Was this really the sum of life? Men wanted sons. Sons wanted the keys to the car. Sure, Dad, the son said. I’ll help with the business. And then he found something else that interested him more and was gone, until one day Dad was old. And alone.

“Bag it up,” Scooter demanded, pointing to the bills and jewelry in the safe. “Bag it all up.”

“You know you’re not going anywhere, right?” the old man asked calmly.

“Wrong, pops. We’re going straight to New York City. Hiding in plain sight,” Scooter said happily.

Craig felt his stomach drop. Scooter had just told the old man their plans, not to mention that Hudson had seen their faces. Craig could practically see the death warrant in his mind.

“A nor’easter is coming in,” the old man said, sounding so casual. “Hasn’t been one this bad in years, I can tell you.”

The weather was turning; Craig could feel it. The storm that should have gone north of them had veered south instead, he thought, then went back to wondering why Hudson was at work and alone on Christmas Eve.

“Right. Like I’m afraid of a little snow.” Scooter sniffed.

Did the old man have a cell phone? Craig wondered. He had lied before. He was certain the man had hit his alarm already, but there were no sirens drawing near, no sign of help.

Now, with no indication of panic or hurry, the man started filling the bag Scooter handed him with bills and jewelry.

“We got it all. Let’s go,” Craig said.

“You go,” Quintin said. “Get in the driver’s seat and wait for us. And don’t fuck up.”

“Let’s all get the hell out of here,” Craig said. “Come on. You’ve got what you came for.”

“Wuss.” Quintin sniffed. “Or worse.”

“What do you mean, worse?” Scooter asked.

“Cop.”

“I’m no cop. I just don’t want to do life over a couple of lousy bracelets,” Craig said, but he felt a bead of sweat on his upper lip. Quintin was one scary SOB. His eyes were like glass. No emotion, empathy or remorse lay anywhere behind that stare.

“The old guy’s seen our faces, and thanks to Scooter—” he shot the man a scathing glance “—he knows where we’re going,” Quintin said.

“And he’s probably legally blind and totally deaf,” Craig argued.

“I’m not taking that chance,” Quintin said harshly.

“And I’m not going to be party to murder,” Craig said and turned to appeal to the other man. “Scooter, you’re an idiot if you listen to this thug,” he said. “We’ll all get locked away forever for murder, and I’m not as old as you guys. I don’t want to spend the next fifty years without a woman.”

Quintin started to laugh. “Don’t worry about it, kid. They lock up people like Martha Stewart. Killers, hell, they get to walk away free. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Craig…we gotta do what Quintin says,” Scooter insisted.

“Even if what he says is stupid?” Craig asked.

“Fuck you,” Quintin said, casually pulling out a gun. “Keep talking like that and you won’t have to worry about jail.”

Craig assessed his situation. No question it was dire. He was probably in the best shape of his life, and he was the youngest of the three of them. In a fair fight, he could probably take out Quintin, no matter that the man was an ape. But there were two of them. And it wasn’t going to be a fair fight. Because they had guns. With bullets.

There would never be a fair fight with Quintin.

He turned to plead with Scooter again, but he was too late. Quintin, moving faster than Craig would have thought possible for a man his size, cracked Craig on the head with the butt of his gun.

Craig literally saw stars, and then the world went black.

As he sank to the ground, he heard the deafening sound of an explosion.

The blast of a gun…

He’d screwed up.

What a great, last thought to have—and on Christmas Eve.

As he sank into unconsciousness, he was certain he could hear the familiar refrain of a Christmas carol.

Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

The stereo was on, playing songs of Christmas cheer. Skyler O’Boyle took a moment to listen to a woman with a high, clear voice who was singing, “Sleigh bells ring, are you lis’nin’…”

Then, even over the music and from her place in the kitchen, she heard the yelling.

“I said hold it. Hold the tree!”

Skyler winced.

Christmas. Home for the holidays, merry, merry, ho, ho, ho, family love, world peace.

In her family? Yeah, right.

The expected answer came, and the voice was just as loud. “I am holding it,” her eldest son insisted.

“Straight, dammit, Frazier. Hold it straight,” her husband, David, snapped irritably.

In her mind’s eye, Skyler could see them, David on the floor, trying to wedge the tree into the stand, and Frazier, standing, trying to hold the tree straight. That was what happened when you decided “home for the holidays” meant everyone gathering in the old family house out in the country. It meant throwing everything together at the last possible moment, because everyone had to juggle their school and work schedules with their holiday vacation.

“The frigging needles are poking my eyes. This is the best I can do,” Frazier complained in what sounded suspiciously like a growl.

His tone was sure to aggravate his father, she thought.

Some people got Christmas cheer; she got David and Frazier fighting over the tree.

Where the hell had the spirit of the season gone, at least in her family? Actually, if she wanted to get philosophical, where had the spirit of the season gone in a large part of the known world? There were no real Norman Rockwell paintings. People walked by the Salvation Army volunteers without a glance; it seemed as if the only reason anyone put money in the kettle was that they were burdened by so much change that it was actually too heavy for comfort. Then they beat each other up over the latest electronic toy to hit the market.

“It’s nowhere near straight,” David roared.

“Put up your own fucking tree, then,” Frazier shouted.