Midnight Before Christmas

either. After punching a few of them and creating major scenes in the front yard, he knew it wouldn’t take much to get their attention. At the very least they would call the cops, and Carl couldn’t let that happen. The cops would only haul him away. They’d leave Tommy in the clutches of Frank, and maybe his mother-whoever it was that was hurting him. No, it was important that Carl be able to get in, get Tommy, and get away.

He ran up to the sliding door in the back of the house. Sure enough, it was unlocked. He pushed it open and slipped inside.

Everything was quiet. Where were the sounds of misery he had heard over the phone? Or alternatively, the sounds of Christmas Eve revelry?

He raced upstairs to check for signs of life. Tommy’s room was empty. It was a mess, books and toys scattered all over, his Star Wars pajamas lying in a heap on the floor. But no Tommy.

He checked the other rooms as well. No Frank, no Bonnie. He couldn’t understand it. What was going on here?

Had they gone somewhere for Christmas Eve? Carl knew Bonnie didn’t have any relatives in the area. Maybe Frank? Maybe out to dinner? A million possibilities ran through his head, some of them positive, and some of them …

His imagination conjured hideous dark notions. What if Bonnie decided to do what he’d planned to do? What if she’d taken Tommy away, who knows where, to start over again without her ex-husband screwing everything up for her? What if they’d hurt Tommy, maybe bad, and taken him away to hide what they’d done? Taken him away-or taken the body …

Carl’s fists balled up with rage. Tommy was his boy; he was supposed to protect him. And he’d failed. He’d failed in the most desperate, pitiful, fatal-

He started abruptly. He’d heard something-some kind of a noise. But it wasn’t coming from inside the house. It was coming from the front yard. He peeked through the bedroom window. He could see Tommy and Bonnie and … and someone else in a Santa suit!

“You miserable brat,” the other Santa shouted at the top of his lungs. “I’ll beat you till you can’t see straight!”

What was going on? Was that Frank? It sounded like him. But why was he dressed in the suit?

The same suit Carl himself was wearing.

He didn’t have time to ponder these questions. He heard the front door open, then slam shut. He ran down the stairs as quickly as possible to see who had come in.

“Tommy!” he shouted from midway down the stairs.

Tommy looked up. He was clutching his side; his face was contorted with pain. As soon as he saw the Santa suit on the stairs, he panicked.

“It’s me,” Carl said, pulling down the fake white beard so the boy could see. “It’s me!”

“Daddy!” Tommy ran toward him, meeting him at the foot of the stairs. He threw his arms around his father, hugging him like he’d never hugged him before.

“Daddy,” he said again, but more quietly this time. All at once his face was covered with tears, as if he’d been holding them back bravely as long as possible but just couldn’t manage it any more. “I knew you’d come, Daddy,” he whispered. “I knew you’d save me.”

Carl hugged his son back, squeezing with all his might. He’d dreamed of this moment. He’d been desperate for it for years. And now that it was finally here, he wouldn’t let anything interfere-

“Well, now, isn’t this a scene out of Currier and Ives?”

Carl whirled around, without releasing his son.

Frank stood in the entryway, still looking like Carl’s mirror image in red fur and fake whiskers. Bonnie was just a step behind him, closing the door.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Carl asked.

Frank was the picture of nonchalance. He sashayed past Carl, barely even glancing at him. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you hitting my boy!”

Frank flopped down onto the white plush sofa. “But that wasn’t me, Carl. That was you.”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t hit my own son,”

“Ah, but that’s not what the neighbors will say. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“What are you talking about? I was very careful-no one saw me come in.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Carl.” He flipped a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Everyone saw you come in. Everyone saw you flip out of control, like a drunken madman. Everyone saw you beating your son within an inch of his life.” He glanced pointedly at Bonnie. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the poor lad died from it.”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about, Frank.” Carl eased toward the front door, taking Tommy with him. “I’m leaving now and Tommy’s going with me. And you’re not going to stop me.”

“It’s true,” Frank said wearily. Another pointed glance at Bonnie. “I’m not going to stop you.”

Carl didn’t know what was going on, but he also knew it would be stupid to stand around trying to figure it out. The smartest thing he could do was make a run for it while he had the chance.

“C’mon, Tommy,” he said. He broke the boy’s embrace but scooped up his hand. “We’re leaving.”

Son in tow, he ran to the front door, threw it open, and ran into the front yard. “Do you feel well enough to run?” he asked Tommy.

Tommy’s head bobbed up and down, but Carl could tell his heart wasn’t in it. They would have to move slowly. Still, they should be able to get away. As long as there wasn’t any interference …

“Stop!”

Carl knew he shouldn’t stop, shouldn’t even look, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned.

Bonnie was standing on the front porch. In the few seconds he had been conversing with Frank, she had totally altered her appearance. Her clothes were torn; her dress was hanging from one shoulder strap and was ripped open in the front. Her makeup was smeared; her hair was a mess. Her face looked wet and bruised.

As if someone had just attacked her. Attacked and beat her.

There was one other alteration in her appearance, one Carl noticed almost immediately.

She was now holding a small handgun. And it was pointed toward his head.

22

“I’m not letting you take Tommy!” Bonnie shouted. Her voice was abnormally loud, and Carl realized it wasn’t for his benefit. She was playing for the larger audience.

“Bonnie,” he whispered. “Don’t do this.”

“I won’t let you hurt him!” she continued, still shouting. “I won’t let you beat him like you did me. Like you’ve beat him so many times before!”

“Bonnie, please.” He pulled Tommy close to him. “I’m begging you.”

“You’ve made us live like slaves, like prisoners. Always in fear of when you might strike again.” It was like she was shouting lines from a play, lines she had practiced and rehearsed in the mirror well ahead of time. “I know if you beat Tommy again, you’ll kill him. I’m his mother, Carl. I can’t let that happen.”

Carl couldn’t think what to do. He felt paralyzed, frozen. If he tried to run, she might shoot him. But if he stayed still, she almost certainly would.

“Don’t try to run off with Tommy,” she said. “I won’t let you take him. I won’t let you hide him away somewhere and kill him slowly.”

That was it, Carl realized. It was like a cue. She wanted him to run, so she’d have an excuse for shooting him. Well, he wouldn’t give it to her. If she was going to shoot him, it was going to have to be in cold blood. With a stationary target.

“I just hope you haven’t killed Tommy already,” she continued, still blasting out each word. “He’s hurt so bad.”

Carl squeezed Tommy closer to him. “Bonnie-no!”