White Christmas. Shit. It’s been raining for weeks. The cabin is cold and damp. Hikers take pictures of it in the summer. They say it’s out of a fairy tale. From the Brothers Grimm.
Grim. Must be German humor.
“What’re we gonna do?” Angie coughs.
It’s only a matter of time before I catch her bug. Sammy, in his padded crib, is pink and warm. The kid grabbed whatever efficient genes Angie and I have.
The group I was hired to take hunting has cancelled. Country boys don’t mind the rain, but city dudes are less hardy. Nothing’s going on in the deck and boathouse construction business either. Everything’s stuck in the mud.
“The rain doesn’t stop the bills, Stevie.”
It sure stops the tips at the diner where she works. We’re both victims of the climate. Thinking I didn’t take over Pop’s farm because the weather was never right, always too warm or too cold … If Pop was still around he sure would say it’s too wet.
There’s only one thing I can do. The pickings will be slim, but a couple of hundred should tie us over. It can’t rain forever.
“I’ll go see what Leo’s up to.”
● ● ●
Leo isn’t up to anything, except trying to stay high. Angie and I live sparse but Leo’s got it even worse. His place is a dump. I tell him I’ll pick him up around eleven and we’ll go “tree gathering”.
We don’t care about the trees, it’s what’s stacked under them that we’re after. The gig is hairy. Snatching goodies while the home owners snooze. Gotta be quick and quiet. In and out. Leo likes packages he can trade, I like envelopes. They fit in my pockets.
We don’t trawl our blighted neighborhoods, we roam the lakefront. Bigger houses, better bounty. We strike out a couple times—no visible Christmas trees—before hitting the jackpot in a McMansion. The patio door doesn’t give me any trouble. We wear the shoe covers used by careful contractors. Not out of consideration for the carpets but to hide our visit. This hack works better if people don’t know they’ve been robbed.
The loot is respectable. A stack of gifts cards we’ll split, toys Leo can pawn, a bottle of perfume he’ll swap somewhere.
“There’s time, let’s do another one,” Leo says.
This house is smaller but the tree glimpsed through the window is bigger and the array underneath is massive.
I gather envelopes under the tree while Leo scans the packages.
The house is eerily quiet.
Then, a rustle and a high-pitched squeal. Animal?
I look up in time to see Leo stumble forward. He loses his balance and falls against the tree, toppling it. The tree and Leo crash on top of me. He scrambles to get up and squishes me.
Lights come on.
A yell. “Who’s here?”
Leo’s up now. I struggle with the tree and the tangle of ornaments.
The blast of the gun is like a wall pushed at me by a giant’s hand. Leo’s pushed too and crashes on the tree, and me, again. The gun roars a second time. My ears feel too big for my head. I could be at the bottom of the sea. I hear the roar of waves.
Leo’s not moving. Dead weight.
Through the tree, I get a glimpse of the shooter. A blue robe, the cuffs of a brown pajama that move out of my field of vision. Going to phone the cops. I have to get out of here.
It’s tough going, with the mess of the tree and the weight of Leo’s body.
I’m out. I don’t see the man with the gun. The patio door is right there. A few steps. Something weaves between my legs and I almost trip.
It’s a kitten. Gray, white paws. It mewls and I scoop it up.
● ● ●
Angie is asleep on the couch. I gather her in my arms and kiss her neck.
“Look what I got for you.” I put the kitten in her lap. “It’s a girl.”
She smiles, nuzzles the little murderous demon. “She’s so cute.”
Yes, baby, terminally.
~ fin ~
M.E. Proctor was born in Brussels and lives in Texas. She’s currently working on a contemporary PI series. Her short fiction has appeared in Vautrin, Bristol Noir, Pulp Modern, Mystery Tribune, Reckon Review, Shotgun Honey, and Thriller Magazine among others. She’s a Derringer nominee. Her short story collection Family and Other Ailments (from Wordwooze Publishing) is available in all the usual places. Website: www.shawmystery.com
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