Title: A Knight's Carol
Author: knightshade
Rating: PG (some language)
Author's Notes: This story has been a year in the making – and fun to work on in the middle of June, btw. :-) I tried to keep as close to the original The Christmas Carol as I could, although, I did have to change quite a few things to make it work. With apologies to Dickens, there are some bits of dialog and description that are lifted wholesale from the original text. They, nor the idea, are mine. I also have no real claim on Knight Rider or its characters other than my love of them.
Huge hugs and a giant thank you to Moonbeam for the beta read. Thanks to Nutty for the brainstorming.
Thank you to Vespurrs for letting me do this, even though you talked about tackling this idea before I did.
Thank you too to Pheral and Moonbeam for your comments on Devon's character. They made it possible for me to give this story some teeth. I honestly forgot how pompous he could be at times. So thanks for the help. ;-)
A Knight's Carol
Devon Miles hurried along a busy downtown street in Los Angeles, oblivious to the fake snow in the windows and the red ribbons that wound up palm trees like stripes on candy canes. He was picking up a suit that he had had altered in one of the nicer shops, but what he expected to be a short jaunt had turned into a harrowing journey. He didn't know why he had forgone the driver this morning. He could have been chauffeured directly to the store with no hassles, but instead he had chosen to drive his BMW. He knew he had made a mistake when he tried to find a place to park. He had rounded corner after corner in the parking structure to no avail. When he had finally spotted a pair of taillights and pulled near the departing car, a Jaguar had raced in and cut him off. He had honked, but the driver was oblivious. Devon's blood was boiling even before he had taken to the sidewalks and been jostled and pushed by people with oversized packages. A dull ache in his back had flared up and he was afraid he was going to spend the afternoon in bed, twisting in agony.
Then he'd had the misfortune of dealing with a rather impertinent store clerk who had claimed that he couldn't find Devon's suit. Devon had tried to explain to the man that he had ordered the suit months ago and had been told it was ready. But the man had pleaded ignorance and tried to justify his position by saying, 'Well, sir, it's the holidays, we're very busy." As if that were a legitimate excuse for incompetence. Devon had given the clerk a stiff dressing down, which had ended in him thanking the man for wasting his time. He'd left in a huff, vowing that he would speak to a manager when he came back next week. Having bought a rather expensive suit, he expected to receive customer service commensurate with the price. Devon did have to admit that he had enjoyed the pallid look on the clerk's face when he made a show of noting his name, but since he had left empty handed, it was a hollow victory.
"Sorry, sir," a woman said as she knocked him off balance with a large, lighted reindeer decoration. She gave him a sympathetic smile which he brushed off with a sniff. Why couldn't people watch where they were going? Especially when they were carrying large, frivolous Christmas items?
Devon was not used to having to deal with restrictions in his life. He'd always been blessed with good health – until this past February. He had injured his back in a scuffle during a case, and the pain had refused to go away, despite all manner of exercises and therapy. He'd had surgery in July, but his back still wasn't healed. He was starting to think he would never again walk without a cane. Devon hated being weak. He hated being old. And there was no relief in sight.
"Merry Christmas," a man said, ringing a Salvation Army bell and gesturing toward the red kettle next to him.
"Bah," Devon said rudely as he swung his cane and hurried past, cursing the nagging twinge in his back that was sure to spark into a roaring flame by the time he got home.
He should have used the driver.
Later that afternoon Devon was sitting at his desk fuming over the pile of papers in front of him. The board had again voted down his budget proposal, there were problems with the hall he had rented for the winter fundraiser, and one of the criminals they had put away three years ago had just been granted parole. He was ready to declare defeat and take his afternoon tea when Michael bounded into the office.
"Yo, Devon, what's up?" he said with his usual unbridled enthusiasm.
Devon could barely contain his irritation. Michael's optimism, his cavalier use of the English language, and his strapping good health all set Devon on edge. "A case," he replied curtly, tossing the file Michael's direction.
"Devon, this is in Bakersfield."
"Yes, that's correct."
"Christmas is Friday," Michael said, looking at him oddly.
"Also correct. My, you're on a roll today," Devon said sarcastically, not in the mood to dicker over dates.
"Devon, you never send us out of town this close to Christmas. In fact, you usually host the party."
"Yes, well, not this year," Devon said matter-of-factly. "This is a personal request from one of the members of the board, Michael. And last I checked, you were not officially guaranteed Christmas off."
"Yeah, but Devon . . ." Michael started.
"You have a job to do. I suggest you do it." Devon was not in the mood to argue the point.
Michael started to leave the room, but then he turned back, much to Devon's frustration. "Are you feeling okay? Ever since your surgery, you've been. . . Well, you've been rude."
"I am perfectly fine. And if you have nothing better to do save grousing about my demeanor, I'm sure I could find something else to keep you busy," Devon snapped.
Shaking his head, Michael opened the door to leave. "If I'm not back by Friday, Merry Christmas," he said softly.
Devon ignored him, feigning distraction until he finally left.
"Humbug," Devon muttered under his breath.
"Hey buddy," Michael said, pulling open Kitt's door and climbing inside. After talking with Devon he had taken a short walk to try to clear his head, but he was unable to shake his misgivings.
"So where to?" Kitt asked. "I still need to find a gift for Bonnie. I'd like to get her something nice, but she hasn't said anything about what she'd like this year."
Michael leaned back and stared up through the T-tops. "I'm afraid the shopping's going to have to wait. Devon's given us a new case."
"A case? But Friday is Christmas."
"I tried that argument and didn't get very far."
"That seems rather unlike him. He has had a difficult year. Perhaps he needs some cheering up," Kitt offered.
He certainly did seem to need something, but Michael wasn't sure what it was, and he'd struck out with everything he had tried. "Be my guest, buddy. Anything you could do to help would be greatly appreciated."
"I know he hasn't been very easy to deal with, but he is still family, Michael."
"Very true. And you don't get to pick your family." Michael put the car in gear. "Let's see if we can wrap up this case in time to get home for Christmas."
By the time he decided to call it a day, Devon felt like someone had spent the afternoon swinging a croquet mallet into his kidneys. He could barely climb the stairs, and the hallway to his quarters had never seemed so long. He paused outside his suite, wincing against the pain, and had to look twice at the small knocker that hung in the middle of the door. Somehow the nondescript ornament suddenly resembled a face. The shock of it caused Devon to take a hobbling step backward. And it was not just any face, but that of his old friend and mentor, Wilton Knight. Devon pinched the bridge of his nose and was relieved that when he looked again, the image had cleared. It was just a knocker.
He must be over-tired.
The dark furniture and wood-paneled walls inside Devon's suite enveloped him, giving him at least a small measure of comfort. Here he didn't have to hide his pain, or pretend to anyone that he was fine. He could take his painkillers and be who he was – a pitiful old man, with nothing but the aches in his back to keep him company.
It was all well and good for Michael to complain that he was being rude. Let Michael deal with growing older and putting up with the constant indignities and humiliations of age. He didn't think Michael would fair any better than he had.
Devon loosened his tie and slipped off his shoes. Having eaten dinner alone in his office earlier, he wandered into the small kitchen to prepare himself some tea. As the pot was warming, he filled a glass of water at the sink and swallowed his pills. Then he set about undressing and finding his heating pad. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until the heat and more importantly, the painkillers, kicked in.
Devon padded into the bathroom and paused at the drawn, haggard face in the mirror. His mind was still on the fleeting image of Wilton he had seen on the knocker. Wilton had known pain and suffering in the end too. He had also become surly and difficult under his burdens. It was just the way life worked. Devon opened the medicine cabinet and began counting out the remainder of his various medications.
The whistle from the tea kettle cut an unnerving path through Devon's quarters, lilting like a lonely wail. He quickly pulled it off the stove, unsettled for no discernable reason. He poured himself a cup of tea and hoped it would quiet his nerves.
He hobbled back into the living room and arranged the pillows on the couch the way he liked them. He set his tea on the end table within easy reach and settled back against the heating pad, waiting for the storm in his back to let up.
A soft whistling began from the kitchen and Devon cursed himself for forgetting to turn off the burner under the tea kettle. That was just what he needed, a little dementia to go with the rest of his ill health. That would make his descent into old age and infirmity complete. But as he contemplated getting up from his semi-workable position on the couch, the whistling began to grow from a normal volume to a shrieking wail. It was almost human in timbre. It grew louder and louder until it almost seemed to rattle the whole building with its vibrato.
Then as quickly as it began, it stopped. As Devon started to relax back against the couch, a slow clanking took the whistle's place. It was as though Bonnie or one of the other technicians were hammering on sheet metal. But Bonnie was in Bakersfield with the semi attending to Michael and Kitt. The sound began to move, as though it were climbing the stairs outside his quarters. It sent chills crawling down Devon's spine.
As it drew nearer, the clanking was joined by a heavy, reverberant thudding that sounded like footsteps. Then to Devon's complete shock, a translucent specter emerged through his closed door. Devon's eyes went wide with disbelief as he stared at the apparition. It appeared to be the precise imagine of Wilton Knight, down to a pair of cufflinks that he typically wore.
The specter carried with it a chain that curled around its bluish body and draped to the floor. Its eyes were as cold as death, and Devon couldn't help the growing fear that coursed through him. The face was Wilton's, but it was angry and menacing.
"Who are you?" Devon asked, hearing the tremble in his own voice.
"Ask me who I was." The words were drawn out and solemn, the specter's voice low and booming. It sounded like Wilton's voice, only more thunderous, like it was echoing through a giant cavern.
"Who were you then?" Devon's fear was replaced by exasperation as he realized that he was quibbling over verb tense with what had to be an artifact of his drug-addled brain.
"In life I was your partner, Wilton Knight."
Devon raised an eyebrow.
"You don't believe in me," observed the ghost.
"I don't," Devon said honestly.
"What evidence do you have of my reality or lack thereof, beyond your senses?"
"I don't know."
"Then why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because it takes so little to deceive them. You are probably a hallucination brought on by my painkillers. You're nothing but an attempt by my neurons to make sense of the chemicals coursing through them. And I will therefore not believe this infernal rubbish."
At this the phantom let out a wail that outdid Devon's tea kettle, and began rattling and shaking its chains. Bits of the apparition's flesh moved on its body like tattered bits of cloth. Devon drew back in horror.
"Man of worldly mind," cried the ghost, "do you believe in me or not?"
Devon knew he was hallucinating, but he didn't want to endure another outburst. "I must. But why do you walk the earth, and what do you want with me?"
"It is required of every man," the ghost of Wilton said, "that his spirit walk the earth after his death, to see and understand his own failings. If he has not traveled as far and as wide in life as he could have, he must do it after death."
"But Wilton, you were a good man in life," Devon interjected. Wilton had started the Foundation -- he had helped others.
"Yes, I did good works, but my motives were not always pure. Even if they were, good men have failings." He rattled the chains that were wrapped around him. "These shackles were forged throughout my life, but most of them were added in the last few years, link after link in such a short time. It was my callousness towards my fellow man that fashioned them. You remember. I became bitter and caustic. I tried the patience of even those who cared about me -- pushed them away."
"That's understandable. You were sick, in pain, suffering."
"Nooooo," the spirit wailed, shaking its chain. "Excuses! You only excuse me because you've been building your own chain of late."
Devon couldn't help glancing at the floor around him, half expecting to find giant iron links circling his feet. But of course he saw nothing and this whole hallucination had become tiresome. "I have earned the right to grouse in my infirmity. If that in itself were cause for such horrible punishment, most of the world would be walking as aimless specters."
"It's not my place to explain. That will come from other quarters. Nor can I tell you all that I'd like to. You were a good friend in life, Devon, and I'd love to stay, but alas, I cannot rest. I cannot linger anywhere. I must be on my way shortly."
Devon wanted to tell the ghost to be on its way then, but he was stopped by the fact that it looked like Wilton. Against his better judgment, he did want to continue to talk with this ghost. He still grieved for his old friend and it was comforting to think that Wilton might still think of him, wherever he was.
"I am here tonight to advise you that you have a chance to avoid my fate. You can stop adding to your chain, shorten its length," Wilton continued.
"And how would I do that?"
"You must not slide back into being that pompous, superior man you used to be. You must respect others in all stations of life. You must stop taking out your pain on those around you."
Devon pursed his lips. "Oh really?"
"You were always a self-important fool, dear friend. Michael Knight has been good for you. He's loosened you up, taught you the value of humility. I believe I chose well in him – for many reasons." The apparition appeared to gaze off, as if hearing a call from elsewhere. Then it snapped its attention back to Devon. "Don't abandon the gains of the last five years."
Devon couldn't help rolling his eyes. "And how pray tell would I stop from doing that?"
"It is not my place to say. You will be visited by three spirits who will show you."
Devon would just as soon not, if it were up him. He was already going to have to change his medication, he wasn't about to add a trip to a psychiatrist to his agenda.
"Expect the first tomorrow, when the clock strikes one."
"Couldn't I have them visit all at once? Get this over with?"
The ghost of Wilton gave him an exasperated glare and continued on, undaunted. "The second will appear on the next night at the same hour. The third will follow the night after that when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Do not make light of these visitations. They may not be pleasant, but they will teach you much -- if you let them."
At least he had creative delusions, Devon thought. That had to be worth something.
He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor standing with its chain wound over its arm. The apparition walked backward away from him and toward the window. It raised its free hand, and with it, the window opened. Then the ghost beckoned Devon to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Wilton's ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no closer. Out the open window Devon could hear incoherent sounds of regret -- wailing and mournful cries. He glanced out the window, over the ghost's shoulder and saw hundreds of similar apparitions swooping through the darkness. The specter, after listening for a moment, joined in the monstrous symphony and floated out into the bleak night.
Devon stared at the open window, frozen in place until the mournful sounds finally faded away.
Unable to shake his unease, Devon went to the door that the ghost had materialized through. It was bolted securely. He thought about trying to still his shaking hands with a glass of scotch, but knew that if he was already hallucinating, mixing alcohol with his medication was not going to make things any better. Instead, he quickly changed into his nightclothes and carefully pulled his aching body into bed.
When Devon awoke, he was surprised to find the room dark. Perhaps it was before dawn? But he had gone to bed late and he felt well rested. His back was no longer actively throbbing, having subsided to a vague stiffness. Devon carefully rolled over to glimpse the alarm clock and almost fell out of bed. It was almost one in the morning! But he had gone to bed after midnight and there was no way he would be this awake if he had only slept for half an hour. Could he have slept all day? It didn't seem possible. He had had meetings and a report due. How could he have missed an entire day?
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck one and Devon tried to laugh at the unease that was uncurling in the pit of his stomach. The painkillers had clearly done a number on his head.
But something wasn't right. He glanced around the small area walled off by the curtains surrounding his bed. As he watched, a pale blue glow began to spill over the metal dowels running along the top of the bed. He peered over the edge of the mattress at the floor and realized it was coming in under the curtains as well. Devon felt a cold fear griping his chest. He knew he hadn't left any of the lights on. He reached out with a shaky hand and pulled open the curtains.
Devon was startled to see someone familiar standing in front of the bed. "Bonnie?" he asked, completely confused. What was she doing here? It took him a moment to realize that she was shimmering. As he watched, her form seemed to alternate between being solid and vaporous.
"Not exactly," the specter said gently.
"But you look just like her."
The figure in front of him smiled, not unlike Bonnie would. "You see what you want to see. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, but you perceive me in a way that will help you make sense of what I have to show you."
Devon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Either someone had slipped something rather powerful into his painkillers or he was losing his mind all together.
"So you are the spirit that Wilton told me to expect?" he asked, figuring he might as well humor his hallucinations.
"Yes." The ghost's voice was softer than Bonnie's, more ethereal. Its body and clothing were translucent and radiating a rather beautiful pale blue light. If this was the sort of spirit he could expect, and not the chain wielding Wilton Knight sort, then perhaps these visits wouldn't be as bad as Wilton had intimated.
"What should I call you?" he asked, wondering why he was so quick to accept this apparition. He should be blaming Michael for some infernal practical joke. But he had sent Michael to Bakersfield.
"You can call me what you will. I answer to many names."
Devon nodded dumbly.
"I have things to show you. Come, we have places to go."
Devon quickly glanced around for something appropriate to wear -- he was still in his nightclothes.
"You don't need to worry about that," the ghost said. It held out its hand and Devon hesitated before taking hold of it, not sure what to expect. But it felt solid enough, warm and human. The ghost smiled gently and slid its hand along his arm until it was resting at his elbow, as though he were escorting it.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Shhh," the ghost said softly, leading him to the window.
Before Devon could protest, he and the ghost passed through the window of his second story suite and emerged on the other side . . . in the middle of a winding road nestled in between rolling pastures. This had to be a dream. The sun was now high in the sky and Devon felt a rushing in his head, a queasy disorientation.
"Where are we?" he asked, as the ghost led him down the quaint country road. But before it could answer, the road began to look familiar. "Wait. It can't be." Devon turned to look at the ghost. Its luminous imitation of Bonnie's hair was flowing in the breeze and its unearthliness suddenly made Devon think that maybe anything was possible. "This is where I grew up."
The ghost nodded and Devon gazed down the road to see the cozy home of his youth. "But how can this be?"
The spirit smiled gently in response.
They approached the house and the ghost led them through the door. Devon gasped as he spied a figure sitting in front of a welcoming fire, her blonde hair graying, her bright eyes gazing down at a letter in her hand.
Devon rushed to the woman's side. "Mum?"
"These are but shadows of the things that have been," the ghost said. "She can't see you."
Devon looked closer and realized that his mother was crying. He knelt at her side and wished he could take her hand to comfort her. The power of his grief and longing surprised him -- she had died so many years ago. He peered at her tear-streaked face and wondered at the piece of thick paper she was creasing in her hands. Then it dawned on Devon that he was the cause of her tears. She was reading the letter he had sent her when he was young and full of his own purpose.
He turned to the ghost, needing to explain away his shame. "She didn't want me to join the OSS. She did everything in her power to dissuade me."
"So you left."
"Yes, I left early. My tour of duty didn't officially start until January, but . . ."
"But you left on Christmas Eve." The ghost's voice was not kind.
"Not my finest hour," Devon admitted. Things had gotten so strained over his decision that he had tired of trying to explain and had simply left. He had never regretted his decision to become a soldier, but he did regret the pain he had caused his family. Being the oldest child, and the first out of the house, he knew that it had hit his mother particularly hard.
"She died a few years later, didn't she?"
"Yes. Cancer." Devon had not made it home before she died. Grief ripped through him and his cheeks warmed in embarrassment. But it had been so long ago.
"People suffer in all kinds of ways," the ghost said sadly. "We have other places to visit."
The specter began to leave, but Devon was having a hard time tearing himself away. He had always known that he had hurt his mother, but to actually see her tears seared him. There were so many emotions swirling through his head that he couldn't make sense of them all.
The ghost beckoned him, and Devon did again what he had done so long ago. He turned his back and left his mother alone and weeping.
They passed through the door of the little house but instead of the quiet English countryside, Devon was shocked to find himself in the middle of Paris. The questions of how and why died on his lips as the ghost led him toward a cafe. It was hidden along one of the quieter side streets, off the beaten path, and perfectly Parisian.
"Do you know this place?" the ghost asked.
"I do, but . . ." Devon's voice trailed off. "Yes, yes. I remember. Lt. Fezziwig's party. France, 1944. Paris had been liberated a few months earlier, and Fezziwig rented out this very cafe. We had a party. But . . ."
Devon stared, in awe, as the man himself appeared before the window. "That's him. That's Lt. Fezziwig! And there's Benson and Kurtland, and . . ."
Devon stopped. He spotted Stewart, a friend of his who had died shortly after Christmas that year. He was dancing and reveling with the others, unaware that he had so very little time left. Devon gazed through the windows, mesmerized at the young version of himself, fit and vibrant in his dress uniform. It seemed forever ago.
"You were having a Christmas party?" the ghost asked.
"Yes. Almost a month too early, but we were back in Paris and knew we were going to be shipped out again. Fezziwig wanted to celebrate while we had the opportunity. He managed to get us a real goose and we rented out this cafe." Devon was about to say something to the effect that it had been a wonderful evening, but stopped when he remembered the rest of the night -- the tearful goodbye. He glanced around the small room, scanning the faces of all the revelers.
In a moment he saw her, young and light on her feet, her golden-trimmed dress shining in the light of the candles that decorated the tables. As Devon watched, she spotted the younger version of him in the crowd and rushed to his side, beaming with that angelic smile of hers. Marie . . .
"Pretty girl," the ghost said wistfully. It was a mournful sound that made Devon turn to look at the apparition.
"Yes," Devon said. And tonight was the night that he had broken her heart. He remembered the bitter irony of the party -- on one hand a jubilant last hurrah, and on the other, a bittersweet goodbye.
"You left her behind too," the ghost said.
"I had no other choice. I was in a dangerous line of work. She was young and full of life. I couldn't imagine making her a widow."
"But you didn't die," the spirit said, pointedly.
"I didn't want her to wait for me. I loved her too much for that."
The ghost looked at him out of the corner of its eye, looking exactly like Bonnie. "You turn away from those who love you in difficult times. Don't you trust them?"
Devon scoffed. "It was necessary. And the right thing to do."
Inside the cafe Stewart separated himself from the crowd and approached the young Devon, holding mugs of beer in each hand. Devon watched with a smile as Stewart spilled on him, just as he remembered.
The ghost gazed pointedly at Devon again. "What about him? Do you think he would take your back pain and suffer it gladly in place of his own fate?"
Devon felt more shame. Stewart had died so young -- of course he would have given anything for the opportunity to grow old.
"Enough of this," Devon said, surprised at how many little tragedies in his life had happened around Christmas time. "Take me home."
"There's one more thing to see," the ghost said, as the scenery around them dissolved and Devon found himself in a different cafe. A slightly older and definitely more battle-weary version of himself was sitting alone at one of the tables, looking anxious and hopeful at the same time. Oh no, Devon thought. Not this. He didn't want to see this. "Please take me home, ghost." he pleaded.
The crowds seemed to part and Marie moved through them fluidly. Devon immediately recognized the strained, solemn look in her eyes. He was immediately drawn to the sparkle on her finger, the one that his younger self had missed until after he had made a fool of himself.
"Please take me home," Devon said, starting to remember the pain in his back, eager to have this night over with.
"Why do you wish to go? She only did what you asked."
"Take me home now," Devon demanded, desperate to avoid the scene that was about take place in front of him.
"You can't push people away and expect them to come back when you need them."
"I don't," he said sharply. "Now take me home."
The ghost smiled sadly and the scene around them faded into darkness.
Thankfully, Devon found himself back in bed. He checked the little clock on the nightstand and was relieved when the movement didn't touch off any spasms of pain. This time he wasn't surprised to see that it was almost one o'clock again. He had decided to stop questioning these little hallucinations, and was beyond worrying about their source. Instead he prepared himself for the next astonishing arrival. At this point, nothing from a dancing baby to a rhinoceros would shock him.
The grandfather clock sang out its lonesome chime. Devon waited as the sound slipped away. Nothing. Being prepared for some sort of arrival had set him on edge. He struggled to pull his weary frame upright and sat along the side of the bed. Then he heard a distant beating, a thumping of the air. He waited as the sound grew. It was annoyingly familiar, and yet sounded ephemeral and distant. It continued to get louder and louder until it almost sounded like it was coming from his own living room. Finally he pushed back the curtains and fumbled for his cane, determined to investigate.
Peering around the corner of the door he had carefully opened, Devon was met by the strangest of sights. Reginald was sitting at his dining room table surrounded by a veritable feast. There was a golden brown roast duck, fluffy potatoes with gravy, a bowl heaped with steaming stuffing, luscious cranberry sauce, and at least four different pies swimming in whipped cream. The buffet was large enough to feed the guests of a small Foundation fundraiser. Devon's stomach growled as he breathed in deeply the delicious aroma. When had he last eaten?
The ghost that resembled Reginald was no less amazing. He was dressed in RC's Street Avenger duster, sunglasses, and hat, but where the ghost resembling Bonnie had been surrounded in a cool, blue glow, this ghost was bathed in a warm, golden yellow. It looked to Devon like the flickering of a welcoming fire in a hearth. But the strangest detail of the incredible feast in front of him was the ghost's perch. He was not sitting at a chair as a normal reveler would, but instead was resting on the source of the thumping. Trembling and growling from its spot behind the table, RC's motorcycle was a living inhabitant in the ghost's party.
"Hey, boss!" the spirit exclaimed, clearly enjoying its role as RC. "Come on in. Join the party."
Trust a ghost looking like Reginald to be a slightly tardy, Devon though. He tentatively stepped closer to the grinning spirit, still trying to take in the scene around him. "And you are?"
"Where have you been, man? I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present."
"I see," Devon said. The spirit's cavalier nature made him feel at ease in its presence. "I have learned, and will remember my travels from last night. Take me where you will."
"You got it, boss. Just touch my leather coat and we'll be going."
The ghost held out its sleeve, which seemed to have captured pure sunlight in the grain of the leather. Devon touched the smooth fabric and the suite disappeared.
Devon found himself standing with the ghost in a suburban section of some desert city -- the houses, small but neat ranches, clung to the curves of the scraggy hills. Boys on bicycles raced down the street, as the rest of their families strolled the sidewalks. The adults laughed at the children's antics and pointed at the lights on houses that were just stating to wink on in the quickly approaching dusk. Devon smiled, amazed as families walked together, in many cases three generations, talking and laughing brightly.
They passed by a grocery store where people hurried out with bags of last minute Christmas necessities, the anticipation of the coming feasts lighting their faces in smiles. As Devon watched, the ghost approached an arguing mother and boy. Devon was alarmed when the ghost produced something that looked like an M-16 from under its trench coat, until he remembered the rubber replica that RC had carried as the Street Avenger. The ghost lightly touched the gun's barrel to the mother's bag and something that shared the ghost's radiance sprinkled from the end. The mother smiled and rumpled her son's hair, their bickering apparently forgotten.
As the ghost led him down the street, the lights became scarce, and the families disappeared. There were only a few half-hearted decorations in front of large, featureless buildings. Devon realized they must be in an industrial park. He was trying to figure out where they were going when he spotted a bulky shape along the exit ramp of the highway. In the next instant, they were inside, and Devon blinked against the bright florescent lighting. He felt a moment's disorientation as he saw RC, the real RC, on a step ladder hanging multicolored Christmas lights in the service bay. Devon glanced around him, amazed at the decorating they had already done. There was an artificial tree in the office area covered with sparkling ornaments and draped in white garland and lights. Scattered around it lay beautifully wrapped presents. There were candles flickering from the tool benches and the lights in the service bay reflected off the semi's aluminum skin, giving the whole scene a festive glow.
"RC, did you find that green canvas tarp?" Bonnie called from the kitchen area.
"It's already on the table," he answered, finishing with the lights and stepping back to admire his work. Bonnie appeared, looking harried. She was carrying twin candlesticks which she quickly arranged on the tarp-covered office table. They both turned at the sound of the back ramp being lowered.
"They're here," RC said as Kitt's prow rolled into the bay and came to a smooth stop.
"How'd it go?" Bonnie asked anxiously as she approached them, clearly ready to attend to Kitt if necessary.
"We turned Vinci over to the cops an hour ago," Michael said halfheartedly as he wearily climbed out of the car.
"So we could head back?"
"Yeah, we could," Michael said, obviously not very excited by the idea. "But you guys have everything set up and it's a long drive. Besides, there isn't even a party to get back for this year."
"True," Bonnie said glumly. Then she smiled as though determined to have a good time in spite of everything, and handed Michael a silver ornament. "Is he going to behave?"
"I always behave," Kitt said indignantly. "And I will even consent to a little Christmas cheer."
Michael slid back into the driver's seat and hooked the ornament over Kitt's rearview mirror. His weariness seemed to ease as he withdrew from the car again and eyed the tree mischievously. "You'd look great in colored lights, buddy."
"We are not going to relive the Turboman days," Kitt said in a warning tone.
"What's a Turboman?" RC looked back and forth between Michael and Bonnie.
"You don't want to know," Bonnie answered, laughing as she disappeared back into the kitchen and started bringing out plastic utensils and dishes.
"Allow me, Madame," Michael said extravagantly, taking the plates from her and setting them on the table with a flourish.
"Sorry, but this was the best I could do with the semi's microwave," she apologized as she began to bring out the food.
"It looks delicious to me," Michael said graciously. After making himself a plate of ham, potatoes, and cranberry sauce, he took a seat on Kitt's hood, leaning against the windshield.
RC produced a bottle of champaign and popped the cork. It went flying and ricocheted off Kitt's roof, nearly causing Michael to spill his plate. "Watch it with that," he said good-naturedly.
"Maybe you should have a proper seat at the table," Kitt groused.
"And here I just wanted to be near my partner and he doesn't even appreciate it," Michael shot back as RC poured him a glass.
"The abuse I put up with in the name of friendship," Kitt scoffed before relenting. "But in all seriousness, Merry Christmas, Michael. It's wonderful to have you as a partner."
"Thanks. You too, buddy. And on that note, I think it's time for a toast. Here's to a Merry Christmas, good friends, and good health," Michael said with his glass raised. "And here's to those who can't be here."
"Hmph," Bonnie muttered. "If you mean Devon . . . "
"Oh come on, its Christmas and he's had a bad year."
"And taken it out on us," Bonnie retorted. "Don't forget, he's the reason we're here instead of enjoying a nice meal at home."
Devon was surprised that Kitt was the one who came to his defense. "Bonnie, I know that he's been difficult lately, but he has been in a lot of pain. I can only imagine, but I would think that could make anyone a little cranky."
Devon turned to the ghost with an air of smugness. "Kitt can't even feel pain and he understands. He doesn't even have to worry about his mortality -- he could live forever with no aches or pains."
The ghost arched its eyebrow. "You think he's going to live forever? If these shadows aren't changed, I see boxes of parts in an empty warehouse, lonely and forgotten. Apparently, too many people looked at his indestructible shell and didn't know he needed protecting. Maybe they all thought like you, boss." The ghost emphasized the last word, in an utterance sounding completely like RC, and making Devon squirm. The ghost couldn't be right about that, could he?
"Well, I'll drink to his health, if that will bring back his formerly genial nature," Bonnie said, lifting her glass. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," they all toasted.
As Devon and the ghost looked on, the group ate happily despite the meager meal.
After dinner, Michael broke out a pitcher of eggnog and Bonnie produced a plate of cookies decorated with green and red icing.
"Sorry, this is the only part of the meal made from scratch."
"Hey, no need to apologize," RC said. "Christmas is about friends and family. I can't tell you how many times we didn't have anything but each other when I was growing up. Thanks for making us dinner, Bonnie." He lifted his glass in another toast.
"Here, here," Michael joined in.
"Thank you for the wonderful company, even though I couldn't partake of the meal," Kitt said amiably.
Devon wished he could step out of the twilight space that he and the spirit inhabited and join his friends. Why had he sent them to Bakersfield?
"All right, so who's up for presents?" Michael asked, glancing at the brightly wrapped packages under the tree.
Bonnie made a show of checking her watch. "You're worse than a child."
"I know. But I want my presents."
"Who says you have any?" Bonnie asked, grinning.
"I already peaked. I would know what they are, but my esteemed partner here won't scan them for me."
"I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise," Kitt said, a bit too innocently.
"Well, I guess I'll have to do the honor of passing out the gifts, since no one else has my sense of curiosity."
"Oh, is that what you call it?" Bonnie asked smugly.
Michael picked up the nearest gift with her name on it and tossed it at her.
"Hey, that's fragile," Kitt complained.
"I wouldn't know. You wanted me to be surprised, remember?"
Bonnie rolled her eyes and then opened her present. It was a group picture of all of them in a delicate gold frame. "Thank you, Kitt. It's beautiful."
"You're welcome, Bonnie."
Michael picked out the next gift and handed it to RC. As he pulled the gift from its wrapping, he shook his head and laughed. "All right, who's responsible for this?" Devon peered over RC's shoulder and couldn't help smirking himself. It was a motorcycle repair manual and the gift hadn't come with a tag.
Bonnie slyly shifted her gaze toward Michael. "It was you, wasn't it?"
He tried to keep his grin under wraps, but it proved to be an impossible task.
"I'm going to run rings around you and Kitt when I get my bike back in shape," RC threatened, grinning.
"Please leave me out of it, RC. I had nothing to do with Michael's 'gift'."
"Some day, when you least expect it. . ." RC warned.
"Yeah, yeah. Promises, promises." Michael picked up another gift. "I'll open this one for you, buddy."
Obviously using his scanners, Kitt said, "RC, thank you for the customized pedals."
Michael looked at him strangely but finished opening the gift. Inside were brake and accelerator pedals, but they were all-metal, not the usual rubber-covered variety. There was a non-slip, diamond pattern covering their upper surfaces. "Oh, very fashionable, buddy," Michael observed.
"Yes, I have to say they do look rather unique. I love them, RC. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Kitt. I gotta keep you looking fly, you know?"
"Not exactly, but I'll take your word for it."
Michael picked out a gift for himself next and ripped through the silver wrapping paper to find a soft leather travel bag.
"The canvas duffle bag you keep in Kitt's trunk has seen better days, so I thought you could use something a bit nicer," Bonnie said as Michael held up his gift.
"Thank you, Bonnie. Now Kitt won't be embarrassed to be seen with me."
"I wouldn't go that far," Kitt sniped.
After the piles of discarded paper and ribbons grew, and the stack of unopened gifts under the tree dwindled to nothing, Bonnie poured another round of eggnog. Each casually sipping from their mugs, they settled back in amiable conversation. RC told them tall tales about how cold it got on the South Side of Chicago and they each took turns relaying stories of their favorite childhood Christmases.
"You know, this just doesn't seem right without Devon here," Michael said during a quiet moment.
"Yeah, that would be great. He could order us around like servants and spend the whole time complaining," Bonnie said, her face flush. Devon didn't know if it was anger or the alcohol.
"The only person he's hurting by acting like that is himself," Michael said.
"I beg to differ on that point," Bonnie said crossly.
"I'm serious. He's probably sitting in his quarters alone right now. Alone on Christmas."
"And we're in Bakersfield," RC pointed out. "I get what you're sayin', Michael, but it's easier for you. We have to put up with Mr. Doom and Gloom a lot more than you do."
"He's right, Michael. You come home between assignments or when you need something for Kitt. We have to spend at lot more of our time with him," Bonnie added.
"I know. It's just that things haven't been easy for him. I think we should cut him as much slack as we can."
"It is Christmas. We should at least try to be charitable." Kitt's voice was quiet and Devon felt a little ill. He hadn't realized just how upset they were with him, and he felt ashamed that Kitt had to defend his behavior. Had he really been that churlish? Had he really complained that much?
The spirit motioned to him that it was time to go. Devon followed, reluctant to leave the warm coziness of the semi. As they stepped outside, the scenery shifted again. Devon was surprised to find himself in a brightly decorated, although strangely sterile, hallway. The lights were off, but the childishly-bright cartoon characters that festooned the walls were visible even in the darkness. At the end of the hallway, Devon could hear children's voices.
"Do you recognize this place?" asked the ghost.
"No. Should I?"
The ghost raised its iridescent black eyebrow. "Your Foundation supports it."
"The Foundation supports a lot of causes. I can't be expected to remember them all."
They continued down the hall which opened into a large common area filled with chairs and an overstuffed couch. A group of children was sitting under a beautifully decorated tree, whispering too loudly and giggling. Their smiles were mischievous, but Devon's heart sank. The children were wrapped in colorful robes but several were bald, and one had dragged an IV stand behind her. Most of them had deep-set, haunted eyes.
The Santa Clara Children's Hospice.
"So you think you've earned the right to complain about your lot in life?"
Devon looked at the spirit, ashamed. He didn't have the right, how could he when so many others suffered more than he had?
As he watched, one of the children pulled a handful of cookies out of his pocket and set them on the table. A little girl produced an individual carton of milk and set it lovingly next to the cookies.
"Now we have to pretend to be sleeping or he won't come," the little bringer of cookies said. There was a scramble as they all picked spots around the tree and curled up to feign sleep. But within minutes the silence was broken by the uncontainable giggles of children up past their bedtime.
Devon turned back to the ghost, surprised by the depth of feeling in its face. Over the course of their journey it had grown older -- lines creased its face and gray touched its temples. Devon's attention was drawn to a strange rippling in its duster. "Ghost, what is that you have under your coat?"
The ghost drew back the edges and Devon was surprised to see two small children huddled against the ghost's pant leg. They were barely clothed and very dirty. They had the most sickly, pale-gray coloring. Devon could see in their faces that they might have been beautiful children, but there was a wolfishness to them, a sort of desperation that was etched into their scrawny features.
"Are they yours?" Devon asked, shocked.
"They belong to mankind. Bitterness and Pride," he said, pointing to the girl first and then the boy. "Beware the boy especially. He enters in disguise and can do damage well beyond his fragile appearance."
As the ghost let his coat fall back, covering the children, Devon heard a clock beginning to toll midnight. He looked to find the source of the sound, but saw nothing. When he turned back, the ghost was in the final stages of fading away, going out like the last embers of a fire.
Devon found himself outside, although he could still hear the chiming clock bell. It finally struck twelve and he lifted his eyes to see a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, moving towards him like mist along the ground. This ghost didn't look like anyone he knew, at least as far as he could tell -- its face was completely shrouded.
The spirit floated toward him, its long cloak flowing around its tall form. Nothing of the spirit was visible except for its robes and an almost skeletal hand that emerged from under the shrouds. Devon was filled with dread as the figure silently towered over him. He bent down on one knee, despite his fears that he might not be able to get up again. Something in this mysterious specter's manner seemed to demand it.
"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" Devon asked.
The spirit did not answer, but pointed downward with its hand.
"And you are here to show me the shadows of things that will be?"
The specter nodded its head almost imperceptibly.
Devon had gotten used to the other ghosts and had been comforted by their appearances, but this specter actually frightened him.
"Ghost," he said, "you are by far the most intimidating of all the spirits, but since I know your purpose is to help me, I will go with you. But won't you at least speak to me?"
It didn't answer him, but simply pointed straight ahead.
The phantom moved away as it had come, leaving Devon to follow in its wake, as though drawn by an invisible thread. They moved into the city, or maybe the city appeared around them, Devon wasn't sure. Then suddenly he found himself on a well-manicured lawn decorated with plastic snowmen and colorful Christmas adornments that seemed out of place in the warm climate. There was a knot of men on the lawn, drinking beer and apparently enjoying the day. The spirit led him in their direction.
"I don't know the details, just that he's dead."
"When?" asked another.
"Last night, I guess."
"What did he die of? Was he sick?"
"I have no idea. I only know that he died and that there'll be someone else in charge."
"You going to the funeral?"
"Yeah, right. I haven't seen my family in weeks so I think I'll 'mourn' his passing by taking the day off."
There was a chuckle that rippled through the group.
"You know I've never actually met him," said one man. "I can't say that I feel like I've missed much. I hear all he did was bark orders and look down his nose at you."
One of the men nodded. "He wasn't always like that. I met him many years ago and he was pleasant enough. Not the type I'd hang out with though."
Another chuckle ripped through the group. Devon didn't know who these men were, although at least a couple of them seemed vaguely familiar.
The spirit pointed again and they left the group of men behind. The city that sprung up around them this time was of a less desirable nature. It was seedy and they were surrounded by the kind of places that were sure to draw a less than savory element. Devon would have been afraid for his safety if he hadn't known that he was invisible to the inhabitants. There were people lying in dirty alleyways, resting against pieces of garbage, and covering their faces with old newspapers. Devon felt himself straighten involuntarily, his discomfort transforming into a desire to appear above it all.
As he watched, the phantom led him into a ramshackle pawn shop, where he saw a woman in worn clothes heave a bag onto the counter. "I've got some more stuff for you, Joe."
The man behind the counter was slimy in Devon's estimation. He was high strung, his face twitchy. His hair was slicked back and as he reached out to open the bag, Devon noticed faded green tattoos on his fingers.
"More from the guy you're supposed to be nursing?"
"I ain't a nurse. Just the nurse's aid." She shrugged. "He's dead. He won't need it anymore."
"So the old coot finally kicked the bucket, ay?"
"Bout time. They didn't pay me enough to put up with him, so the least he could do was give me some of his things for the trouble."
"It ain't gonna to be reported as stolen, is it?"
"Nah. Only a couple of people came to see him in the end and they didn't stay long. He scared everyone away, except us who were paid to be around him, and even the nurse stayed as far away as she could. He took his last gasp with no one but me in the room with him. Besides, I didn't take anything that would be recognizable if someone did come for it. He had more heirlooms than anybody has a right to clutter their house with, but I didn't take none of them."
Devon recoiled at the woman's callousness. He made a mental note to stay out of nursing homes if this was the kind of 'care' provided.
The man smirked as he drew out the contents of the bag. There were very nice shirts and silk ties in the mix. The man held up a pair of wingtips that looked like they had only been worn a few times. There were several very nice leather belts, and an expensive set of cufflinks.
"He won't be needing all this stuff where he is," the woman said and the pawnshop owner smirked again.
Devon was about to leave the pawn shop in disgust when the scene changed yet again and he found himself in a lushly decorated room. It only took him a minute to realize that it was a funeral parlor. There was an expensive-looking casket at the front of the room and flowers everywhere, but there was no one near the casket. There were a few funeral home employees standing around, but no mourners. He heard one of them saying to another, "The flowers are all from companies, and only a few people have been through here today."
The phantom pointed toward the casket, but Devon couldn't bring himself to go see the person inside. He was filled with unaccustomed dread at the very idea of looking at the poor man. And he was starting to feel queasy at the callous, cavalier attitude of everyone he had encountered on this spirit's journey. "Can you show me no tenderness connected with a death?" he pleaded with the spirit. He had contemplated his own mortality and wasn't afraid to die, but all this ugliness was getting to him.
The specter pulled its arms in across its chest. The hood that covered its face slowly moved up and down in a graceful, but ominous bob. Devon had been getting used to the scene changes, but this time he was not expecting to be somewhere familiar. He was surprised to find both himself and the specter in the semi. Bonnie was sitting at her customary place in front of the computer, but Devon was shocked to see tears in her eyes. He immediately started to worry that maybe the body in the casket . . . But no, that couldn't be.
As Devon watched the scene in front of him, there was a sallow knock at the semi's door, and Michael slowly entered. Devon was stunned at his appearance. He was hunched over and his eyes were red as though he had been crying too. Bonnie looked up when he entered and quickly crossed the room to slide her arm around his waist.
"I turned in my resignation," he said quietly.
"So did I." She dropped her head and leaned into him, resting against his chest. "I wish there were some other way."
Devon was stunned. Why would Michael and Bonnie leave the Foundation? And what had happened to upset them so much?
"There wasn't. There's no way I can stay here. Not after what they did."
Bonnie nodded mutely.
"I know this sounds crazy, but I went for a drive along the beach, thinking it would help clear my mind."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, hugging him tighter.
"All I could think about was how he used to complain about the sand." Michael's voice cracked and Devon looked away from the quaver in his chin.
"You know he loved to go driving with you."
Michael sighed deeply and rested his cheek on Bonnie's head. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I miss him already."
"So do I," she said, sounding just as miserable.
"I wish there was more we could have done."
"Michael, you know we did everything we could. There weren't any options left."
"I know, I just. . . I just can't believe he's gone."
The semi was gaily decorated for Christmas, but the service bay was empty. Devon assumed that Michael was talking about Kitt, but why wasn't he there? What could possibly have happened to him?
"I keep thinking we didn't do enough. We should have stolen him, taken him across the border or something."
"You know he didn't want that. He didn't want you to live the life of a fugitive. He never would have gone." She looked up at him and paused a minute before continuing. "Besides, we wouldn't have been able to keep him operating long without the Foundation. It just would have been slow and painful for all of us."
"But we should have tried! We just let them take him away from us!" Devon winced at the bitterness in Michael's voice. He saw that Bonnie reacted to it as well.
"It was out of our hands, Michael."
He pushed away from her, and began to stalk around the semi, obviously getting more and more agitated with each step. "They tossed him away like he was some outdated piece of junk! I just can't . . . I just can't wrap my head around that! Why couldn't they see how special he was?" Michael paused in his rant and Devon recognized the look in his eyes. It was that flinty determination that was so uniquely Michael. "I'm done. I gave my life for Wilton's dream, but this is not that dream. The Foundation is dead. And if I ever have the chance to take down this mockery of it, you can bet I will. I can't stay here for another minute. I'm sorry, Bonnie. I'll talk to you later." He heaved in a last breath and stormed out of the semi, leaving her to stare after him, looking lost and broken.
In the next instant, Devon found himself and the spirit out on the Foundation's grounds. Devon was boiling over with rage at what he had just seen. What could have possibly happened to the Foundation to make Michael despise it so thoroughly? He was going to go to his office to find out what the devil was going on here. But the spirit was moving the opposite direction.
"Spirit, stop. I need to see what changes have occurred in this future."
The spirit just pointed its pale finger in the direction it was walking.
"But the estate is this way," Devon beseeched. Still the spirit's hand pointed, unchanged.
Devon hurried away from the specter to look through the French doors into his office. But something wasn't right. The furniture and decorations were not the same. The figure in the chair wasn't him. He turned to the phantom questioningly but the spirit just pointed and continued on its way.
Confused and angry, Devon hurried after it, intending to give this taciturn companion a piece of his mind, but almost instantly they were at a foreboding wrought iron gate. Devon's words died in his throat as he realized they were entering a cemetery. The spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one. Devon advanced toward it slowly, filled with a deep dread.
"Spirit, before I read the inscription on this stone, please answer me one question. Are these the shadows of what will be, or are they only the shadows of what may be?"
The ghost simply pointed to the headstone.
"Men's actions foreshadow certain ends, but if the actions are changed will the ends then change as well? Why else would you show me all this?"
The spirit was as immovable as ever.
Devon crept towards the grave and, following the pale finger, read the name on the headstone.
Devon Miles
"I am the man who died so pitifully?" he asked, lowering himself to the ground in a state of shock.
The spirit pointed from the grave to him and back again.
"Oh no," he said drawing his hands up to his face. "Spirit," he said, clutching at its robe. "I am not the man I was. I have learned the lessons you all have offered. Why show me this if I am past all hope?"
For the first time the hand appeared to shake.
"Good spirit, please tell me that I can still make changes to these things you've shown me! I will honor Christmas in my heart and keep it all year. I will bestow kindness and respect on my fellow man. I will not forget the lessons taught by the spirits of the Past, the Present, and the Future. Please tell me that I may yet wipe away the writing on this stone!"
Devon reached out to try to take the apparition's outstretched hand, but the spirit pulled it away. It moved off a few paces and then Devon observed an alteration in the phantom's hood and robe. The spirit began to shrink, and collapse until it was nothing more than a thin wraith. Then it disappeared entirely.
Devon lurched forward, trembling and disoriented. It took a moment before he could make sense of his surroundings. The bedpost was his own. The bed was his own. He was safe in his own room! Devon was infused with the happiness of a man given new life. He had time to make amends, to live these lessons to their fullest.
He scrambled out of bed, his sore back forgotten entirely. "Oh Wilton, thank you! Thank you for showing me the way. Thank you for bringing these spirits to me. I will not forget them!"
Whisking himself out of the bedroom, he hurried into the main room of his suite. He spotted the tea kettle that had wailed and the door by which Wilton's ghost had entered. It all seemed so real to him. He was giddy with the possibilities. But what day was it, he wondered suddenly? How long had he been in the company of the spirits? He heard the peal of church bells out his window and was filled with a lighthearted glee. Maybe he wasn't too late. Maybe he could start mending his ways right now, with this very Christmas.
He quickly struggled into his casual clothes – pressed pants, a button down shirt, and a silk neckerchief. He rushed out of his suite and down the stairs, his cane clicking furiously against the marble floor. The common rooms of the estate were empty, but he needed to know what day it was.
The lab -- there was always someone there. Hurrying down the hallway, Devon almost collided with the lab door as it flew open, nearly knocking him off his feet. The young tech who emerged from the lab froze, her eyes wide with fear.
"Oh! I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize . . ."
"That's quite all right," Devon said, too giddy with holiday cheer to stop and think about how a fall could have further harmed his condition. He was too happy to have found someone. "What day is it?" he asked.
The tech stared at him a moment, dumbfounded. "Sir?"
He paused to read the surname stitched into the pocket of her coveralls. "What day is it today, Ms. Knightshade?"
"Sir, it's Christmas Eve."
"Then I'm not too late!" he crowed. His mind was racing to formulate a plan. He was already making a mental list of tasks he needed to accomplish when a question popped into his mind and interrupted him. "What are you doing here on Christmas Eve?" he asked the tech.
"You said it was mandatory that there be at least two technicians covering every shift over the holidays, sir," she stuttered uncertainly.
"Forget what I said. Go home. Go home." He made shooing motions with his hand. "Spend Christmas with your family."
An uncertain smile spread across her face. "Thank you, sir." The tech quickly turned to leave, obviously not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind.
"Wait," Devon called after her.
She stopped and turned around slowly, a look of dread on her face.
"Call the others. Tell them not to come in -- today or tomorrow. It's Christmas!"
Her face could barely contain the smile that burst across her features. "Yes, sir!" she said brightly, and raced down the hallway.
Devon went back to his suite to collect a few things. He had errands to run.
Devon hurried along the street, weighed down with brightly colored shopping bags. Despite the load, he managed to tip his head to everyone he passed, saying "Good morning," and "Merry Christmas to you." He couldn't remember having been this happy in a long time. As he passed the Salvation Army bell ringer, he took out a hundred, rolled it up and stuffed it into the pot. He had not taken the limo today, having sent the driver home to be with his family. As a result, he had had to make several trips to his car in order to pack in all his last minute gifts. But even the nagging in his back couldn't slow him down today. No time. He had places to go and one more errand to run. Now where was that caterer located? He just hoped he would be able to get what he needed in time.
"Michael, Devon's car is approaching," Kitt said with a hint of trepidation.
Michael let out a frustrated sigh and glanced around the semi's service bay. They had just finished decorating, and Bonnie was heating up the plates of ham in the semi's small kitchen. There was no way to hide the fact that they were having a Christmas party.
"Maybe he came to wish us merry Christmas," RC said, without much conviction.
"I doubt it." Bonnie had obviously made the same mental calculations that Michael had.
"It's Christmas, I don't care if he wants to sit and do paperwork at the table and scowl, but I'm not going to let him ruin it," Michael said, defiantly lighting the green and red candles that Bonnie had put on the table.
They waited nervously until finally they heard Devon's convertible approaching. The engine slowed to an idle and then shut off entirely. They heard the crunches of his footsteps before the door at the front of the truck opened, and Devon appeared. He was the picture of seriousness and decorum with one hand held behind his back, and the other resting on his cane as he surveyed the semi. Michael waited as Devon eyed the garland that was hung in broad sweeps of green along the sides of the truck. He bristled as Devon raised an eyebrow at the small Christmas tree they had set up in the corner.
"I see you've been busy," he said eyeing the paper plates of food that had been set out on the table.
"Devon, we finished the case, it's Christmas, let's at least have a nice dinner together." Michael took a step closer to him, hoping that Devon would get the idea that he wasn't going to stand for anything less.
"Hmmm. I assume you haven't finished your report?"
"Boss, it's Christmas, who's going to look at the report?" RC tried.
Devon raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. Indeed, you're right, Reginald."
RC stared back at Devon, obviously not quite sure what to make of what he had just said. He looked like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I was simply making sure that you weren't allowing something like superfluous paperwork to get in the way of a Christmas party," he said, suddenly breaking into a smile.
They all stared at him dumbfounded.
"Besides, you still have some more decorating to do," he said, producing a beautiful star from behind his back. "My dear boy, would you mind adding this to your tree?" he asked Michael. "You are a bit taller than I am."
Michael studied his friend and mentor, still not quite sure if he was joking. He carefully took the star from Devon's outstretched hand and went to put it on the tree. He glanced at Kitt, giving him a look that he hoped said 'scan him.'
"Ahh, that looks lovely, wouldn't you say?" Devon asked as Michael plugged the star into the lights. As they all continued to stare at him, Devon gestured to RC with his cane. "Reginald, I have a few other things out in the car, if you wouldn't mind helping me."
"Uh, sure, boss," he said, glancing back and forth between Michael and Bonnie uncertainly before following Devon outside.
"That is him, right?" Michael asked the minute Devon was out the door.
"Yes, of course, Michael. And I see nothing wrong with him -- medically speaking, anyway."
A minute later the door opened again and RC bounded into the semi carrying a giant turkey in a large metal tray. He was beaming from ear to ear. "You are not gonna believe all the stuff he's got crammed into that car!"
Michael and Bonnie gaped at the enormous bird and then turned to look at each other. Devon followed RC carrying a stand and butane lantern. "Bonnie if you wouldn't mind clearing a spot. This will need to heat up again, I'm afraid – it was a bit of a drive to get here."
Bonnie quickly moved her tools off the bench in the service bay as Devon and RC set up the caterer's stand.
"Well don't just stand there," Devon said to Michael. "There's plenty more to bring in."
RC and Michael went back out to the car as Bonnie lit the lantern under the turkey.
"I hope you don't mind, my dear. I'm sure the meal you made would have been wonderful. I don't mean to circumvent your cooking."
"Devon, it's deli ham heated in the microwave. This is . . ." she glanced down at the lavish, golden-brown bird. "This is wonderful."
"Merry Christmas," he said, touching her elbow. "I hope you don't mind an old man intruding on your celebration."
"You're not intruding," she said, impulsively giving him a hug. "You're always welcomed, Devon."
Michael and RC returned shortly, Michael carrying two more caterer's trays and RC balancing a tower of wrapped gifts.
"So boss, what happened?" RC asked.
"Whatever do you mean, Reginald?" Devon couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a little fun at the mechanic's expense.
"Ahhh. . ."
"He means your newfound good cheer," Michael said coming to RC's rescue.
Devon looked around at the people who had truly become his family and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his emotions in check. They had put up with so much from him, how could he possibly make amends? "I was reminded of what's truly important, Reginald. And I'm sorry for the way I've been treating you all. I hope that you can forgive me."
"Of course, Devon," Michael said and reached out to clap the older man on the shoulder. "We know things haven't been easy for you."
"Thank you for your understanding, but I've behaved terribly. All I can do is promise you that I will do better in the future."
In the moment of silence that followed, Devon vowed that no matter how bad his health got, he would never again push away the people he loved. He also vowed that he would always keep Christmas in his heart. It truly was a wonderful time of the year.
RC popped open a bottle of champaign, and poured everyone a glass.
"I may not have a glass to raise, but I would like to at least make a toast," Kitt said. "Merry Christmas to all of us, each and every one."
The service bay of the semi was filled with smiles, the warm chiming of touched glasses, and the beauty of heart-filled voices as they echoed Kitt's toast.
"Merry Christmas Everyone!"
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-knightshade
December 12, 2004