Note: I really did intend this to be a fluffy little Christmas fic, and I thought I had the story all worked out. But then a new plot idea bubbled up, and I couldn't leave it alone. My apologies to anyone who started this just wanting some happy Christmas fluff. You will get that if you keep going, but I couldn't blame you if you're cross with me for taking this into darker territory than I billed it as.
And my apologies for the use of the n-word in the last section here. I hope it won't seem gratuitous by the time this is done.
Chapter 7:
Noah had stopped counting. He'd gotten up to twelve-hundred one-hundred, which was twice the amount he'd expected the trip to the village to take. Had he been counting too fast? Maybe. But not that much too fast, surely. More than ever he wished he'd brought a watch, one that wouldn't have given him away. Or a clock. Why hadn't he brought the little digital one from his room? He just hadn't thought of it.
It was beginning to dawn on him that there were a few things he hadn't thought of, including the possibility that Calvin and Hobbes didn't always go to the village when they left the lighthouse. He'd seen them there so many times last summer . . . but maybe the summer was different. What if they were going someplace really far away now, like Portland? Or Canada. Or all the way back to Washington, D.C. . . .
If only Calvin and Hobbes would say something that would tell him what was going on. But they were driving along in silence, broken only by the occasional burst of static from their radio, and a few words in what Noah recognized as their dispatcher's voice. Sometimes one of them would say something in reply, but Noah couldn't make much out over the hum of the car's tires, and what he could hear was just the usual indecipherable Secret Service jargon: "One-oh-two and one-fifty-six on One to the French. Roger?" "Roger. One-oh-two and one-fifty-six steady on One to the French."
What did that mean? The numbers were their ID codes, he knew. But he had no idea what the rest of it was about.
His hiding-place on the floor between the second and third seating row was cramped and uncomfortable. He wished he could move around and stretch his legs. And he wished it wasn't so warm. He'd pulled the blanket away from his face so he could breathe, but Calvin and Hobbes had the heater going full blast, and the space felt hot and airless. That plus the vibration was beginning to make him feel sick.
He tucked his hand into his fleece pocket again. The little package was still there, lumpy but secure. Surely he'd get there somehow. It was Christmas. Everything was always good at Christmas, wasn't it?
He closed his eyes and pictured the scene in the village: the lighted shop windows; the bakery full of gingerbread; the snow falling in the park; Santa on his chair in the bandstand, the heaters the local Lions Club had set up to keep him from freezing blasting out hot air; the long line of families waiting to see him. . . .
In spite of his best intentions, Noah drifted off to sleep.
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François Gagnon came bustling out of the kitchen, his face as red as a Christmas bauble and his great white hat making him look just a little like a Santa Claus turned upside down. He waved a spoon at his youngest daughter, a pretty twenty-one-year-old. She was standing at the top of a ladder, her hands full of juniper and balsam.
"Too short!" he called to her. "You're making the loops too short!"
"They're fine, Papa," her sister, Claire-an equally attractive young woman in her mid-twenties-tried to assure him. He wasn't assured.
"Use more," he insisted. "I ordered two hundred yards, just for this room. It must be perfect, perfect, for this evening!"
Claire caught her sister's eye, and twinkled at her.
"All right, Papa," the younger girl sighed. "I'll start over."
"It must be perfect!" he insisted.
"Don't forget the mistletoe!" their mother's voice called from the kitchen, where she was up to her elbows in pastry flour.
"Don't worry, Mama," Claire called back to her. "There's enough here to cover the whole ceiling, Papa's ordered so much."
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A long, red Jaguar buzzed down the highway, twenty miles over the speed limit. It easily passed the big, black Suburban that was humming along at a mere 65.
"Have you got them yet?" the blonde in the passenger seat asked.
The driver-a short, fat man in a silk suit, who was driving with one hand while punching a number into his cell phone with the other-pushed his cigar into the corner of his mouth and said, "Nope."
"It's after two. I'm famished. They'd better be open."
"If they aren't, they'll open for me."
The blonde rolled her eyes.
"Honestly, Max," she said. "We're spending Christmas in this dump of a town in Maine, and you still think the world revolves around you?"
He put the phone down, and took the cigar out of his mouth.
"This is the place to be this year, Sabrina. Haven't you wrapped your mind around that yet?" Your pretty little mind, he almost said, but he wasn't interested in stirring her up. He wanted a peaceful lunch.
"Just because Josh Lyman has a vacation place here."
"Just because President Lyman is planning to spend the holiday here."
"And when did you become such a fan of Josh Lyman?"
He snorted. "Come, my dear, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Everybody who's anybody is pushing to get into this town now. You usually appreciate that kind of thing. And we had the place already."
"Instead of the one I wanted in the Hamptons."
"This was a tenth the price when I bought it, and it was a hot spot already."
"Some hot spot. One Starbucks and a handful of dumpy little stores."
"You seem to have had a pretty good time in them this morning. The back seat's full of shopping bags."
"Awful stuff, but I had to do something, didn't I? It was that or stay in the house and listen to Tyler howl. Mariana couldn't get him to shut up. That brat of hers was no use either, of course-she just sat there reading her book the whole time, and making me want to slap her. I had to get out."
"It wouldn't be any different in Southampton."
"There's a Saks in Southampton! And a decent jeweler."
"You don't have to worry about that. I've done my shopping already."
She smiled a little then.
"Oh, well. It will do for this year, I guess. But that restaurant had better be open. It's the only decent place around here to eat."
"I told you, if they aren't, they'll open for me."
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Reginald Morton wiped the coffee off his beard with the back of his hand, and pulled his battered old 4x4 off the highway just outside the village. He knew the place: it had taken him a while to find it, that first day, but he'd done this so many times since, he knew the place all right.
A week he'd been here; he'd come every day. Came this morning, too. Would have stayed right through, but he'd run out of his chaw, so he'd taken a chance on it and done a run to the gas station a mile or so back on the highway. It was gnawing at him that he shouldn't have done that, he might have missed something by leaving then. But he'd only been gone mebbe ten minutes, fifteen at the most. And it was colder'n a nigger's balls in all this snow: he'd needed that chaw, and some coffee, too.
He'd had his flask, but he didn't want to touch that if he didn't have to. He'd need a steady hand when he shot.
He drove up the hill as far as the track would let him, then pulled off to the side. Grabbed his gun-not his daddy's old Savage 99, the one he'd got his first whitetail with, but the new one, the Barrett-and headed up the trail to the lookout.
There wasn't much time left: just this afternoon, till nightfall, and that came so damn early up here. Christmas was tomorrow. Damn it, he shouldn'a left the hide; he shoulda brought a second thermos, and made sure his chaw was full up this morning.
It was snowing again, getting colder. He shuddered a little. How did these Mainers stand it? Hunting wasn't supposed to be this uncomfortable. He wasn't used to this kind of weather.
Still, he had plenty of chaw now, and a thermos full of fresh coffee. And his flask, of course, if he had to have something else. He could wait till dark if he had to.
He patted his belly. With his wild white hair and beard, he'd sometimes been told he looked a little like Santa himself-or would do, if he'd get himself the suit.
He was going to do better than that. There were other fat guys who could wear the suit, but he was the only one who could see what really had to be done.
It was Christmas tomorrow, and he was going to save it.
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To be cont'd. . . .
