Away in a Manger

When he entered the locker room the next day to get ready for practice, Mark's attention was instantly seized by white writing on the blackboard in the front of the room Herb sometimes used to illustrate playing strategies. Frowning at the board, Mark read the message scrawled in all capitals in chalk: MARK AND ROBBIE—AWAY IN A MANGER.

"Mark and Robbie—away in a manger." Steve Christoff snickered, as he read the note off the chalkboard. "Someone obviously thinks Mark and Robbie are asses."

"If I'm a donkey, I can kick you in the butt, Steve." Scowling, Rob stalked across the locker room, snatched the eraser from its holder under the board, and scrubbed every line of the message off the blackboard. "Anyway, you shouldn't speak if you have no idea what you're talking about. Being a moron, you just confused a stable with a manger. The stable is where all the animals are kept, and the manger is the little crib where food for the cattle is stored. You're just as hopelessly ignorant as whoever wrote this message."

"Come on now." Silky looked up from changing into his pads long enough to glare at Rob. "How do you know whoever wrote the message was hopelessly ignorant?"

"You can tell a lot about a person based on their handwriting," explained Rob crisply, as he crossed over to his locker and began putting on his equipment. "Whoever wrote this message did so in all caps and uneven letters. That shows they are an unbalanced imbecile."

"I'm sure whoever wrote the message was just scribbling quickly in the throes of creative genius." Easygoing as ever, Eric Strobel grinned. "I bet they didn't realize they would be a contestant in a handwriting competition judged by someone as stuffy as you."

"Creativity is the word," Buzz Schneider piped up before Rob could retort. "I bet they were just trying to sing Christmas carols in an original way."

"Truly—" Rizzo threw his hands into the air dramatically—"a prophet is never accepted in his own home."

"I'm surrounded by idiots." His forehead knotted in concentration, Rob shook his head, and it was hard to figure out if the gesture was dissatisfaction with the taping job he had just performed on his stick, exasperation with his teammates, or both. "The type of people dumb enough to believe this locker room is their home instead of their torture chamber."

Shaking his own head, Mark contemplated the words written on the chalkboard. Although he knew the handwriting of every member of the team, he could not determine who had scribbled the words on the blackboard, which probably indicated that whoever had scrawled the note to him and Rob had done so with their non-dominant hand. (After all, whenever Mark tried to write anything with his left hand, it became a series of squiggles and slants that definitely wasn't English.) That meant there was, as far as Mark could see, still no lead as to who had stolen the tree, but, maybe the message provided a clue to the far more important mystery of where the tree was hidden. Away in a manger…Well, he just hoped he and Rob wouldn't have to travel all the way to Bethlehem like the three wise men. Pilgrimages were very admirable expressions of religious devotion, but there wasn't time for that in an intense schedule of preparing for the Olympics.

Plainly, Rob was also ruminating on the implications of the chalk announcement, because, as they were sitting on the bench, waiting for their chance to participate in the scrimmage, he commented matter-of-factly, as though resuming an ongoing dialogue rather than starting one, "Pity Rizzo or Silky—whichever of them wrote the note—was clever enough to use their non-dominant hand. Without their handwriting to tie them to their message, we have nothing to link them to the crime of stealing our Christmas tree."

"Rob." Mark fixed his level stare that demonstrated he was not impressed with his left-winger's wild theories on his rash and cynical line mate. "I thought that we had reached an understanding. I don't want to have to remind you all the time that our focus needs to be on uncovering our missing tree, not exposing Rizzo and Silky as criminals. Constantly telling you what you should already know isn't my definition of an exciting or an effective investigation."

"Rizzo and Silky will expose themselves in the fashion of guilty thieves everywhere." Mutinously, Rob lifted his chin. "We just need to be alert for their inevitable slip, but, since it hasn't happened yet, we can turn our attention to analyzing the content of the message for clues about where they put our Christmas tree."

"Away in a manger," repeated Mark, tugging meditatively on an earlobe. "Should we interpret the phrase literally or more figuratively? Should we write the words down and read them backward to see if they spell something else? Should we assume it's an anagram and try to rearrange the letters into the name of a place or some other hint?"

"I'd prefer to start with a straightforward interpretation," Rob answered, shrugging. "It involves less exhausting mental gymnastics and, if the straightforward approach fails, we can always try reading the message figuratively or as some sort of puzzle like you suggested. Let's not make this anymore convoluted than it has to be, Magic."

"Agreed." Mark nodded, and then went on with a grin, "Time for a word-association game like you play on a road trip, Mac. When I say 'manger,' you think…"

"The mantel at home where we have a beautiful Nativity." Rob flashed an almost nostalgic smile. "Perhaps Stu, terribly annoying little brother that he is, traveled all the way to Lake Placid to rob our tree and hide it in the Nativity at home. I mean, I would never in a million years suspect that, so it could be the perfect crime."

"Now you think it was Stu who took our tree." Mark nudged Rob in the ribs. "Admit it. You have no idea who the thief is."

"Not having convicting proof of who the thief is and not having a working theory about who the thief is are totally different things. I have a theory that Silky and Rizzo stole our tree; I just presently lack proof I'm confident will be forthcoming." Rob eyed Mark in a way that made it clear he would not be dissuaded from this perspective any time before the sun started rising in the west. "Anyhow, it's your turn in the hot seat. When I say 'manger,' the first word that springs into your otherwise empty brain is…"

"Church!" Mark's gaze widened eagerly. "Every day on the way to and from the arena, we pass that Catholic church with the gigantic Nativity on the lawn. Maybe whoever stole our Christmas tree hid it there."

"Perhaps." Rob's brown eyes glittered with a triumph that suggested they had already reclaimed their taken tree. "And Rizzo is Catholic."

"As is Jack O'Callahan. As is Jim Craig. As are probably at least a hundred other people in Lake Placid," Mark reeled off. "This isn't the nineteenth century. You can't get away with implying all Catholics are automatically crooks any longer."

"I wasn't implying any such thing, and you know it," protested Rob, looking miffed. "I'm vaguely mainline Protestant, but I have nothing against Catholics. I'm not a bigot. Some of my closest friends are Catholic, for your information, so, obviously, I don't think all Catholics are thieves. I just think that one Catholic named Rizzo is. That's all I'm saying."

"Well, what I'm saying is that, even if we do find our stolen Christmas tree in the Nativity at the Catholic church, it wouldn't be conclusive evidence that Rizzo was the one who put it there," Mark pointed out, all patience. "Plenty of people, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, have access to the churchyard."

Rob opened his mouth to reply to this assertion but was cut off by Herb's sharp bark, "Johnson line, replace Broten's. Coneheads, you're taking over for Verchota's. Baker and O'Callahan, take over defense on Craig's side. Morrow and Ramsey, you're on defense for Janny's team. Shift it, boys! Our substitutions should be faster than the average Pee Wee team's!"

For a moment, the rink echoed with the sound of players climbing over the rail for the shift change. Once everybody on the ice was in the proper position to begin the scrimmage, Herb dropped the puck at center ice. Mark kept his eyes on the puck and his stick surged forward to take possession as it struck the ice, but, this time, Pav was faster off the draw.

In an eye blink, Pav pulled the puck away from Mark and passed it to Buzz in one fluid motion. Deftly skating a circle around Eric Strobel, Buzz streaked toward the net where Jim was playing goalie. A second later, he was confronted by Bill. Dodging the stick Bill thrust out to gain possession of the puck, Buzz shot the puck across the ice to Bah.

At the last instant, Rob, who was always a formidable two-way player, intercepted the pass. Smoothly twisting away from Bah, Rob flew down the ice, picking up speed with every scrape of his blades along the ice.

As they streaked out of the neutral zone, Mark made certain that he was open and was rewarded when Rob, a split second before being slammed against the boards by Rammer, passed him the the puck. Speeding on toward Janny's goal, Mark found himself running into the steady defensive stonewall that was Ken Morrow.

Embracing the challenge of trying to push past Ken, Mark danced swiftly to the left and then to the right. When his shifts in direction failed to confuse Ken, Mark drew the puck back sharply and then tried to push forward only to be blocked by the defensive rock of Ken.

Guarding the puck with his stick, Mark glanced rapidly over his left shoulder—Rob was still pinned against the boards by Rammer, so passing to his left-winger would be about as bright an idea as a carnival sword-swallower upgrading his act to a nuclear weapon—and then to his right—Eric, for reasons comprehensible only to himself, was performing what could only be described as pirouettes in the neutral zone and seemed completely oblivious to Mark's attempt at scoring, so passing to his right-winger wasn't going to be an option either.

Mentally bemoaning the fact that the player nicknamed Electric was clearly having more of an off day than an on one, Mark aimed a shot at goal through Morrow's legs, because that was the only open ice he could find, and was not surprised when Janny's glove shut easily around the puck.

Accepting the puck Janny dumped in his palm, Herb took advantage of the pause in play to issue a stream of corrections and criticisms: "Schneider, next time you pass to a line mate, check they really are open so you don't have a turnover. Harrington, if you lose the puck, make more than one lousy attempt at recovering it, and try to keep pace with whoever took it. McClanahan, next time you get pinned to the boards, consider trying to break out to your right first rather than to your left, because you always try to break out to your left first, and that's very predictable. As for you, Strobel, are you a ballerina?"

"No, Coach." Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was about to be chewed and spat out by Herb, Eric shook his head calmly. "I never took a ballet class in my life."

"Then stop doing pirouettes in the neutral zone, and start playing hockey," snapped Herb. "Let's have another line shift. Everybody, you have four seconds to get where you're supposed to be."

Once they had clambered off the ice and onto the bench, Rob shot Eric his most wilting glare, demanding, "Why do you even bother to show up to practice if you aren't going to play? Could you please just explain that to me? After all these years of knowing you, I still don't understand the answer to that, and, like all unanswered questions, it bugs me."

"I did play." Refusing to raise his voice in response to Rob's hostile tone, Eric shrugged. "Look, I'm sorry if I stepped on your toes, Mac, but you don't need to yell at me."

"Actually, I do," growled Rob. "Yelling is the only thing that pops your bubble of calm complacency."

"We're all on the same team here, remember?" Eric tried again to pacify Rob.

"Yeah, I remember," snarled Rob, his eyes blazing as if he had just swallowed a firecracker. "When I was trapped against the boards, and Mark was desperately trying to dance around Ken, it was you who was performing random pirouettes in the neutral zone like a figure skater instead of making yourself open for a pass from a teammate or anything remotely useful like a hockey player should."

"If you don't think I was there when you and Mark needed me, I apologize." Eric spread his palms in an appeal. "Being where I was and doing what I did felt right to me at the time, even if it turned out to be wrong. I've got to trust my hockey instincts, and I figured that you and Mark had the situation under control."

"I was being pounded against the boards by Rammer, and Mark was being held in check by Morrow, but the situation was under control?" Rob emitted a scathing tongue click. "If that's your definition of a situation under control, I'd hate to see your idea of a fiasco."

"All right. You've had your rant, now chill out." Eric sipped from his water bottle. "What's done is done."

"But not by you," hissed Rob, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. "Never by you. It's always Mark and me who have to do all the hard work in the real world, while you do your woolgathering on some higher plane that rarely intersects with reality."

"That's not fair." Indignantly, Eric nearly expelled the water he had just sipped. "I scored yesterday, didn't I?"

"Having an occasional moment of greatness doesn't even begin to cancel out you slacking off the rest of the time." Rob rolled his eyes. "That's what is so aggravating, Eric. It's not that you can't do it. It's just that most of the time, for reasons none of the rest of us can understand, you won't."

"I'm glad that everyone on this line is comfortable sharing their thoughts and feelings with one another, but perhaps we could strive for a more respectful tone in our dealings with each other," interjected Mark before Eric could offer a rebuttal.

Massaging his temples, Mark wished that his line mates could understand one another as well as he did them. To Rob, hockey was hard work and determination; to Eric, hockey was artistry and inspiration. Rob was always intense and conscientious, alert for whatever challenge was coming up next, while Eric was even-keeled and intuitive, following his instincts to stunning success or burning failure. Mark himself, he supposed, was somewhere in between, the temperate zone to their poles: calm but focused, and always trying to blend grace and inventiveness with grit and old-fashioned elbow-grease when he played hockey.

Maybe that was why he could understand both of them, and he recognized that as the center—as the coordinator—of this line, it was his responsibility to fuse them into a force to be reckoned with. It didn't matter how streaky Eric Strobel could be; he was still the best pure skater except for Eric Heiden (who had been on his Pee Wee team) that Mark had ever met, and it was Mark's duty as center to bring that talent to the forefront as much as possible. This line had to demonstrate the potential Herb had apparently seen when he put the three of them together as starting forwards.

"Eric," he continued, eyeing the right-winger seriously. "Since we're, er, a space-efficient but certainly not short line, it would be helpful to our overall success if we could all do our best to be aware of when a line mate who is being stonewalled is trying to pass to us. Obviously, we're not going to succeed with that all the time, and that's to be expected, but it's a good goal to work toward, you know."

"Yeah, of course, Magic." Eric ducked his head, a slight blush shading his cheeks. "I'll try to think about you guys and what support you need a bit more next shift. I promise."

"No sweat, Electric." Mark patted Eric on the back, and then glanced at Rob, adding, "Eric is doing the best he can just like we are, Robbie. You don't need to criticize him so harshly."

"No, he's not trying at all." Rob snorted. "That's the problem, Magic."

"Mac." Mark shook his head in mild reproof. "You can't judge how much effort somebody else is putting in. You have no way of knowing that."

"I do, though." Rob's jaw clenched in revolt. "To watch him is to see that he does nothing and doesn't even attempt anything of the slightest significance. If that's working hard, then I'll eat my sweaty shoulder pads."

"Just because when Eric works hard it doesn't look the same as you working hard, that doesn't mean you can just discount his efforts whenever you get irritated with his performance, Robbie," insisted Mark with all the quiet authority he could muster. "On this line, we've all got different personalities and styles. We all need to be appreciative of that, okay?"

"Okay, Mark." Rob gave a brief, angry nod of concession, but he made no attempt at apologizing to Eric, and the tension between the wingers remained as thick as molasses throughout the rest of practice.

As a result, it was almost a relief to Mark when the scrimmages ended, and they headed over to the hill for a run in their equipment.

"Up the hill twice and back!" Herb rapped out when they arrived at the geographical feature of their torment. "Get cracking, and no stopping to catch flies with your mouths, boys!"

"Does he really believe that there are any flies to catch in the winter?" Mark asked Rob, as they commenced their trek up the hill, grateful enough that Rob did not bear a grudge over their confrontation about Eric's performance powerful enough to search for a different running partner for the day that he began their conversation, instead of leaving that to Rob as he usually did.

"He shouldn't." Rob offered his trademark smirk. "Even as a child, I knew that flies disappeared to the same place that fish vanished to in the winter."

"Obviously." Mark grinned. "The fish have to eat something while they're hiding under the ice, so why shouldn't it be flies?"

"That was my logic as a little boy," remarked Rob. "Trust me, it was very devastating for me to learn that the flies just died and didn't disappear under the ice, after all."

"Childhood is filled with painful revelations like that," Mark observed, as they crossed the crest of the hill and began their descent. "It was a terrible moment for me when I read in some book or other that the ocean didn't freeze like every other body of water. I thought it would be awesome to skate on the jagged peaks of the waves, but that dream will never become true, because salt cruelly conspires to prevent oceans from freezing."

"Yeah, the closest thing to frozen waves are icebergs." Rob somehow found the oxygen necessary for a small chuckle. "You can ask the Titanic how fun they are."

"I would," answered Mark wryly, "but it's a bit of a wreck right now."

Rob snickered as they reached the bottom of the hill and spun around to start their ascent.

"McClanahan!" Herb shouted abruptly, causing both Rob and Mark to jerk in shock. Herb, as always, had been poking holes in everyone's performance, but their casual conversation until now had done an admirable job of blocking out their coach's ranting. "Is that what you call going fast? It looks more like going at a crab's pace to me. You've got legs for a reason. Use them!"

With an audible grinding of his teeth, Rob picked up his speed. Not about to let his running partner outstrip him, Mark churned his legs quicker over the pavement, as well.

Once Rob had decided that, being halfway up the hill, they were far enough out of Herb's earshot for impertinence to be a relatively safe territory, he muttered truculently, "You only think that I run like a crab because your eyes are failing you in your old age, Herb."

"He's just trying to get a rise out of you," Mark told his roommate. "He doesn't really think you run like a crab. You don't have nearly enough limbs to run like a crab, for starters."

"I have enough limbs to punch Herb in the nose, though," grunted Rob. "One day, I'll probably do just that."

"Now that would be an unwise decision." Mark shook his head as they arrived at the peak of the hill and turned around for their trek to the base. "Your father is a lawyer. I shouldn't have to tell you about the astronomical legal fees associated with assault."

"Your father is a coach," riposted Rob. "I shouldn't have to explain the immeasurable psychological satisfaction, and everyone knows that it is more important to be motivated by internal factors—like the ego—than external factors—like money. If you want to be successful, it's better to be prideful than greedy. All the experts are in agreement about that."

"Heaven help me," Mark panted as they reached the bottom of the hill and began to jog in place. "You're incorrigible."

"A one second improvement." Herb's lips thinned as he studied his stopwatch. "Go back to the locker room."

"A one second improvement isn't statistically significant." Rob shook his head in disappointment as they walked down the icy sidewalk toward the rink. Two nights ago, with all his graphs and equations, he had calculated that any change greater or equal to three seconds was statistically significant, while any change less than three seconds was not statistically significant.

"Don't let Herb overhear you saying that," warned Mark, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder at their coach, who was probably busy screaming at some other unfortunate player for poor running technique. "Do you want him to make us run up and down that wretched hill until we display a statistically significant improvement?"

"It would be one way to figure out if Herb did make Silky run up the hill an extra two times." Rob scraped at his cuticles. "I mean, if Herb is willing to force us to perform the hill exercise again, it is possible that he would make Silky do such a thing."

"Let's not lose all sense of proportion in solving this mystery." Mark elbowed his friend in the ribs. "No Christmas tree on God's green Earth is worth that much sweat."

"Whatever you say, Mark." For once tractable, Rob nodded. "After we shower and change, we should head over to the Catholic church and see if our missing tree is hidden in the Nativity."

Mark agreed to this plan, and, when they had finished showering and changing, they left the rink and walked over to the Catholic church. Entering through the gate, they proceeded up the shoveled path to the Nativity that had been constructed near the church's entrance. Leaning closer, they saw Mary and Joseph kneeling near an empty manger, a trio of shepherds, three wise men, a choir of angels, and an attentive array of farm animals, but nothing that bore the faintest resemblance to their Christmas tree or ornaments.

"Nativities are so peaceful," Mark whispered, reluctant to leave the tranquility of this churchyard too soon. "What do you think it was like back there in Bethlehem, Robbie?"

"Childbearing conditions were a lot less sanitary back then." Rob chuckled. "No matter how advanced the Romans were, their sewage system was worse, too. May and Joseph, being poor like most of the population was in the ancient world, probably stank so badly that they didn't even notice the stench of the cattle and donkeys around them. Oh, and when they looked down at their literally perfect son, they knew the same thing our parents did when they gazed down at our woefully sinful selves: the only certainties in life are death and exorbitant taxes. All in all, Magic, the important things haven't changed since that pivotal night in Bethlehem, but the little things have improved markedly, and we probably should be on our knees right now, praising God that we got to experience the miracle that is the flush toilet."

"You're as cynical as Leslie." Mark smiled. "She always says that if there had been three wise women instead of three wise men, the women would have asked for directions to the stable, arrived in time to help Mary deliver Jesus, and brought some practical gifts instead of all the frankincense and myrrh. I tell her that you can't question ineffability, and if there is anyone ineffable, it's God."

"You should also explain to her what I tell my dear fiancée every time she gets mad at me for discovering amazing detours and scenic routes to wherever we're going." Rob snickered. "Men don't get lost. We merely find alternative destinations. That's the daring spirit that first allowed men to venture out of their caves during the Ice Age. Many, of course, froze, but the ones who didn't were a hardy bunch, and we're their descendents."

"Leslie would just roll her eyes at me." Mark clapped Rob on the shoulder. "That's how swayed she'd be by that stunning argument."

"Women." Rob snorted. "They're so impossible to please. Buy them roses for their birthday, and they'll pout because you didn't give them violets. Pick out a beautiful gold bracelet for them to celebrate an anniversary, and they'll hint they would have preferred silver to match their skin tone better. Bring them chocolate-covered pretzels for Valentine's Day, and they'll arch their eyebrows prettily and ask where the chocolate-covered cherries are."

"That never happens to me." Mark's eyes gleamed as they exited the churchyard and walked down the street toward the hotel. He knew that Rob's fiancée expected to be taken to expensive French and Italian restaurants where the entrees required tweezers to eat and the waiters bowed to the diners as every course arrived instead of to cute cafes. She wanted to go see plays at fancy theaters instead of watching popular blockbusters at drive-in movies. She wanted to go on carriage rides through parks instead of hiking up mountains. In short, she made Rob seem low-maintenance and unsophisticated by comparison. Mark would have broken up with her in a week if he had even asked her out in the first place, because the best thing about his relationship with Leslie was the ease of it. He didn't have to worry if she saw him with his hair Medusa-wild or kissed him in the morning before he brushed his teeth. H didn't have to be concerned about being perfect and impressing her. He just had to be himself and know that she loved him for that, just as he loved her for being herself. Still, Mark had to trust that Rob, as obsessed with planning as he was, knew exactly what he wanted in a marriage, and if that was different than what Mark sought, that was Rob's prerogative, since it was his marriage, after all. "She would just be so awed that I remembered Valentine's Day that she wouldn't even care if I brought her chocolate-covered cockroaches."

"Lovely. I knew only someone with low standards would ever agree to marry you." Rob's mouth twisted ironically. "Well, anyway, when we get back to the hotel, we can see if we can get directions to any other churches in Lake Placid that might have a Nativity for us to investigate."

"Sounds like a good idea," replied Mark as they stepped into the lobby and were immediately enveloped in the hotel's warm embrace.

"Over to the concierge we go, then," Rob chirped, sidling over to the marble desk behind which sat a pinched-faced woman whose features suggested she had just swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

"Good evening, ma'am," said Rob, putting on his broadest, most winning beam as they reached the concierge's desk. "My friend and I are guests here, and we were wondering if you would be so kind as to give us directions to some local churches."

"Is there any particular denomination you're interested in?" pressed the woman, arching an eyebrow. "We have churches in Lake Placid that run the gamut from strait-laced Catholicism to hand-waving Pentecostal. The more information you provide about what you want in a church, the more helpful I can be in your search."

"My friend and I are vaguely Protestant." Rob's smile was growing faker by the second. "We like to church hop and attend whatever church seems the best wherever we are in the world at that time. We scope all the churches out before Sunday, so we know where to go for the best sound system and most comfortable seating."

"We want to hear God's Word clearly and in comfort," Mark put, eyes expanding earnestly. "Otherwise, if you can't hear God's word and focus on it instead of squirming in your pew, what's the point of getting up early on a Sunday morning?"

"Your mothers must be so proud of your devotion." The woman's pursed lips indicated she felt they were the type of miserable, lost souls God would turn away from heaven on principle no matter how many Sunday mornings they spent praying. "Anyway, I can provide you with a complimentary list of the names and addresses of Lake Placid's charming churches."

"Thank you." Mark accepted the list of churches she thrust across the desk at him. "I'm sure this will be very helpful."

"Yes, and do you happen to have a map of Lake Placid?" added Rob, as the woman emitted an impatient sigh, as if they were wasting her valuable time, even though there were no other guests seeking assistance waiting behind them. "That would help us plan our route more efficiently and avoid getting lost."

"Here you go." Snappishly, the concierge practically threw the map across the counter at Rob. "It's complimentary, too. Now, is there anything else I can help you with or can I get back to doing my job?"

"No, you've been more than helpful enough already." Rob appeared to have determined that this was the perfect opportunity for a passive-aggressive Mac Attack of Sarcasm, and Mark wasn't about to claim the prickly concierge didn't deserve this treatment. "I hope that when you travel, ma'am, everyone will be just as friendly to you as you were to us."

As he and Rob walked away from the desk toward vacant chairs in the lobby where they could examine the map and list they had just acquired to plan their Nativity search strategy, Mark whispered to Rob's, "Silly me, I thought helping guests was her job. You would think a career in customer service would require some basic people skills, but you'd be wrong. I would be politer if strangers on the street asked me for directions to the nearest church, and I'm not a concierge. My parents just taught me nothing justifies being rude."

"At least we're wiser." Rob wore an expression of mock sagacity. "Now we know that, if Herb ever tires of coaching, he could have a meteoric career as a concierge. I can picture him now, screaming at guests that if they were really hungry, they'd take some initiative and book their own reservations."

"We're learning so much from solving this mystery already," Mark commented dryly, plopping onto an upholstered sofa across from Rob and leaning over the coffee table where Rob was spreading the map and list. "I look forward to refreshing my orienteering skills next."

"No wonder this map was complimentary." Rob's face was a twisted mask of distaste. "It's a piece of garbage. Right on the bottom in miniature font it says the map isn't to scale, which makes it as practical as a compass that doesn't point north. I designed better maps of hiking trails my first year at sleep-away camp, and I'd just graduated first grade. I wasn't a genius at cartography by any stretch of the imagination, but at least I attempted a scale. It wasn't very accurately measured, but it sure as heck was better than nothing."

"This map has attractive little icons to compensate for the lack of scale." Mark grinned. "Look, it's got tiny knives and forks designating all the restaurants. No, on closer investigation, only some of the restaurants are marked with those helpful little icons."

"Whoever designed this map unquestionably had their priorities straight." All derision, Rob sneered. "Who cares if, based on the non-existent scale on the map, people can't tell whether they're about to bump into a café upon rounding a corner or if they're going to wander the streets for eternity before finding somewhere to eat, as long as some of the restaurants are accompanied by cute icons? Oh, and if you're going to use icons to mark restaurants, you should darn well do that all the time, not just when you feel like it."

"There was probably some logic to the seeming madness of which restaurants earned an icon and which didn't," speculated Mark. "I'd bet a pretty penny that all the restaurants with icons paid the hotel extra for the privilege."

"At an establishment like this, classy marketing like that wouldn't surprise me." Rob rolled his eyes, and then continued, grabbing a hotel pen from a cup on the table and sketching a grid on the map as he spoke, "I'm going to try to make this map more useful than the cartographers who designed it ever could. If I draw four lines vertically on the page, I can label them A,B,C, and D. Then I can draw four lines horizontally, and label them 1,2,3, and 4. Now I have a grid with sixteen sections. We can plug in the address of each church as a data point on our grid—"

"Then we can see where the points cluster, and that will tell us which areas we should target our search on," finished Mark, sensing where his friend was headed with this idea, and rather impressed by Rob's methodical problem-solving. "That way we don't waste any time and energy."

"Exactly." Rob gave the satisfied smirk he often did when someone appreciated his brilliance. "Now, if you wouldn't mind reading me the names and addresses of each of the churches, I can plot each one on our grid, recording its initials and street number for quick reference."

"No problem." Mark swiftly scanned the list of churches. "You'll be happy to know that, apart from the Catholic church, there are only six churches in Lake Placid."

Once Rob had finished graphing on their modified map the names and addresses Mark reeled off from the list, Rob examined their grid for a moment and then announced, "How convenient. Two churches, a Baptist and a Methodist, are located in B2. One, a Pentecostal, is located in C2. Two churches, a Lutheran and an Episcopalian, are in C3. One church, a Presbyterian, is in B3. Basically, that limits our search to four parts of the map."

"I'll look at the churches in B2 and C2," said Mark, studying the distance between data points on the grid. "Meanwhile, you can search the churches in B3 and C3. We'll meet in the town square, which is on the axis between B2, C2, C3, and B3 when we're done with our explorations. We'll report there on any leads we should investigate together or bring the tree if we have managed to recover it. If we haven't found anything, we'll buy some dinner and then return to the hotel so we can rest and be rejuvenated for tomorrow."

"Sounds like we've got the marching orders for our battle plan." Rob ripped the map in half horizontally and handed Mark the piece with B2 and C2. "Here's the map to the area you need to search. See you in about an hour, unless the map's terrible lack of scale gets either of us in trouble."

Mark's portion of the investigation turned out to be the epitome of futile. The Baptist church, showing the denomination's characteristic aversion for iconography, had no Nativity whatsoever either inside or outside the church doors. The Methodist one had a very simple Nativity by the altar, but it was immediately obvious that no Christmas tree was lurking inside it. Finally, the Pentecostal church had a rather gaudy Nativity on its lawn, but no Christmas tree was part of its ostentation.

Swallowing his disappointment, Mark headed over to the town square, where he slid onto a bench, passing the time while he waited for Rob to arrive by watching a horde of squealing children hop exuberantly into the gigantic sleigh in the center of the square. Seeing them crack the reins as they urged the fake reindeer attached to the sleigh to fly faster and higher, Mark reflected that he missed being that young and free. He wished that these laughing boys and girls never stopped believing in flying reindeer and Santa Claus…

"Let me guess." Rob's crisp vice cut into Mark's musings as his roommate sat down alongside him. "You found nothing, Sherlock."

"Yep." Mark bobbed his head in confirmation. "That just about sums up the dazzling results of my investigation. What about you, Watson? What did you learn?"

"The Lutherans had a quite attractive Nativity, the Episcopalians a very traditional one as if they were trying to be even more formal than the Catholics, and the Presbyterians had an extremely plain one" reported Rob. "None of them had a single Christmas tree, nonetheless one that resembled ours. What a sad oversight by all those church decoration committees."

"Well, at least we'll get to enjoy some New York pizza." Bracingly, Mark pointed at a pizzeria on the opposite side of the square. "They say New York pizza is the best in the country, and I'm sure tomorrow we'll come up with another way of interpreting our new clue. This is only the beginning, not the end, of our search."

"Right." Rob rose and strode toward the pizzeria. "We're definitely going to figure this out. Dad always says that if you work hard and don't stop using your brain, you'll out-think about ninety-eight percent of the population, because a vast majority of people are intellectually lazy, and that's a big reason why America is in such dire financial straits."

"What about the other two percent of the population?" asked Mark, lifting an eyebrow and noting inwardly that this sounded exactly like the advice a lawyer would give his son. No wonder Rob made almost anyone seem lazy by comparison.

"That's the two percent of people who are born smarter than you and work harder than you. They're the one who will cackle gleefully as they trample over you and your ambitions." Rob's mouth pressed into a grim line as they entered the doughy-smelling pizzeria. "Fortunately, neither Rizzo nor Silky are bright enough to be in that group. Verchota and Baker, quick studies that they are, could certainly outsmart us if they put their minds to it, but, honestly, Rizzo and Silky combined don't have the brains of one of us, Mark, so we're totally going to win our war against them."