Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (7/16)
Feb. 12th, 2008 07:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwendolyngraceTitle: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 7/16)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gwendolyngrace
Recipient:celtic_cookie
Request terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,240
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: As you may have guessed from the definitive /16 up there, the rough draft is complete and it’s just a matter of typing in the last two chapters, cleaning it up, and getting it to (and back from) the betas. Speaking of which,etakyma gets the nod for this chapter. Sorry it took so long, but she is the bestest beta anyone could have and I had to wait for her. She won’t let me post anything too embarrassing.
From the Top
Then
Dean assured him he’d be fine alone, and since he hadn’t lost his breakfast like his last three meals, John acquiesced and rushed to make his Macy’s shift at 9:00. He planned to check in at the Workshop to make sure he was clear for Saturday’s gig, and to look around, maybe interview some of the people he’d profiled the night before.
Of all the employees at the Workshop, there were three whose ages fit Jane Kimmel’s description and another two who John thought could be the culprit. As to what kind of culprit, he still hadn’t ruled out some kind of trickster or possessed object, but his money was on ghost. Nine times out of ten in this calling, he found, the answer was restless spirit.
He got through four hours of Santahood fairly unscathed. Most schools were still in session, so the only kids around during the morning on a Thursday were either very small, propelled around in their strollers by their mothers, or went to one of the handful of private schools already on break. One of the inner city schools actually brought a busload of kids in as a field trip, but otherwise it was quiet. When his shift was over, he changed into mufti and strolled down to the North Pole for a look. It was quiet there, too, so John went on to the manager’s office and knocked.
“Yeah,” the voice on the other side of the door called.
“Mr. Olohan?” John said into the door. “It’s John Winchester. I thought it might be a good idea to look around before Saturday. Figure it’ll be crowded and I don’t want any kids to figure out that Santa doesn’t know where he keeps his reindeer.”
The door opened. Lyle let go of the knob and walked back to his desk, looking as if he hadn’t slept. “Winchester? Oh, yeah—I was gonna call you anyway to give you shift assignments up to Christmas.”
“Right.”
Lyle pawed through an In-tray and produced a dot matrix-printed calendar page. He handed it over. “Gonna get busy over there soon.”
“I’ll have to leave before then; pick up my kid at school.” And try again to have a reasoned conversation with that excitable teacher of his, John added to himself.
Lyle grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he copied out his shifts, John asked casually, “Rough night?”
Lyle lit up a cigarette. “You don’t even know. The cops are keeping it quiet. Don’t want to put a damper on the holiday traffic.”
“What? Keeping what quiet?”
“We had another…incident last night. The company, the cops, they don’t want me to tell anyone, but I figure…I gotta be straight with my employees. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair not to give you a chance to back out if you want.”
“Why would I do that?” John prompted, head cocked.
“Because…last night, Jake Tarlin was killed.”
“Killed?” John repeated. The name meant nothing, but still: Killed. Fuck.
“Yeah. Accidental death, the coroner called it. Happened late last night; we were here for hours to get it cleaned up before the mall opened at eight.”
“What happened—or do you know yet?”
“Oh, we know,” Lyle dragged on his smoke, played nervously with his lighter. “Jake was one of our electricians. He came in after hours to fix one of the animatronic displays: a skater that got caught on her track. There must have been a short or something. Security guard didn’t see it on camera, I don’t know why; they found him on their walkthrough around 1:00, and by then, he was gone.”
“Damn. I’m sorry,” John said sincerely. “How’s the guard doing?”
“Jerry? He’s shook up—can’t blame him. The mall gave him the night off tonight, and I can’t blame them, either.”
“Jerry…that would be Jerry Haskins?” John made up a name the spot.
“No…Jerry North. I don’t know a Jerry Haskins—does he work for Macy’s?”
“Uh, I guess.” John smiled sheepishly. “Well, like you said, it was an accident.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me which skater—I’ll be sure to avoid it,” John said with a macabre grimace.
“Hell, you and everyone else. Now Gina’s on the phone asking me if I’ve heard a rumor we’re cursed. Or haunted, or something. I mean, shit. And no one will come out and fix the damn thing—too shook up about Jake, worried they’ll get a fatal zap.”
“Hm. Well, I’m not superstitious. Electronics aren’t my thing. I’m more of a mechanic. But maybe I could take a look at it.”
“Listen, I appreciate the offer, but the unions in this county will drive me crazy. Anyway, I’ll walk you down there so no one thinks you’re a pervert.”
“Thanks. Could I use your phone for a brief call, before we go?” John asked.
“There’s one in the outer office,” Lyle volunteered.
“Give me a minute, then,” John said. He went out to the desk set up outside Lyle’s office. John guessed there was ordinarily a secretary at the station. He looked up the number, dialed, let it ring once, and then pressed down on the cradle. He dialed a second time and let it ring.
“Dad?”
“Hey, tiger. How’re you feeling?”
“Better,” Dean said. He still sounded chesty and a little stuffed up. John could hear the television in the background.
“Eat anything?”
“Made some chicken and stars. So far so good.”
“Good. Can you hang in there until I get back with Sammy?”
“I’m okay, Dad. Really.”
“Don’t push it, dude. I want you to rest so you can get back to school tomorrow.” He felt, almost more than heard, Dean’s groan. “Yeah, I know, buddy, but if you’re fine, then you gotta go back.”
Dean coughed. “Uh…I think—”cough—“I think I’m having a relapse….”
John laughed. “Nice try. Now I know you’re feeling better. I’ll be home in a couple hours.” He hung up and knocked on Lyle’s door to let him know he was ready to go.
Lyle took him first to the mall services area adjacent to his office where the punch clock and locker rooms were. “You get five minutes from when you punch in to sign in at the Kitchen,” Lyle explained, “And same in reverse.”
Next, they walked to the Kitchen itself, where Lyle introduced him to a teenaged boy with mild acne. “Simon, this is John. He’s starting as Santa in a couple days.”
“Barely two weeks out—that’s cutting it close to Christmas, Mr. O?”
“He’s on loan; been working at Macy’s.”
“Ah. Ready for the bigtime, then?” Simon grinned, holding out his hand for a handshake.
“Well, at least for the freak show,” John answered, clasping the kid’s hand firmly.
Simon laughed. “Keep that sense of humor—you’ll need it. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
Simon was a senior in high school, John learned, planning to go to Northwestern or Notre Dame if accepted, state school if not. He introduced John to another boy in his senior year, a young brunette with a two-year-old daughter and a husband in the service, and Ellie, a blonde sophomore at UM. In a clear effort to impress Ellie, Simon made sure to mention that Lyle had specifically asked him to show John the ropes.
“That’s because you scare the kids, Simon,” Ellie told him, “so what else are you good for?” She got up from the break table in Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen and threw out her Styrofoam salad bowl.
“She…she can’t get enough of me,” Simon said to John apologetically.
“So I see,” John commented. Ellie was one of his three prime suspects.
The kitchen door opened again and another young lady came in. She was also blonde, but on closer inspection John saw she wasn’t a coed—more like in her late 20’s. Still, from a distance, and to a casual observer, she could have been the person Jane saw. Simon introduced her as Kate Pasternak—someone he’d left off his short list. John realized he might have more interviewing to do than he thought at first. A lot more.
“So, Kate, is this your first year doing this? Forgive me, but it seems more the college student gig.”
She smiled. “I’m a grad student, so basically the same thing. But no, actually, this is my first season. You want to talk to a veteran, that would be Stacy.”
“Stacy?” He’d seen the name, but didn’t remember anything about her.
“Stacy Lefford. She usually works the end of the line, either talking to the kids ahead of their Santa visit or getting them their candy afterwards. She’s really good.”
“Natural saleswoman?”
“Hardly. I think she wants to be a pediatrician. Me, I’m doing my dissertation on seasonal labor practices and my advisor and I feel strongly about first-hand fieldwork.”
“Oh? And what have you learned so far?”
“Retail’s way worse than landscaping.”
John laughed. “How about the quality of this operation?”
“Well, Lyle’s good, as far as managers go.” She crossed to a mini-fridge and pulled out a Tupperware container. “And sometimes it’s really cool to see a kid light up when he gets to meet ‘Santa.’ But mostly? Customers of any kind suck.”
“From what I hear, customers around here have a chance of getting hurt.”
She frowned. “Hey, Simon, will you go back out and give Doris a break? I think she’s about to tell some unlucky, innocent kid he’s getting coal this year.”
Simon looked a little upset at being sent away so obviously, but John could see that it also occurred to him that he could talk to Ellie again if he left.
“You okay here, John?” he asked. Whether he was hoping to be kept or cut loose, John couldn’t say.
“Fine, son, go on.” Thus twice dismissed, Simon walked out. The bells on his elf suit jingled lightly as he moved.
John watched Kate expectantly. She popped the top off her container and put it into the microwave. Once she’d programmed it, she drew a deep breath and launched into her next statement: “I figured it was only a matter of time before they assigned someone here.”
“Who?”
“The cops. Or the company. What are you, a detective? An agent? Is Lyle finally taking this seriously?”
“Sweetheart, I’m just curious what I’m getting into. It’s hard to ignore the rash of accidents this place has been having.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I think if the cops aren’t going to detail someone to this case, Lyle ought to. And he did, didn’t he?” The microwave beeped; she checked her dish and put it back in to cook more. “Stacy and I have been talking about how long it would take. Okay, I get it, you’re undercover, but I can help. I can keep a secret.”
John’s opinion on that—and her poker face—was decidedly uncomplimentary. But he said nothing. It could be a trick, if Kate were tied up somehow with the problem. On the other hand, when the universe handed over a giant, steaming platter of intel, it was worse than stupid not to look it over.
“Honey, you’ve got an overactive imagination. I’m not a cop. The incidents have been a run of bad luck. Nothing the FBI would be interested in, whether you think Roswell was real or not.”
She crossed her arms, proffering a look that rivaled Sammy’s best pre-tantrum bitch imitation.
“Look, I bet if you think about it, every one of these incidents can be explained by something. No conspiracies need apply. Take the thing that happened two days ago—that woman who broke her leg? Were you here then?”
“Yes…I was working.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait—you were there, too!”
“Yeah, I dropped by. I’d just been hired by Lyle and I walked past on my way to my other job,” John admitted, glad to inject a little truth for effect.
“Two retail jobs during the holidays? Are you some kind of masochist?”
John smiled wryly. “So what did you see that day?” he prompted.
The microwave signaled its completion again. She turned and opened the door, letting the steam clear. The smell of leftover lasagna filled the room. “Well…I was working the line over by the reindeer. It was busy and there was one kid who wouldn’t smile no matter what the photographer did. It was holding things up a lot. I was trying to help keep the line occupied. Cindy was trying to help the photographer with the kid. That’s Stacy’s usual job, but she was off that day. Cindy’s not as good at it. Neither’s poor Doris. And Bob, of course—he was playing Santa that afternoon.” She pulled the dish out with her fingertips and let it land lightly on the countertop. “I heard the scream first, then turned and saw that the end of the line was missing, like everyone had knelt or sat down. Then the little kid on Bob’s lap really started crying. He was screaming for his mom. Bob put him down and the little boy ran toward the crowd, and that’s when I saw that his mother was the person who’d fallen. Cindy came over with him and I followed her. You were kneeling over her—I thought you were her husband, actually.”
John nodded. “So you didn’t actually see it happen?”
“No…did you?”
“And just before it happened, you hadn’t….taken a short cut through the display or anything?”
“Nope, I’d been glued to my station. Did you see what happened?”
“I’d just gotten up to leave,” John admitted. “But I talked to the woman. She was distracted, tripped on the ropes. That’s all.” He pushed to his feet. “Well, I gotta go or I’ll be late for my next appointment. Nice to meet you.”
“See you,” she said, sitting down over her micro-meal. She was still clearly suspicious, but John couldn’t help that now. “Hey, John?” she called before he’d stepped through the door.
“Yes?”
“I still say your secret’s safe with me. And if there’s anyone to suspect of playing pranks around here, it’s Andy Miller.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s one of the elves on the line at the entrance. Usually works evenings.”
“Why’s that?” John asked.
“He’s a frat brother down in Ann Arbor—has a really warped sense of humor. Plus? He’s running a betting pool for the custodians on when the next injury will hit.”
John let the door close while still on Kate’s side of it. He decided to let her think what she thought. It might even help, if the other employees decided he was investigating. He was sure Kate would gossip. At best, it’d make people freer with their information. At worst, it might flush the creature causing the disturbances. “Did Lyle tell you about the latest accident?”
“That poor electrician? Yeah. He made an announcement before the shift started. And the little prick still doesn’t plan to shut his sideline business down.”
“Hm. Good to know.” John made his exit.
~*~
Truth be told, John had about ten minutes before he absolutely had to leave, but between anticipating cleaning off the car and wanting to catch Miss Fly-off-the-handle Johnson, he didn’t want to be late. He parked in the lot behind Jerome Elementary and came through the rear entrance just as the final bell rang. He stopped on the second floor to collect Sam, or at least stop him from waiting at the front. He’d send him down the rear stairs to wait while John talked to the teacher.
But when he waded through the shallow tide of children grabbing their possessions, he didn’t see Sam among them. He went on to room 224, Sam’s classroom. Maybe he’d stayed behind—he had been known to volunteer to do small chores for teachers he liked. John couldn’t remember if Sam had said he liked this teacher or not. Though he usually didn’t flake out when he knew his father was picking him up; it was more of a complaint of Dean’s to not find Sam where Sam was supposed to be.
Sam was in his classroom, but to John’s surprise, he was hard at work at one of the easels around the edge of the room. Sam’s primary teacher was standing beside her desk. John recalled on seeing her that her name was Mrs. Farnsworth. An older woman was speaking to her in hushed tones. They looked up when John came in.
“Sam, move out, buddy,” John said, sharp enough to get his son’s attention, but not so harshly as to alarm the instructors.
“Mr. Winchester, what a coincidence,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.
“Mr. Winchester?” said the second woman. She was about ten years older, as well as stockier and taller than Mrs. Farnsworth. “We haven’t met. I’m Sylvia Penn, Sam’s art teacher.” Ms. Penn moved into Sam’s path to John.
“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” She gestured outside to the hallway.
John looked at her for a few seconds, then beyond her to Sam. “Sammy?” he asked expectantly.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir,” Sam said obstinately. His back was straight and he held his father’s eye.
John’s eyes flicked back to the art teacher. She bent her elbow and extended her forearm again, open palmed, in an insistent directive.
“Sit tight, Sammy,” John told Sam with a reassuring nod. He turned and let Ms. Penn follow him. When she came out, she held a piece of paper low against her torso.
“What seems to be the problem?” John asked mildly, temper in check. Sam’s steady gaze was enough to tell him that Sam was telling the truth, as far as he was concerned. More than once with both boys, John had found that misunderstandings usually arose because his house rules weren’t shared by the average red-blooded American nuclear family. Whenever possible, he preferred to interrogate his sons before confronting their teachers. Then again, he thought ruefully, he thought he had got the story from Sam about the pageant, and clearly there was still some confusion with Miss Johnson. He braced himself for yet another adventure in parenting.
“It’s Sam’s art project.”
John had positioned himself facing the classroom door, so that he could see through the lined glass window into the room. He looked at Sam, who stood at parade rest, in what looked like a silent battle of wills with Mrs. Farnsworth, while he waited patiently for his father to tell his teacher to stick it. Yeah, he thought, this is going to be good.
“Sam did his homework last night. I saw him do it. Didn’t he turn it in?”
“He did,” she admitted uncomfortably.
“Well, then—”
“It was unacceptable.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I don’t un—”
“Mr. Winchester, did you…review Sam’s picture?”
John crossed his arms. “You asked him for a picture; he gave you a picture. He’s seven, Ms. Penn—how challenging was this assignment, if he couldn’t execute it within your parameters?”
“Perhaps it’ll make more sense if you see it for yourself.”
Ms. Penn held out the paper for John. He snatched it and flipped it over. He saw the car first, dominating the left side of the page…then Dean and Sam’s names on top and two figures below…and started laughing. “Something you do…in the snow!” He rocked on his heels, laughing heartily. “Ms. Penn…I think…heh…you got what…you asked for.”
“This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Winchester.”
“Oh, honey, I disagree. That’s exactly what it is. Come on, how many times have you given this particular assignment?”
“Many.” Since she looked like she could have been teaching when Nixon was in, he believed her.
“And you’ve never had another kid come up with something like this before?” John sighed, laughter back under control, though he was still grinning widely. “He’s a seven-year-old boy, Ms Penn, with a brother four years older than he is. This? This is right up there with Don’t Eat Yellow Snow.”
Ms. Penn finally cracked something like a smile, but she covered it up quickly. “Just what would make Sam think this is a regular occurrence, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a regular occurrence. But.” John studied the drawing again. He rubbed his chin. “We…take road trips quite a lot. You know how boys are. Once in a while it’s a long way before there’s a good rest stop.” He delivered the explanation with measured calm; the last thing he needed was any suspicion about the Winchester household. “Anyway, I don’t think the instructions said it had to be a common activity.” He gave her a half-smile again.
“Be that as it may, the children’s pictures were to be used as decorations for our end-of-term pageant, so you can see that it just won’t do.”
That turned John’s smile upside-down. The pageant and the unfinished conversation with Miss Johnson was why he’d come in this afternoon, but he wasn’t about to let Ms. Penn know that he had yet another unscheduled conference to attend today. “Okay. Other than redrawing the picture is there any disciplinary issue here?”
Ms. Penn sighed. “His assignment wasn’t completed for class. His replacement will be considered late and it’s ineligible for a hundred percent mark.”
“His assignment was completed; you weren’t precise in your directions.” Her eyes flashed for a second but dropped when she saw John’s glare. “Face it, Ms. Penn, you opened the door on this one. All right—” he held up a capitulating palm—“he should draw another picture with something more appropriate. But the original drawing met the requested criteria and was turned in on time—so this second drawing counts as extra credit, not a makeup assignment. Deal?”
Ms. Penn looked like she’d rather suck a lemon. “Fine,” she said.
“And his first assignment gets full marks,” John added. “Creativity if nothing else.” He winked.
Ms. Penn finally smiled. “All right—just give his homework a once-over from now on, if he’s apt to use similar subject matter.”
“He’s seven,” John repeated with a snort. He stepped around her and went back inside. “Hey, Sammy,” he said gently.
“I didn’t do—”
“Easy, buddy,” John said, clapping Sam’s shoulder. “Your drawing’s just not the kind of thing Ms. Penn was expecting. You can draw her a new picture tonight—we’ll keep this one, okay?”
“Yessir.”
John folded Sam’s original masterpiece and put it in his coat pocket. “Okay—you work on that and I’ll be back in a few minutes, dude.”
One down, one to go, he thought.
But Miss Johnson’s classroom was locked. Biting back a curse, John headed back down to the second floor and cut up the middle hallway to the upper entrance to the auditorium. Sure enough, the pageant was in rehearsal, though it seemed that the kids up on stage were a bit older than Sam. He saw Miss Johnson down in front, sitting with two other teachers. He walked down from the top bleachers toward the stage. When he reached the row behind her seat, he turned into it and walked up to her. He cleared his throat to announce himself. “Miss Johnson?”
Even with his telegraphed approach, she jumped. “Mr. Winchester! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” she said when she’d recovered.
“I thought we could start over, maybe calmly this time,” John requested. “Do you have a minute?”
Miss Johnson looked at her companions. “If I’m not back in time, let the first graders go,” she told them, then rose and followed John out of the lower doors.
He squared off in front of her so that she couldn’t see into the auditorium. “Okay…so, I’m just going to pretend that we were in the Twilight Zone this morning, because I’m still a little confused. See, Sam never told me there was a holiday pageant.”
“Yes, I’m sure he didn’t, knowing how you’d feel about it.”
“Huh?”
“Well, how upset you’d be.”
“Up…set?” John frowned. Sam knew better than to joke or even hint at potentially dangerous domestic issues.
“Well, that he was included. But as I thought I explained this morning, we corrected the error. Though I do wish you’d reconsider. I don’t mean to interfere or anything, Mr. Winchester, but…especially when students come in so late in a term, it’s so important that they interact with their classmates in all aspects of the program.”
“So I’ve been told,” John agreed. “So then why—”
She drew an excited breath. “Perhaps you’d willing to see the section his class is presenting? You could determine for yourself whether it would pose a conflict of interest.”
It was one thing to sit through the efforts of four dozen seven- and eight-year-olds when one of them was his progeny; it was quite another matter to do it in order to evaluate their content and quality.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said blandly.
Miss Johnson’s face withered. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply…of course. I’m sorry—that was insensitive. Well, if I can’t convince you, then that’s that.” She smiled wanly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should get back in there. The children get so confused if we do things out of order.”
For the second time that day, John watched Miss Johnson walk away from him and felt as if he’d been boondoggled…and not by her.
Continue to Chapter 8
Author:
gwendolyngraceRecipient:
celtic_cookieRequest terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,240
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: As you may have guessed from the definitive /16 up there, the rough draft is complete and it’s just a matter of typing in the last two chapters, cleaning it up, and getting it to (and back from) the betas. Speaking of which,
etakyma gets the nod for this chapter. Sorry it took so long, but she is the bestest beta anyone could have and I had to wait for her. She won’t let me post anything too embarrassing. From the Top
Then
Dean assured him he’d be fine alone, and since he hadn’t lost his breakfast like his last three meals, John acquiesced and rushed to make his Macy’s shift at 9:00. He planned to check in at the Workshop to make sure he was clear for Saturday’s gig, and to look around, maybe interview some of the people he’d profiled the night before.
Of all the employees at the Workshop, there were three whose ages fit Jane Kimmel’s description and another two who John thought could be the culprit. As to what kind of culprit, he still hadn’t ruled out some kind of trickster or possessed object, but his money was on ghost. Nine times out of ten in this calling, he found, the answer was restless spirit.
He got through four hours of Santahood fairly unscathed. Most schools were still in session, so the only kids around during the morning on a Thursday were either very small, propelled around in their strollers by their mothers, or went to one of the handful of private schools already on break. One of the inner city schools actually brought a busload of kids in as a field trip, but otherwise it was quiet. When his shift was over, he changed into mufti and strolled down to the North Pole for a look. It was quiet there, too, so John went on to the manager’s office and knocked.
“Yeah,” the voice on the other side of the door called.
“Mr. Olohan?” John said into the door. “It’s John Winchester. I thought it might be a good idea to look around before Saturday. Figure it’ll be crowded and I don’t want any kids to figure out that Santa doesn’t know where he keeps his reindeer.”
The door opened. Lyle let go of the knob and walked back to his desk, looking as if he hadn’t slept. “Winchester? Oh, yeah—I was gonna call you anyway to give you shift assignments up to Christmas.”
“Right.”
Lyle pawed through an In-tray and produced a dot matrix-printed calendar page. He handed it over. “Gonna get busy over there soon.”
“I’ll have to leave before then; pick up my kid at school.” And try again to have a reasoned conversation with that excitable teacher of his, John added to himself.
Lyle grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he copied out his shifts, John asked casually, “Rough night?”
Lyle lit up a cigarette. “You don’t even know. The cops are keeping it quiet. Don’t want to put a damper on the holiday traffic.”
“What? Keeping what quiet?”
“We had another…incident last night. The company, the cops, they don’t want me to tell anyone, but I figure…I gotta be straight with my employees. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair not to give you a chance to back out if you want.”
“Why would I do that?” John prompted, head cocked.
“Because…last night, Jake Tarlin was killed.”
“Killed?” John repeated. The name meant nothing, but still: Killed. Fuck.
“Yeah. Accidental death, the coroner called it. Happened late last night; we were here for hours to get it cleaned up before the mall opened at eight.”
“What happened—or do you know yet?”
“Oh, we know,” Lyle dragged on his smoke, played nervously with his lighter. “Jake was one of our electricians. He came in after hours to fix one of the animatronic displays: a skater that got caught on her track. There must have been a short or something. Security guard didn’t see it on camera, I don’t know why; they found him on their walkthrough around 1:00, and by then, he was gone.”
“Damn. I’m sorry,” John said sincerely. “How’s the guard doing?”
“Jerry? He’s shook up—can’t blame him. The mall gave him the night off tonight, and I can’t blame them, either.”
“Jerry…that would be Jerry Haskins?” John made up a name the spot.
“No…Jerry North. I don’t know a Jerry Haskins—does he work for Macy’s?”
“Uh, I guess.” John smiled sheepishly. “Well, like you said, it was an accident.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me which skater—I’ll be sure to avoid it,” John said with a macabre grimace.
“Hell, you and everyone else. Now Gina’s on the phone asking me if I’ve heard a rumor we’re cursed. Or haunted, or something. I mean, shit. And no one will come out and fix the damn thing—too shook up about Jake, worried they’ll get a fatal zap.”
“Hm. Well, I’m not superstitious. Electronics aren’t my thing. I’m more of a mechanic. But maybe I could take a look at it.”
“Listen, I appreciate the offer, but the unions in this county will drive me crazy. Anyway, I’ll walk you down there so no one thinks you’re a pervert.”
“Thanks. Could I use your phone for a brief call, before we go?” John asked.
“There’s one in the outer office,” Lyle volunteered.
“Give me a minute, then,” John said. He went out to the desk set up outside Lyle’s office. John guessed there was ordinarily a secretary at the station. He looked up the number, dialed, let it ring once, and then pressed down on the cradle. He dialed a second time and let it ring.
“Dad?”
“Hey, tiger. How’re you feeling?”
“Better,” Dean said. He still sounded chesty and a little stuffed up. John could hear the television in the background.
“Eat anything?”
“Made some chicken and stars. So far so good.”
“Good. Can you hang in there until I get back with Sammy?”
“I’m okay, Dad. Really.”
“Don’t push it, dude. I want you to rest so you can get back to school tomorrow.” He felt, almost more than heard, Dean’s groan. “Yeah, I know, buddy, but if you’re fine, then you gotta go back.”
Dean coughed. “Uh…I think—”cough—“I think I’m having a relapse….”
John laughed. “Nice try. Now I know you’re feeling better. I’ll be home in a couple hours.” He hung up and knocked on Lyle’s door to let him know he was ready to go.
Lyle took him first to the mall services area adjacent to his office where the punch clock and locker rooms were. “You get five minutes from when you punch in to sign in at the Kitchen,” Lyle explained, “And same in reverse.”
Next, they walked to the Kitchen itself, where Lyle introduced him to a teenaged boy with mild acne. “Simon, this is John. He’s starting as Santa in a couple days.”
“Barely two weeks out—that’s cutting it close to Christmas, Mr. O?”
“He’s on loan; been working at Macy’s.”
“Ah. Ready for the bigtime, then?” Simon grinned, holding out his hand for a handshake.
“Well, at least for the freak show,” John answered, clasping the kid’s hand firmly.
Simon laughed. “Keep that sense of humor—you’ll need it. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
Simon was a senior in high school, John learned, planning to go to Northwestern or Notre Dame if accepted, state school if not. He introduced John to another boy in his senior year, a young brunette with a two-year-old daughter and a husband in the service, and Ellie, a blonde sophomore at UM. In a clear effort to impress Ellie, Simon made sure to mention that Lyle had specifically asked him to show John the ropes.
“That’s because you scare the kids, Simon,” Ellie told him, “so what else are you good for?” She got up from the break table in Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen and threw out her Styrofoam salad bowl.
“She…she can’t get enough of me,” Simon said to John apologetically.
“So I see,” John commented. Ellie was one of his three prime suspects.
The kitchen door opened again and another young lady came in. She was also blonde, but on closer inspection John saw she wasn’t a coed—more like in her late 20’s. Still, from a distance, and to a casual observer, she could have been the person Jane saw. Simon introduced her as Kate Pasternak—someone he’d left off his short list. John realized he might have more interviewing to do than he thought at first. A lot more.
“So, Kate, is this your first year doing this? Forgive me, but it seems more the college student gig.”
She smiled. “I’m a grad student, so basically the same thing. But no, actually, this is my first season. You want to talk to a veteran, that would be Stacy.”
“Stacy?” He’d seen the name, but didn’t remember anything about her.
“Stacy Lefford. She usually works the end of the line, either talking to the kids ahead of their Santa visit or getting them their candy afterwards. She’s really good.”
“Natural saleswoman?”
“Hardly. I think she wants to be a pediatrician. Me, I’m doing my dissertation on seasonal labor practices and my advisor and I feel strongly about first-hand fieldwork.”
“Oh? And what have you learned so far?”
“Retail’s way worse than landscaping.”
John laughed. “How about the quality of this operation?”
“Well, Lyle’s good, as far as managers go.” She crossed to a mini-fridge and pulled out a Tupperware container. “And sometimes it’s really cool to see a kid light up when he gets to meet ‘Santa.’ But mostly? Customers of any kind suck.”
“From what I hear, customers around here have a chance of getting hurt.”
She frowned. “Hey, Simon, will you go back out and give Doris a break? I think she’s about to tell some unlucky, innocent kid he’s getting coal this year.”
Simon looked a little upset at being sent away so obviously, but John could see that it also occurred to him that he could talk to Ellie again if he left.
“You okay here, John?” he asked. Whether he was hoping to be kept or cut loose, John couldn’t say.
“Fine, son, go on.” Thus twice dismissed, Simon walked out. The bells on his elf suit jingled lightly as he moved.
John watched Kate expectantly. She popped the top off her container and put it into the microwave. Once she’d programmed it, she drew a deep breath and launched into her next statement: “I figured it was only a matter of time before they assigned someone here.”
“Who?”
“The cops. Or the company. What are you, a detective? An agent? Is Lyle finally taking this seriously?”
“Sweetheart, I’m just curious what I’m getting into. It’s hard to ignore the rash of accidents this place has been having.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I think if the cops aren’t going to detail someone to this case, Lyle ought to. And he did, didn’t he?” The microwave beeped; she checked her dish and put it back in to cook more. “Stacy and I have been talking about how long it would take. Okay, I get it, you’re undercover, but I can help. I can keep a secret.”
John’s opinion on that—and her poker face—was decidedly uncomplimentary. But he said nothing. It could be a trick, if Kate were tied up somehow with the problem. On the other hand, when the universe handed over a giant, steaming platter of intel, it was worse than stupid not to look it over.
“Honey, you’ve got an overactive imagination. I’m not a cop. The incidents have been a run of bad luck. Nothing the FBI would be interested in, whether you think Roswell was real or not.”
She crossed her arms, proffering a look that rivaled Sammy’s best pre-tantrum bitch imitation.
“Look, I bet if you think about it, every one of these incidents can be explained by something. No conspiracies need apply. Take the thing that happened two days ago—that woman who broke her leg? Were you here then?”
“Yes…I was working.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait—you were there, too!”
“Yeah, I dropped by. I’d just been hired by Lyle and I walked past on my way to my other job,” John admitted, glad to inject a little truth for effect.
“Two retail jobs during the holidays? Are you some kind of masochist?”
John smiled wryly. “So what did you see that day?” he prompted.
The microwave signaled its completion again. She turned and opened the door, letting the steam clear. The smell of leftover lasagna filled the room. “Well…I was working the line over by the reindeer. It was busy and there was one kid who wouldn’t smile no matter what the photographer did. It was holding things up a lot. I was trying to help keep the line occupied. Cindy was trying to help the photographer with the kid. That’s Stacy’s usual job, but she was off that day. Cindy’s not as good at it. Neither’s poor Doris. And Bob, of course—he was playing Santa that afternoon.” She pulled the dish out with her fingertips and let it land lightly on the countertop. “I heard the scream first, then turned and saw that the end of the line was missing, like everyone had knelt or sat down. Then the little kid on Bob’s lap really started crying. He was screaming for his mom. Bob put him down and the little boy ran toward the crowd, and that’s when I saw that his mother was the person who’d fallen. Cindy came over with him and I followed her. You were kneeling over her—I thought you were her husband, actually.”
John nodded. “So you didn’t actually see it happen?”
“No…did you?”
“And just before it happened, you hadn’t….taken a short cut through the display or anything?”
“Nope, I’d been glued to my station. Did you see what happened?”
“I’d just gotten up to leave,” John admitted. “But I talked to the woman. She was distracted, tripped on the ropes. That’s all.” He pushed to his feet. “Well, I gotta go or I’ll be late for my next appointment. Nice to meet you.”
“See you,” she said, sitting down over her micro-meal. She was still clearly suspicious, but John couldn’t help that now. “Hey, John?” she called before he’d stepped through the door.
“Yes?”
“I still say your secret’s safe with me. And if there’s anyone to suspect of playing pranks around here, it’s Andy Miller.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s one of the elves on the line at the entrance. Usually works evenings.”
“Why’s that?” John asked.
“He’s a frat brother down in Ann Arbor—has a really warped sense of humor. Plus? He’s running a betting pool for the custodians on when the next injury will hit.”
John let the door close while still on Kate’s side of it. He decided to let her think what she thought. It might even help, if the other employees decided he was investigating. He was sure Kate would gossip. At best, it’d make people freer with their information. At worst, it might flush the creature causing the disturbances. “Did Lyle tell you about the latest accident?”
“That poor electrician? Yeah. He made an announcement before the shift started. And the little prick still doesn’t plan to shut his sideline business down.”
“Hm. Good to know.” John made his exit.
~*~
Truth be told, John had about ten minutes before he absolutely had to leave, but between anticipating cleaning off the car and wanting to catch Miss Fly-off-the-handle Johnson, he didn’t want to be late. He parked in the lot behind Jerome Elementary and came through the rear entrance just as the final bell rang. He stopped on the second floor to collect Sam, or at least stop him from waiting at the front. He’d send him down the rear stairs to wait while John talked to the teacher.
But when he waded through the shallow tide of children grabbing their possessions, he didn’t see Sam among them. He went on to room 224, Sam’s classroom. Maybe he’d stayed behind—he had been known to volunteer to do small chores for teachers he liked. John couldn’t remember if Sam had said he liked this teacher or not. Though he usually didn’t flake out when he knew his father was picking him up; it was more of a complaint of Dean’s to not find Sam where Sam was supposed to be.
Sam was in his classroom, but to John’s surprise, he was hard at work at one of the easels around the edge of the room. Sam’s primary teacher was standing beside her desk. John recalled on seeing her that her name was Mrs. Farnsworth. An older woman was speaking to her in hushed tones. They looked up when John came in.
“Sam, move out, buddy,” John said, sharp enough to get his son’s attention, but not so harshly as to alarm the instructors.
“Mr. Winchester, what a coincidence,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.
“Mr. Winchester?” said the second woman. She was about ten years older, as well as stockier and taller than Mrs. Farnsworth. “We haven’t met. I’m Sylvia Penn, Sam’s art teacher.” Ms. Penn moved into Sam’s path to John.
“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” She gestured outside to the hallway.
John looked at her for a few seconds, then beyond her to Sam. “Sammy?” he asked expectantly.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir,” Sam said obstinately. His back was straight and he held his father’s eye.
John’s eyes flicked back to the art teacher. She bent her elbow and extended her forearm again, open palmed, in an insistent directive.
“Sit tight, Sammy,” John told Sam with a reassuring nod. He turned and let Ms. Penn follow him. When she came out, she held a piece of paper low against her torso.
“What seems to be the problem?” John asked mildly, temper in check. Sam’s steady gaze was enough to tell him that Sam was telling the truth, as far as he was concerned. More than once with both boys, John had found that misunderstandings usually arose because his house rules weren’t shared by the average red-blooded American nuclear family. Whenever possible, he preferred to interrogate his sons before confronting their teachers. Then again, he thought ruefully, he thought he had got the story from Sam about the pageant, and clearly there was still some confusion with Miss Johnson. He braced himself for yet another adventure in parenting.
“It’s Sam’s art project.”
John had positioned himself facing the classroom door, so that he could see through the lined glass window into the room. He looked at Sam, who stood at parade rest, in what looked like a silent battle of wills with Mrs. Farnsworth, while he waited patiently for his father to tell his teacher to stick it. Yeah, he thought, this is going to be good.
“Sam did his homework last night. I saw him do it. Didn’t he turn it in?”
“He did,” she admitted uncomfortably.
“Well, then—”
“It was unacceptable.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I don’t un—”
“Mr. Winchester, did you…review Sam’s picture?”
John crossed his arms. “You asked him for a picture; he gave you a picture. He’s seven, Ms. Penn—how challenging was this assignment, if he couldn’t execute it within your parameters?”
“Perhaps it’ll make more sense if you see it for yourself.”
Ms. Penn held out the paper for John. He snatched it and flipped it over. He saw the car first, dominating the left side of the page…then Dean and Sam’s names on top and two figures below…and started laughing. “Something you do…in the snow!” He rocked on his heels, laughing heartily. “Ms. Penn…I think…heh…you got what…you asked for.”
“This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Winchester.”
“Oh, honey, I disagree. That’s exactly what it is. Come on, how many times have you given this particular assignment?”
“Many.” Since she looked like she could have been teaching when Nixon was in, he believed her.
“And you’ve never had another kid come up with something like this before?” John sighed, laughter back under control, though he was still grinning widely. “He’s a seven-year-old boy, Ms Penn, with a brother four years older than he is. This? This is right up there with Don’t Eat Yellow Snow.”
Ms. Penn finally cracked something like a smile, but she covered it up quickly. “Just what would make Sam think this is a regular occurrence, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a regular occurrence. But.” John studied the drawing again. He rubbed his chin. “We…take road trips quite a lot. You know how boys are. Once in a while it’s a long way before there’s a good rest stop.” He delivered the explanation with measured calm; the last thing he needed was any suspicion about the Winchester household. “Anyway, I don’t think the instructions said it had to be a common activity.” He gave her a half-smile again.
“Be that as it may, the children’s pictures were to be used as decorations for our end-of-term pageant, so you can see that it just won’t do.”
That turned John’s smile upside-down. The pageant and the unfinished conversation with Miss Johnson was why he’d come in this afternoon, but he wasn’t about to let Ms. Penn know that he had yet another unscheduled conference to attend today. “Okay. Other than redrawing the picture is there any disciplinary issue here?”
Ms. Penn sighed. “His assignment wasn’t completed for class. His replacement will be considered late and it’s ineligible for a hundred percent mark.”
“His assignment was completed; you weren’t precise in your directions.” Her eyes flashed for a second but dropped when she saw John’s glare. “Face it, Ms. Penn, you opened the door on this one. All right—” he held up a capitulating palm—“he should draw another picture with something more appropriate. But the original drawing met the requested criteria and was turned in on time—so this second drawing counts as extra credit, not a makeup assignment. Deal?”
Ms. Penn looked like she’d rather suck a lemon. “Fine,” she said.
“And his first assignment gets full marks,” John added. “Creativity if nothing else.” He winked.
Ms. Penn finally smiled. “All right—just give his homework a once-over from now on, if he’s apt to use similar subject matter.”
“He’s seven,” John repeated with a snort. He stepped around her and went back inside. “Hey, Sammy,” he said gently.
“I didn’t do—”
“Easy, buddy,” John said, clapping Sam’s shoulder. “Your drawing’s just not the kind of thing Ms. Penn was expecting. You can draw her a new picture tonight—we’ll keep this one, okay?”
“Yessir.”
John folded Sam’s original masterpiece and put it in his coat pocket. “Okay—you work on that and I’ll be back in a few minutes, dude.”
One down, one to go, he thought.
But Miss Johnson’s classroom was locked. Biting back a curse, John headed back down to the second floor and cut up the middle hallway to the upper entrance to the auditorium. Sure enough, the pageant was in rehearsal, though it seemed that the kids up on stage were a bit older than Sam. He saw Miss Johnson down in front, sitting with two other teachers. He walked down from the top bleachers toward the stage. When he reached the row behind her seat, he turned into it and walked up to her. He cleared his throat to announce himself. “Miss Johnson?”
Even with his telegraphed approach, she jumped. “Mr. Winchester! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” she said when she’d recovered.
“I thought we could start over, maybe calmly this time,” John requested. “Do you have a minute?”
Miss Johnson looked at her companions. “If I’m not back in time, let the first graders go,” she told them, then rose and followed John out of the lower doors.
He squared off in front of her so that she couldn’t see into the auditorium. “Okay…so, I’m just going to pretend that we were in the Twilight Zone this morning, because I’m still a little confused. See, Sam never told me there was a holiday pageant.”
“Yes, I’m sure he didn’t, knowing how you’d feel about it.”
“Huh?”
“Well, how upset you’d be.”
“Up…set?” John frowned. Sam knew better than to joke or even hint at potentially dangerous domestic issues.
“Well, that he was included. But as I thought I explained this morning, we corrected the error. Though I do wish you’d reconsider. I don’t mean to interfere or anything, Mr. Winchester, but…especially when students come in so late in a term, it’s so important that they interact with their classmates in all aspects of the program.”
“So I’ve been told,” John agreed. “So then why—”
She drew an excited breath. “Perhaps you’d willing to see the section his class is presenting? You could determine for yourself whether it would pose a conflict of interest.”
It was one thing to sit through the efforts of four dozen seven- and eight-year-olds when one of them was his progeny; it was quite another matter to do it in order to evaluate their content and quality.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said blandly.
Miss Johnson’s face withered. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply…of course. I’m sorry—that was insensitive. Well, if I can’t convince you, then that’s that.” She smiled wanly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should get back in there. The children get so confused if we do things out of order.”
For the second time that day, John watched Miss Johnson walk away from him and felt as if he’d been boondoggled…and not by her.
Continue to Chapter 8
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 04:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 04:18 am (UTC)Ah, patience, grasshopper....
no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 04:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 07:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-14 01:18 am (UTC)And, poor John and Miss Johnson and their cross-purposes. Bad Dean! But at least John's starting to get it: "For the second time that day, John watched Miss Johnson walk away from him and felt as if he’d been boondoggled…and not by her."
no subject
Date: 2008-02-14 02:38 am (UTC)All in good time....
no subject
Date: 2008-02-14 09:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-14 03:44 pm (UTC)Yeah, the mystery is heating up, slowly....
And John navigating the "mysteries" of grade school will never get old.