Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (11/17)
Mar. 17th, 2008 11:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwendolyngraceTitle: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 11/17)
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 4,550
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: No, really, I do plan to finish posting this before Eyecon. As some of you know, I’m also an actor, and I’m in a production that opened this weekend. We had tech week all last week and four shows in three days. So it’s been a little hectic. Thanks to everyone who responded to the poll – it helps to know that overall the fic seems to work and that most of you are pleasantly in the dark about what’s really going on. This chapter ought to shed some light on things for you. Enjoy!
From the Top
Then
Now:
Lyle Olohan would be working late tonight. The accidental death of Jake Tarlin, the electrician, had the parent company demanding answers, and growing more willing to take those answers out of Lyle’s hide. Lyle wanted those answers, too, but not just to save his job: he was getting spooked by it all. And Lyle was not a superstitious man. But something had to be done.
“Gina, do you have the numbers of those investigators I asked you for earlier?”
“Yes, but why do you need them?” Her voice over the phone was tentative.
“Have you been paying attention? Lisa Stoddard, Del Masters, all those customers, and now Jake.”
“Yes, it’s awful, but…isn’t that McIntyre guy working on it?
“Who?”
“McIntyre. John McIntyre? The investigator you already hired?”
“I never hired an investigator.”
“Sure you did,” Gina told him confidently. “He came by the office. I processed his paperwork so he could start Saturday. He’s undercover—he signed on under the name of Winchester.”
“Winchester? He’s a Santa.”
“Yes—that’s his cover, Lyle. Are you feeling okay?”
“Just…hold up a minute. You’re saying that Winchester…my John Winchester who’s working as a Santa, came to you claiming to be John McIntyre and that I’d hired him to investigate?”
Gina paused on the other end of the line.
“Gina?”
“I’m thinking. I mean, I thought he was the same guy…. He said he’d been hired to investigate, and he used your name. When his paperwork came over from you, same age, same first name, ex-Marine…I just put the pieces together. He said he was working for the company…. Actually, he never said you’d hired him. Maybe the home office did.”
“Great. Just great.”
“But isn’t it a good thing?”
“It’d be a good thing if I’d done it first. I don’t like the corporate offices looking over our shoulders like that. Makes me nervous.” He pulled out a cigarette.
“What should we do?”
“Nothing,” Lyle said around lighting up. “If he’s working for us and the company hired him, they’re taking this more seriously than I gave’em credit for. Maybe someone’s actually listening to me; that’d be a miracle. If someone else hired him to investigate us, we could be looking at a lawsuit. The best way to avoid that is for me to have a chat with him and offer our full cooperation. Show’em we’re as eager to resolve the situation as anyone.”
“He’s the one who mentioned the haunted thing,” Gina told him.
Lyle sighed. “Probably just fishing. I told you that was a load of bullshit.” He sucked on his cigarette and held the smoke before exhaling. “Okay. I’m sticking around tonight—I want to see if the people who’re doing this have found a way to get in after hours.”
“That’s nearly eight hours from now,” Gina protested.
“I know. I’ve already called the wife. Now I’m calling you.”
“I’m just glad you caught me. It’s after four—I was about to leave.”
“Gina, before you leave, could you fax me the end-of-month projections? And…Winchester’s file, again, please. I wanna go over it.”
Gina sighed. “Yeah. Okay, sure.”
“You’re the best.”
“Just remember that when it’s bonus time.”
Lyle laughed and got off the phone. He put on another pot of coffee.
About an hour and half later, he went into the mall for dinner at one of the sit-down restaurants. After supper, he wandered past the North Pole to check on things. The line was long, but running smoothly. Kate Pasternak waved merrily. Lyle walked over to her.
“How’s everything today?” he asked.
“So far, so good.”
He stuck around to keep an eye out for an hour or so. Seeing nothing suspicious, he stabbed out his second cigarette and headed back to his office to review Winchester’s file.
Nothing in the paperwork suggested anything other than a down-and-out mechanic who’d been drifting for a while. There was a home number, and it wasn’t too late yet. Lyle dialed it.
“Hello?” a young voice, a boy’s voice, answered on the third ring.
“I’m looking for John Winchester,” Lyle said.
There was a pause. It sounded like the kid had covered the mouthpiece and was repeating the conversation to someone out of the room. “Who’s looking for him?” the boy asked when he came back to the phone.
“My name is Lyle Olohan. Mr. Winchester works for me. Is he there?”
“Oh. Yes…hang on, please,” the boy said, much more politely. Lyle heard him put down the receiver. In the background, he heard the kid say, “Dad? He says he’s your boss.”
The receiver was picked up a minute later. “This is Winchester,” the older voice said warily.
“Mr. Winchester, it’s Lyle Olohan.”
“Oh,” Winchester said, sounding like the pieces had clicked. Lyle recalled that Winchester had said this was his second mall job. Must be hard to know which boss was calling him for what. Especially if he had a third master in the form of a client. “Yes, Mr. Olohan, what can I do for you?”
Lyle had worked retail for nearly 30 years; he recognized “customer service” voice when he heard it. He ignored it. “You can tell me why you told my regional office manager that you’re investigating the Workshop.”
There was a slight pause. Lyle could tell that the son had inherited the father’s phone manners. The sound became muffled again, but Lyle could hear Winchester telling his son to go in the other room. When Winchester came back, the background noise was much more subdued. “I am looking into it, yeah,” Winchester admitted, more quickly than Lyle expected. “My client asked me not to announce myself on site.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“It was…a calculated risk. Now that you do know, I hope that will make things easier for both of us.”
Lyle grunted. “So is it Winchester, or McIntyre?”
“Winchester.” Lyle could tell he was smiling on the other end.
“Still coming in tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
”Can I still expect you to do the job, though? I need a Santa, not a PI who ignores the kids.”
“I’ll do the job, trust me,” Winchester assured him. His voice was steel.
Lyle glanced at Winchester’s application again, running his finger down the page. The checked box surprised him. “You’re a vet?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He’d known about the Marines, but hadn’t noticed that he’d served a tour in ‘Nam. A veteran he’d hired last season had gone darn near feral when a brass band got too close to the Workshop. But that guy had been only half-hinged to begin with. Winchester seemed together. “That your son, answered the phone?”
“Yes…. Where’re you going with this?” Winchester’s tone was polite, but had room to turn angry fast.
“Relax. Just trying to figure you out. Got a PI’s license?”
“Sure,” Winchester said easily. “It’s in the process of being transferred to Michigan. Like I said, we just moved pretty recently.”
“Gotta tell ya, I’m not big on being lied to. On the other hand, I’m not usually in a position to be picky. And this is no exception.” He fished out another cigarette. His wife was always after him to cut down, but during the Christmas season he couldn’t be bothered even with the pretense of backing off. “I was in Korea. Sometimes it’s hard for you boys to readjust to civilian life. That why you move around so much?”
“Go where the work is,” Winchester said tightly. “Look, nothing we talked about the other day isn’t still true. Happens I’m also looking to put an end to the difficulties you’ve been having. You of all people should want me to succeed in that.”
“I do,” Lyle admitted. “Believe me, I want all these pranks to end, and the people responsible for it arrested. Gotta say I’d feel more comfortable if I knew who you were working for, though.”
“Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say. All you need to worry about is that you hired me to do a job, and I can do that job and watch out for your…prankster. Everyone wins.”
“Huh. Well, I guess, given the circumstances….” Lyle shook his head. “I’d rather put a stop to all these weird incidents than insist on your complete disclosure. Bring your license tomorrow, pay attention to the kids while you’re on my payroll, and for God’s sake, find out what the hell is going on in my mall.”
“That’s the plan,” Winchester told him. “See you tomorrow.”
Lyle bade him goodnight and hung up. For all he knew, Gina was right and the company had hired him, not only to look into the accidents, but to report on the operational side as well. Damn that corporation, he thought: Always the last to know what’s going on. But Winchester seemed an okay sort. He made a note in the file to check out the guy’s private investigator license and see if he could find out who hired him.
The mall was in its final hour of business for the night when Lyle strolled back onto the floor. This time of night, there was only one photographer still working, and she was just about ready to lock it down for the evening. A straggling line of parents with cranky and tired kids still trickled through the Workshop. Stacy Lefford was working, as well. She was the photographers’ favorite helper, because she had such a way with getting the kids to smile for the camera. Stacy was smart, too; possibly his smartest Elf this year, or in recent years. She was in her junior year of college, and Lyle expected her to go far.
“Hey, Lyle!” Marie Smith-Barker, the photographer, waved to him as he came by. “You’re not usually here to put us to bed. What’s up?”
“Tis the season,” Lyle said amiably. “Seen anything unusual tonight, Marie?”
“Unusual like kids who say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you,’ or unusual like decorations moving by themselves?”
“Keep your voice down, we’ve still got customers. And the latter.”
“Nope, nothing weird. That girl was back, though, earlier,” she added as she switched battery packs for her flash.
“Girl? What girl?”
“Oh, she shows up every other night or so. You know, the blonde?”
“No, I don’t know.” Lyle pulled her away another step. “What do you mean?”
Marie seemed genuinely surprised Lyle didn’t know what she was talking about. “You mean Jim and Gary didn’t say anything to you?”
“Say anything about what?” Lyle asked, but at that moment a child climbed up into the lap of his Santa-du-soir. Manny Rodriguez, Lyle reminded himself.
“Oops, hang on,” Marie said, crossing to her tripod. She clicked away on the shutter until she found her money shot. Five minutes later she was back, Stacy had the kid over by the sleigh, and the youngster’s mother was filling out an order form.
“Jim noticed it first, maybe two weeks ago?” Marie told him quietly. “Sometimes on the exposures, a blonde girl is showing up. Only at certain angles, if we catch parts of the display instead of just the chair and the building backdrop.”
“And it’s on Gary’s film, too? And yours?”
“Yeah. Not very often, though. And I couldn’t remember at first whether I’d seen her through the lens. I mean, we see so many kids on any given day. And you’ve got a lot of employees.”
“Right,” Lyle muttered. “What does she look like?”
Marie shrugged. “Young, long straight hair. Sometimes she’s in an outfit like, oh, I don’t know, something out of Sound of Music. You know, a what-do-you-call-it…a dirndl dress. Other times I’ve seen her in one of those broomstick skirt-like things…long, flowing. I thought she worked here at first.”
“She stands over by the throne?” Lyle wanted to know.
Marie had to step away again for another shoot. When she returned, she said, “She’s always been near the tree when I’ve seen her. Tonight I noticed her through the lens, but I didn’t see her when I looked over by the side of the display.”
“Son of a bitch,” Lyle said softly.
“What?”
“Maybe Gina’s right: we are haunted.”
Marie laughed. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe it’s a publicity stunt. Or something.”
“A publicity stunt that no one’s publicizing?” Lyle scoffed. “You saw her tonight?”
“Yeah, about an hour ago.”
Lyle made up his mind. The hell with Winchester’s investigation. He was going to fix things himself. Tonight. “Thanks, Marie,” he said absently.
He went into the kitchen and tried to think of how he could flush the quarry. Once Kate, Manny, Marie, Stacy, Simon, and the rest of his employees had packed it in for the night, Lyle turned off the kitchen lights. He sat in the dark, the red-orange tip of his cigarette the only light, apart from the dissipated glow of the tree’s lights. Eventually those winked out as well.
The mall grew quiet quickly. Lyle opened the kitchen door slightly so that he could view the Workshop area, and behind it, the massive tree. He waited for what felt like forever, reminding him of the times he’d pulled picket duty up on the 39th parallel. Finally, he saw one of the branches move. Lyle stood and moved to the door, peering through its crack.
The branches moved again. Lyle caught a glimpse of yellow hair glowing in the exit lights.
“Come on out!” he barked. He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the carpet that cut between the kitchen and the Workshop wall. “I know you’re there—might as well come clean!”
If Wade and Jerry were watching in the video room, Lyle thought, they were probably pissing themselves laughing. Probably thought he’d finally gone and cracked.
But the branches moved again and something appeared inside the canopy of needles. “You did this to me,” he heard a voice say. It was the voice of an old woman. The branches moved again, and out of their shelter emerged an ugly hag.
“Lady, I’ve done nothing. You, on the other hand, seem to have caused no end of trouble.”
She held out her arms in front of her. The flesh of her biceps sagged and her hands formed two claws. Her hair was long and straight and yellow, but more like brittle dead pine needles than flowing tresses. “YOU DID THIS TO ME!” she shrieked. Lyle’s jaw went slack in horror, and his cigarette fell from his mouth. The fake snow caught fire at his feet.
He and the old woman reacted nearly at the same time. Lyle stamped on the burning cotton batting vigorously. The confetti began to melt with a smell of burning plastic. The hag, meanwhile, screamed in terror at the sight of the flames. Lyle concentrated on putting out the fire before the sprinklers when off and soaked the whole display. He stomped around more, making sure no extra sparks had got away. Relieved, he wiped his brow. Tomorrow would be the biggest business day of the season, except of course for next Saturday, and he wasn’t about to be the one blamed for losing hours due to a lengthy cleanup.
He looked around. The woman had vanished—disappeared. Probably run away. Lyle looked up toward the cameras. “I hope you boys caught that on tape,” he said, even though he knew that they didn’t have audio.
A second later, something smashed into the back of his head. Lyle went down like a stone. Hands, strong as oak branches, held him down in the plastic snow. It burned his tongue with an acrid bite, still hot from the fire. Little curls were stuck in his teeth, like chewy, charred coconut shavings or thick dental floss. He was choking on the stuff, swallowing it, breathing it. Then he couldn’t breathe at all.
~*~
Saturday morning dawned with rare sunshine breaking through the usual Midwestern cloud cover. The glare off the snow made John fish an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove box. He’d left Dean and Sammy parked with bowls of cereal in front of Bugs and Daffy. Monica Stakowski would pick them up in late morning. He hoped he was doing the right thing there—and not just because of potential danger at the mall. There was the potential for a misunderstanding if Mike’s mother tried to push her luck. She had pointed out hopefully that she was a Ms., not a Mrs., but he couldn’t think of her as Ms. Stakowski; she was just too young to be a Ms. Anything. Far too young to be sniffing around him, even if Dean and Mike were the same age.
More importantly, though, John hoped Dean was as up for the trip as he’d claimed. Monica had promised to bring them home if Dean started feeling weak—John just doubted Dean would say or do anything to let on if he did tucker out. Still, the kid had a point: it was unlikely he’d be able to shop for his Secret Santa otherwise. After trying to make sure Sam was fully integrated to his school program, John’d feel like a hypocrite for throwing up roadblocks to Dean’s enjoyment of the holiday activities at school.
He inched along in the line of cars trying to reach the parking lot. He’d allowed an extra hour for scouting out a spot—any spot—and bluffing through some follow-up with Lyle Olohan, but it still took nearly all that time to even reach the rows of painted lines. He rushed inside and was almost running when he came into the service corridor, where he pulled up at the distinctive sight of police activity. An officer held up a hand to stop his approach.
“Whoa—restricted right now, sorry,” the deputy said.
“What’s happened?”
“We’re still determining that, now please, if you’ll—”
“I was supposed to meet Lyle Olohan—has something happened to him?”
“John?” a voice behind him called shakily. He turned.
“Gina? What are you doing here?”
Gina looked awful. Her cardigan sweater was buttoned unevenly and her hair hadn’t been combed. Dark smudges circled her eyes. “I came in to speak to the sheriff, and to tell everyone…I wanted them to hear from someone who’d known him…. Lyle’s dead.”
She fell against him as she forced out the words. One hand went over her eyes when she started crying. John put his arms around her awkwardly and turned away from the sheriffs.
“When? How?” he asked urgently.
“Last night sometime. He called to tell me he’d be staying late —he wanted to find out what was really going on—we talked about you.” She looked up guiltily. “He didn’t hire you, did he?”
John shook his head. “No, but I’m trying to stop the accidents, too.”
“I believe you, I just…Lyle was so…indestructible, y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“And he was so determined to put a stop to all this.”
“I know. That’s why I was meeting him early. Look, let’s get you some coffee or something. Have you talked to the others yet?”
Gina nodded. “But…I wanted to ask you if I could tell everyone about who you really are. Maybe someone knows something. I just...Lyle would have known what to do, but without him here….”
“We’ll manage,” John said. “We’ll figure it out. Best thing now is to tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know a lot. The police say he was asphyxiated. He fell at the display and must have swallowed some of the snowflakes. He choked on them.” She swallowed another sob.
“So he was alone? Have they reviewed the camera footage?”
“They wouldn’t tell me. They won’t let me call his wife—they said they’d handle that.” Her lip trembled. “But then I heard someone say that there was evidence of a fire, and…I just don’t know—”
”It’s okay, Gina.” John patted her shoulder. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee, calm down. I have to change, but I’ll meet you at the Kitchen and we can talk to everyone. Okay?”
“Sure.” Gina returned his reassuring smile and went back into the mall. John went back to the sheriff’s team, glad that he had brought along his fake FBI badge, too, just in case Lyle didn’t buy the PI license. He pulled out the federal ID and flashed it at the guard.
“Let’s try this again,” he said with authority. “Who’s in charge?”
“Sheriff…Sheriff Dade,” the officer told him. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
John pushed past him. “No need, I’ll find him,” he said on his way in.
Sheriff Dade looked like he’d wished this whole case had waited one year, because then he’d be retired and past caring. John had seen the look on a dozen local men’s faces over the few years he’d been hunting: the look that wondered, “Why me?” in the face of something inexplicable or eerie. Dade was a large man, taller and broader than John, but with the seedy look of an ex-football player who was more interested now in watching the game than getting out on the field himself. His eyes were sharp, though, and showed nothing to indicate John’s ID impressed him. “FBI?” he grunted. “Figured you boys’d be along sooner or later.”
“Well, these accidents are getting chronic.”
“Who called you in? One of my boys?”
“No, we have a flag for this kind of thing. I’ve been here a few days.”
“Huh.” Dade leaned over to one of his deputies. “Be sure we get Ms. Tupelo’s signoff when we take all these personnel files for evidence tagging.”
“You figuring it’s a homicide? One of the employees?” John surmised.
“Could be,” Dade said with a shrug. “Before this week, none of the incidents was fatal. Now I’ve got two casualties inside seventy-two hours. Could be someone’s using the accident rate as a cover-up for a plain old-fashioned murder.”
John nodded even though he knew better. “Suspects?”
“Anyone worked for him, but my money’s on this guy.” He tapped the open file on Lyle’s desk. John glanced down at his own name.
“Why’s that?”
“Turns out, according to the office manager, this fella claimed he was a PI—which he ain’t—and I think Olohan found out, confronted him. They argued. Ms. Tupelo said Olohan was planning to call this…Winchester. Or McIntyre. Whatever his name is.”
“Wouldn’t explain the electrician, though. Motive there?”
Dade sniffed. “Who knows what Winchester’s hiding? Could be he was behind the other pranks all along, and Tarlin got in the way.”
John pressed his lips together appraisingly. “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “’Cause I’m Winchester. I’ve been undercover.”
Dade stared at him. “Not your usual Fed M.O.”
“No,” John agreed. “But since I’m alone on this one, I thought it’d be useful to infiltrate rather than remain outside.”
Dade sized him up again. “Don’t your protocol include announcing yourself to the local law enforcement?” he growled.
“Not when I’ve been trying to keep a low profile, it don’t.” He spread his hands. “Look, the fact is, I didn’t kill him. I’m not sure any of his employees did.”
“Someone sure as hell did.”
“Have you reviewed the tapes yet?”
“Yeah. Nothin’.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was some kind of an error…didn’t pick up anything.”
“I have to get over there for my undercover shift. Could I take a look at the camera footage later?”
“I suppose, but it won’t help you none.”
“I’d like to see that for myself, thanks.” John applied a touch of Federal arrogance.
“Okay. Give your name to Spencer out there and when you come to the station, he’ll let you take a look.”
“Thanks.” John shook hands and went on to the locker room to change. He told himself to call Monica and cancel on the boys, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was just being overprotective. There had been no attacks against kids. Besides, the boys were too old to come to the North Pole, so they’d be out of danger. And on top of all that, he’d be right there in case anything did happen. They’d be fine.
He walked to the Kitchen and stood by while Gina re-introduced him.
“John’s really an investigator,” she told them all, “so if anyone knows anything, please…talk to him. John?”
John cleared his throat. Public speaking was not his favorite activity. He wished like hell his Santa suit had pockets so he could do something with his hands and not feel like Patton. He wished like hell he wasn’t dressed as Santa to begin with. “I’m working on a theory, might sound a little crazy. But I think there’s woman appearing around the time of the accidents, doesn’t belong here. Anyone seen a blonde with long hair just before or after an incident? Maybe in clothes that look really old-fashioned?”
A couple people nodded. Kate wore a grim expression of triumph. So did the pretty, trim Black girl next to her, whom John figured had to be Stacy. John figured Kate was so gleeful because she’d be able to tell everyone she’d pegged him as a PI from the very start. As for Stacy, he decided it just had to be because she’d been sure there was something wrong, and now John had confirmed it.
“Okay,” John continued, relieved that no one called him an insane bastard for the suggestion. “Anyone sees this girl, or someone you don’t know who obviously isn’t some kid’s mom, point her out right away. And if I tell you we’ve got to get the kids away, out of line and back behind a safe perimeter, be ready to help them move.”
It felt a little ridiculous to issue orders like his old sergeant while wearing a white curly wig and fake beard, but then, he’d never led a platoon of elves into battle before, either. The group broke up, talking in small groups about Lyle and what they faced today, how to cope, how to find John’s target, how to be business as usual while putting an end to the accidents that claimed their boss’s life. Even Andy Miller seemed shaken by Lyle’s death and willing to do whatever it took. Andy pulled him aside and quietly asked him if John thought there’d be trouble with the cops over the betting pool.
“Not if it stops,” John growled at him.
“Uh…yeah.” Andy took a step backward and stopped himself. His hand picked at one of the jingle bells on his tunic.
“How much did you make off it, anyway?”
“Uh…couple hundred.”
“Got it on you?”
Andy blanched.
“Turn it over and I’ll make sure it gets to the right people.”
John didn’t blink. Andy forked over the cash.
“There’s one more thing,” John said, raising his voice again to cut through the gabble of conversations. “I think the victims were all smokers. So if you see anyone lighting up in the line, stop them.”
This caused a new ripple through the crew. “We can’t—”
“I’m not saying they can’t smoke at all,” John assured them. “They can have their cigarettes somewhere else, but the North Pole just went smoke-free.” He grinned and plopped his hat onto his head. “Santa says it’s bad for you.”
Continue to Chapter 12
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 4,550
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: No, really, I do plan to finish posting this before Eyecon. As some of you know, I’m also an actor, and I’m in a production that opened this weekend. We had tech week all last week and four shows in three days. So it’s been a little hectic. Thanks to everyone who responded to the poll – it helps to know that overall the fic seems to work and that most of you are pleasantly in the dark about what’s really going on. This chapter ought to shed some light on things for you. Enjoy!
From the Top
Then
Now:
Lyle Olohan would be working late tonight. The accidental death of Jake Tarlin, the electrician, had the parent company demanding answers, and growing more willing to take those answers out of Lyle’s hide. Lyle wanted those answers, too, but not just to save his job: he was getting spooked by it all. And Lyle was not a superstitious man. But something had to be done.
“Gina, do you have the numbers of those investigators I asked you for earlier?”
“Yes, but why do you need them?” Her voice over the phone was tentative.
“Have you been paying attention? Lisa Stoddard, Del Masters, all those customers, and now Jake.”
“Yes, it’s awful, but…isn’t that McIntyre guy working on it?
“Who?”
“McIntyre. John McIntyre? The investigator you already hired?”
“I never hired an investigator.”
“Sure you did,” Gina told him confidently. “He came by the office. I processed his paperwork so he could start Saturday. He’s undercover—he signed on under the name of Winchester.”
“Winchester? He’s a Santa.”
“Yes—that’s his cover, Lyle. Are you feeling okay?”
“Just…hold up a minute. You’re saying that Winchester…my John Winchester who’s working as a Santa, came to you claiming to be John McIntyre and that I’d hired him to investigate?”
Gina paused on the other end of the line.
“Gina?”
“I’m thinking. I mean, I thought he was the same guy…. He said he’d been hired to investigate, and he used your name. When his paperwork came over from you, same age, same first name, ex-Marine…I just put the pieces together. He said he was working for the company…. Actually, he never said you’d hired him. Maybe the home office did.”
“Great. Just great.”
“But isn’t it a good thing?”
“It’d be a good thing if I’d done it first. I don’t like the corporate offices looking over our shoulders like that. Makes me nervous.” He pulled out a cigarette.
“What should we do?”
“Nothing,” Lyle said around lighting up. “If he’s working for us and the company hired him, they’re taking this more seriously than I gave’em credit for. Maybe someone’s actually listening to me; that’d be a miracle. If someone else hired him to investigate us, we could be looking at a lawsuit. The best way to avoid that is for me to have a chat with him and offer our full cooperation. Show’em we’re as eager to resolve the situation as anyone.”
“He’s the one who mentioned the haunted thing,” Gina told him.
Lyle sighed. “Probably just fishing. I told you that was a load of bullshit.” He sucked on his cigarette and held the smoke before exhaling. “Okay. I’m sticking around tonight—I want to see if the people who’re doing this have found a way to get in after hours.”
“That’s nearly eight hours from now,” Gina protested.
“I know. I’ve already called the wife. Now I’m calling you.”
“I’m just glad you caught me. It’s after four—I was about to leave.”
“Gina, before you leave, could you fax me the end-of-month projections? And…Winchester’s file, again, please. I wanna go over it.”
Gina sighed. “Yeah. Okay, sure.”
“You’re the best.”
“Just remember that when it’s bonus time.”
Lyle laughed and got off the phone. He put on another pot of coffee.
About an hour and half later, he went into the mall for dinner at one of the sit-down restaurants. After supper, he wandered past the North Pole to check on things. The line was long, but running smoothly. Kate Pasternak waved merrily. Lyle walked over to her.
“How’s everything today?” he asked.
“So far, so good.”
He stuck around to keep an eye out for an hour or so. Seeing nothing suspicious, he stabbed out his second cigarette and headed back to his office to review Winchester’s file.
Nothing in the paperwork suggested anything other than a down-and-out mechanic who’d been drifting for a while. There was a home number, and it wasn’t too late yet. Lyle dialed it.
“Hello?” a young voice, a boy’s voice, answered on the third ring.
“I’m looking for John Winchester,” Lyle said.
There was a pause. It sounded like the kid had covered the mouthpiece and was repeating the conversation to someone out of the room. “Who’s looking for him?” the boy asked when he came back to the phone.
“My name is Lyle Olohan. Mr. Winchester works for me. Is he there?”
“Oh. Yes…hang on, please,” the boy said, much more politely. Lyle heard him put down the receiver. In the background, he heard the kid say, “Dad? He says he’s your boss.”
The receiver was picked up a minute later. “This is Winchester,” the older voice said warily.
“Mr. Winchester, it’s Lyle Olohan.”
“Oh,” Winchester said, sounding like the pieces had clicked. Lyle recalled that Winchester had said this was his second mall job. Must be hard to know which boss was calling him for what. Especially if he had a third master in the form of a client. “Yes, Mr. Olohan, what can I do for you?”
Lyle had worked retail for nearly 30 years; he recognized “customer service” voice when he heard it. He ignored it. “You can tell me why you told my regional office manager that you’re investigating the Workshop.”
There was a slight pause. Lyle could tell that the son had inherited the father’s phone manners. The sound became muffled again, but Lyle could hear Winchester telling his son to go in the other room. When Winchester came back, the background noise was much more subdued. “I am looking into it, yeah,” Winchester admitted, more quickly than Lyle expected. “My client asked me not to announce myself on site.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“It was…a calculated risk. Now that you do know, I hope that will make things easier for both of us.”
Lyle grunted. “So is it Winchester, or McIntyre?”
“Winchester.” Lyle could tell he was smiling on the other end.
“Still coming in tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
”Can I still expect you to do the job, though? I need a Santa, not a PI who ignores the kids.”
“I’ll do the job, trust me,” Winchester assured him. His voice was steel.
Lyle glanced at Winchester’s application again, running his finger down the page. The checked box surprised him. “You’re a vet?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He’d known about the Marines, but hadn’t noticed that he’d served a tour in ‘Nam. A veteran he’d hired last season had gone darn near feral when a brass band got too close to the Workshop. But that guy had been only half-hinged to begin with. Winchester seemed together. “That your son, answered the phone?”
“Yes…. Where’re you going with this?” Winchester’s tone was polite, but had room to turn angry fast.
“Relax. Just trying to figure you out. Got a PI’s license?”
“Sure,” Winchester said easily. “It’s in the process of being transferred to Michigan. Like I said, we just moved pretty recently.”
“Gotta tell ya, I’m not big on being lied to. On the other hand, I’m not usually in a position to be picky. And this is no exception.” He fished out another cigarette. His wife was always after him to cut down, but during the Christmas season he couldn’t be bothered even with the pretense of backing off. “I was in Korea. Sometimes it’s hard for you boys to readjust to civilian life. That why you move around so much?”
“Go where the work is,” Winchester said tightly. “Look, nothing we talked about the other day isn’t still true. Happens I’m also looking to put an end to the difficulties you’ve been having. You of all people should want me to succeed in that.”
“I do,” Lyle admitted. “Believe me, I want all these pranks to end, and the people responsible for it arrested. Gotta say I’d feel more comfortable if I knew who you were working for, though.”
“Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say. All you need to worry about is that you hired me to do a job, and I can do that job and watch out for your…prankster. Everyone wins.”
“Huh. Well, I guess, given the circumstances….” Lyle shook his head. “I’d rather put a stop to all these weird incidents than insist on your complete disclosure. Bring your license tomorrow, pay attention to the kids while you’re on my payroll, and for God’s sake, find out what the hell is going on in my mall.”
“That’s the plan,” Winchester told him. “See you tomorrow.”
Lyle bade him goodnight and hung up. For all he knew, Gina was right and the company had hired him, not only to look into the accidents, but to report on the operational side as well. Damn that corporation, he thought: Always the last to know what’s going on. But Winchester seemed an okay sort. He made a note in the file to check out the guy’s private investigator license and see if he could find out who hired him.
The mall was in its final hour of business for the night when Lyle strolled back onto the floor. This time of night, there was only one photographer still working, and she was just about ready to lock it down for the evening. A straggling line of parents with cranky and tired kids still trickled through the Workshop. Stacy Lefford was working, as well. She was the photographers’ favorite helper, because she had such a way with getting the kids to smile for the camera. Stacy was smart, too; possibly his smartest Elf this year, or in recent years. She was in her junior year of college, and Lyle expected her to go far.
“Hey, Lyle!” Marie Smith-Barker, the photographer, waved to him as he came by. “You’re not usually here to put us to bed. What’s up?”
“Tis the season,” Lyle said amiably. “Seen anything unusual tonight, Marie?”
“Unusual like kids who say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you,’ or unusual like decorations moving by themselves?”
“Keep your voice down, we’ve still got customers. And the latter.”
“Nope, nothing weird. That girl was back, though, earlier,” she added as she switched battery packs for her flash.
“Girl? What girl?”
“Oh, she shows up every other night or so. You know, the blonde?”
“No, I don’t know.” Lyle pulled her away another step. “What do you mean?”
Marie seemed genuinely surprised Lyle didn’t know what she was talking about. “You mean Jim and Gary didn’t say anything to you?”
“Say anything about what?” Lyle asked, but at that moment a child climbed up into the lap of his Santa-du-soir. Manny Rodriguez, Lyle reminded himself.
“Oops, hang on,” Marie said, crossing to her tripod. She clicked away on the shutter until she found her money shot. Five minutes later she was back, Stacy had the kid over by the sleigh, and the youngster’s mother was filling out an order form.
“Jim noticed it first, maybe two weeks ago?” Marie told him quietly. “Sometimes on the exposures, a blonde girl is showing up. Only at certain angles, if we catch parts of the display instead of just the chair and the building backdrop.”
“And it’s on Gary’s film, too? And yours?”
“Yeah. Not very often, though. And I couldn’t remember at first whether I’d seen her through the lens. I mean, we see so many kids on any given day. And you’ve got a lot of employees.”
“Right,” Lyle muttered. “What does she look like?”
Marie shrugged. “Young, long straight hair. Sometimes she’s in an outfit like, oh, I don’t know, something out of Sound of Music. You know, a what-do-you-call-it…a dirndl dress. Other times I’ve seen her in one of those broomstick skirt-like things…long, flowing. I thought she worked here at first.”
“She stands over by the throne?” Lyle wanted to know.
Marie had to step away again for another shoot. When she returned, she said, “She’s always been near the tree when I’ve seen her. Tonight I noticed her through the lens, but I didn’t see her when I looked over by the side of the display.”
“Son of a bitch,” Lyle said softly.
“What?”
“Maybe Gina’s right: we are haunted.”
Marie laughed. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe it’s a publicity stunt. Or something.”
“A publicity stunt that no one’s publicizing?” Lyle scoffed. “You saw her tonight?”
“Yeah, about an hour ago.”
Lyle made up his mind. The hell with Winchester’s investigation. He was going to fix things himself. Tonight. “Thanks, Marie,” he said absently.
He went into the kitchen and tried to think of how he could flush the quarry. Once Kate, Manny, Marie, Stacy, Simon, and the rest of his employees had packed it in for the night, Lyle turned off the kitchen lights. He sat in the dark, the red-orange tip of his cigarette the only light, apart from the dissipated glow of the tree’s lights. Eventually those winked out as well.
The mall grew quiet quickly. Lyle opened the kitchen door slightly so that he could view the Workshop area, and behind it, the massive tree. He waited for what felt like forever, reminding him of the times he’d pulled picket duty up on the 39th parallel. Finally, he saw one of the branches move. Lyle stood and moved to the door, peering through its crack.
The branches moved again. Lyle caught a glimpse of yellow hair glowing in the exit lights.
“Come on out!” he barked. He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the carpet that cut between the kitchen and the Workshop wall. “I know you’re there—might as well come clean!”
If Wade and Jerry were watching in the video room, Lyle thought, they were probably pissing themselves laughing. Probably thought he’d finally gone and cracked.
But the branches moved again and something appeared inside the canopy of needles. “You did this to me,” he heard a voice say. It was the voice of an old woman. The branches moved again, and out of their shelter emerged an ugly hag.
“Lady, I’ve done nothing. You, on the other hand, seem to have caused no end of trouble.”
She held out her arms in front of her. The flesh of her biceps sagged and her hands formed two claws. Her hair was long and straight and yellow, but more like brittle dead pine needles than flowing tresses. “YOU DID THIS TO ME!” she shrieked. Lyle’s jaw went slack in horror, and his cigarette fell from his mouth. The fake snow caught fire at his feet.
He and the old woman reacted nearly at the same time. Lyle stamped on the burning cotton batting vigorously. The confetti began to melt with a smell of burning plastic. The hag, meanwhile, screamed in terror at the sight of the flames. Lyle concentrated on putting out the fire before the sprinklers when off and soaked the whole display. He stomped around more, making sure no extra sparks had got away. Relieved, he wiped his brow. Tomorrow would be the biggest business day of the season, except of course for next Saturday, and he wasn’t about to be the one blamed for losing hours due to a lengthy cleanup.
He looked around. The woman had vanished—disappeared. Probably run away. Lyle looked up toward the cameras. “I hope you boys caught that on tape,” he said, even though he knew that they didn’t have audio.
A second later, something smashed into the back of his head. Lyle went down like a stone. Hands, strong as oak branches, held him down in the plastic snow. It burned his tongue with an acrid bite, still hot from the fire. Little curls were stuck in his teeth, like chewy, charred coconut shavings or thick dental floss. He was choking on the stuff, swallowing it, breathing it. Then he couldn’t breathe at all.
~*~
Saturday morning dawned with rare sunshine breaking through the usual Midwestern cloud cover. The glare off the snow made John fish an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove box. He’d left Dean and Sammy parked with bowls of cereal in front of Bugs and Daffy. Monica Stakowski would pick them up in late morning. He hoped he was doing the right thing there—and not just because of potential danger at the mall. There was the potential for a misunderstanding if Mike’s mother tried to push her luck. She had pointed out hopefully that she was a Ms., not a Mrs., but he couldn’t think of her as Ms. Stakowski; she was just too young to be a Ms. Anything. Far too young to be sniffing around him, even if Dean and Mike were the same age.
More importantly, though, John hoped Dean was as up for the trip as he’d claimed. Monica had promised to bring them home if Dean started feeling weak—John just doubted Dean would say or do anything to let on if he did tucker out. Still, the kid had a point: it was unlikely he’d be able to shop for his Secret Santa otherwise. After trying to make sure Sam was fully integrated to his school program, John’d feel like a hypocrite for throwing up roadblocks to Dean’s enjoyment of the holiday activities at school.
He inched along in the line of cars trying to reach the parking lot. He’d allowed an extra hour for scouting out a spot—any spot—and bluffing through some follow-up with Lyle Olohan, but it still took nearly all that time to even reach the rows of painted lines. He rushed inside and was almost running when he came into the service corridor, where he pulled up at the distinctive sight of police activity. An officer held up a hand to stop his approach.
“Whoa—restricted right now, sorry,” the deputy said.
“What’s happened?”
“We’re still determining that, now please, if you’ll—”
“I was supposed to meet Lyle Olohan—has something happened to him?”
“John?” a voice behind him called shakily. He turned.
“Gina? What are you doing here?”
Gina looked awful. Her cardigan sweater was buttoned unevenly and her hair hadn’t been combed. Dark smudges circled her eyes. “I came in to speak to the sheriff, and to tell everyone…I wanted them to hear from someone who’d known him…. Lyle’s dead.”
She fell against him as she forced out the words. One hand went over her eyes when she started crying. John put his arms around her awkwardly and turned away from the sheriffs.
“When? How?” he asked urgently.
“Last night sometime. He called to tell me he’d be staying late —he wanted to find out what was really going on—we talked about you.” She looked up guiltily. “He didn’t hire you, did he?”
John shook his head. “No, but I’m trying to stop the accidents, too.”
“I believe you, I just…Lyle was so…indestructible, y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“And he was so determined to put a stop to all this.”
“I know. That’s why I was meeting him early. Look, let’s get you some coffee or something. Have you talked to the others yet?”
Gina nodded. “But…I wanted to ask you if I could tell everyone about who you really are. Maybe someone knows something. I just...Lyle would have known what to do, but without him here….”
“We’ll manage,” John said. “We’ll figure it out. Best thing now is to tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know a lot. The police say he was asphyxiated. He fell at the display and must have swallowed some of the snowflakes. He choked on them.” She swallowed another sob.
“So he was alone? Have they reviewed the camera footage?”
“They wouldn’t tell me. They won’t let me call his wife—they said they’d handle that.” Her lip trembled. “But then I heard someone say that there was evidence of a fire, and…I just don’t know—”
”It’s okay, Gina.” John patted her shoulder. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee, calm down. I have to change, but I’ll meet you at the Kitchen and we can talk to everyone. Okay?”
“Sure.” Gina returned his reassuring smile and went back into the mall. John went back to the sheriff’s team, glad that he had brought along his fake FBI badge, too, just in case Lyle didn’t buy the PI license. He pulled out the federal ID and flashed it at the guard.
“Let’s try this again,” he said with authority. “Who’s in charge?”
“Sheriff…Sheriff Dade,” the officer told him. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
John pushed past him. “No need, I’ll find him,” he said on his way in.
Sheriff Dade looked like he’d wished this whole case had waited one year, because then he’d be retired and past caring. John had seen the look on a dozen local men’s faces over the few years he’d been hunting: the look that wondered, “Why me?” in the face of something inexplicable or eerie. Dade was a large man, taller and broader than John, but with the seedy look of an ex-football player who was more interested now in watching the game than getting out on the field himself. His eyes were sharp, though, and showed nothing to indicate John’s ID impressed him. “FBI?” he grunted. “Figured you boys’d be along sooner or later.”
“Well, these accidents are getting chronic.”
“Who called you in? One of my boys?”
“No, we have a flag for this kind of thing. I’ve been here a few days.”
“Huh.” Dade leaned over to one of his deputies. “Be sure we get Ms. Tupelo’s signoff when we take all these personnel files for evidence tagging.”
“You figuring it’s a homicide? One of the employees?” John surmised.
“Could be,” Dade said with a shrug. “Before this week, none of the incidents was fatal. Now I’ve got two casualties inside seventy-two hours. Could be someone’s using the accident rate as a cover-up for a plain old-fashioned murder.”
John nodded even though he knew better. “Suspects?”
“Anyone worked for him, but my money’s on this guy.” He tapped the open file on Lyle’s desk. John glanced down at his own name.
“Why’s that?”
“Turns out, according to the office manager, this fella claimed he was a PI—which he ain’t—and I think Olohan found out, confronted him. They argued. Ms. Tupelo said Olohan was planning to call this…Winchester. Or McIntyre. Whatever his name is.”
“Wouldn’t explain the electrician, though. Motive there?”
Dade sniffed. “Who knows what Winchester’s hiding? Could be he was behind the other pranks all along, and Tarlin got in the way.”
John pressed his lips together appraisingly. “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “’Cause I’m Winchester. I’ve been undercover.”
Dade stared at him. “Not your usual Fed M.O.”
“No,” John agreed. “But since I’m alone on this one, I thought it’d be useful to infiltrate rather than remain outside.”
Dade sized him up again. “Don’t your protocol include announcing yourself to the local law enforcement?” he growled.
“Not when I’ve been trying to keep a low profile, it don’t.” He spread his hands. “Look, the fact is, I didn’t kill him. I’m not sure any of his employees did.”
“Someone sure as hell did.”
“Have you reviewed the tapes yet?”
“Yeah. Nothin’.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was some kind of an error…didn’t pick up anything.”
“I have to get over there for my undercover shift. Could I take a look at the camera footage later?”
“I suppose, but it won’t help you none.”
“I’d like to see that for myself, thanks.” John applied a touch of Federal arrogance.
“Okay. Give your name to Spencer out there and when you come to the station, he’ll let you take a look.”
“Thanks.” John shook hands and went on to the locker room to change. He told himself to call Monica and cancel on the boys, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was just being overprotective. There had been no attacks against kids. Besides, the boys were too old to come to the North Pole, so they’d be out of danger. And on top of all that, he’d be right there in case anything did happen. They’d be fine.
He walked to the Kitchen and stood by while Gina re-introduced him.
“John’s really an investigator,” she told them all, “so if anyone knows anything, please…talk to him. John?”
John cleared his throat. Public speaking was not his favorite activity. He wished like hell his Santa suit had pockets so he could do something with his hands and not feel like Patton. He wished like hell he wasn’t dressed as Santa to begin with. “I’m working on a theory, might sound a little crazy. But I think there’s woman appearing around the time of the accidents, doesn’t belong here. Anyone seen a blonde with long hair just before or after an incident? Maybe in clothes that look really old-fashioned?”
A couple people nodded. Kate wore a grim expression of triumph. So did the pretty, trim Black girl next to her, whom John figured had to be Stacy. John figured Kate was so gleeful because she’d be able to tell everyone she’d pegged him as a PI from the very start. As for Stacy, he decided it just had to be because she’d been sure there was something wrong, and now John had confirmed it.
“Okay,” John continued, relieved that no one called him an insane bastard for the suggestion. “Anyone sees this girl, or someone you don’t know who obviously isn’t some kid’s mom, point her out right away. And if I tell you we’ve got to get the kids away, out of line and back behind a safe perimeter, be ready to help them move.”
It felt a little ridiculous to issue orders like his old sergeant while wearing a white curly wig and fake beard, but then, he’d never led a platoon of elves into battle before, either. The group broke up, talking in small groups about Lyle and what they faced today, how to cope, how to find John’s target, how to be business as usual while putting an end to the accidents that claimed their boss’s life. Even Andy Miller seemed shaken by Lyle’s death and willing to do whatever it took. Andy pulled him aside and quietly asked him if John thought there’d be trouble with the cops over the betting pool.
“Not if it stops,” John growled at him.
“Uh…yeah.” Andy took a step backward and stopped himself. His hand picked at one of the jingle bells on his tunic.
“How much did you make off it, anyway?”
“Uh…couple hundred.”
“Got it on you?”
Andy blanched.
“Turn it over and I’ll make sure it gets to the right people.”
John didn’t blink. Andy forked over the cash.
“There’s one more thing,” John said, raising his voice again to cut through the gabble of conversations. “I think the victims were all smokers. So if you see anyone lighting up in the line, stop them.”
This caused a new ripple through the crew. “We can’t—”
“I’m not saying they can’t smoke at all,” John assured them. “They can have their cigarettes somewhere else, but the North Pole just went smoke-free.” He grinned and plopped his hat onto his head. “Santa says it’s bad for you.”
Continue to Chapter 12
