

A SPECIAL AGENT CONSTANCE MANDALAY NOVELLA

Supernatural Thriller

TEASER NOVELLA FOR

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

By

M. R. Sellars

E.M.A. Mysteries

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

#### MERRIE AXEMAS: A Killer Holiday Tale

An E.M.A. Mysteries Book

E.M.A. Mysteries is an imprint of WillowTree Press

First E-book Edition December 2010

Reformatted E-book Edition February 2012

Epub Edition ISBN-13: 9780979453373

Copyright © 2010 by M. R. Sellars

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design #1 Copyright © 2010 – On The Edge Graphics: A Division of WillowTree Press

Cover Design #2 Copyright © 2012 – On The Edge Graphics: A Division of WillowTree Press

Cover Model – "E.K."

This free e-book special edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and is not intended for resale. It may be shared freely, without modification, at no charge.

For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web

http://www.willowtreepress.com

WillowTree Press E-Book

Smashwords Edition – 2012

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks go out to the following folks:

Anastasia "Missus Loota-Chack" Luettecke, for obtaining a "Deluxe Santa Suit" for us on such incredibly short notice, and delivering it to our doorstep.

Scott "The Chunk Man" McCoy for wearing the aforementioned Santa suit, posing with EK, and not complaining when she pretended to do truly horrible things to him with high heels and an axe, especially when you consider that she pretends pretty hard.

The folks at On The Edge for liking the cover concept photos enough to use them.

EK for looking so damn good, even when she's threatening Santa Claus with the aforementioned stilettos and ax.

And finally, hot Earl Grey GREEN Tea, NyQuil, Bourbon, and Egg Nog – not necessarily in that order...

For my loyal readers...

You are the reason I write.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This novella was first conceived sometime around 2008. It was the germ of an idea, without form or substance, and no light to speak of. Therefore, as ideas go, it sat in the dark awaiting the surge of inspiration that would bring eventual illumination. When I finally took it out of the box and screwed it into the metaphorical socket – _that is, pitched it to my publisher_ – I actually received an OOH and an AHH from my editor. Then, like a damned crazy fool, I convinced both her and those folks who make the decisions that I could make this happen in a matter of two weeks, instead of leisurely poking away at it, and then waiting an entire year for the release.

At first, it didn't seem to be an issue. After all, it was intended to be a "long short story" of sorts – perhaps even a novelette, which would still be short enough. Of course, my nightmares being what they are, it grew...and grew...until it started becoming a short novella. Unfortunately, time didn't grow. It shrank. Even so, I pulled it off.

And this is where I must add a caveat...

If you find a typo, feel free to report it, but please don't complain. My editor took time out of her busy schedule for this piece, but because of the rush she was unable to spend as much time with it as she normally would have – _my fault entirely, because I pushed for this to be released so quickly._

Besides, this is coming to you free. A gift for the holidays, from WillowTree Press and me to you...

Happy Holidays, whichever of them you celebrate or observe.

M. R. "Murv" Sellars – December 2010

11:03 AM - December 22

Hulis Township Sheriff's Department

Northern Missouri
"Hrrmmph..."

The curious grunt that issued from the sheriff was accompanied by the popping creak of springs as he shifted in the wheeled desk chair he currently occupied. After staring silently at his visitor for an extended measure of heartbeats, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, then rocked back in a slow arc before finally allowing himself to slump the last few inches and fall heavily against the backrest.

FBI Special Agent Constance Mandalay stood on the opposite side of his desk, her credentials held forth, displayed in a well-practiced manner. The portly, uniformed man opposite her didn't seem particularly interested in the badge and ID, but she wasn't going to put them away just yet, even though she had identified herself verbally upon entering. She simply held his gaze, intent on establishing her authority as a federal officer.

Audibly matted against the tense quiet of the room, the chair popped and let out a dull twang as it settled under the sheriff's now cantilevered weight. Constance wondered to herself if one of the springs had finally surrendered for all eternity. It wasn't that the sheriff was morbidly obese or anything of that sort, but he definitely looked like he had done hard time at the dinner table. However, the real reason for the thought was that the piece of furniture looked like a broken relic from the post World War II 1940's. Of course, when you got right down to outward appearances, so did the man sitting in it.

Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while using his free hand to groom the grey-white thicket that lined his upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.

"Go on and put your badge away, honey," he drawled. "I already know damn well what they look like."

Constance quickly slid her index finger to the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her blazer.

"Sheriff Carmichael, I'm sure you know..." she started.

He interrupted. "Skip."

"Excuse me?"

"Skip," he repeated. "Everybody around here just calls me Skip. If you're gonna work with me, you might as well too."

"I see," Constance replied with a nod. "Well, Skip, as I was..."

"Where's Agent Drew?" Sheriff Carmichael asked, speaking over the top of her once again.

"Agent Drew was reassigned," she answered after an annoyed pause. "In fact, he's no longer with the bureau's Saint Louis office."

"Yeah, guess I'm not surprised. They send me a different Fed every year." He shook his head. "So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?"

"I was assigned to this case if that's what you mean. Is that a problem?"

"Dunno," he grunted. "Is it?"

"It shouldn't be."

He huffed. "I actually kinda liked Drew. He had a sense of humor."

"As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned. Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order."

"Yeah," he sighed. "They always do. That's exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent Keene before him... I could go on. You make number five, ya'know that?"

"Yes, I do."

"So now, as usual, I've gotta waste my time bringing you up to speed."

"Not necessarily. I've read the file."

"And so did the four in front of you, sugar. Let me ask you this. Did you learn anything with all that reading?"

Constance bristled slightly at the condescending sobriquet, but allowed it to slide for the time being. "I'll admit, the file is a little sparse on hard information."

"That's because we don't have any. Anyway, readin' and knowin' is two different things, young lady."

"Don't worry, I'm a quick study. Like I said, it really shouldn't be a problem."

"Woulda, coulda, shoulda... You Feds are all a bunch of damn parrots with the same vocabulary, you know that?" he grunted, then gestured toward a wooden chair. "Well, since you're here, go on then... Sit down."

Constance sighed. It appeared this man still wasn't taking her seriously, so she dug in. "I think I'll stand, thank you."

The sheriff snorted. "Yeah, right... Go on... Take a load off."

"Really, I'm fine. If you'll just..."

"Listen, sugar," the sheriff interrupted yet again. This time he rocked forward in the chair, then rested his elbows on the paper-strewn desktop as he tilted his head down and looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. "I know what you're doing, and I ain't got time for your little bureaucratic, girl-power bullshit."

"Excuse me? My what?"

"Position and power, honey. Basic psychology. Right now you're trying to prove that you can write your name in the snow bigger and better than anyone else because you're a woman with a badge who has something to prove. On top of that, you're showing me that you're the one in charge because you work for the FBI. So look...I get it. You're a Fed, I'm a small town cop. We're all one big happy family as long as you're on top. Fine. But I'm here to tell ya', you can stop dancin' because I've already done this waltz with every damn one of your predecessors.

"Now..." He waved his finger at her then thrust it toward the chair. "Since you're standin' there in a pair of brand new high heels, and we both know you're dyin' to sit down because your feet are killing you, quit tryin' to prove that you're the alpha bitch in this pack and just park it."

Constance stood her ground and snapped, "I take it you have some sort of problem with women, Sheriff Carmichael?"

He shook his head and replied in an exasperated huff. "Damn, you're a piece of work... First off, I said call me Skip. Secondly, hell no, I don't have a problem with women. I love 'em. I even married one. Got three daughters too.

"What I do have a problem with, however, is people wasting my time playing games like you're doing right now. So either sit your ass down or get the hell out of my office, Special Agent Mandalay. Your choice."

Once his diatribe was finished, the sheriff picked up his pencil and returned his attention to the paperwork at hand, as if Constance wasn't even in the room.

" _Well, at least he was paying attention enough to catch my name_ ," she thought to herself while continuing to stare at him for a quarter orbit of the second hand around the clock face. Personality-wise, the homicide detective she'd been dating for some time now was a younger version of the sheriff. Gruff, opinionated, and more than willing to speak his mind. He definitely hadn't been mellowing with age, either. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she was stuck in some sort of Dickens-inspired nightmare and the Ghost of Christmas Future was torturing her with a glimpse of what may come. She gave a small shudder at the thought and then shook it off.

Finally she conceded. Draping her coat over the uncomfortable-looking straight back of the chair, she let out a small sigh then perched herself in the seat. As it turned out, appearances were not deceiving at all. The chair was just as uncomfortable as it looked.

"There, I'm sitting," she announced. "Are you happy now?"

A full minute passed before the sheriff answered. Without looking up from his work he grunted. "Not my feet that's hurtin', young lady. Question is, are you happy now?"

She regarded him quietly for a moment, then asked, "Okay, I'll admit it, I'm curious. How did you know my feet were hurting? Lucky guess?"

"Those shoes would hurt my feet. I figure they gotta hurt yours."

"You barely glanced at me when I came in. How did you even know I was wearing heels?"

"I ain't deaf yet, honey. I heard 'em the minute you hit the front door."

"Okay," she conceded. "But that still doesn't explain how you know I just bought them."

The sheriff sighed and tossed his pencil back onto the papers again as he leaned back. He gave her the sort of look a teacher would bestow upon a student who wasn't grasping the idea that one plus one equals two. "This a test?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean did your other Fed buddies tell you to screw with me?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Sweetheart..." he muttered, then shook his head. "Okay. Fine. Let's get it over with so we can get some police work done." Wagging his finger up and down at her, he began to explain, "That blazer you're wearing is a _Charles Gray of London_ , unless I missed my guess, but I don't think I did because my youngest daughter has one just like it. Not the highest dollar, but pricey, nice, and it's current on the style. The one you're wearing has been custom altered to drape properly because you carry your sidearm in a belt rig... On your right, by the way... That tells me you're particular about your appearance and like to keep up with fashion, so it stands to reason that the shoes would be important too." Now directing his index finger at the doorway, he continued, "But, when you walked in here a few minutes ago, you were favoring your left foot, even though based on the way you move it's obvious you're no stranger to walking in heels. In fact, I'd say you could even run in them if you were pressed.

"Anyway, then you stood here in front of my desk and kept shifting your weight from foot to foot. That tells me either you're wearing new shoes that aren't broken in yet and they hurt your feet, or you really have to pee. Now, I may be wrong, but I'm pretty certain that if you had to pee that bad you would have asked Clovis to point you at the restroom before you had her bring you in here to talk to me."

Constance stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then asked, "You picked up all that from a quick glance?"

"You gonna tell me I'm wrong?" he huffed.

"Well... No... It was that obvious, huh?"

"Yeah, it was. Don't they teach you kids anything at Quantico these days?"

Constance ignored the gibe. "I have to say, Sheriff, your powers of observation and deduction border on uncanny."

"...For a sheriff of Podunk, you mean."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"Were you in law enforcement before..."

He verbally truncated her question with one of his own. "You mean was I a hotshot homicide detective on some major metropolitan police force before burning out and retiring to the rural Midwest where I could be an Andy Taylor clone and not even have to carry a gun? That'd be kinda cliché, don't you think?"

"Yes, actually."

"You're right, it is. And, I am. All except the part about Andy Taylor and the fact that I'm not stupid enough to think I can get away without carrying a sidearm in this day and age. Even here in Hulis."

"But you were, as you put it, a hotshot homicide detective." Her words were a statement and not a question.

"I cleared a few cases in my day," he grunted while looking around his desk, lifting papers and shifting file folders in the process. "I take it none of this information was in the file you read?"

"The file was on the case, not you."

"Yeah, whatever," he replied absently, still searching for something in the clutter. "That's some piss-poor police work for a bunch of Feds. If your research is that bad, my opinion of you G-men just ratcheted down another couple of notches."

"Well, hopefully I can change that."

"Yeah, I guess we'll see, won't we? Seven murders in seven years, all on the same damn day, we're still at square one, and I've got my fifth new Fed to babysit. No offense, but from where I am, you've got your work cut out for you changin' my mind."

Constance ignored the negative commentary and pressed forward. "So, speaking of the murders, has the card arrived yet?"

"Yeah, it was waitin' for me when I got here this morning, just like clockwork... Hang on a sec..." Sheriff Carmichael gave up his apparently futile search and pressed the side of his hand on the talk button of an intercom box that looked only slightly newer than the chair and desk, then called out, "Hey, Clovis?"

A handful of seconds later the speaker crackled, "What do you need, Skip?"

"Have you seen my coffee cup?"

"It's out here on top of the filing cabinet where you left it an hour ago."

"Dammit..." he muttered.

There was a short hiss, and then Clovis's voice rattled from the tinny box again. "Want me to bring it in to you?"

"What time is it?" he asked, a mildly absent quality to his voice as he circumvented the original question.

"Eleven-thirty," she replied. "I swear, Skip, you need a watch."

"Why? You've got one."

"Skip..."

The sheriff sighed, then smoothed his bushy mustache before turning his attention back to Constance. "You have lunch yet, Special Agent Mandalay?"

"No, actually... And, you can call me Constance, by the way."

"Skip? You want me to bring you your cup?" Clovis's voice came over the speaker again.

He depressed the button. "No, hon... Thanks anyway. I think I'm gonna take the Fed over to _That Place_. You want me to bring you back anything?"

The intercom crackled. "I brought lunch today, but I sure could go for a piece of pie... Oh... But I really shouldn't."

"Coconut cream like usual?" he asked.

"I really shouldn't," she replied.

"Coconut cream it is," he grunted.

"That Place?" Constance asked when he was finished.

"It's the diner across the street," he replied as he rolled back, then pushed up from his chair and ambled over to a bentwood coat rack in the corner, stopping for a moment to hitch up his belt before pulling down his jacket.

"Does it have a name?" she asked as she stood.

"Yeah, _That Place_."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he said with a nod. "Come on, I'll buy you lunch and see if I can get you up to speed on all this."

"What about the card?"

"What about it?"

"May I see it?"

The sheriff hefted his jacket back onto a hook then walked back to the desk. "Exactly the same as all the others," he grunted, shuffling through the papers and extracting a manila envelope labeled EVIDENCE, along with a few scribbles of information such as the date and time. Handing it to her he added, "Got it bagged for you, not that you'll find anything. You never do."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try. Eventually the killer will slip up." She added a paraphrased retort, " _They always do_."

"Yeah. Good luck with that."

"You seem a little jaded," Constance said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a pair of surgical gloves.

"Like I said, seven murders, seven years, five Feds, square one," he replied. "And now I'm staring at number eight in about three days time. You'll have to excuse me if I sound less than hopeful regarding an outcome at this point."

"I understand," she replied, unwrapping the string closure and then carefully emptying the contents out into her gloved hand.

The Christmas card was nothing particularly unique. Printed on inexpensive stock, the front of it was a detailed color rendering of a serene, somewhat darkened living room. A fireplace dominated the center of the picture, with a bulging, bright red, gift-laden stocking hanging from the mantle. A pair of black boots attached to telltale red-suited legs were dangling down from the flue and into the dormant fireplace.

In the foreground was a small plate, upon it resting a half-eaten cookie and what appeared to have once been a full glass of milk, now mostly empty. Adjacent to it was a note written in a child's hand that said, "For Santa, Marry Crismis. Luv Susie."

Above it all, gracing the top of the scene, were the words "'Twas The Night Before..." printed in an embossed, bold script.

Inside the card was blank. On the back was only the simple logo of a generic greeting card manufacturer that had long since gone out of business according to the case file.

Constance turned the card over in her hands, looking at the back, at the blank inside, and finally lingering over the artistically depicted tableau on the front. Sheriff Carmichael watched her silently for several minutes.

Eventually, he cleared his throat and muttered, "Exact same damn card every year, stuffed right through the mail slot... Always on December twenty-second. No envelope, no prints, no DNA, no hair, no fiber, no nothing... Didn't make the connection until the second year." He paused for a second then spat, "Anyway... Every Christmas we find a man's body... Or I guess I should say pieces of one. They pretty much add up to a whole, except for..."

As the sheriff's voice trailed off, Constance verbally filled in the blank. "The external genitalia."

Out of reflex he nodded assent while he spoke. "Yeah. Always missing."

"Just like John Horace Colson," she breathed.

"Except Colson happened thirty-five years ago, and there's no question who killed him... And why."

"I know."

"Yeah. You read the file," he replied. "Then you also know we find the victim in the exact same spot Colson was found."

"I do."

"After number two, we started watchin' the place. Full on, around the clock, starting the week before Christmas every damn year. This year'll be the fourth where I've sat out there myself. Nobody in, nobody out, but on Christmas morning, the body is always there."

"That was in the file too."

"Good. Then maybe you can explain that one, because I sure as hell can't." He paused then brought the present thread of the conversation back full circle. "You know, right around Thanksgiving every year I start wondering if the sonofabitch has finally run out of cards so that maybe this nightmare can stop. Then one shows up. Maybe this will be the last one... But I really doubt it."

"Do you just wonder, or is that one of your uncanny observations?" she asked, turning to look at him.

He shook his head. "More like a Christmas wish. It's the same one everybody in Hulis makes. Been a lot of wishbones snapped on it, believe me."

Looking back to the card in her hands, she dropped her voice to just above a whisper. "Everybody in Hulis except for one, apparently."

"No," he told her. "This isn't someone from around here. This is an outsider."

"That's just one theory."

"Yeah, but it's the theory I'm sticking with."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me too damn sick to think otherwise."

Constance slid the card back into the evidence envelope and secured the flap shut with the closure string.

As she peeled off the surgical gloves, in a matter-of-fact tone she remarked, "You know I have to talk to her."

"I assume you mean..." he allowed the name to go unspoken.

"Merrie Callahan, yes."

The sheriff sighed heavily, then reached up beneath the rim of his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he hung his head and shook it slightly. "Do you really think that's necessary? You said you read the file."

"Yes, it is, and yes, I did."

"Well? There should have been interviews in there from the other four Feds."

"There were, but they didn't..."

"...Say anything of any consequence." He finished the sentence for her. "My point exactly. Believe me, this ain't my first rodeo with you folks. What makes you think you'll get anything different this time?"

"I won't know unless I try."

"Well," Sheriff Carmichael sighed again. "I think you're just wasting your time and mine too. I'll take you to see her if you insist, but let's go across the street and have lunch first."

"Honestly, I'm not really all that hungry," she objected.

"Maybe not, but I am," he explained. "Besides, we need to talk about this first."

Constance shook her head to punctuate her hard response. "You aren't going to change my mind about this, Sheriff."

"Not gonna try," he replied. "I'm just gonna give you the facts so you don't go in unarmed. Decision's still yours. And I'm pretty sure I told you to call me Skip."

"Thanks, Stella," Sheriff Carmichael said, looking up with a slight grin at the young woman who was refilling his coffee.

She smiled back. The expression was strained and thin, but still noticeable. "Your meatloaf should be up in just a minute or two, Skip." She leaned a bit closer and adopted a conspiratorial tone. "I told Max to put a couple of double thick slices on there for you."

"You're too good to me, Stella."

_That Place_ was more of a U-shaped lunch counter than anything else. It was crammed tightly into a narrow storefront across from the Sheriff's department and kitty corner from the town hall. The décor was typical small-town diner of the late 50's or early 60's – chrome and Formica counters with vinyl-topped stools bolted to the floor at evenly spaced intervals. Just as the Sheriff's office looked like a throwback to the 40's, so did the small diner look as if it had been frozen in its own particular era for the rest of time.

The establishment was surprisingly slow for lunchtime, especially during the week. Besides the sheriff and Constance, there was only one other patron, and he was at the far end of the U. However, there was something else about the diner that struck Constance as even odder still. It was December 22nd and with the exception of a poinsettia on the counter, the restaurant was devoid of holiday decorations, Christmas or otherwise. Just like the Sheriff's office had been.

The waitress glanced over at Constance and asked, "Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks," she replied with a shallow nod.

"Suit yourself. I'll be back out in just a minute or two."

As she started away toward the kitchen at the back, Sheriff Carmichael called after her, "Oh, hey, Stella, I almost forgot. Clovis wants a piece of your mom's coconut cream pie. Think you could box up a slice for me to take over to her? Just put it on my tab."

"No problem," she answered. "I'll have it ready to go when you are."

Once Stella disappeared through the swinging doors at the back, Constance twisted a quarter turn on her stool and focused on Sheriff Carmichael. "She seems a little tense."

"Yeah," he replied. "That's 'cause she knows who you are and why you're here."

"I'm here to help."

"Like I told you, we've heard that before. Folks don't get their hopes up anymore."

She glanced around again at the lack of visible cheer. "So... People don't decorate for the holidays in Hulis?"

"Not many," he grunted. "Not for a few years now. Nobody wants to think about what Christmas brings to this town. Hell, my wife and I don't even put up a tree anymore. Don't know many folks around here that do."

"That's kind of sad."

"It's reality," he countered.

"That doesn't make it any less sad. It's as if the town itself is a victim too."

"It is," he agreed. "That's the difference between a small town like Hulis and a big city like Saint Louis. We've got a population of less than a thousand folks. What happens here is personal."

"As I understand it, so far none of the victims have been from Hulis, though." Constance gestured with her index finger to indicate the surrounding area. "In fact, they've all been unidentified according to the reports."

"True," he replied. "But this is where they're found, so that makes it personal, no matter who they are. You have to understand, Constance, people here aren't afraid of being a victim of this killer. But they're damned well on edge about this. Doesn't exactly help our reputation, and the population is dwindling. This keeps up, Hulis could cease to exist."

A quiet interlude fell between them as she weighed the gravity of what he'd just said. On the surface it was merely a statement of fact. But beneath the words, stark emotion was grappling with the logic, and it was winning.

The cafe doors leading to and from the kitchen swung open and Stella reappeared, plate in hand. A moment later she slid it in front of the sheriff; a waft of aromatic steam still rising from the pool of gravy welled in the center of the mashed potatoes that flanked an easily five-inch thick slab of glazed meatloaf.

Once the waitress had disappeared again, Constance re-started the conversation. "So, what is it we need to talk about, Skip?"

Sheriff Carmichael used his fork to carve a trench into the side of the mashed potato volcano on his plate then watched in silence as the gravy began to spill out. It flowed down the side and began spreading across the plate toward the meatloaf.

Eventually, the weighty pause ended and he asked, "Exactly what did your file have to say about John Horace Colson?"

She shrugged. "The pertinent details. He had a record ranging from petty larceny to aggravated battery. There was also a conviction for sexual assault on a minor. He did just under a year in the adult correctional institution at Gumbo Flats for the latter. And, of course, there was the abduction and rape of Merrie Callahan, and then his subsequent murder."

He finished chewing the hunk of the meatloaf he had stuffed into his mouth, then swallowed hard. After taking a sip of his coffee to wash it down, he repeated her words with a razor sharp edge of bitterness. "The abduction and rape of Merrie Callahan... Makes it sound like a made-for-TV movie from one of those damn cable channels."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I'm just answering your question. I didn't mean to sound callous."

"I know, I know... Truth is, the story might as well be a movie. It sure as hell plays out like one... It just doesn't have a very happy ending." He nodded as he spoke, waving a hand and sighing in apology himself. After staring wordlessly at his plate, he finally laid the fork aside and combed his fingers through the snowy brush on his upper lip. When he finally started speaking again, there was a fire in his voice that seemed unquenchable.

"Thirty-five years ago Merrie Callahan was ten years old," he began. "She was a bright, freckle-faced kid, with a mop of chestnut hair and a personality too big to fit her body.

"Late on the afternoon of December twenty-second, Merrie's mother picked her up from school. It was the last day before Christmas break. They were Catholic, so she went to the Immaculate Conception school over in the next town, and there wasn't any bus service, so Elizabeth―that'd be her mother―would shuttle her back and forth. On the way home she stopped over at Norris's Market, just up the street here, to do some last minute grocery shopping for their big Christmas Eve dinner." He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the direction.

"As the story goes, Merrie's little sister, Rebecca, was pitching a fit about wanting to see Santa Claus and give him her list," he continued. "Just so happened, Norris's was right next door to the Five-and-Dime. Back then we had a little more by way of population, including kids, so they always had a part-time Santa Claus for the week before Christmas. Anyway, Merrie, being the sweetheart she was, volunteered to take her sister next door so that her mother could finish the shopping in peace."

"And Colson was that Santa Claus," Constance offered, nodding. "That was in the report."

"Yeah..." Carmichael grunted. "How that sonofabitch got hired I don't know. Of course, back then there wasn't a sex offender registry, so I guess he flew under the radar... Anyhow, about twenty minutes after Merrie took her sister next door, a clerk came rushing over to Norris's looking for Elizabeth. Rebecca was standing in the middle of the dime store in hysterics, and all they could get out of her was that Merrie had taken Santa away. Of course, as we know, it was the other way around, but sometimes five-year-olds see the world differently than the rest of us.

"At any rate, Merrie was nowhere to be found, and no one except Rebecca had seen a thing. Colson had supposedly gone on a break, but he never returned and couldn't be found in the vicinity, so he instantly went to the top of the list of people we wanted to interview."

"We?" Constance asked.

"Yeah... We. Thirty-five years ago I was a commissioned deputy in this very sheriff's department," he explained.

"So, you didn't just retire here," Constance said. "You're originally from Hulis."

He nodded.

"That wasn't in our files," she puzzled aloud.

"I told you we needed to talk."

"Obviously. Go on."

"Well, back then I was green. I'd been on the department for less than a year, and we'd never had anything like this happen in Hulis. If you had a kid go missing, you found 'em at a friend's house, or they were skipping school and just forgot to make sure they came home in time to not get caught. But we knew this was different right from the beginning.

"We set up road blocks and organized a search, of course. Just about everyone living here at the time helped look for her. There were even some State Highway Patrol officers sent in. Tom, that was her dad, and Elizabeth were basket cases, understandably, what with their little girl being stolen like that." He shook his head and stared out the window for a moment before continuing. "I still remember my mom going over and staying at their place to help out with Rebecca, and just make sure they had someone there.

"Anyway, we searched the rest of that night, all day the next, and into that night too. By then we'd pulled a complete background check on Colson and knew about his record, including the sexual assault on a minor charge. I'm here to tell you that information didn't do much for our spirits."

"I understand."

Sheriff Carmichael drew in a deep breath and then puffed his cheeks in a drawn out sigh. "There was no such thing as an Amber Alert, but we got the word out to all the agencies, including yours. And then there was the media. Next day was Christmas Eve," he said. "We figured Colson had probably gone across the state line into Iowa, or maybe even east into Illinois, but we kept lookin' anyway. We weren't about to give up. Of course, we still couldn't find a thing. Not a trace of either of them. So...later that afternoon I went home, caught a nap, and then headed in for my regular duty shift that night. Next mornin' is when I found her."

"How?"

"Luck, I guess," he replied. "I'd just been sittin' there in the office and twiddlin' my thumbs the whole damn night. Soon as my shift ended, I figured I'd go out and cruise. I was out for an hour...maybe a bit more...and everything just started to catch up with me. It was pushin' five AM, so I decided to go on home and hit the sack. I was out on the west side of town. Turned a corner to loop around the block and there she was. Standin' in the middle of the road.

He paused and Constance could see the fresh pain of an old memory creasing his face. He started to speak again, but his voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee before finishing the story.

"She was covered in blood," he offered. "Didn't find out till later wasn't all of it hers. She was wearing her school uniform, or what was left of it. It was torn... Just ripped up by that sick bastard. But she'd put it on after...well...you know.

"There was eight inches of snow on the ground and temp was in the twenties... And there she was, torn clothes, one shoe, and just standing there in the middle of the road, starin' off into space." He hesitated momentarily as the vivid recollection welled inside him, gathering pressure before escaping via his tortured voice. "The ungodly things that bastard had done to that sweet little girl... Cigarette burns... Cuts... Bruises... And... I... I... I just can't even... I..."

"It's okay," Constance soothed. "I understand."

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "It's not okay. And unless you've seen it...I mean really seen it...then you don't understand."

"You're correct," she replied. "I don't, really." There was no reason to argue.

"Long as I live... I just..." Sheriff Carmichael stopped and blew out a heavy sigh. "Anyway...I wrapped her up in a blanket and called it in. She never said a word the whole time. Just sat there in my cruiser and stared out the window. They hustled her off to the hospital, and we started searching the neighborhood looking for Colson. About two hours later we found what was left of 'im in the basement of a vacant house a few blocks from where I found Merrie. It had been checked the day before. Or it was supposed to have been... Nobody was sure... But if it was, where they were prior to that is still a mystery.

"At any rate, he was dead, of course. He'd been hacked up good with an axe. It was layin' right there next to him, along with an empty bourbon bottle. Axe handle had small, bloody hand prints all over it, and the fingerprints we pulled matched Merrie. Then, like I said, we found out that a good bit of the blood on her was his. She never told us what happened... I don't honestly believe she even remembers. But the coroner's report showed his blood alcohol was through the roof, so with the evidence at hand, the assumption was that he got liquored up, passed out, then Merrie found the axe and did what she thought she needed to do in order to escape."

"Quite the feat for a ten-year-old girl," she mused aloud.

"You know what they say about fear," he replied. "It's the great motivator."

"True. And it does sound like a logical conclusion under the circumstances," Constance offered. "So, what happened after that? The file had notes to the effect that Merrie is currently institutionalized?"

The sheriff shook his head and answered. "She never really recovered. For the longest time she was almost catatonic. She was well into her teens before she showed any improvement at all, but even then it was like she was mentally frozen in time. Stuck at ten years old forever, and that was on a good day. Tom and Elizabeth took care of her even as they got older, but about ten years ago they were both killed in a head on collision out on the two lane. Merrie couldn't take care of herself, so she pretty much lives at the retirement home. Between her inheritance, and the good hearts of folks here in town, it's covered."

Constance cocked an eyebrow. "What about her sister?"

"Nobody's seen or heard from Rebecca pretty much since shortly after the funeral." He gave his head a shake that exuded sadness in the very motion. "Merrie had become Tom and Elizabeth's world, and I think Rebecca ended up resenting her for that. She'd been off to college and was living in Omaha before the accident anyway, visiting at holidays and such. She came back for the funeral and then hung around long enough to dissolve the estate." He shrugged. "Then she left. Shoulda been something in your file about it. All of 'em that came before ya' tried to track her down, but never had any luck."

"Unfortunately for us, if someone really wants to disappear and they stay out of trouble, it's easier than most people think," Constance said.

"That's a fact," Sheriff Carmichael agreed.

He looked down at the plate of food in front of him. A visible, dull skin had formed on the surface of the rapidly cooling gravy, and the inviting gloss the butter had given the bright green peas was all but melted into oblivion. It didn't matter. His appetite had disappeared thirty seconds into the story anyway.

He pushed the plate aside, then reached for the napkin dispenser, only to discover that he'd been clenching one of the folded, paper rectangles in his fist the whole time he'd been recounting the thirty-five-year-old horror. He carefully wiped his mouth, then brushed out his mustache with his fingertips as he tossed the crumpled napkin aside.

"So, tell me," he began, turning his emotionally spent gaze toward Constance. "Now that you've heard all that, do you still feel it's absolutely necessary to talk to Merrie?"

Constance nodded shallowly and returned a grim expression. "I'm afraid so. I realize it must be hard, so I can just go myself if you'd prefer."

"No, no... I'll be going out to visit her anyway. I always do. Besides, she's probably expecting us. Bringing her a new visitor on the twenty-second seems to have become a twisted little tradition where you Feds are concerned."

"Sorry."

He shrugged off the apology. "She's not big on strangers either, but she'll be okay with you if she sees us together and I introduce ya'." He reached up and massaged a spot above his eyebrow with the side of a crooked index finger. "All right then. Let me go ahead and collect that piece of pie and run it back to Clovis, and make a couple of calls, then I'll take you over there."

Constance stood on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff's office while he went inside, the collar of her long coat turned up against the breeze. The temperature was hovering in the upper 20's, but the occasional gusts that sluiced along the street made it feel much colder. If the sun was out it might not be so bad, but a heavy blanket of grey clouds formed a low ceiling overhead, casting the small town of Hulis in a visible dullness that served to enhance the dark funk that already permeated it to the core.

Her cell phone speaker trilled as she held it pressed against her ear with a leather gloved hand. After the fifth ring a recorded male voice announced without identification or ceremony, "Leave a message."

Constance rolled her eyes as a sharp tone followed, then began speaking. "Drew, this is Mandalay. Hey, I know it's the holidays and all, but I got handed the 'Christmas Butcher' case and I'm up here in northern Missouri. I just finished a really interesting conversation with Sheriff Carmichael. Apparently our file on this whole situation is incomplete... Actually, that's an understatement... But... Anyway, since you were the last agent assigned, I wanted to run a couple of things past you. Do me a favor and give me a call back on my cell when you get this. Okay? Thanks."

She stabbed off the device, then punched in a speed dial code using her ungloved hand, which she then promptly shoved back into her pocket once the requisite task was complete and nimbleness of digits was no longer required. Tilting her head to the side, she tucked the cell beneath a cascade of brown hair and pressed it to her ear once again. On the second ring a gruff but far more familiar voice issued from the speaker.

"Homicide. Detective Storm..." the voice said.

"Hey, Ben," Constance half-cooed. "How is your day going?"

"Pretty damn quiet at the moment," he replied. "But that'll change. It always does."

"Unfortunately," she agreed. "I'm sorry we couldn't connect before I had to leave town."

"Shit happens."

She could hear the shrug in his voice, but underneath it she could detect a clear note of disappointment as well. They'd both been busy with their respective jobs and getting together just hadn't been in the cards as of late.

"So, how 'bout your day? Where'd they send ya' off to this time?"

"Hulis, Missouri."

"Hulis... Where the hell's that?"

"About four hours north of Saint Louis. Right on the Iowa border."

"Ahhh... North Podunk Cornfield, eh?"

"Sort of. I hate to sound cliché, but quaint definitely fits...in a weird fashion."

"Whadda they have ya' workin'?" he asked, then added with a chuckle, "Grand theft scarecrow?"

"I wish. It's a seriously screwed up case, actually..." She left her words dangling on the chilled air.

"That bad, eh?"

"In a word, yes."

"Okay..." he said. "You're soundin' all depressed. Spill it. What's wrong?"

She hesitated to answer. After all, why ruin his mood too? But it took only a few seconds for her reluctance to wane, and in the end she just couldn't keep herself from sharing. "Unfortunately, I just finished listening to a detailed account of a child abduction, abuse, and sexual assault from thirty-five years ago. A ten-year-old girl named Merrie Callahan. It was heartbreaking."

"Jeezus..." Ben muttered. "Yeah... I can see where that'd royally fuck up your mood. Did they at least catch the sick bastard who did it, or is that why you're there?"

"They didn't have to, actually," she told him. "The little girl he took escaped after he got drunk and passed out. But rather than take any chances, she hacked him to death with an axe first. On Christmas morning, no less."

"Jeez... Awww... Just... Jeezus..." he moaned. After a brief pause, in a somber tone he added, "That's one tough little kid. Well at least she got away, and the sick fuck got what he deserved."

"But at the cost of the girl's sanity, apparently. She never recovered, mentally."

"That's fucked up..." he muttered, then fell silent.

She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. As jaded as he could sometimes be about homicides, no matter how gruesome, any act of violence against a child pierced his armor instantly and without fail.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I really didn't mean to call and depress you too," Constance offered.

"S'okay," he replied. "I asked. B'sides, can't be easy for you ta' deal with either."

"No, it isn't..." she agreed.

"Gotta have someone you can talk to or it'll make ya' nuts."

"Uh-huh. Thanks for listening. I really appreciate it."

"Any time, hon. So... Stupid question. Why're you in North Podunk lookin' at a thirty-five-year-old _closed_ case?"

"Because seven years ago, a man's body turned up here on Christmas day, also hacked apart with an axe. Since then, same thing every Christmas morning. Man's body, hacked up with an axe, and the external genitalia missing."

"Damn..." he muttered. "That's some twisted shit. One body a year, eh? That's some serious downtime for a serial."

"True, but not unheard of. Also, the murder is always preceded by a Christmas card delivered to the sheriff's office on December twenty-second, which is the anniversary of the day the little girl was abducted."

"Well, that pretty much clinches your triggering stressor, right there, doesn't it?"

"I'd say so."

"And it's been goin' on for seven years now?" There was a hint of incredulity in his voice.

She responded in kind. "I know... Tell me about it."

"Who the hell's workin' lead on this?"

"That's just it. Nobody. Or maybe me, I guess. I'm actually the fifth agent that's been assigned over the course of the case thus far. And it's never a team. Just a single agent."

"You're kiddin' me."

"I wish I were. It doesn't make sense."

"No it doesn't... Well... Lucky you, I guess."

"Uh-huh, lucky me," she spat.

"Well, I'm sure I don't need ta' even say this, but you've looked at family, right?" he suggested.

"Mother and father both dead. There's a younger sister, but it looks like she voluntarily disappeared into the woodwork about ten years back and nobody has been able to locate her, so she's a possibility. Finding her is the issue."

"What about the girl herself?" he asked. "She'd be what, about forty-five now?"

"Not likely. She's institutionalized," Constance replied. "Her body aged, but like I said, her mind threw in the towel. I've been told she has the mental capacity of a ten-year-old child at best."

"Not good."

"Other than that, no real extended family other than the people here in town. Apparently they've all chipped in to help take care of her since the parents are deceased."

"Yeah, that's definitely a small town thing... Think it could be one of them? The townfolk?"

"It's an angle I'm working, but the sheriff thinks I'm way off base."

"I wouldn't worry too much about what a small-town sheriff thinks."

"I don't know," she told him. "He's pretty sharp. Actually, he reminds me a lot of an older version of you."

"Yeah, I am pretty damn sharp, ain't I?"

"Yes, but I'm fairly certain he's sharper."

"Ouch."

"Seriously. He's Sherlock Holmes kind of sharp."

"He smoke a pipe and play the violin?"

"I'm serious."

"So was I. Sorta," he replied. "So listen, don't take this the wrong way, but if he's Sherlock smart, why's he need the Feebs?"

"Good question. Given the lack of evidence left behind, maybe the killer is Mycroft smart."

"Yeah, but Sherlock's older brother was a fat, lazy bastard. I doubt he'd be motivated enough ta' kill anyone."

Constance allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible chuckle. "Bravo."

"Yeah, kinda figured ya' didn't think I knew who Mycroft was."

"Always full of surprises, aren't you?"

"That's what I keep tellin' ya'."

"Well, in any case I'm still planning to talk to the original victim. In fact, the sheriff will be taking me over to see her in just a few minutes."

"Gonna verify the case notes," he said with a knowing tenor in his voice. "Good'a place ta' start as any."

"That's another strange thing," she explained. "I read through the file and thought I was up to speed when I arrived here. But it turns out our documentation on this case is sorely lacking. All sorts of important information is missing."

"Lost?"

"That or worse. Maybe pure negligence. Or even incompetence. I don't know just yet."

"Think someone coulda screwed with it on purpose?"

"I hope not, but I don't know why anyone would. It's not like this is a RICO case where there could be payoffs or something. It's a serial killer."

"True," Ben grunted.

"Except..."

"'Cept what?"

"Something that was in the file is that the victim is always dumped in the same location."

"And so this is still an open case why?"

"Apparently the body just shows up. Whoever is doing it makes it past the surveillance without detection."

"Bullshit. You've got a dirty cop on your hands."

"I would think that too, except all four agents prior to me have been on the stake outs as well. I can't see all of them being complicit as well."

"Yeah, I see your point. But then you've got that effed up case file..." he offered.

"I know... I left a message for one of the previous agents," she told him. "Hopefully I can find out more when he calls me back."

"That'd be good," Ben agreed. "Just be careful. You never know."

"I will."

"So...I assume you'll be in Podunkville for Christmas then?"

Constance sighed and watched as her breath condensed in a thick cloud then instantly disappeared. "Unless there's a miracle, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. I know we had plans."

"S'okay..." he told her.

The whoosh of weather-stripping against a metal threshold sounded in Constance's free ear, and she looked up to see Sheriff Carmichael trundling through the opening and then down the short flight of stairs. He glanced at her and pointed toward the diagonally-parked police cruiser that was nosed in at the curb several feet away from her own vehicle.

"The sheriff just came out, I need to go," she told Ben.

"Okay. Don't worry about Christmas. We'll celebrate when ya' get home."

"I'll hold you to that," she replied.

"Won't be too hard," he countered. "Remember... Be careful."

"I will. I'll try to call later. Bye."

"Sounds good. Bye."

She slipped the cell phone into her pocket then pulled her glove back onto her bare hand. As she walked over to the passenger side of the Sheriff's Department cruiser, she thought about how much she and Ben obviously cared for one another.

The words they exchanged.

The time they spent together.

The sex.

Then she wondered silently why even with all that, neither of them ever seemed to be able to bring themselves to say to the other, "I love you."

"Afternoon, Martha," Sheriff Carmichael greeted the woman as she drew herself up from her chair and made her way over to the front desk. "How is she today?"

Constance glanced around the clean but small lobby area. The squat, somewhat new sign at the entrance to the semicircular drive read Holly-Oak Assisted Living Facility. Inside, the building itself looked more like what her grandparents use to call a "rest home."

Holly-Oak was obviously well maintained, but from an architectural standpoint it had definitely been around awhile. Of course, that seemed to be an ongoing theme in Hulis, as with many other small towns where time itself seemed to be on an extended holiday. It also hadn't escaped her notice that a funeral home was located directly across the street, well within view from any of the facility's front windows; in her way of thinking, not exactly the most comforting vista for the residents. In fact, it brought the old adage, "location, location, location," right to the forefront of her thoughts.

"Afternoon, Skip." The woman returned the sheriff's greeting, then answered, "She's Merrie," punctuating the words with a shrug, as if that simple statement and gesture said it all.

Given the knowing nod the sheriff offered in response, for them, apparently it did.

"So, how's Kathy?" Martha asked as Sheriff Carmichael signed the visitor's register. From her posture it was readily apparent that she was ignoring the fact that Constance was even present. There was also an audible tension in her voice that more than indicated the pleasantries, while sincere, were for some unknown reason forced.

"Feisty as ever," he replied. "I stopped tryin' to keep up with her a long time ago."

She nodded. "Smart man. And the girls?"

"Fine, fine. Doing fine," he replied. "Cyn came home on break Friday."

"This is her last year at Mizzou, isn't it?"

"Supposed to be," he grunted. "But she's making noise about going after her Masters."

"Good for her."

"So, Martha," Carmichael said, shifting the subject toward the inevitable as he wagged a thumb at Constance. "I'm sure you know why we're here. This is Special Agent Mandalay from..."

"I know, I know," she replied before he could finish. "I've been expecting you all morning. Then I got the call from Stella not fifteen minutes ago."

"Yeah, not surprised. She's got a big mouth, just like her mother."

Constance reached in to her jacket to extract her credentials, but the woman stopped her. "Don't bother. You're with Skip, that's all I need to know. Or want to know, for that matter." Her voice held more than a hint of disgust as she almost spat the comment.

"I'd like to speak with Merrie, if that's possible," Constance said, leaving her badge case stowed in its pocket and slowly pulling back her hand.

"When are you people going to leave that poor girl alone?" the woman demanded. "Don't you think she's been through enough?"

"Calm down, Martha," the sheriff said. "She's just doin' her job. You know that."

"I thought her job was to find whoever is doing this killing," she replied, directing herself solely at him. "I don't know how dredging up the past for that poor girl every year is going to do that."

"I know, Martha, I know..." he soothed.

She scowled at Constance for a moment, then snorted in disgust as she turned away from the counter and headed back toward her desk. "She's in her room, Skip," she called over her shoulder. "Just keep an eye on the time. You know as well as anyone what day it is."

"What does she mean by that?" Constance asked.

"I'll tell you later," Sheriff Carmichael said as he stepped back and pointed toward a door off the side of the lobby, indicating that she should go first.

"It's this way," he said.

Mandalay gave him a puzzled look. "Shouldn't we wait? You did contact her state-appointed advocate, correct? I assumed that was the call you were making earlier."

"Nope. She doesn't have one."

"If she has diminished faculties as you've said, then she definitely should."

"Special Agent Mandalay," he replied, a mix of bemusement and disingenuous formality in his words. "In case it has escaped your attention, this whole damn town is Merrie Callahan's advocate. We'd all pretty much adopted her even before her parents were killed in that accident. Believe me, if you get your toes anywhere near the line, they're gonna get broken, I don't give a damn who you work for.

"I'll do whatever it takes to protect our little girl... So will anyone else here in Hulis. And just so you know, that's not a threat, sugar, it's a promise."

The carved, wooden sign on the door looked like one you would pick out from the pages of a personalized gifts catalog. It was definitely too perfect to have been hand made. The router work had almost certainly been done by a programmed machine in a factory where they churned out fancy name plaques by the hundreds each hour. In a deeply recessed outline font it read simply, MERRIE'S ROOM.

The door itself was only partially closed, with a gap of just a few inches left between it and the jamb. Through the sliver of an opening, the keyboard heavy, pop music beat of a song floated on the air; although it was barely recognizable through the scratchy hiss of static that overlaid the notes.

Sheriff Carmichael tilted his head and listened closely for several seconds, then turned to Constance and said, " _Love Will Keep Us Together_."

"Excuse me?"

"The song," he said, gesturing at the door. " _Love Will Keep Us Together. The Captain and Tennille_."

"Oh..." Constance replied, nodding. "I thought I'd heard it before."

He shot her a half grin. "I guess you probably aren't quite old enough to remember it, but they were on the Top Forty that year."

She nodded but remained silent.

The sheriff reached out, hesitated, then gave a light, tentative knock on the surface of the door. After several seconds had passed with no answer, he cleared his throat then rapped his knuckles against it a bit harder and called out, "Merrie?"

A moment later the volume on the music ramped sharply downward, and a slightly frightened sounding woman's voice answered, "Who is it?"

"Merrie," Sheriff Carmichael called out again as he began slowly pushing the door open with his palm. "It's Skip, from the sheriff's department."

The sound of frantic footsteps came from the other side of the door, and it was suddenly ripped fully open from within. A woman roughly Constance's height all but tackled the sheriff in a tight hug, her demeanor having suddenly shifted from fear to excitement.

Her hair was a shoulder-length shag of chestnut, streaked ever so slightly with a few strands of grey. She was pretty but definitely looked close to her chronological age, even if she wasn't dressed to reflect it. It was hard to miss that she was clad in a long sleeve, knee-length pleated dress. Dark blue with a stark white collar. It looked like an adult-sized version of something straight out of a seriously retro clothing catalog for children.

"Deputy Skip!" she said, joy rampant in her voice as she continued to hug him tightly. "I knew you'd come to see me today. You always do. I told Miss Martha you would, but I don't think she believed me."

"Oh, I'm sure she believed you, Merrie," he replied, giving her a grandfatherly squeeze. "You know how Miss Martha is."

"Unpleasant," she announced as she released her grip on him and stepped back.

"Listen to you," he chuckled.

Just as one would expect of a ten-year-old child, she widened her eyes and rolled them as she cocked her head to the side and muttered a long, drawn out, "It's true."

He winked. "You're right, it is. Just don't tell her I said that."

She giggled at their shared secret.

"So, Merrie," Carmichael continued, gesturing to Special Agent Mandalay. "This is my friend, Miss Constance. I was telling her about some of the people here in town, and she thought that you sounded so interesting that she asked if she could meet you."

Merrie glanced at her but held her position close to the sheriff. After a moment she said, "Umm... Hi."

"Hi," Mandalay replied with a smile. "I like your dress."

"Thank you. Miss Mavis made it for me. I picked out the pattern and the fabric myself."

"It's very pretty."

"Are you a deputy too? You don't look like one."

"No, Merrie, I'm not," Constance answered. "But I'm a kind of police officer. I work for the FBI. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes," she said with a nod. "My daddy used to watch it on TV, but it's not on anymore."

Constance was actually familiar with the old show, even if it was somewhat before her time. "Did you watch it too?"

"Sometimes. Do you have a badge?"

Constance nodded. "Yes. Would you like to see it?"

"May I?"

Mandalay withdrew her badge case and opened it with a practiced flip. Merrie inched closer and peered carefully at the credentials. "Cool..." she muttered. After a moment she looked up and smiled. "Do you have a gun too?"

"Yes, but I can't really show it to you. It's only for emergencies."

Merrie nodded. "Where are you from, Miss Constance?"

"Right now, I live in Saint Louis."

"Saint Louis! Have you ever been to the Gateway Arch?"

"Yes, I have. Where I work downtown isn't very far from it, as a matter of fact."

"Did you ever go up inside?"

"Yes."

"Is it cool?"

"Yes it is. You get to look out the windows and see everybody running around like ants down below."

"You're so lucky. I've only seen pictures," Merrie offered. "Daddy said he would take me to see it for real some day. Maybe even this summer."

Constance glanced over at Sheriff Carmichael and shot him a questioning look by way of furrowing her brow. In response he gave her a barely perceptible shake of his head. Focusing back on the childlike woman she said, "That sounds like it will be fun. They have a theater underneath where they show a movie about how they built it. Make sure you see that, it's really interesting."

"So, Merrie," the sheriff spoke up. "Would you mind if we came in and visited with you for a little bit?"

"That would be fun," she told him, stepping back so they could enter. "Do you like _The Captain and Tennille_ , Miss Constance?"

"Yes, I do," she replied as she followed the sheriff into the room. In truth, she wasn't really sure if she did or not. If the earlier noise was any indication, however, she was probably leaning toward not. But there was really no percentage in saying as much.

"Me too," Merrie said. "And I _really_ like _KISS_ , but Sister Conran from school says they play Satan's music."

"Well, I don't know about that, but I will say they do look a little scary."

"I don't think so. I think they look really cool. How about _Supertramp_? Do you like them?"

"Definitely," Constance agreed. Finally, that was some classic rock she could get behind.

Beyond the door, the room looked much like any average ten-year-old girl's bedroom―provided one stepped back in time 35 years. Stuffed animals were piled on the bed, and what appeared to have once been a small stack of teen idol magazines were haphazardly spilled across the floor nearby. There was even a pinup page of a teen heartthrob from one of the publications taped to the wall. It was faded and had definitely seen better days, but it was still recognizable. All together the tableau formed a solid, visual indicator that Merrie Callahan's mind was forever stuck in that tween wasteland between childhood and puberty. Not only that, it was frozen at its own, arbitrary moment in time, much like the town of Hulis itself. Yet another oddity to be added to a growing list of things that were perplexing about his case.

In the corner of the room was the source of the earlier music, and it became readily apparent why the quality had been so lacking. A black, vinyl disk that showed visible scratches, even at a distance, was spinning on the turntable of an old, all-in-one stereo system. With the volume turned low, now only a tinny background noise issued from the rectangular speakers sitting on either side of the unit. And, even it was almost overwhelmed by the hissing sound of the stylus scraping in the worn grooves of the record album.

"Pink or purple?" Merrie questioned without warning.

"Pink or purple what?" Constance asked, shooting another questioning glance at Sheriff Carmichael, who simply nodded.

Merrie repeated the question in more detail. "Do you like pink or purple?"

Mandalay shrugged. "Both, I suppose."

"Pick one," Merrie insisted.

"That's hard... Okay. Pink. Why?"

"You'll see." Merrie scurried over to a chest of drawers and rooted through a clear plastic box that was resting on top. Momentarily, she returned with a small bottle in her hand that she was shaking vigorously as she seated herself on the edge of the bed. "Come here. I'll do your nails."

Constance glanced at her hand. Long nails were one of the fashion accessories she _didn't_ cultivate. She kept them trimmed short because they didn't get along very well with the .40 caliber Sig Sauer riding on her hip otherwise. She silently debated for a second, then stepped over and draped her coat across the foot board of the bed, then took a seat next to Merrie and held out her right hand.

"I like your shoes," Merrie said as she started brushing pearlescent pink lacquer onto Mandalay's nails.

"Thanks," Constance replied. "I just bought them."

"I'll get new shoes soon," Merrie said. "I always do for Christmas. They won't be fancy like yours. They'll be just like these." She kicked her leg out and pointed her toe to display her footwear.

Constance glanced down. The shoes in question were black Mary Janes with a silver buckle. The patent-leather showed scuffs and crinkles from age and daily use. Merrie was wearing white knee socks with her dress, but at this angle Constance couldn't help noticing the old burn scars marring her bare legs just above her knee. They were faded with time, but still obvious as they disappeared behind the hem of her dress. She remembered what Sheriff Carmichael had said about Colson and the cigarette burns on the little girl's body, then felt horribly sick to her stomach.

"When I get new shoes, they're really just for school and church," Merrie explained as she continued laying on the nail polish. "But since it's Christmas, Mom will let me wear them to dress up for a while. But then I'll have to put them away. I had another pair, but I lost one of them."

Constance took the opening and gingerly asked, "You lost a shoe? Did you look under your bed?"

"No," Merrie answered, unfazed. "That's not where I lost it."

"Where then?"

"I don't know."

"You don't remember?"

"No. I just lost it," she answered succinctly and gave a quick shrug as she shook her head. In the next breath she changed the subject. "Okay, I'm finished with this hand. Give me your other one, but don't touch anything until they dry or you'll mess them up. Okay?"

"Okay."

Constance switched hands, splaying out her fingers and inspecting the fresh manicure. Merrie had done a good job. Of course, the color didn't really go with her clothes, not to mention that it was definitely a disco era shade.

"I worry about my sister Becca," Merrie announced.

"Why?" Constance probed.

"Because she still believes in Santa Claus."

"You don't?"

"Of course not. Santa Claus is something grownups tell little kids to keep them from being scared," she replied.

"Being scared of what, Merrie?"

"The man in the red suit."

"Santa?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Why would you be afraid of Santa?"

Merrie ignored the dangling question. "Becca is only five. That's why she still believes, but she won't for much longer, I hope."

"Why won't she believe for much longer?"

"Because she's been learning to read. That's when you stop believing the story."

"Why is that?"

"Umm... Because..." Merrie rolled her eyes like she was trying to remember something, then with a small dose of young frustration in her voice, tried to explain. "There's a word for it, but I can't remember what it is. Do you know what it is when you can make a word out of another word, Miss Constance? You know, when you rearrange the letters?"

"Yes. They call that an anagram."

"That's the word. Anagram. Sounds like telegram."

"Yes, it does a little bit."

"Well, we learned about them in school, and Becca will too. Then, just like me, she'll know the truth.

"What's the truth, Merrie?"

"That Santa is really Satan."

"No, honey, Santa isn't really Satan," Constance offered in a soothing tone.

Merrie continued painting Mandalay's nails and replied, "Yes, he is."

"That anagram is just an unfortunate coincidence," Constance explained.

"I know that it's true, Miss Constance. Know why?"

"Why?"

Merrie stopped and looked up at her in earnest. "Because he does very horrible bad things to little girls, even when they've been very, _very_ good."

"Believe me now?" Sheriff Carmichael asked.

He and Special Agent Mandalay were standing at the back of his patrol car on the parking lot of Holly Oak. The visit with Merrie had produced nothing in the way of information, but it most certainly swelled with an overabundance of heartbreak.

"Yes," Constance replied, nodding. "It's not that I didn't believe you before. I just..."

"...Had to do your job," he finished for her as he slipped a key into the trunk lock and gave it a twist. It let out a dull thump as the latch released, almost as if underscoring his added comment, "I know."

"Speaking of jobs, ever have one of those days when you really hate yours, Skip?" she asked. "Because I'm having one right now."

"December twenty-second through twenty-fifth, every damn year," he sighed, then repeated in a quiet mumble, "Every blessed, goddamned year..." With that, he lifted the trunk lid, extracting the key from the lock as it rose, then offered the jangling ring to Constance. "Here. No need in you standin' out here in the cold. You might want to start it up and get the heater going. I'll just be a few minutes. I need to take this stuff in."

Mandalay glanced into the well of the trunk space and saw three large shopping bags, each with festively wrapped presents protruding from their depths. "I thought you weren't big on celebrating Christmas here in Hulis," she asked.

"These are all for Merrie," he told her. "The new shoes she's expecting. Some clothes. Mavis Crawford does sewing out of her house, so she makes things for her. And, a few other odds and ends. Whenever anyone travels or goes into the city, they hit those vintage resale stores and pick up old records and such. Things like that. We all carry a list in our wallets of what needs to be under the tree. Of course, most of us have it committed to memory by now."

"I was actually planning to ask you about that," Constance mused. "Why are all her clothes and belongings mired in the past?"

"It keeps her happy," the sheriff responded.

"But is it healthy?" she pressed.

He shook his head as he gathered the bags and hefted them out of the trunk. "I suspect it's as healthy as it can get. Merrie doesn't cope very well with change, I'm afraid."

Since his hands were full, Constance reached up and levered the trunk lid shut for him as she asked, "How so?"

Sheriff Carmichael huffed out a heavy sigh then grimaced noticeably. "Merrie Frances Callahan lives her life in a year long continuous loop, Constance. For her, it's always nineteen seventy-five. That never changes. And, if you try to take her out of her little world, she just shuts down."

"Shuts down?" she repeated. "Mentally, you mean?"

"And physically," he said, punctuating the statement with an animated nod. "Last time a doctor tried to force her into the here and now, she almost died. She reverted to a catatonic state, was hooked to a feeding tube, and was just wasting away. That was right around ten or twelve years before Tom and Elizabeth died in that wreck, give or take. I was still playing detective in the big city back then.

"I do remember that they were actually expecting her to go at any moment. They'd already resigned themselves to it. Made funeral arrangements and everything. She was literally that bad off. It was gettin' close to Christmas, and Elizabeth was a sentimental sort, so she got out all of Merrie's old things and re-decorated her room back to how it originally was." He shrugged. "Then, like some kind of damn miracle, she got better. Well...as better as she could, I guess. For most of the time, anyway."

There was a pained sadness in the last comment, and Constance picked up on it instantly. "What do you mean by _most of the time_?"

"It gets a little rough this time of year. You heard what she said about Santa Claus."

Constance nodded. "Repressed memories."

"Something like that," he replied. "Probably worse."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they might not stay repressed."

"Are you saying she actually relives the abduction and abuse?"

"We'd like to hope not," he said then nodded. "But, unfortunately, in her head, we think she does, yeah."

"You _think_ she does?"

He thrust his chin toward her. "What time is it?"

Constance furrowed her brow in confusion at his query but pushed up the cuff of her glove and glanced at her watch anyway. "Two thirty-eight. Why?"

He bobbed his head toward the building. "In about an hour it'll be right about the time Merrie was abducted thirty-five years ago. All of a sudden, just like someone flipped a switch, the girl who just painted your nails will go catatonic. She won't snap out of it till about five on Christmas morning. Happens every year. After that, it's like her clock is reset."

"So that's what Martha meant earlier about keeping an eye on the time."

"Yeah," he nodded. "That's what she meant. When Merrie wakes up it will be like nothing ever happened. For her, it will be Christmas Day, nineteen seventy-four, which in her mind was the last time the holiday was ever good to her. We even have a tape of the ball dropping in Times Square, New Year's Eve, seventy-five. She stays up to watch it every year."

"What about other things? Like school and such? People aging around her?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't seem to matter. She focuses on the Christmas holidays. Those are important to her. The rest of it seems to play itself out in her head as long as nobody interferes."

"But there are physical issues. She's a grown woman."

He nodded. "She knows how to handle that sort of thing. And in her head she's ten. She doesn't know any better than to think that's just how it's supposed to be."

Constance turned and stared toward the building as she breathed, "Dear God..."

"Sweetheart, in my way of thinking, God doesn't have much of anything to do with it," Carmichael spat. "If he does, then he's just as big a sonofabitch as Colson was, and I'll tell him that to his face... As you can imagine, the preacher and me don't see eye to eye on that issue." He paused for a second, looking at the ground thoughtfully, then hefted the bags once again and turned to go. "Let me get this stuff inside, so Merrie has her presents to open Christmas morning. It'd break my heart to disappoint her, and the past seven years I've been too busy to deliver 'em when she wakes up. When I missed the first couple it caused some problems for her."

"I understand," Constance replied. As he started to walk toward the door, she called after him. "When you're finished with that, do you think you can take me by the scene? I'd like to have a look at it."

He stopped, half turned, looked up into the sky and then back down at her face. "Not much daylight left," he grunted. "No electric over there, and it's boarded up, so it's gonna be dark enough as it is. Be better if we did it tomorrow morning. Believe me, I've been down this road before. Nothing's gonna show up there till Christmas Day anyway. But it's really up to you. You're the Fed."

Constance thought about it for a moment. "Do you already have the house under surveillance?"

"Yep. Broderick should be out there now. Slozar'll relieve 'im this evening."

Truth is, he was correct. That visit could wait. As far as all of the previous murders went, the site was cold in almost every way imaginable. And this year, as a crime scene, it technically didn't yet exist. She wasn't going to learn anything stumbling around in the dark with a flashlight that wouldn't be there for her to discover tomorrow morning.

And besides, at this point her feet really were killing her.

She nodded in agreement. "Okay, tomorrow morning then."

"Good plan. I assume you're staying in town tonight?"

"I booked a room at the motel, yes."

"Good. We'll suss out a time for me to pick you up then. Just do yourself a favor in the morning."

"What's that?"

He dipped his head toward her feet as if he'd read her mind. "Since we're going out to do serious police work, wear a different pair of shoes. I'm a little tired of watchin' you dance."

Constance pushed aside the sad remains of what was supposed to have been a Cobb salad. She'd picked it up from _That Place_ on her way to the motel since it was rapidly approaching dinner time, and she wasn't really interested in venturing out once she'd managed to get settled. The salad was edible, but it had been devoid of avocado, shredded Colby had taken the place of the Roquefort cheese, and the only dressing they had was prepackaged pouches of ranch. Hindsight being what it was, she concluded that she should have ordered the meatloaf.

Stella, the waitress from earlier in the day had handled her order. She'd been courteous enough but never managed to achieve a state that could be construed as friendly. Constance had also experienced much the same reaction from the desk clerk when checking in to her room. Other than Merrie, no one seemed particularly happy about her presence here in Hulis. Even Clovis at the sheriff's office had been aloof around her, and she still wasn't quite sure what to make of Carmichael himself.

After digging through her computer case twice, she located an old Category Five network cable. The motel had boasted Internet access, however, as it turned out it was hardwired only. Apparently the concept of Wi-Fi hadn't taken hold in this small-town just yet. She hoped the cable would work. She was sure it had been quite some time since it had seen the light of day, so its condition was definitely suspect.

She crawled around on the floor and located the receptacle, then plugged in. The connector immediately popped out and fell to the floor. It took three tries before she realized the tab was broken. She turned it around and pushed in the other end, sighing when she heard it click and remain in place. Maybe she could just hold the other end in while she worked. Backing out from beneath the desk, frustrated, she misjudged the distance and banged her head on the underside as she came up.

"Oww," she yelped, then mumbled, "Dammit..."

Rubbing the back of her head with one hand, she pushed the broken end of the cord into the jack on her notebook with the other. It stayed for a heartbeat then popped out. She gave it a thoughtful frown, then ambled over to the nightstand and opened the top drawer. Fortunately, the _Gideons_ were on their game. She pulled out the hardbound Bible, sauntered back to the small desk, then shoved the cord back into the socket and plopped the heavy book on top of the wire, pushing it against the back of the clear plastic connector. This time it stayed, so she pointed at it and mumbled, "don't even think about moving," then she carefully pressed the power button on the notebook.

While the computer whirred through its start-up sequence, she parked herself in a straight-backed chair that was so uncomfortable she was firmly convinced it had to be from the same matched set as the one sitting in the sheriff's office. Snatching up her cell phone from the desk, she thumbed through the screens to see if there were any text messages or voice mails she might possibly have missed.

Nothing.

She stared at the device and pursed her lips, then frowned. It was almost 5:00. Not exactly late, but that made it better than four hours since she'd left the message for Agent Drew. Of course, it was the holidays, after all. Maybe she needed to try calling one of the other agents who had been assigned.

Leaning over to the foot of the bed, she snagged a file folder from the outer pocket of the computer case and laid it open on her lap. Flipping her way through the documentation, sparse as it was, she located a number and thumbed it into her cell.

After a trio of rings, a voice issued from the speaker. "This is Keene..."

"Keene, hi, you may not remember me, but this is Special Agent Mandalay from the Saint Louis headquarters," Constance announced.

"Mandalay... Mandalay..." he mused. "Brown hair, worked violent crimes, kicked Joe Lanting's ass in a close-quarters defense demo?"

She allowed herself a small chuckle at the last reference. "The same."

"Broke his nose as I recall."

"He had it coming, the way I remember it."

"That he did. So, yeah, I remember you. Kind of hard to forget. How are you doing? I heard you took a couple of rounds awhile back."

Constance reached for the scars on her chest out of unconscious reflex. "I'm good. Fully recovered."

"Glad to hear it. So, what can I do for you?"

"Actually, I was hoping you might be able to answer a couple of questions about a case you worked a couple of years ago."

"Sure. Which one?"

"The Christmas Butcher."

There was a sudden and obvious silence at the other end of the line.

"Agent Keene? Are you still there?"

Keene cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm here. Exactly where are you calling from, SA Mandalay?"

"I'm in Hulis, Missouri. I was assigned to the case. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah," he replied, his tone shifting from warm camaraderie to a businesslike chill. "Hard to forget. So that's still open..."

"I'm afraid so."

"I guess I'm not surprised."

"Why is that?"

"Just a gut feeling," he replied, then quickly shifted the subject. "Godawful what happened to that little girl."

"Definitely," she agreed. "So, I was wondering if you could help me out. I've been going over the file and it seems incomplete."

"Oh?"

"Yes. For one thing, there was no mention of Sheriff Carmichael's connection to the original John Horace Colson case back in seventy-five. Also, there was no background on the parents and the sister, Rebecca Callahan."

"Have you checked with archives?" he asked. "I'm sure I mentioned in my report that we'd been unable to locate the sister."

"No offense, Agent Keene, but there wasn't much detail to your report."

"My SAC signed off on it, right?"

"Yes, but..."

He cut her off. "I'm afraid I can't really help you, SA Mandalay. Like I said, maybe you can check with archives if you feel like something is missing from the file."

"I plan to do that," she said. "But since you worked the case I'd appreciate it if you could fill me in on..."

"Have you spoken to the girl yet?" he asked, interrupting her yet again.

"Merrie Callahan? Yes, I talked to her this afternoon."

"So then you know about her mental state."

"Yes, but that's not..."

"Try me _after_ Christmas, SA Mandalay," he said, heavily stressing the after.

"What?"

"If you still think you have questions after Christmas Day, then give me a call. But honestly, I don't expect to hear from you again. Not about this, anyway." His words were followed by a rustle and then dull silence.

"What do you... Agent Keene... Agent Keene?"

Constance pulled the cell away from her ear and stared at it before mumbling, "Bastard."

She waited a moment, still fuming over the bums rush she'd just received from a colleague. However, based on what he'd said and the way he'd gone cold at the mention of the case, she was definitely beginning to wonder if maybe Ben was correct when he suggested the possibility of a cover-up. It wasn't something she relished considering, but something was going on and it definitely didn't fit with standard procedure.

Once her flare of temper had mellowed a bit, she thumbed through the phone book on her cell, highlighted a number, then pressed the button to dial.

For the second time today she heard five rings, followed by a recorded voice announcing no more than a curt, "Leave a message."

"Drew, it's Mandalay again," she announced in the wake of the start tone. "This is my second message, and I need for you... Scratch that... Look, I'm sorry if I sound a bit frustrated, but, I just had a really bizarre conversation with Agent Keene. He was assigned to the Christmas Butcher case prior to you. Listen... I know you and I have had some differences in the past, but the case always came first, even when we disagreed. Something really strange is going on with this... I could use your input. Just call me back, okay? This number. Thanks."

She stabbed the end button with her thumb and noticed the pearlescent pink nail shining in the light of the desk lamp. Holding out her hand and splaying her fingers, she gazed at the retro manicure and felt herself smile, but only for a brief instant before the corners of her mouth bent into a deep frown.

Given what Sheriff Carmichael had told her earlier, she couldn't help but imagine the abject fear that was likely going through Merrie Callahan's tortured mind at this very moment, and it turned her stomach sour. As she sat there in silence, she could taste the acrid tang of bile on the back of her tongue.

7:56 AM - December 23

Greenleaf Motel

Hulis Township - Northern Missouri
"There's a thermos of coffee right there next to your left foot," Sheriff Carmichael announced, pointing toward the floorboard once Constance had climbed into the passenger side of the patrol car and shut the door.

"You read my mind," she replied with a heavy sigh, shifting in the seat and then reaching for the dinged, grey metal cylinder.

"Go on and use the cap," he offered. "I've already had my fill for a bit."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Oh yeah, and it's just black. Hope that'll do."

"That's fine. Right now I don't care, as long as it's hot and has caffeine."

He was slightly twisted in his seat, the back of his shoulder resting against the inner driver's side door and his left hand lazily hooked onto the top of the steering wheel. Reaching up with his right hand, he used his thumb and forefinger to smooth down his mustache while regarding her quietly. After a few heartbeats had thumped by, he asked, "So... About an hour 'n half? Maybe two?"

"What?" Constance asked while twisting the inner cap back onto the top of the thermos she was squeezing between her knees.

"Sleep," he said. "No offense, but you look like crap."

She took a sip of the freshly poured java, then nodded. "Oh. Yeah. About two I think. I couldn't stop thinking about..."

"Yeah, I know," he cut her off. "Don't worry, I know I look like crap too. Three fingers of bourbon and a sleeping pill didn't do me much good last night either. Never does this time of year."

"Yeah," was all Constance could think of to say in that moment. She took another sip of the hot brew then stared thoughtfully at the thick fingers of steam rising from the metal cup. "Have you checked on her this morning?"

"Always do."

"How is she?"

"On the outside, just like I said. Starin' off into space." He paused and drew in a deep breath. "On the inside, I'm afraid nobody really knows that except her. And since there's nothin' I can do to fix it, I try not to think about it too much. Hard not to, though... Guess you found that out last night."

Once again, words failed her. "Yeah."

"Well, go on. Buckle up," the sheriff instructed with a wave of his hand, then levered the cruiser into reverse and looked over his shoulder as he began to back the vehicle out of its parking space. "We've got police work to do."

The house at 632 Evergreen Lane on the north side of Hulis Township was a simple one and one-half story bungalow, sitting on an average-sized lot, with a bare-branched pin oak tree rising out of the front yard. The white paint on the clapboard siding was dull and peeling, and the gutter had separated from the fascia on the left, front corner. Weathered plywood covered the windows, and the glass was missing from the storm door. However, other than those salient issues, from the outside, structurally the building appeared sound.

It also gave no outward indication of the horrors that had occurred inside over the years.

They pulled in and parked behind a patrol car that was already in front of the house. After climbing out of his own cruiser, the sheriff ambled over to the driver's side of the first vehicle while Constance waited in the yard. The deputy inside rolled down her window as he approached.

"Morning, Skip," she said.

"Mornin', Mel," he replied. "Thought Johnson was supposed to relieve you around seven?"

"His kid's sick and he's running late," she replied.

"Ahh, okay," he grunted. "Didn't know. Haven't been by the office yet this morning. So, all quiet I guess?"

"Just like always," Mel replied then nodded toward the yard where Constance was standing. "That the Fed? Clovis said they sent another new one."

"Yeah. Gotta do the annual tour."

"Think she'll figure it out?"

"Guess we'll see. Not holdin' my breath, but I gotta say, she's different from the others. So... Maybe... Just don't wanna get too hopeful, you know?"

"Yeah, Skip. I know."

He shrugged, then hitched up his belt and repositioned the flashlight he was carrying tucked under his armpit. "I expect we're gonna be here for a bit. Why don't you go grab some breakfast and maybe Johnson'll be in by the time we're done and you can go home."

"Don't have to tell me twice," she replied, reaching out and cranking the engine on the patrol car. "Thanks, Skip. I'll swing back by in a bit unless I hear from you or Clovis."

"Sounds good."

The sheriff took a step back and waited for the car to drive off before joining Constance and walking with her to the front door of the house.

"I see you took my advice," he said, nodding toward the ground in front of her as he dug a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a keyring.

"What? Oh..." Constance replied, glancing down at the running shoes that were laced onto her feet. Looking back up she cocked her head to the side. "No offense, Skip, but you seem to have an odd preoccupation with my footwear."

"I just notice things is all," he told her with a shrug. "Like the fact that you also have a goose egg on the back of your head, probably from hitting it against the desk in your room last night when you were plugging in your laptop computer to the Internet. Plus you're expecting a call from someone and it's starting to bother you that he hasn't called yet."

She cocked an eyebrow and stared at him.

He answered the unspoken question. "You keep reaching up to touch a spot on the back of your head and then you wince. You probably don't even realize you're doing it. You're a federal cop on a case, so I'm just about positive you're dragging a laptop computer around. Greenleaf Motel doesn't do Wi-Fi because Artie's too cheap to buy the equipment, and the jack for the wired connection is under the desks in the rooms. My guess? You came up too soon and bang, there you go. Goose egg."

He gestured toward her right coat pocket and continued. "As far as the call goes, you checked your cell phone four times on the way over here and twice while I was talking to Deputy Slozar."

"How do you know it's a _he_ I'm waiting for?"

"Educated guess. I've told you, this isn't my first rodeo. Every one of your predecessors called their predecessor about this case. And every one of 'em was all antsy waitin' for a call back. Last agent on this was Drew, and he's a 'he' best I could figure. My guess is that's who you're waitin' on to call. Either that or a boyfriend. Unless you go the other way or somethin', which is none of my business."

"If I did, you probably would have already figured it out," Constance said.

"Yeah, probably," he returned.

She sighed. "Uncanny. That's all I have to say."

"Nope. I just pay attention is all."

"Okay. Then I guess it would be uncanny if you could tell me what I ate for dinner last night."

"Cobb salad with ranch dressing. In your room at the motel."

She shot him an alarmed, wide-eyed stare and took a visible step back, tensing her posture.

"Keep it holstered, Constance," the sheriff half snorted. "I'm not spying on you. Stella told me your to-go order this morning when I stopped in for the coffee."

"Why would she do that?"

"Because you're a stranger in town and she's a damn gossip that won't shut up to save her life, that's why," he explained. "But back to the shoe thing. Ed Ruble over at the hardware store on Main? Now he has himself a pretty serious ladies shoe fetish. Honestly he's harmless, but while you're in town you might want to avoid him if that sorta thing makes you uncomfortable."

She shook her head. "Stella again?"

"Nope. Figured that one out on my own."

"I'm not sure I even want to know how."

"Like I said, I notice things. It's my job to," he replied, then turned and shoved a key into the lock. After giving it a twist, he depressed the latch beneath the deadbolt and pushed the now unsecured door inward. Stepping back he gestured toward the opening. "Ladies first."

Constance nodded then stepped across the threshold and into the dark front room. Outside it was overcast, just as it had been the day before, so only a dim, grey light spilled in to bring an eerie illumination to the interior.

Sheriff Carmichael followed her in and left the door hanging wide open so that they could see. He pulled the five-cell flashlight from beneath his armpit and switched it on. The yellow-white beam formed a bright pool on the floor, casting an ever-softening glow out from the center as he adjusted it wider.

"A few years back there was talk of tearin' this old place down," he offered. "Been wishin' they had ever since."

"I assume it has been vacant for a while?" Constance asked, glancing around at the empty walls and scuffed hardwood floor.

"Coming up on about seven years, give or take," he replied. "It was empty back in seventy-five, as you already know, and what happened didn't exactly help its value. Someone finally bought it around seventy-seven for next to nothin', or so I heard. They fixed it up a bit." He shone the light along the floor, then through an arched doorway and toward the back of the house. "Re-did the kitchen, tore off the old back porch. Normal stuff." He played the beam around a bit so she could get the lay of the floor plan. "Those folks lived here awhile, then moved. After that it changed hands a couple more times. Last owner was living here when the first body showed up seven years ago. Well, I guess in a couple of days it'll be eight years..."

She turned toward the sheriff. "That wasn't in the file. I assume that owner was investigated?"

"Much as need be," he replied. "Ida Smith. She was eighty-nine, and when she found the... Well... What she found... Anyway, it didn't do her heart much good as you can imagine. She never was the same after that. Kinda went downhill, then she passed away about eight months later. Place has been empty ever since."

"Definitely rules her out."

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"Who owns it now?"

"Hulis, pretty much. Ida didn't have any family left to speak of."

"It actually looks like it's in decent shape for sitting vacant as long as it has," Constance observed.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he sighed. "Could use some work, but it's still standin'. Sometimes when I drive by here it seems like the place is just mocking all of us. I know that sounds kinda crazy. It's just a damned old house."

"With a seriously _damned_ history," she offered.

"Yeah...it's got one of those all right. But it's still an inanimate object."

Constance thought back to some of the cases she'd worked in the past. "You just never know," she muttered to herself.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," she answered, shaking her head. "Just thinking out loud."

"Yeah. I've got a daughter does that."

Constance nudged the conversation back to the case. "Is there a back entrance?"

"Yeah. Locked up tight. Never any sign of forced entry."

"Maybe the killer somehow has a key?"

"Locks been changed four times. Three of 'em I did myself."

"Any other ingress or egress?"

"Window's would be about it, but they've never been disturbed," he told her.

"The killer has to get in and out somehow."

"Yeah, can't argue there," he grunted, playing the flashlight around in the darkness. A moment later he quipped, "When you figure it out, tell me, okay? Because this'n has me stumped."

"That's hard to imagine."

"Yeah, I know," he said. There was no hubris in his voice, just sincere confusion.

"Well, that's why I'm here," she replied.

"Yeah, well no offense, but you're the fifth Fed to tell me that."

"So..." Constance said, allowing the commentary to go without rebuttal. "As I understand it the bodies are always found in the basement, correct?"

"Yeah," Sheriff Carmichael replied, panning the flashlight to the right side of the archway. "Stairs are just over there."

Special Agent Mandalay's eyes had almost adjusted to the darkness by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs. There were small windows at the top of the walls, spaced at roughly even intervals. A small amount of the grey daylight was leaking through them. She had noticed the upper lips of the window-wells protruding just above the ground when they first approached the house, but now that they were inside she could see that they must be filled with leaves and other debris. A by-product of mother nature combined with seven years of neglect.

Sheriff Carmichael adjusted the beam on the flashlight as wide as it would go and played it slowly across the walls of the basement. Seeping cracks were evident, which accounted for the damp, musty smell that permeated the cold air.

"Right over here," he said, panning the beam down to the floor.

The yellow swath of light revealed an oblong outline scribed on the concrete. A foot or so away was a much smaller outline, roughly perpendicular to the first. Dark stains colored in portions of the two shapes, spreading outward in haphazard flows, as if randomly spilled with no regard for the lines. Similar dark splotches were splattered on the wall nearby.

"And there," the sheriff offered, sliding the light over to the corner, a few feet away, where a basketball-sized circle was drawn, it too with a dark stain beneath.

"And over there," he continued, again aiming the beam toward a location apart from the others. This one looked like the outline of a giant, disproportionate boomerang.

"Torso and upper right arm," Carmichael announced, panning the light back to the first location. Moving it rapidly to the second spot he added, "Head." Aiming at the third he said, "Left calf and most of the thigh." Waving the light slowly around to reveal other outlines, he hesitated for a moment at each and named them off one by one, "Left arm and hand; right forearm; right calf, thigh, and foot; left foot; right hand. And that's pretty much it."

"And it's exactly the same, every year?" Constance remarked as much as asked.

Sheriff Carmichael swung the flashlight back and forth again, rapidly illuminating each of the spots in succession. "Yep. Exactly the same every year. All seven victims dismembered the same way, left in the same position, every time. We don't even clean up the outlines anymore."

"Don't you mean eight?" Constance asked.

"Not yet. Not until Christmas Day anyway."

"I mean John Horace Colson," she explained. "Aren't the seven recent victims positioned in exactly the same way he was found dismembered in nineteen seventy-five?"

"Yes, they are, Special Agent Mandalay," he spat, adopting the formal tone he'd used before when he wanted to stress a point. "But you need to bear in mind that John Colson was a monster. Merrie Callahan was the victim, not him."

"You aren't looking at this objectively, Sheriff Carmichael," she told him, mimicking his sudden conventionalism.

"I never claimed to be," he replied. "You're a smart girl, I thought you'd figured that out by now."

Constance pulled back the edge of the dark burgundy insulated drape that covered the window of her motel room and peered out the gap. On the other side of the glass, it was reaching the cusp of darkness. The last throes of what little sunlight had been managing to penetrate the low clouds were throwing themselves against the coming night in a futile suicide assault. The dirty blue-grey shadows were winning, just as they always would.

In the dimness she could see that a light snow was still falling, just as it had been since mid afternoon. Something on the order of an inch, maybe a bit more, had accumulated so far. What she'd been able to tune in on the two-decades-old television told her that it would be picking up the pace, and there would likely be three to five more on the ground by morning, followed by another day of overcast skies and bitter cold.

It looked like it would be a white Christmas for Northern Missouri, not that anyone here in Hulis would be celebrating. Except for Merrie.

Out of instinct, Constance was resting the heel of her palm on the butt of her Sig Sauer. Her index finger was extended, and the others curled back against the quick release. She didn't consciously feel like she was being watched, but with all of the exceptional observations being made by Sheriff Carmichael, she had to admit to herself that she was somewhat spooked, which was unusual. After all, she worked cases on a regular basis with Rowan Gant, a paranormal consultant for the Saint Louis police and the FBI as well. She had been witness to some inexplicable things, so this shouldn't be a big deal.

However, she was accustomed to Rowan's preternatural cognition, and moreover, it was never centered on her personally. Being the focus of intimately detailed perceptions that were coming from someone she really didn't know was just plain creepy.

As she was allowing herself to be mesmerized by the falling snow, a soft ding combined with a rapid clatter sounded from the desk a few feet away. She turned her head in time to see her cell phone vibrate toward the edge, then stop, still safely inches away from the precipice. She allowed the drapery to fall back into place then padded over to the desk and picked up the device.

The display read, "1 New Text Message."

She thumbed over to the text folder and opened it. The sender ID for the message that had just arrived was blank, but it was tagged urgent. Constance pursed her lips and sighed. Probably a SPAM text. She'd received them before. Just to be sure, she highlighted it and pressed OK. The message read, "CK PRSNL EML"

She scrunched her brow and frowned as she dropped herself into the desk chair and laid the phone aside. A pair of finessed jiggles and a re-orientation of the _Gideons_ Bible later, she managed to hang on to a solid Internet connection and proceeded to download her personal email.

The window on the screen filled slowly with line after line of electronic communiques. She didn't have to spend any time sorting through them though, as one stood out immediately. Tagged urgent, with a blank field for both the sender and subject header, it appeared at the bottom of the list because whoever was behind it had set the date of the email to 12/25/1975.

She dragged the tip of her finger across the touch-pad to highlight the email, then gave it a quick double tap. A new window opened on cue. The body of the electronic communication was simply, "HEAVY SYMBOLISM OF THE SEASON. MERRY XMAS." Below the body was an attached file, the name of which was a series of seemingly random letters and numbers.

Constance drew her finger around in a circle on the touch-pad, making the cursor orbit the file name on the attachment bar along the bottom of the email window. Pausing, she picked up her cell phone and scrolled the text message onto the screen again. Nothing. Just "CK PRSNL EML."

Looking back at the computer screen, she began to circle the cursor around the attachment again. Documentation missing from a case file, cold shoulders from colleagues, and now this. Things were turning a little too cloak and dagger for her liking.

She stopped and picked up the cell phone again. She thumbed through the numbers in the personal phone book until she reached the entry belonging to her SAC. Something was definitely wrong here, and as much as she hated the idea, she feared some of her fellow agents might be involved. As she highlighted the number and allowed her thumb to hover above the dial button, she once again took notice of the pearlescent pink manicure that graced her nails courtesy of Merrie.

She brought her free hand up and inspected the lacquered tips of her fingers. Sheriff Carmichael's stern remark from the previous day echoed inside her head. " _I'll do whatever it takes to protect our little girl... So will anyone else here in Hulis. And just so you know, that's not a threat, sugar, it's a promise_."

The words definitely weren't empty. There was something in his tone that told her as much. And for some reason, at this very moment she was feeling just as protective of Merrie Callahan as any actual resident of the town, including Carmichael.

Constance chewed on her lip for a moment, then looked back at the cell phone in her hand. Shifting her thumb, she dropped it down on the END button and cleared it back to the home screen without making the call. Laying it aside, she returned her attention to the notebook computer and slid the cursor over the top of the file, then quickly tapped twice on the touch-pad.

As it opened, her anti-virus software blipped onto the screen, announced that the file was clean, and allowed it to open. She heard the disk drive whirring, then the installed media player automatically loaded. A few scant seconds later, Burl Ives was belting _Silver and Gold_ from the built-in speakers.

Constance stared at it for a handful of seconds, then puffed out an annoyed sigh and fell against the back of the chair. A damn Christmas song. What kind of a joke was this?

She slid her fingers up through her hair and brought her hands to rest on the back of her head. The knot where she dinged it was still tender, but she didn't care at this point. She simply held on as her chin drifted toward her chest. Then she let loose with another sigh.

Could it be that she was reading too much into all of this? " _Lex parsimoniae_ , Constance..." she mumbled aloud. " _Lex_ deus damnat _parsimoniae_..."

The law of parsimony. Occam's Razor. She needed to step back, look at the simple explanations first, and then work her way forward from there. Don't make it complicated unless it proves itself to be so. She was allowing the fact that she was feeling spooked to turn some clerical oversights and a conversation with a jerk agent into a rampant conspiracy theory.

She knew better than this. She _knew_ she knew better than this.

Her stomach rumbled as Burl continued to croon, and she realized that she hadn't eaten at all today. She had some emergency energy bars stashed in her suitcase as usual, she knew that for sure. She might even have a military surplus MRE in there too. She couldn't remember offhand if she'd taken it out or not.

Her gut gave another low growl. It was telling her that an energy bar wasn't going to do the trick, and the MRE, if it was even there, didn't sound very inviting. Besides, tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she was going to be stuck on surveillance here in Hulis. Those vitamin-enriched, preservative-laden military rations could very well be her Christmas dinner.

Surely something was still open. It was dark outside, but it was still relatively early. She should probably head out now before the snow became too thick, not to mention that this was a small town. They probably rolled up the sidewalks early.

Her stomach issued another gurgling pang, so she decided to give in. She didn't recall hearing the end of the song, but Burl had finally stopped singing to her about silver and gold decorations, so now was as good a time as any to just get out and clear her head.

"You need a vacation," she told herself aloud as she sighed, then dropped her hands and lifted her face.

That was when she saw it.

The media player was paused, and in the center of the screen was a small, rectangular window. In it was a winking cursor, and above it a string of text that said, "ENTER ENCRYPTION KEY."

She blinked, just to be sure, and then continued staring at the screen. Maybe Occam's Razor was a little dull this time after all. Now she just had to figure out what the encryption key was.

Behind the newly opened window she could see the original email. The text still read, "HEAVY SYMBOLISM OF THE SEASON. MERRY XMAS."

She was sure that was a hint, but at the moment it wasn't much help.

She reached out and rested her fingertips on the home row of the keyboard, keeping her touch light. She thought about the tune that had played when the file opened, and then tapped out SILVERAN, however the DGOLD wouldn't fit. The field was only eight characters, so the song title probably wasn't it. She backspaced and pondered some more. A pair of false starts later she typed in SLVRGOLD. After a bit of trepidation washed over her, she hit enter.

The small window flashed quickly, then the words INCORRECT KEY! winked at her in bright red. After fifteen seconds or so, the prompt returned, ENTER ENCRYPTION KEY.

"At least it didn't erase itself," she muttered.

Constance stared awhile longer, then in a moment of inspiration typed, BURLIVES and tapped enter.

The laptop whirred, the window flashed, and then once again it displayed the winking red INCORRECT KEY!

Disheartened, she sat back in the chair and glared at the screen. After several minutes of staring, she retrieved a flash drive from her laptop case and made a backup copy of the file. Then, she stood up and shrugged into her coat, dug out a handful of change from her purse, and headed for the door. There was a soda machine close to the motel office, and if this turned into a long night she would be needing caffeine. Besides, it was really looking like she'd be having an energy bar for dinner after all, and she'd have to have something to wash it down.

She mulled over the text of the email the entire time she fed quarters into the slot and made her selection.

" _Heavy symbolism of the season. Merry Xmas_ ," she mumbled to herself as a can of cola audibly clunked its way along inside the humming machine, then thumped into the tray below.

She pulled it out and stuffed it into her coat pocket, then fed more coins into the slot.

" _Heavy symbolism of the season. Merry Xmas_... Santa Claus? No. Ten. Too many letters... Yule Log? Seven. Not enough..."

She sighed and shook her head. Whoever sent this wasn't making it easy, which either meant the information was extremely sensitive and maybe even classified above her grade... Or maybe they were just screwing with her. She wasn't quite sure which option she wanted it to be. The implications that came with the former weren't very good, and the latter would just piss her off.

Both pockets and the crook of her arm full of cans, she headed back to her room and settled in to work. If the previous night was any indication, she probably hadn't been in any danger of getting much sleep anyway.

It was pushing 3:00 the next afternoon when Constance finally gave in to her jittery exhaustion. She crawled onto the bed, pulled the blanket around her shoulders, and then quickly fell into a brief, tortured sleep that was filled with a painful nightmare. The terror playing out in her mind was stark, the images a contrasty black and white, save for the red suit the faceless man was wearing.

And then there were the vile, horrible things he was doing to her, over and over again.

While she tossed and whimpered through her slumber, across the room on the desk sat the notebook computer. Its cursor was still winking patiently below the words, ENTER ENCRYPTION KEY.

6:38 PM - December 24

Hulis Township Sheriff's Department

Northern Missouri
"Was wonderin' when you'd show up," Sheriff Carmichael said as Constance dragged in through the door of his office and without a word parked herself in the straight-backed chair across from him.

"I left a message for you with Clovis this morning," she eventually replied, her voice hoarse and flat.

"Yeah, she told me."

"Sorry. I was following up some leads."

"So... Leads, huh? Find anything you wanna share?"

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. Not just yet, anyway."

"Too bad. I could use some good news for a change."

He rocked back in his old, wheeled desk chair and brushed his fingers through his mustache as he looked her over. After a thoughtful pause, he rubbed his chin then nodded in her direction. "You look like you drove through hell and stopped too long to admire the view, young lady..." Raising an eyebrow he added, "No offense meant, of course."

"None taken," she replied. "Honestly, that pretty much sums up exactly how I feel at the moment."

He tilted forward in the seat and rested his arms on the desk. Peering at her with an expression of fatherly concern, he asked, "You get any sleep at all last night, Constance?"

"Actually, Skip," she said, pausing for a second before saying, "No...I didn't. I took a nap this afternoon but it wasn't exactly what I'd call restful."

"Let me guess, about three?"

"No, let _me_ guess, Sherlock," she returned, sarcasm thick in her gravelly voice. "The bags under my eyes are just the perfect shade and the creases still in my face from the pillow add up to three or something like that..."

He shook his head, the concern still in his face. "No, sugar. Three was just about when I took my nap thirty-five years ago. Wasn't a very restful one for me either, as I recall. Bad nightmares. Just lookin' at you tells me you're on the same wavelength I was back then... And still am, I guess."

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I guess I'm just..."

"Don't worry about it," he told her. "It's Christmas Eve, you're away from your loved ones, and you're stuck in the middle of an investigation I wouldn't wish on anyone. It's bound to get to you."

"It's my job."

"Doesn't make it any easier."

"Not to mention that I'm supposed to remain objective."

He shook his head and snorted. "You and I both know that doesn't always happen. Especially with something like this."

"Except the problem is, _this_ is supposed to be about seven brutal homicides over as many years. Not about Merrie and what happened to her in nineteen seventy-five."

"Yeah," he grunted. "Well... You might wanna tell that to the killer when you catch up to 'im."

She sighed. "Yeah... I know."

Sheriff Carmichael silently regarded the sullen FBI agent for a moment then asked, "You eat yet?"

She shook her head. "No. My stomach really isn't up to it."

"Yeah, I get that too," he replied. "But since you're dead set on sitting in that house all night waitin' for this sonofabitch, you're probably gonna need something."

"I'll eat tomorrow."

"Tonight, tomorrow, I don't care," he replied. "Either way, my wife fixed you up a care package just in case. It's not a lot. Just a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, but I hafta say, Kathy does make a mean egg salad sandwich."

"Please thank her for me," Constance told him.

"I'll do that," he agreed. "So...you wanna just sit for a while, or are you ready to head on over?"

"Let's just go. The sooner I'm in place the less chance there is to spook our subject."

"Your call," he said with a nod. "Been down this road before. I really doubt it's gonna matter one way or the other. Let me go ahead and put some fresh batteries in a flashlight for you."

"I've got mine, thanks," she told him.

"Okay, good. Then I'll just grab you a radio that's got a full charge on it, then I'll run you on over there."

4:47 AM - December 25

632 Evergreen Lane

Hulis Township – Northern Missouri
Sheriff Carmichael was correct. His wife did make a good egg salad sandwich. Unfortunately, it was still sitting heavy on Constance's stomach even though she had broken down and eaten almost five hours ago. It wasn't the sandwich's fault, of course. All of the blame had to fall squarely on her anxiety. The lack of sleep certainly wasn't helping either.

She was sitting in the dark, perched on a kitchen counter just as she had been for several hours now. Too long, but she didn't really have any choice.

From this vantage point she could see the back door, the hallway, and the door that opened onto the stairs that led to the basement. The front door was out of her line of sight, but if the killer was bold enough to enter from that direction, he would still need to pass through the hallway to get downstairs.

Sheriff Carmichael and two of his deputies were positioned outside where they could see not only the door entrances but windows as well. They had been checking in on the hour, as planned. Constance had the volume on her radio tweaked to just barely above a whisper, but that shouldn't present an issue. It was so quiet in the house she could hear her own heart beating in her chest, so she doubted she would miss a call.

She slowly rolled her arm, pushed up her coat sleeve with her other hand, then cupped it around her watch and pressed on the side. The illuminated dial glowed back at her, and she watched the digits click from 4:47 to 4:48.

That was when she heard the whimper.

She wasn't certain at first. It had been a single thin peep, barely perceptible, but it sounded as if it was coming from somewhere inside the house. She held her breath and even tried willing her heart to pause so that no other noise could interfere; then she cocked her head and waited.

Nothing.

Still, she waited, listening intently.

When she could no longer hold her breath, she let it out in a slow, quiet stream, then shifted as carefully as she could. Her right butt cheek was starting to go numb from the cold, or maybe from the lack of movement. In truth, probably both.

" _You're imagining things..._ " She thought to herself. " _You're sleep deprived... You_..."

The rest of the thought was unceremoniously truncated by an obvious male-voiced yelp coming from the basement.

The adrenalin dump was instantaneous. Constance launched herself from the counter, her feet thudding hard against the floor. Stealth had now ceased to be important. Her right hand went to her Sig, fingers fluidly catching the quick release on her belt rig as she filled her hand with the weapon and brought it up. Keying the radio with her free hand, she yelled, "Backup! Backup! There's someone in the house!"

She didn't wait for a reply. She dropped the radio and was already in motion while pulling a small flashlight from her coat pocket. With a flick of her thumb it was on. Although her eyes were already adjusted to the dark, the powerful blue-white LED beam was welcome.

Holding it in her fist, she brought her left forearm up in front of her chest, projecting the swath of light outward as she rested her right wrist atop the other in a stable firing position. Advancing out of the kitchen she paused, checking the front door, fully expecting Sheriff Carmichael or one of his deputies to come bursting through.

No one did. Not from the front, nor from the back.

"Dammit!" she muttered. Maybe in her haste she hadn't fully keyed up the radio, but there was no time to turn around for it and call them again. A weaker, but still audible, gurgling half-scream came up from the floorboards beneath her feet, and it was followed by a sickening, wet thump.

She was wearing her vest, so she prayed that if a deputy or the sheriff came through the door unexpectedly and fired without warning, they'd stick to their training and go for center mass, or preferably miss her entirely.

Taking the chance, she advanced quickly. In a half-dozen long steps, she moved down the hallway toward the basement door, crossed in front of it, then turned and reached for the doorknob with her left hand while keeping her firearm poised in firing position. Grasping it with her fingers while still holding the flashlight, she twisted.

It didn't budge.

She rapidly stuffed the still-illuminated flashlight into her pocket, wrapped her hand tightly back around the doorknob, and tried again to twist it in either direction. It remained frozen and unyielding.

Beyond the door she could hear the dull echoes of the sickly thump continuing at random intervals. To her, it sounded like the last time she had been at the butcher shop, and they had been cutting meat on a block behind the counter.

The screams, however, were now gone.

She shouldered the door, managing to do little more than send a sharp pain running down her arm and across her back. Rocking back with everything she could muster, she tried to pull at the door, but it remained steadfastly in place.

In a last ditch effort, she backed up and brought her sidearm to bear on the jamb where the handset met the frame. Just as she was about to squeeze the trigger, she heard a small shuffle then a quiet thump.

The sounds repeated in tandem.

Then they came again, audibly closer with each repetition.

Constance glanced quickly over her shoulder and took a step back into an empty doorway that was opposite and slightly to the right of the basement door itself. Whenever it finally opened, whoever was coming up the stairs would be directly in her line of fire.

The soft shuffle continued, followed by the light thump, and was occasionally joined by the barest of a creak from the wooden stairs. Each time, the noise sounded closer, until finally it came to a halt on the opposite side of the basement door. She watched as the doorknob began to slowly turn.

"FEDERAL AGENT!" She called out, her voice loud but still hoarse and rough. "STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD! NOW!"

Constance kept her focus straight ahead, both eyes targeting down the barrel of the Sig Sauer as she held it stiff armed before herself and waited. The latch released with a languid pop, and the door itself slowly parted from the jamb.

"STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!" Constance repeated the instruction.

With a long, low creak, the door pivoted open on the hinges. She sucked in a breath and held it, visualizing in her mind the stairwell as it had been when she and the sheriff had visited the house before. Leveling her arms, she targeted at a point where she estimated an average-sized man's chest would be as he came up and through.

Her aim was far too high.

As the door swung open, she found herself staring at a freckle-faced ten-year-old girl. Her mop of chestnut hair was tangled and matted. What she could see of her bare skin in the darkness was splattered with blood, open wounds, and festering burns. She was clad in the ripped shreds of a plaid school uniform.

Constance stared in disbelief as she slowly lowered her weapon.

"Merrie?" she whispered.

The little girl stared back at her, glassy-eyed. After a moment, she simply said, "I lost one of my shoes."

Constance looked down and noticed that her left foot was securely buckled into a patent-leather Mary Jane, but the right was bare.

She blinked hard then looked into the little girl's face and whispered once again. "Merrie Callahan?"

The girl turned without another word and shuffled slowly through the house. Mandalay stood dumbfounded for a moment as the shock of what she was seeing seeped in.

Holstering her sidearm she followed after the girl. By now, she had opened the front door and was trudging zombie-like through the snow.

"Merrie!" Constance called to her again, increasing her stride to catch up. As she came upon the girl, she reached out toward her shoulder.

A familiar voice called out, "NO!"

Before she made contact, an arm roughly hooked about her waist, and her balance instantly disappeared. She tumbled to the side with a sharp yelp, falling to the ground on top of whoever had grabbed her. Instinctively she rolled away and drew her arm back to her weapon.

"IT'S SKIP! IT'S SKIP!" the sheriff's voice rang in her ears as she came up with the pistol in hand.

"DAMMIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she shouted, taking square aim at him.

"Put it away!" he shouted back at her while pulling himself to his feet.

"What's going on here?" Constance demanded. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the little girl who was slowly but steadily increasing the distance between herself and them. Then she turned back to the sheriff, keeping her sidearm trained on him.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON!" a voice came from her right. "NOW, Special Agent Mandalay."

Constance slowly turned to see Deputy Broderick with his own weapon trained on her. Apparently, the fact that she was wearing a vest hadn't escaped him as the muzzle of his pistol was pointed at her head.

"You aren't going to shoot a federal agent," she said, fully cognizant of the fact that the comment sounded like something from a bad movie. But then, so had the past three days.

"Yes, sugar," Sheriff Carmichael grunted as he carefully brushed the snow from his jacket. "He will if he has to. Just hand over your weapon and we can get on with this."

"I don't think so," she barked.

"Dammit, Constance," he grumbled. "You can have it back in a few minutes. I just need to show you something."

"That little girl..." she started.

"I know," he interrupted her. "That's what I need to show you. Now if you aren't gonna hand that thing over, at least holster it, okay?"

Constance glanced between Sheriff Carmichael and Deputy Broderick. She was in a stalemate, but she wasn't about to relinquish her weapon. At least he'd offered the second option. She mulled it over, then slowly and carefully held her arms out and slipped the pistol back into her belt rig.

"That's better," the sheriff grunted, then started ambling across the yard toward the street. As he passed her he said, "Come on. My car is just around the corner."

Three blocks from the house on Evergreen Lane, Sheriff Carmichael lazily cranked the steering wheel and brought the cruiser in a wide arc around the corner. He and Constance had been riding in silence for the small handful of minutes it had taken to traverse the distance.

As he straightened the vehicle, the headlights fell in a bright swath across a tiny figure standing motionless in the middle of the street. He slowed, coming to a halt several yards in front of the little girl.

After cranking the shift lever into park, he flipped on his light bar, popped the trunk, and looked over at Constance.

"This is exactly when and where I found her in nineteen seventy-five," he said.

"What's happening here?" she whispered.

"I've been hopin' for eight years now that someone could tell _me_ ," he replied, then said, "You can get out if you want, but don't go near her. I'm serious."

With that, he climbed out of the vehicle and walked around to the back where he dug out a blanket. Mandalay stood next to the front of the cruiser, watching as Sheriff Carmichael knelt down in the street and wrapped the blanket around the little girl, then picked her up and carried her back toward the car.

"It's okay, Merrie," he was whispering, voice cracking with emotion as he trundled toward the back door of the cruiser. "You're safe now, sweetheart. You're safe. He can't hurt you anymore..."

Twenty-minutes after they recovered the little girl, Constance watched on in a shocked stupor from the doorway as the sheriff laid her on the bed next to the catatonic adult Merrie Frances Callahan at the Holly Oak Assisted Living facility. He stood next to them for a moment, then kissed his fingertips and gently touched them to the little girl's forehead, then to Merrie's cheek.

When he walked out, he ushered Constance ahead then pulled the door shut behind him.

With a sigh he said, "All right, Special Agent Mandalay. Much as it pains me, I believe we still have a crime scene to process."

"What..." she started, stammered, then started again. "What just happened here, Sheriff Carmichael?"

He shook his head. "I don't honestly know," he said. "And that's the truth. All I can tell you is as of tonight it's been happening for eight years now. In about two hours Merrie will wake up just like usual and for her, it'll be Christmas Day nineteen seventy-four all over again."

"Which one of them, Sheriff?" she asked.

"There's only one Merrie, Constance."

"But you just..."

"Trust me, Special Agent Mandalay. There's only one Merrie Frances Callahan."

10:56 AM - December 26

Hulis Township Sheriff's Department

Northern Missouri
"Decided what to put in your report yet, Special Agent Mandalay?" Sheriff Carmichael asked.

"No sir," Constance replied. "I haven't."

He cleared his throat, then nodded, looking down at the ground. "Yeah... That's pretty much what the four that came before ya' said too. Was kinda hopin' you'd say something different."

"I'm not done yet," she offered.

"Good..." he paused, visibly weighing his next comment before saying it aloud. Finally, he offered, "You know that ten-print card for the victim is gonna match John Horace Colson's fingerprints, don't you?"

She nodded, "I assumed as much."

"But you and I both know that's not who was in that basement."

"I know."

"So... Maybe you get it now."

"I'll admit, I do have an intimately better understanding of why the bureau file on this case is incomplete."

He snorted. "Yeah. I'm sure you do..."

"Hopefully I can change that," she added.

"I'd be much obliged if you could." Changing the subject he nodded toward her feet. "I see you're wearin' those stilts again."

Constance let out a shallow laugh and looked down at her shoes. "Merrie liked them, and I stopped by to see her this morning. Thought I should look my best. Although, when I arrived I wasn't sure if Martha would let me see her. I was a little surprised that I didn't meet with any resistance."

"She was expecting you," he replied.

"That's what she said. You have anything to do with that?"

"Maybe."

"Thanks."

"So, did it answer any questions for you?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "But it made me feel good to see her. Does that sound odd?"

Carmichael shook his head. "Nope. You're a part of her life now. I know it sounds sappy, but you've been touched by the spirit."

"The spirit of Christmas?"

He shrugged. "Of Christmas... Of Merrie... It's all the same to us around here."

"You know, I think maybe I understand what you mean."

He regarded her carefully and then smiled. "Yeah, I think maybe _you_ do. You're good people, Constance."

"Thanks. You are too, Skip."

"Ya'know, I've never said this to any of you Feds before, but then, none of the others ever understood..." He paused and combed his fingers through the brush on his lip for a second. "Do me a favor, Constance, don't let 'em send anyone else to Hulis on this case."

"Why?"

"Because you care. Maybe that's what it's gonna take to figure this all out... Maybe it's what'll finally bring Merrie some peace."

"Maybe so..." Constance smiled, then gave him a nod. "I'll be back, Skip. You can count on it. Even if it takes spending my Christmases here until we find the answer."

"Well, let's hope next Christmas you're just here to visit and have a cup of egg nog."

"I'd like that."

"I'm sure Merrie would too."

On the drive home, Burl Ives' voice filled the interior of Constance's sedan as he crooned about silver and gold decorations. Whenever the song would reach its end, she would thumb the controls on the steering column and skip the CD backwards to start it again.

" _Heavy symbolism of the season. Merry Xmas_ ," she repeated aloud to herself as her mind raced. " _Heavy symbolism of the season. Merry Xmas_..."

Now and then, she would splay out her hand atop the steering wheel and admire the fresh lacquer of pearlescent pink polish on her nails, and smile.

OKAY... SO WHERE IS THE REST OF THE STORY?

And _that_ is the question.

In fact, it is the very question that filled my inbox within the first 48 hours following the release of this short e-novella, and the email _just kept coming_... It overflowed the inbox, filled my office, and then advanced down the stairs to start taking over our living room. My wife told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to do something about it, immediately if not sooner. When my wife tells me to do something, I listen. She is, after all, a redhead.

And so, after a bit of negotiation with my publisher – who was also being overwhelmed with _"Where's the rest of it?"_ email, it was decided that a new series should come into being – that being, _The Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novels._ In truth, it didn't take much negotiating. My editor had been hinting at a spin off series for some time.

As my long-time followers already know, SA Mandalay has been a "supporting cast member" in my _Rowan Gant Investigations_ series since the beginning. As a character, she has grown and evolved. Many fans are somewhat enamored of her, which is okay, because I am, too. Hence, the reason she starred in the novella you just finished reading.

So, to address the outpouring of requests for "answers" about Merrie Frances Callahan and her unique situation, it was decided that perhaps the first book in the _Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novels_ should be "the rest of the story."

**IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER** is that novel. It starts you out in 1975, giving you the complete back-story of Merrie Frances Callahan and the fateful day when she was abducted. It then takes you through a **greatly** expanded version of the novella you just finished – some material the same, an enormous amount added and notably different. There is much more detail to the story, and more avenues to follow. Finally, it culminates in a different ending. One that shines the spotlight on what is really happening in the small town of Hulis, Missouri.
IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER:

##### A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel

In 1975 the small town of Hulis was ground zero in a frantic search for 10 year-old Merrie Frances Callahan, as well as an intense manhunt for her abductor.

35 years later, it seems the FBI would like to pretend it never happened.

Special Agent Constance Mandalay didn't get that memo...

THE SMALL TOWN OF HULIS IS HIDING A KILLER SECRET...

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER is based on the short teaser novella MERRIE AXEMAS: A Killer Holiday Tale, but it tells the whole story of ten-year-old Merrie Frances Callahan's 1975 abduction, and the present day murders that are somehow intricately linked to that event.

SA Constance Mandalay is assigned what appears to be a 7-year-old cold case that echos the events of the 35-year-old child abduction. Unfortunately for all involved, the case heats up for a short time each year with a brutal murder that appears eerily staged, and occurs under impossible circumstances.

Undaunted, she faces the task with no backup, a mysteriously redacted case file, and the inevitable murder fast approaching.

Mandalay's experience as the handler for an FBI occult/paranormal expert makes her the perfect choice for this investigation. However, even her brushes with the unexplained still cannot prepare her for the answer she was _not supposed to discover_...

(In The Bleak Midwinter is available in print and e-format online and in bookstores nationwide)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A member of the ITW (International Thriller Writers), M. R. Sellars is a relatively unassuming homebody who, in his own words, considers himself just "a guy with a lot of nightmares and a word processing program." Legend has it he started making up stories to entertain a stuffed bear during his single digit years, then began writing them down sometime around his early teens when the growing catalogue of fiction started causing him to experience migraines. Some say he still talks to the stuffed bear, however he has declined to comment on this. Although he had several short stories and newspaper articles published during his early adult life, it wasn't until 2000 that his first full-length novel, HARM NONE: A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION, hit bookstore shelves, officially launching the acclaimed paranormal thriller series.

All of the current novels in Sellars' continuing _Rowan Gant Investigations_ saga have spent several consecutive weeks on numerous bookstore bestseller lists as well as a consistent showing on the Amazon.com Horror/Occult top 100. In 2010 a short e-novella featuring a supporting character from the RGI cast spawned a new series, _The Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novels_ , the first in the spin off being IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER, which hit the streets November 2011.

Sellars currently resides in the Midwest with his wife, daughter, and a pair of rescued felines he describes as, "the competition." At home, when not writing or taking care of the household, he indulges his passions for cooking and hanging out with friends.

M. R. Sellars can be located on the web wherever there is a virtual bar serving virtual single malt Scotch, single barrel bourbon, good Irish whisky, and decent beer. In other words, look for him on the major social networking sites, including "The Twitter."

Official M. R. Sellars Website

www.mrsellars.com

BOOKS BY M. R. SELLARS

Series novels listed in order of release

The Rowan Gant Investigations Series

HARM NONE

NEVER BURN A WITCH

PERFECT TRUST

THE LAW OF THREE

CRONE'S MOON

LOVE IS THE BOND

ALL ACTS OF PLEASURE

THE END OF DESIRE

BLOOD MOON

MIRANDA

(Available in both print and e-book editions)

The Special Agent Constance Mandalay Series

MERRIE AXEMAS: A KILLER HOLIDAY TALE

(e-Novella)

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

(Available in both print and e-book editions)

Other

YOU'RE GONNA THINK I'M NUTS...

_(Novelette included in_ _Courting Morpheus_ _Horror Anthology)_

LAST CALL

( _Flash-Fiction Short included in_ _Slices of Flesh_ _Horror Anthology)_

Special Edition Compilations

GHOUL SQUAD

(Harm None, Never Burn A Witch, and Perfect Trust)

DEATH WEARS HIGH HEELS

(The Miranda Trilogy: Love Is The Bond, All Acts of Pleasure, and The End Of Desire)

