Post series: Snowflake

PART 5

Nick sat in stunned horror as Edmund Winchester rattled out his final breaths.

Nick’s vision blurred.

His head drooped.

He gasped for air. The metal teeth seemed to sink into his ankles as his chest heaved, and he forced his head back up. The trashed living room, toppled tree, and ribbons of torn wrapping paper swirled in his vision. The toy train chugged and whistled through the debris, pushing a tuft of copper wrapping paper out of its path.

“Snowflake!” Nick shouted. “Listen to me!”

The room slowly refocused. He steadied his breathing. I’ve lost too much blood, he realized. This is my last chance to reason with her.

“Snowflake, you have to call 911! Do it now!”

“I’m never going to help you.” The girl appeared at the balcony, white knuckles clutching the polished wood banister.

“Then don’t do it for me,” Nick said. “Do it for yourself.”

“You’re going to die,” the girl said. “Does that frighten you?”

“It’s not too late. Call the police. We’ll tell them everything, together. The whole truth.” Nick struggled to keep his head up. His eyelids drooped. 

When he reopened them, the girl stood at the bottom of the stairs, head cocked curiously.

“If I make it,” Nick promised. “I will convince them to go easy on you. We’ll explain how your father misguided you. We’ll get you the help that you need.”

“I don’t need help.”

“It’s going to get so much worse for you,” Nick croaked. Blood squished between his toes in his Santa boot. “You have to start making this right. Immediately.” Painful cramps fired up his tingling leg. He gasped. “Or else you’ll regret it.”

“What do you know?”

In the stillness between his heaving breaths, Nick heard the sharp ticks and tocks of the grandfather clock in the opposite corner. “Soon it will be midnight.” He lost focus for a moment, and the girl appeared closer, by the piano. She was clutching the ivory handle of one of her blades. Her nightgown was stained with her father’s blood.

“You were right, Nicholas.” A smile crept over her cherubic face. “This is funny. And I promise you: I will call the police.”

“Not after I’m dead, Snowflake,” Nick begged. “Do it now. Right now.”

The girl drew nearer. Twin streaks of liquid spilled down her cheeks. “I’ll confess everything . . .”

Nick heaved a pained sigh. Sweat beaded down his face.

“Oh . . . mister policeman . . .” Snowflake choked out a sob. “I was so, so scared.” She blubbered. Tears gushed. “Santa came to our house. And my father was talking with him—and then Santa yelled and said terrible things. They got into a big fight—” she choked, “about money! And . . . and . . .” She sobbed and sobbed—and laughed.

Nick cried.

“They’re called crocodile tears.” Snowflake proudly wiped her face, smearing her makeup. “I can turn them on and off. The police will believe whatever I tell them. Once you’re dead. And you were right, all of Daddy’s money will be my money.”

“You don’t understand,” he rasped. “The police are the least of your troubles. Monsters . . . always get caught . . . .” His head drooped.

A sharp prick to his neck jerked him awake. The girl was inches from him now. Her eyes bored into his. “I don’t feel things the way that you or anyone does. When I was seven, I pushed my Mummy down the stairs.” She pressed the knife harder against his skin.

“Snowflake, I’m warning you—”

“Don’t interrupt!” She snatched his beard and tugged his face forward. 

Nick shouted in pain.

“Mummy was pregnant with my baby brother.” Snowflake pulled on Nick’s beard, and traced the tip of the knife up and down his neck. “I cried and cried at the funeral. Daddy knew what really happened, of course, but he cared about me. He loved me more than she ever did. She was always going on and on about how he would spoil me. Ruin me.”

“He did,” Nick wheezed.

“I asked you a question before,” the girl grinned. “Are you afraid to die?”

“My family died, a long time ago, Snowflake.” Nick struggled for breath. “It was an accident. Nobody killed them. But it wounded me for so long. And I learned, eventually, that even if I would always be alone, I could still bring joy to other people. I could still serve a greater power. Something pure.”

“Answer my question!” She pressed the knife harder. Nick felt blood trickling down his neck.

“No, Snowflake. I’m not afraid at all. Because death will be a gift. I know that I will see my wife and my children after this pain ends. But you’re wrong, about more than you think . . .”

“Shut up!”

“You do have an emotion. Maybe you’ve never truly felt it before, but you will soon—”

She yanked Nick’s beard and shoved the knife deep into his neck. Blood squirted onto her wintery nightgown. Nick grunted in surprise. He choked and coughed blood.

Snowflake gasped with excitement and backed away. Soft laughter chittered out of her.

Nick slumped over. His eyes rolled up in his head. “You’d better watch out . . .” he said. “You’d better watch out . . .”

Snowflake remained fixated on the dying man until no more sound escaped him. Her heart beat so fast she felt it could burst. She collapsed in the mess of fake snow, demolished model houses, and shredded wrapping paper. The toy train chugged around her. 

She held the knife to her chest. That wonderful wonderful feeling filled her from her tippy-toes to the top of her head. That perfect sensation she could only get this one way.

It couldn’t possibly be joy, she knew, but it was better than that. It was her joy. Just for her. And maybe this man wasn’t Santa Claus. Maybe what she’d heard before was true, and there was no Santa after all. But so what? The man was hers. 

Daddy was hers now, even more than he had ever been before.

And this was going to be Snowflake’s perfect Christmas. She would spin a clever tale about what happened to them. The metal trap would be difficult to explain, but Snowflake was so clever. So smart, her Daddy had assured her. She would figure it out. And a new exciting adventure would begin.

The grandfather clock struck midnight. Bells chimed.

Suddenly a storm of hoof-beats thundered across the roof. Snowflake leapt in surprise. The floorboards trembled. The windowpanes rattled.

The plaster cracked. Artwork fell. Christmas lights sputtered and sparked.

The glass front of the fireplace burst open with a blast of arctic wind. The mirror over the mantle shattered into webs of snowflakes. The stockings whipped clean off their hooks and flew past her.

Snowflake’s blond curls whipped furiously. She shielded her face from bitter storm winds.

The grand piano collapsed to a cacophony of sour notes.

In a flash of white, a mountain of a man appeared in their living room, seven feet tall, barrel-chested, muscular arms and legs bulging. Black gloved hands clenched with rage. He wore a dark maroon coat and pants. Sleigh bells shook on his belt as he stepped forward and crushed the chugging toy train with a heavy black boot.

“Snowflake!” his voice rumbled. Between his white mane, and his bushy beard, his eyes flashed like thundersnow. “You are the most wicked child on Earth.”

And then Snowflake felt something new. Something terrible, like frostbite nibbling inside her heart, freezing her from the inside. She trembled in the shadow of the giant man.

“You have proven yourself irredeemably evil,” the man said. “And you must now learn the true meaning of punishment.”

* * *

PART 4

Nick took a shaky breath. Snowflake reached for another gift from her father. 

“Did your father buy this trap for you?” Nick nodded his head down at the bear trap. “Was that his gift, Snowflake?”

“Yes.” Snowflake tore open the next present, revealing a matching fur coat. “Oh! I love this! I absolutely adore it, Santa!” She stood and held the white fur against her chest.

“So your father,” Nick said, starting right at Winchester. “Who can literally buy you anything you want, decided that the best gift he could give was someone to murder.”

Winchester didn’t even blink. “My Snowflake always gets what she wants, Santa.”

“And you’ve done this before?” Nick glanced between father and daughter. They each beamed with satisfaction, some terrible secret—perhaps many—hanging between them.

“Snowflake,” Nick asked. “Where is your mother?”

The girl’s expression soured. “Don’t you ever ask about her.” She snatched another gift away from her father and tore into it. Snowflake “oooh’d” and “ahhh’d” over designer dolls, luxury makeup sets, a top of the line chrome tablet, and more. Silver and gold wrapping piled around the edge of the model Christmas village.

At last only one gift remained. Nick struggled to stay upright, to focus on his captors. He was growing light-headed again as Winchester handed his daughter the small rectangular box. The girl opened it, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Is this what I think it is, Santa?”

Nick whimpered, “I have no idea . . . .”

She uncovered a green velvet wallet and opened it. Her face beamed, and she spun it around with pride. “Thank you, Santa! Thank you so much!”

Nick’s heart shuddered. His stomach sank. The wallet held a row of ivory handled knives, pins, and needles. A large hammer. Implements of torture.

“It’s exactly what I wanted!” She laughed. “And now you know why!”

Nick shook his head. The room was spinning, but he tried to focus on the girl’s father. The smile, the warmth in his face, was the genuine love of a parent for a child. It was unmistakable. “You’re proud of yourself?” Nick asked. “Your gift?”

“Santa, this is your gift for Snowflake,” Winchester corrected him. “But what greater gift for a father than to see his daughter happy?”

Snowflake clutched the set of knives to her chest. She squealed with delight.

“Your daughter can smile,” Nick said. “She can laugh. She can make music. But don’t kid yourself.” Nick laughed, a hearty laugh—worthy of Santa—that shocked him given his complete exhaustion. “This monster will never be happy. I suppose you saw to that.”

Winchester scowled. “Nonsense.”

“What are you talking about, you old fool?” Snowflake snapped.

“Your father gave you something terrible,” Nick said. “He gave you everything and anything you ever asked for.”

“Not true,” Snowflake said. “These gifts are all from you.”

Nick chuckled. “You little twit!”

Snowflake gasped.

“You’re smart, Snowflake. I can tell. You’re very, very smart. Does it make any sense for the real Santa Claus to give a present to a disgustingly naughty child?”

Snowflake’s face turned bright red.

“And why, even if you were a good girl, would Santa bring you weapons to hurt people?”

“That’s enough now—” Winchester started.

“What is he talking about!” Snowflake shouted at her father.

“Santa is delirious, my little snow-angel.” Winchester stooped and placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t listen to him right now.”

“I told you, I’m not Santa!” Nick shouted. “Your psychotic father paid me to come here. You didn’t catch me in your trap. He did!”

“You shut your mouth!” Winchester snapped.

“And you know what else?” Nick laughed. “The real Santa is still out there. And believe me: He’s going to find out about all of this.”

“He’s still out there?” Snowflake’s hands trembled.

“All the other children are getting presents,” Nick said. “The good children. It’s already started. It’s after midnight in many places around the world. It will be here soon too. And you, Snowflake: You’re going to be on the naughty list forever.”

Winchester took a step toward his daughter. And then Snowflake unleashed a scream that rattled the windows. 

She shoved her father away and hurled her gifts at the wall. She kicked over ceramic houses, ripped the snow off the ground, yanked the Christmas tree onto its side. Ornaments shattered and clattered. Lights flickered. She screamed and screamed, reaching for presents and tossing them at the wall.

Then she dropped to her knees and screamed some more, face red as a wailing infant, cheeks glittering with childish makeup.

Winchester neared her. “Snowflake, darling! You mustn’t listen to what he’s saying. Santa is trying to trick you. This is really him—”

“My name is Nicholas Conrad,” Nick said. “I’m just Santa’s helper at the mall. Your father tricked you.”

“Snowflake, darling, you must know, I would never do anything to upset—”

The girl twisted, and shoved her arm forward, face seething. A wet shuck sounded. Her father’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. The girl buried the ivory handle deep into his gut and twisted. 

“I hate you!” she whispered. Tears carved glittery paths down her cheeks.

Winchester gasped for breath and fell backwards.

“I hate you! I hate you!” Snowflake leapt to her feet and hurried from the living room, up the stairs.

Winchester struggled to speak.

“Winchester,” Nick said, “it’s over. I have a phone in my pocket. If you get over here, then we can call 911. All you have to do is loosen one of my hands, and I can do it for us.”

He stared at Nick with wet, desperate eyes.

“Come on.” Nick’s heart pounded. “You need help as much as I do now. Get over here.”

Winchester crawled on one elbow, gripping the ivory handle with one hand. Blood dribbled down his monogrammed silk pajamas. He slipped in the puddle of hot chocolate, and struggled to right himself.

“Before she comes back,” Nick said. “Hurry.”

Winchester unleashed an agonized groan as he forced himself onto his feet, clutching his wound with one hand, and Nick’s bound hand with the other. 

“I can’t . . .” he managed to get out.

“It’s okay,” Nick said. “If you can’t undo the ropes, just reach inside my coat. There’s an inside pocket with my phone.”

Winchester’s face was white as paper as he undid the buttons on Nick’s Santa jacket with trembling fingers. He reached between straps of rope and felt around.

“To the left,” Nick instructed. “This is good, Winchester. This is going to be good for both of you. You’re doing the right thing.”

Winchester pulled the phone out.

The train, which had miraculously survived Snowflake’s tantrum, continued to chug and whistle through the living room.

Winchester fell to his knees and held up the phone.

“Just swipe right. 911. Hurry up, Winchester!”

Winchester glared, struggled to speak: “What kind of father . . . do you take me for?” With both hands Winchester smashed the phone against the ground.

“Winchester!”

He stumbled, fell to his knees, and reached for the velvet wallet.

“Winchester! Stop!”

He produced the metal hammer and repeatedly bashed the phone. The screen cracked; the casing split.

“What the hell is wrong with you!”

Blood oozed from his abdomen as Winchester pried the phone apart and started hammering its electronic innards. Then he collapsed onto his side. His eyes went blank.

He whispered, “For you, Snowflake. Everything for you.”

PART 3

A piano rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” coaxed Nick’s consciousness from cottony white nothing back into the Winchesters’ living room. He was sitting now. It felt like his arms and legs weighed a thousand pounds.

Sharp pangs gnawed his ankles. The bear trap remained clamped over his leg. The armchair had been pulled forward, so he could sit.

The room came into focus. His tongue scraped the roof of his mouth.

He spotted the little girl’s curls and ice-blue nightgown at the piano. Her fingers danced over black and white keys. The rendition was beautiful. Expert.

Nick attempted to move and found that his arms and torso were bound to the chair by coils of white vinyl rope. Sleigh bells jangled to his struggles. “Snowflake,” his voice scratched. “Snowflake, please.”

The music drowned him out. He scoured the room for the girl’s father. The extra patch of fake snow that had concealed the bear trap was gone now. The floor had been wiped down, but fresh blood was pooling under the trap.

“Help . . .” he tried to shout, but it came out a harsh whisper. What good would it be if I could shout? he wondered. They have no neighbors in earshot.

Nick wiggled his torso until he felt a hard, rectangular object against his chest. Winchester had left his Santa jacket on, and his cell phone—fully charged—remained in the inner-breast pocket. If I can get one hand free, he thought, I can call 911.

Snowflake’s carol was coming to an end. She added a whimsical flourish of high notes to punctuate the conclusion. Then she stood and took a bow.

“That’s wonderful,” Nick wheezed. “Truly. You are very talented, Snowflake.”

She sneered. “Of course I am.”

“I would applaud, if I could,” Nick rasped. 

“Well you can’t!”

“Snowflake, why has your father done this to me?”

The girl skipped across the room. “My father hasn’t done anything, stupid. I did this, all by myself. I captured you.”

“Okay,” Nick said. “Why though?”

“So that I could have you all to myself, and there wouldn’t be any other presents for any of the other children.”

His ankle throbbed. “Why don’t you want the other children to have presents?”

The girl grinned. “Because it’s hilarious. Because I hate other children.”

“I don’t think that’s very nice.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“People know where I am,” Nick said. “Mrs. Claus. The reindeer. The elves. Don’t you think they’ll come for me?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think anyone is coming. Your stupid reindeer probably flew off and crashed. I think they crashed in the ocean and a shark is eating them right now.” She laughed. “I’m sure of it! A huge shark! They’re already dead.”

Nick took a deep, controlled breath. “Snowflake, where is your father right now?”

Snowflake placed her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue. “None of your business.”

“Okay.” He craned his head around the room. There was nothing nearby to use as a weapon. No fireplace poker for the gas fireplace—even if he could free an arm. “Snowflake, may I please have some water?” Maybe, he hoped, maybe she’ll bring it in a glass.

“Daddy!” the girl shrieked. “Santa doesn’t want any water! Don’t bring him any!”

“Yes, angel!” Winchester’s voice echoed from a few rooms over.

“Anything else?” the girl asked.

“Loosen these ropes. Call the police.”

“Ha! Ha!” She twirled and sat beside the Christmas village. She brushed her fingers over the model train as it chugged past. “No. Christmas is just getting started. I haven’t even opened the gifts you brought me yet.” She screamed, “Daddy! I want to open a gift!”

“Just a moment, sweetheart! I’m preparing cocoa!” Winchester called.

Snowflake groaned.

“Snowflake,” Nick whispered. “You like to play jokes on people, don’t you?”

She shrugged.

“Do you know what would be very, very funny?” Nick asked.

“You, tied to a chair with a big metal trap chomping your leg,” she said. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole entire life.”

“But it could get better,” he said.

“It will,” she promised.

Nick shuddered. “Snowflake, I think it would be very funny if you called the police on your father. They wouldn’t believe that you—a little girl—had anything to do with this. You wouldn’t go to jail. Only him.”

“I don’t want my Daddy to go to jail.”

“But if he goes to jail,” Nick explained. “Then you know what happens, don’t you?”

Her icy eyes studied him.

“You get all of his money. You get this house. You get everything.”

She smiled.

“All you have to do is call the police.”

“Maybe I will,” she said. “After you’re dead.”

Winchester’s voice grew nearer. He emerged singing “Deck the Halls” under his breath, holding two steaming ceramic mugs. “Hot cocoa for my special angel!” He smiled at Nick as he crossed the living room and handed his daughter a mug. “Careful, Snowflake. It might need a moment to cool.”

The girl accepted the drink with both hands. She blew, and steam wafted toward Nick. Then she took a sip. “Ouch! Daddy this is far, far too hot!”

“Give it a moment, love.”

“It’s too hot! I need an ice cube—”

“Winchester,” Nick growled. “You need to understand—”

“I was talking!” Snowflake scowled, stepped forward, and dumped the contents of her mug over Nick’s trapped leg.

Nick howled with pain. Scalding liquid soaked his pants and seeped over the sunken teeth of the bear trap.

Winchester dropped his mug and covered his ears. Dark brown liquid spilled and steamed around Nick’s boots. 

“Goodness, Snowflake!” Winchester shouted. “Don’t make Santa scream like that, it’s going to give Daddy a headache!”

“My hot chocolate was too hot, and then Santa started talking right over what I was saying,” the girl shrieked. “I hate it when people interrupt. It’s so rude!”

“I understand, my dove, but that’s no reason to make Santa shout.”

“Why can’t I make him shout? He’s my prisoner; I caught him!”

“Well Daddy didn’t bring you hot chocolate so you could dump it onto Santa’s leg. I didn’t expect that.”

“So what!”

“You people are sick,” Nick whimpered. And then finally, he broke into tears. There’s no way he’ll let me live through the night, he realized. There’s no amount of money he could offer to silence me. No other choice but to get rid of me. “Why are you doing this?” he sobbed.

“Because I want to!” Snowflake put her hands on her hips.

“Yes, and my daughter gets what she wants, Santa. It’s quite simple.” Winchester took a deep breath, shut his eyes and massaged his temples. “Snowflake, I’m sorry that Daddy got upset with you, I just wasn’t expecting you to make Santa scream just then.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “That’s fine, Daddy, but don’t get mad at me about it.”

“Of course not, darling, Daddy’s not mad. Just startled that time.” Winchester crossed to Nick’s left and gave him a stern glare as he snatched up the red velvet bag of gifts. “Look, darling, why don’t we open the gifts that Santa brought for you.”

Snowflake perked up and clapped her hands as her father handed her a shimmering gold package, tied with red and green ribbons. The girl snatched the box away and tore the paper apart, fingers curled into claws. She ripped the ribbon off and yanked open the white gift box to reveal an elegant white fur hat and matching mittens.

“These are beautiful, Santa!” she declared. “Did Mrs. Claus make them?”

“Snowflake,” Nick rasped. “What you’re doing right now is very naughty. If you continue to hurt me, then you won’t get nice gifts like these ever again. Do you understand?”

He glanced over at Winchester, expecting some retaliation. But the man merely gave a tight-lipped smile of approval.

He’s happy, Nick realized. He’s happy I’m still pretending to be Santa. That’s what’s pleasing his psychotic daughter.

“I don’t care, Santa,” Snowflake said. “These can be the last presents I ever get from you, so long as no other children ever get presents again.”

“Don’t you want nice things?” Nick said, voice cracking.

“We can always buy nice things,” Snowflake said. “We can buy anything, right Daddy?”

“Of course, darling,” Winchester chimed.

“You can’t buy anything,” Nick seethed. “You can’t buy compassion. You can’t buy—”

“Useful things, Santa,” Winchester clarified. “Things that go in a box.” And then Winchester locked eyes with him and nodded, as if to say, You’re going in a box, and I bought you, didn’t I?

PART 2

On Christmas Eve, Nick drove an hour and a half to the Winchester Estate. When he pulled up, iron-wrought gates slid open. He entered, took a right, and parked behind a grove of elms, out of sight, as instructed.

The front lawn, blanketed in fresh snow, was large enough to accommodate a nine-hole golf course. Nick’s boots crunched snow as he huffed up the winding walkway, hand on his belt to keep his sleigh bells silent. He couldn’t have Winchester’s daughter hearing him until he was inside. The true Santa didn’t use the front door, after all.

The house was an enormous red-brick colonial mansion. White shutters shielded the windows behind snow-caked windowsills. Nick climbed the steps and found double front doors, unlocked as promised.

He entered an elegant tile foyer with a winding staircase leading to the shadowy second level. A balcony overlooked a spacious living room. To the right of the entranceway sat a red velvet sack embroidered with the word “Santa.” The bag overflowed with gifts in metallic wrapping. He hefted it over his shoulder and faced the living room. 

An antique grandfather clock dutifully tick-tocked. Designer furniture glowed in soft Christmas lights. Metal reindeer figurines lined the mantle beneath a huge antique mirror. The glass front of a gas fireplace gleamed behind fluffy white stockings. It was the kind of modern fireplace that would make children question how Santa could even use it. After all, how could Santa climb into a fireplace with no chimney?

But Nick had been on the job long enough to know all the answers. Santa is a force of nature, he would say. And so is fire. He doesn’t need to climb down a chimney to enter.

To the right of the fireplace, a twelve-foot tree sparkled with white lights and silver and gold ornaments.

All around the tree, stacks of gifts in the same metallic wrapping paper—copper, silver, and gold—were arranged in towers. The sack Nick was meant to deliver would hardly add to the spectacle. All around the living room floor, tufts of fake snow piled up amid a miniature village that glowed warm yellow. A soft train whistle echoed as a model train carved through the winter wonderland.

Nick shook his head with disbelief. The Winchesters’ holiday décor put the mall’s Christmas village to shame. Nick passed a sitting area with a glass coffee table and fashionable sectionals, and headed toward the Christmas tree. He stopped at a high wingback by the fireplace. On a side table, milk and cookies had been neatly arranged, with a note written in colored pencil: “For Santa.”

He smiled and approached the cookies. He’d have a little snack, jingle his sleigh bells, let out a raucous “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and let Winchester’s little girl catch him in the act. 

He tip-toed around the model houses of the Christmas village. The train tracks wound all through the living room. He guessed everything here had to be expensive. He didn’t want to crush a porcelain house and have it taken out of his admittedly hefty pay.

Nick took another moment to admire the sprawling village, the tree, the stacks of golden gifts. Impressive as it was, for a single father and daughter, it was beyond excessive. Half the square footage of their enormous living room was covered in cottony snow and speckled with models.

But the Winchesters clearly had the space—and the money—to spare.

He set the sack of gifts by the sleek modern fireplace and sat. The cookies, double-chocolate chip, were soft and cakey. They melted on his tongue. He dunked a few more in the milk and smacked his lips with satisfaction. He took one big obvious bite from the final cookie and returned it to the plate.

Gotta leave one half-eaten, so kids can point to the evidence.

Fancy modern art lined the walls along the second landing. A polished grand piano was nestled under the balcony. The contents of this room alone are worth more than I’ll make before I’m dead, he realized. Just this one room. If there was ever a house Santa doesn’t need to visit, this is it! 

And then his stomach sank with guilt. I shouldn’t be here, he thought. I should be helping someone who needs it.

And yet, as Nick had learned years ago when he first trained for the position, every kid was special. He thought back to what his boss had once told him. Every kid deserves magic. 

Nick stood, grabbed the strap of sleigh bells and shook them wildly. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he bellowed.

He stepped forward into a clear patch of fake snow at the edge of the village. “Merry—”

A metallic scrape sounded. Pressure clamped his ankle, and sharp pains fired up his leg. Blood splattered fake snow. Nick screamed.

The teeth of a carbon-steel bear trap, that had been hidden under the snow, sank into his left leg. Blood oozed down his torn Santa pants. Nick continued to scream. He cautiously stooped and attempted to pry the metal teeth of the trap apart. “Help!” Nick shouted. The trap was iron tight. His fingers—wet with blood—were slipping off the metal jaws. “Somebody, help me!”

He brushed fake snow away, and attempted to lift the trap, but it appeared to be bolted to the floor.

Light illuminated the upstairs landing. Footfalls thudded upstairs. A little girl appeared, in an ice blue nightgown, covered in snowflakes. She whirled down the steps and clutched the bannister, breathless. Beneath her corn-white curls, crystal blue eyes widened with awe. Eye-shadow and makeup glittered on her face.

The girl squealed and clapped her hands. She flicked on the living room lights and cast a bright glow over the scene of Nick, trapped, bleeding on snowy cotton.

“Daddy, come quickly!” she shrieked. “Daddy, it’s Santa! Santa Claus is here! And I did it! I captured him!” She twirled and laughed and screamed with joy. “I got him, Daddy! I got him!”

Nick shook his head in disbelief. “Little girl,” he said. “Call an ambulance. You have to call an ambulance.”

The girl ignored Nick. “Daddy!” She demanded, “Get down here! I want to show you what I’ve done!”

More footsteps. Edmund Winchester appeared at the balcony in a white cotton robe with his initials embroidered in gold threads. He feigned a yawn. “Whatever, is all the ruckus about, Snowflake, I was fast asleep when . . .” he glanced down, a look of exaggerated surprise spread over his face. “Goodness, Snowflake! You’ve done it indeed! I can scarcely believe my eyes!”

“I did it, Daddy! I captured Santa Claus and now no other children except me will get any presents!” She tossed her blond curls in satisfaction and placed her hands on her hips.

“Oh, Snowflake! You’re so clever!” Winchester headed down the stairs, stooped, and kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I’m so impressed, Snowflake! My brilliant, beautiful child!”

“Winchester!” Nick thundered. He struggled upright, grimacing with pain, hands dripping blood. “Call. An. Ambulance. Now!”

Snowflake rubbed her hands together and entered the living room. Her father gently took her by the shoulders. “Just a moment, Snowflake. Don’t get too close.”

She wheeled around and snapped, “He’s my prisoner, Daddy! Mine!”

“Daddy needs you to be a cautious little princess. Even Santa Claus—when injured—can be grouchy or unpredictable, and we need to approach him delicately.”

The girl huffed. “Well then fix him up or whatever, so he’s less dangerous. And be quick about it!”

“Of course, Snowflake. Daddy will be swift as the cheetah we shot on safari, and you’ll have your prisoner, lickity-split!”

“Winchester,” Nick said. “Call an ambulance, and then call all your fancy lawyers.” He struggled for a shaky breath. “Because you’re going to need them.”

Winchester crossed the living room. The toy train whistled past his legs. “Now I know you’re hurt, Santa Claus, but Snowflake captured you fair as a fiddle. So I want you to remember your promise, and remember who you are. Understood?”

“I’m not Santa!” Nick shouted.

“Why is he saying that!” Snowflake huffed.

“He’s confused, darling.” Winchester reached into his robe and produced a gun. “But we’re going to clear his head. Isn’t that right, Santa?”

Nick froze with terror. His leg throbbed.

Winchester aimed. “He’s going to take a little nap. And then we’re all going to have a private Christmas party. Won’t that be nice, Snowflake?”

“It’ll be smashing, Daddy!” Snowflake twirled; her nightgown whirled like a snowstorm.

“Don’t—” Nick started.

Winchester pulled the trigger.

A dart pricked Nick’s neck. The room began to spin, blur. He got down on one knee, the other leg still pinned by the bear trap. He tried to say something, but his words slurred as the model village blurred wintery white.

The train whistled past his ears.

* * *

PART 1

Nicholas Conrad was as close to the real Saint Nicholas as a Mall Santa could get. Pushing 65, he sported a full white beard, one hundred and fifty extra pounds, a hearty laugh and rosy glow.

And though the seasonal job was at times exhausting, Nick loved the children—even the bratty, cranky, and overtired. Happy or sad, children were a source of constant amusement, inspiration, and naïve wisdom. He could listen to their hearts’ desires for hours and never lose his smile.

The kids made him remember that at the end of the day, everyone had simple wishes, young or old. And better yet, children still knew that magic was real.

The gifts that boys and girls wanted were sometimes material, sometimes not, but they were always clear, straightforward desires that Nick could appreciate. At times, the wishes were heart-breaking in their sincerity.

The week leading up to Christmas was always the most interesting. One little girl asked for a visit from her grandmother, who had recently become an angel.

“Get a good night’s sleep on Christmas Eve, Tina,” Nick told her. “Your grandmother can visit you, in your dreams, and I guarantee that when you wake up, you will feel the kiss she leaves upon your forehead.”

One boy wanted his father to stop being sick.

“Santa’s magic cannot cure every illness, I’m afraid,” Nick explained. “I wish that it could, Ronny. But a special Christmas card . . .” He reached for a box of crayons. “. . . written in green and red crayon, from someone he loves, will bring joy to your father’s heart and a smile to his face.”

Late in the day, a pale, quiet boy asked Nick, with wide-eyed conviction: “Can you please bring me a mad science laboratory?”

Nick gave a jovial laugh. “Mad science, Joey? Whatever for?”

Joey smiled. “To make monsters!”

At the foot of the North Pole platform, the boy’s mother rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He’s been talking about a monster lab all month, Santa,” she explained. “But I don’t know of any toy like that on the market.”

“Why do you want to make monsters, Joey?” Nick asked.

“Cuz they’re cool and scary!” the boy growled.

Nick laughed. “The best lab is the one a scientist assembles himself.” Nick made eye contact with the boy’s mother. “Maybe Santa can bring you some important tools and ingredients to set up your own special lab in your home: a nice work table your size, some safe sculpting tools, and some play dough to sculpt all the monsters in your imagination.”

Joey lit up. “That would be awesome!”

His mother breathed a sigh of relief. “That is a clever idea, Santa.” She mouthed, “Thank you!”

The photographer elf snapped a picture, then Joey whispered. “Are you really the real Santa?”

Nick unleashed a boisterous “Ho! Ho! Ho! Why of course I am! If I wasn’t, I’d be wearing a phony beard, wouldn’t I?”

Joey eyed Nick’s beard. His fingers wiggled.

“Joseph Matthew Smalls, don’t you dare!” his mother warned.

“It’s all right, Mom.” Nick chuckled. “If it proves that Santa is real, then I encourage a little test. Not too hard though, Joey.”

An awed hush came over the kids in line. Nick leaned in. This was his favorite part of the job.

Joey tugged.

“Yee-Ouch!” Nick made a big exaggerated show as Joey tested the beard a few times.

The boy’s jaw dropped. “He’s real!”

Shock and awe murmured through the crowd of kids. The parents applauded.

Nick chuckled. “Of course Santa is real!”

Joey beamed as his mother helped him off the platform. “If you want a monster lab, you’d better apologize to Santa for not believing.”

“Sorry, Santa!” Joey chirped. “Merry Christmas!” 

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!”

* * *

By 9:30 that evening, Santa’s suit was neatly folded in the back of Nick’s pick-up truck, and Nick himself was parked on his usual stool at Juniper’s Tavern across from the mall.

Nick was enjoying a beer and platter of Irish Nachos when a clean-cut 40-something with icy white hair, dressed in a sleek Armani suit, took the stool next to him. “You are impressive my friend,” the man spoke in a lilting English accent. “You truly could be him, you know.”

Nick raised an eyebrow.

“Santa Claus, I mean,” the man clarified.

“Who says I’m not?”

The stranger grinned. “I saw you earlier—at the shopping mall—and well . . . .” He lowered his voice, fidgeted with a paper coaster on the bar top. “It just so happens I have a need for someone, an actor, of your caliber.”

Nick sipped his beer. “Aside from being one of Santa’s helpers, I don’t really act much these days.”

“Well it’s Santa I need.”

“Santa and I are both booked solid this time of year. My boss has me working overtime all week.”

“Well the mall is closed by 5 p.m. Christmas Eve,” the man said. “It’s later that evening that I need you.”

Nick shook his head doubtfully. “A private function on a holiday? I wouldn’t normally . . .”

“One hour,” the man insisted. “Probably less. Just pop in and let my daughter—my precious Snowflake—discover you, placing gifts under the tree. She loves Christmas so much you see, and well, she’s almost ten years old, and . . .”

“She stopped believing in Santa,” Nick said. “That’s not unusual.”

“I want to keep the magic alive.” The man sighed. “Just one more year. Can you blame me?”

“Not at all. Magic is a precious commodity these days. But why not bring her by the mall?”

“Oh no. Not Snowflake. She despises crowds. I’m afraid you’d have to come to her.”

Nick studied the man’s expression. “Is she sick?”

The man hesitated. “You see, I want to give her something very special—the gift of an experience. Snowflake is growing up so fast. She’s truly a remarkable child. But I want her to recapture some of the joy she lost after her mother passed away.”

Nick nodded.

“I need someone—like yourself—to enter our home, around 10 p.m., so that she can catch Santa in the act, so to speak. What an incredible discovery it would be for her!”

“Look, Mister . . .”

“Winchester.” The man forced a frantic handshake onto him. “Edmund Winchester.”

“Mr. Winchester, I respect that you want your little girl to have a magical Christmas. And I’d be lying if I said I had big plans on the 24th. My own family is . . . far away. But a private function on Christmas Eve? I’m not sure what to charge.”

As Nick reached for his beer, Winchester swiftly counted out three one-thousand-dollar bills on the bar top. 

Nick’s jaw dropped. Beer dribbled into his beard. He took a close look, examined President Grover Cleveland’s stoic profile, studied the watermarks.

“They’re real,” Winchester assured. “Examine them.”

Nick picked up one of the bills, flipped it over, and studied the signatures.

“That’s the first half. You’d get the same amount afterward—for a job well done. Three hours of your time, at that price, I would say is more than fair, wouldn’t you?”

Nick wiped his beard clean. “Six thousand dollars to spend Christmas Eve with you and your kid? This can’t be real.”

Winchester flashed a business card for Winchester Investments and Financial Services. “Take the bills to any bank for verification. 

“I’d have to ask my boss for approval. Wouldn’t want to wear the suit without his blessing.”

“Why ever would he object?” Winchester shrugged. 

“He’s the best guy to work for,” Nick said. “But you don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“I will supply the sack of gifts of course.” Winchester stood and straightened his jacket and tie. He placed typed instructions on the bar.  “Arrive at our estate at approximately 10 p.m. on the 24th.” 

“The real Santa comes at midnight, you know,” Nick said.

Winchester waved dismissively. “Ten is late enough. The gate will open for you. Park your vehicle in the grove out of sight. The door will be unlocked. Slip in, start placing gifts under the tree. Jingle your bells, make some noise, what-have-you, to awaken Snowflake. She discovers you. Holly jolly Christmas for all and for all a good night. Righto?”

Nick nodded. “Righto.”

Winchester grinned. “Smashing.” 

* * *