The third home was dark and cheerless. There were no strings of lights hung in the trees out front, no electric "icicles" dangling from the gutters, no plastic reindeer on the roof, no wreaths hung on the mailbox or front door, nothing Christmasy at all. In fact, the place would've looked totally abandoned if it weren't for a dull, blue-gray glow that strobed across the front windows-the fluttering light of a television being watched somewhere deep inside the house.
We crowded up onto the porch, and the Reptile flicked his cigarette out onto the lawn before ringing the bell.
"Hey," I said as we stood there waiting for an answer, "what's the signal, anyway?"
"Oh." The Reptile scratched the top of his ski mask. "Uhhhh… just say, 'That's him.'"
Brilliant, eh? The CIA could use a guy like the Reptile.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
"Ring it again," Diesel said after more than a minute had crawled by.
The Reptile leaned forward and hit the button three times fast. Ding-dong ding-dong ding-dong.
The flickering glow in the windows disappeared. A distant thud-thud-thud grew steadily louder. Someone was coming to the door.
"Get ready," the Reptile said, though I wasn't sure if he was talking to all of us or just Diesel.
I got ready anyway, taking a deep breath and wrapping my hand around Arlo's. He turned to give me a look of droopy-eyed surprise just as the door before us opened.
It didn't open far-only wide enough for a man's face to appear. It was a craggy face, the face of man worn down by his own anger and fear.
And then, as the eyes locked on the masked figures on his porch, it suddenly became a very different kind of face. The face of a man who was screaming his lungs out.
Mr. Macnee had been waiting for decades for something to happen. A U.N. army invading America, federal stormtroopers coming to take away his assault rifles, the Men in Black bringing another implant to shove up his butt. And now, at last, here it was. The barbarians were finally at the gate.
If I'd started a singalong by belting out "Dashing through the snoooow in a horse-open sleeeeiiigh," maybe we could've calmed him down. Maybe. But I didn't. I waited until Mr. Macnee had slammed the door shut-as I'd hoped he would-before turning to the Reptile.
"That's him!"
I shrieked it, because the words weren't just for the Reptile and Diesel. They were for Mr. Macnee, too. I wanted him to have no doubt whatsoever that the goons outside were there for him.
"Do it," the Reptile said to Diesel, pointing at the door.
Diesel didn't hesitate. He stepped toward the door and reached for the knob with one of his long gorilla arms.
And then: Pop.
Diesel stopped, staring at something on the door at eye level. It was just to the left of his head and it hadn't been there a second before.
It was a hole. A fresh bullet hole.
That's when I started running, dragging Arlo with me over the driveway and across Macnee's side yard. There was another pop, and I heard more pounding footsteps behind me.
"Run!" the Reptile howled.
I glanced over my shoulder, about to say, "What does it look like I'm doing?" But I didn't bother. Back beyond Diesel and the Reptile, Mr. Macnee was stepping out onto his porch with a gun in his hand.
"Yeah! Run!" I yelled. I let go of Arlo, as I figured by now even he would've gotten the general idea.
I dodged around trees as I ran, but I was still half-expecting to find out what it's like to be shot. I was totally expecting not to like it. Mr. Macnee had something else in mind, though.
"Get 'em, Cujo!" I heard him shout.
It's hard to think of any other words in the English language that could get you to run faster than those. The ground was soggy-wet with snow, but we were zipping over it like it was Astroturf, cutting through backyards in a diagonal from Knopfler Drive to Knob Hill.
Somewhere behind me, I could hear the huffing and puffing of a large animal moving quickly-and it wasn't Diesel. The sound was growing louder by the second.
But then from up ahead, a new sound caught my ear. It was as angelic and soothing as Cujo's panting was demonic and alarming. I could see Knob Hill by this point, and it seemed to be bathed in a heavenly light.
A gaggle of real carolers was walking along the road. There were maybe twenty of them in all, each carrying a small candle. They were between us and the cars.
"Si-i-lent niiiight. Ho-o-ly niiiight," they sang. "Alllll is caaaalm. Alllll is-"
A sickening ripping sound split the night, followed by a bellowed curse. I looked back again.
A large, lumpy shape had attached itself to the seat of Diesel's camouflage pants. It was an overweight pit bull. Cujo. He was trying to dig in his paws, but Diesel had all the momentum of the trucks he was named for, and the big dog was being pulled across the ground like a one-horse open sleigh.
The carolers had stopped to stare at us now, though a few of them were valiantly trying to carry on, crooning about yon virgin mother and the holy infant so tender and mild.
"Sleeeeeep in hea-ven-ly peeeeee-eace. Slee-eep in-"
And that was the end of the heavenly peace. There was another loud rip, and Diesel suddenly shot ahead of us, sans pants. We were right on top of our innocent bystanders now, and he barreled through them, knocking carolers and candles alike into the snow. The singer to get the worst of it, I was shocked and pleased to see, was my old boyfriend Josh Strassman, who ended up flat on his back with a boot print on his forehead. The rest of the carolers scattered, screaming.
As Arlo, the Reptile and I weaved through the crowd, Cujo went streaking past, his beady eyes still locked on his chosen target-Diesel's juicy behind. Diesel must have heard him coming, because he looked over his shoulder and reached into his jacket pocket.
"No!" I cried out.
But it was too late. Diesel pulled out his weapon and used it.
It was an ice scraper. He hurled it at Cujo, and the plastic doodad bounced harmlessly off the tubby pit bull's broad back.
I'd been "punk'd," as the idiots on MTV say. Diesel couldn't have blown my head off. The worst he could have done was scrape the frost off me.
That was it. I was through. I veered toward my car, threw myself behind the wheel and tore out of there.
I took a look back in the rear-view mirror as I left. Arlo and the Reptile had made it to the Hyundai. Diesel, too, though he wasn't inside. He was on the roof, a leg hanging perilously over the side. Cujo had clamped his jaws to one of Diesel's combat boots and was thrashing around like a great white shark going to town on a sea lion. The Hyundai lurched forward, and Cujo fell to the ground, taking the boot with him. The carolers had regrouped in a semi-circle a safe distance away, and they watched it all, looking kind of like the Whos at the end of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, except they were confused and appalled instead of joyful and smug.
When I was about a mile away, I pulled over at a convenience store and just sat there in the car for a while, panting. Once I'd caught my breath, I got out and stuffed my ski mask in the garbage can out front. Then I went inside to buy myself a Slurpee to settle my nerves. The little donation jar by the cash register was for the Humane Society, not the American Emphysema Association, but I stuffed in a couple bucks anyway.
I got home just as Jimmy Stewart was learning that if he'd never lived his wife would've become-fate worse than death-a librarian. With glasses! Mom leapt to her feet and rushed to the door as I came in.