The visit was something that her group did every year at this time-handing out donated toys, clothing, and coats. Every holiday season the event managed to garner more and more press, which in turn created more demand from various charitable organizations. Thankfully, the added press also brought more donations. So as word got around, what had originally started a few years back as a small party for some underprivileged kids had now grown into a huge affair, encompassing not only the children’s home but visits to local hospitals, retirement homes, and shelters as well. It was a great cause, and even though it was hard work, they loved every minute of it.
Considering the list I’d seen of this year’s scheduled visits, Felicity definitely wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day, so I had plenty of time to just vegetate. In the end, I think it was that volatile combination of idleness and nervous energy that had finally set me in motion. In short, she hadn’t even been gone for two hours before I went in search of trouble.
And now, here I was, parked in front of City Police Headquarters and staring out my windshield in a semi-catatonic stupor. Considering my original intentions though, this might very well be a good thing.
I had actually started out from the house with the plan of revisiting the wooded area on Route 367 where Debbie Schaeffer’s body had been found. Subconsciously, I suppose that like most, I found some comfort in the daylight. I really don’t know why because time of day really had no bearing on the unique curse of visionary abilities that had been terrorizing me for the past two years. Truth was, I had no idea what had any bearing on them because they certainly weren’t under my control. In any event, my automatic pilot had engaged almost as soon as I backed out of the driveway, and I was three quarters of the way here before it dawned on me that here wasn’t where I’d originally planned to go.
Sitting there, I felt a shiver run up my spine, and I forced back yet another soft-core image of my wife in her costume as my brain shuffled through the random thoughts it had kept waiting in the wings. Then I frowned at the provocative cogitation.
Felicity and I had a perfectly healthy and even fairly imaginative sex life. While the male of the species supposedly has sexual thoughts every two minutes, I was really starting to wonder about myself. This constant fantasizing about her, while perfectly enjoyable in most respects, was becoming troublesome-especially considering recent events. I made a mental note to mention this constant obsession when my next appointment with Helen rolled around. This, of course, triggered remembrance of other mental notes I’d made and then promptly forgotten-such as the whole fantasy episode surrounding Felicity’s hair when we were at the morgue. Then there was the episode in the elevator that I’d had when leaving the counseling office. In retrospect, I really should have called Helen about that one immediately. Of course, it had seemed driven by an outside force, though I wasn’t even certain about that. Truth is, it really didn’t make much sense at all. None of it did.
I suppose that if I was somehow becoming overly obsessed with sex, then the lurid thoughts could very well be my own. But even that didn’t seem correct to me. There really seemed to be an outside presence. I was almost certain that I could feel it. Moreover, it had something to do with Debbie Schaeffer and Paige Lawson.
Unfortunately, everything that happened at the morgue that night after I connected with Debbie Schaeffer was still an out of focus jumble. What little I’d been able to pick out here and there was completely nonsensical. Dolls in prom dresses, makeup, a smart-mouthed cheerleader, flashing lights… Then there was Paige Lawson. Where did she fit into all of this?
If the outside presence that was forcing all of the lurid thoughts into my head was the one responsible for either of their deaths, then maybe the crime-or crimes-were motivated by sex. But one was a kidnapping and the other appeared to be a robbery gone awry. Maybe Paige Lawson was just an anomaly-a piece of a totally different puzzle that I was trying too hard to make fit into a blurry and indistinct picture.
But then, every time I had one of these semi-pornographic fantasies, there was the thing with red hair. Both Debbie Schaeffer and Paige Lawson were blondes. So was the woman in the elevator. So that almost had to come directly from me. I mean I had to admit that I personally had a thing for red hair, so that could make it highly likely that it was just my own preference overlaying itself with the imagery.
Likely? Probably? Or just maybe?
It was starting to get very confusing again. I’d been mulling it all over so much that it was giving me a headache.
If Ben was correct, I was just chasing my tail anyway, and I needed to direct my energies toward something more productive. I finally gave up on my attempt at analysis and decided to leave it to Helen. After all, as she’d pointed out, she was the one with the degree in psychology. Since all of the incidents seemed linked by sex, and that was apparently a driving force for me these days, maybe I’d remember to mention all of this at the next appointment.
After a moment I let out a purposeful sigh and muttered to no one but myself, “Yeah, right.” Then before getting out of the truck, I made yet another mental note to start writing this stuff down so that I was no longer depending on my easily sidetracked brain.
I’d have to start doing that later though. Right now I just wanted to smoke another cigarette or two before going inside.
“Merry freakin’ ho-ho-ho,” Ben said as I dropped myself into one of the ancient molded-plastic seats next to his desk. “Wanna cuppa?”
“I don’t know…” I shook my head, mentally gagging on vivid recollections of the caustic liquid the homicide division called coffee.
“Hey,” he exclaimed. “It’s Christmas freakin’ Eve, Kemosabe. We actually washed the pot this mornin’.”
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “Whether it needed it or not, right?”
“Exactly.” He grinned.
I couldn’t help but notice an n ^ th generation photocopy gracing one corner of his desk blotter, especially since it was positioned so that I could easily read it. A blurred but still recognizable pair of mug shots dominated the page, showing a rotund, bearded man in an instantly recognizable suit. The text beneath outlined a wrap sheet stating that the individual was wanted for breaking and entering, cookie theft, and illegal dumping. It further went on to say that he was known by such aliases as Saint Nick, The Jolly Elf, Santa Claus, etcetera, and could often be found in the company of elves. Last seen fleeing in a late model sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. Consider armed with candy canes. Approach with caution.
“Sounds like a real tough guy,” I said, indicating the novelty on his desk.
“Yeah,” he nodded and laughed. “The asshole dumped a whole pile of crap at my house last year, and I ended up holdin’ the bag for all the batteries. If I ever catch up with ‘im I’m liable ta’ kill ‘im.” Leaning back, he took a sip of his coffee and watched me carefully for a long moment. “So what’s up? Why ain’t you with the little woman?”
“She’s out doing that annual charity thing with her photography club.”
“Yeah, I know. She was just on the news about forty-five minutes ago givin’ ‘em an interview.” He let out a low wolf whistle. “Nice outfit.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunted, not really needing the reminder.
“So explain that one to me.”
“What? Her costume?”
“Hell no, that was pretty self-explanatory, ya’ lucky bastard,” he said. “I’m talkin’ about ‘er doing the whole Miz Santa Claus thing. How’s that fit in with what you were celebratin’ the other night?”