The escalator was slow. Impossibly slow. And I couldn’t run up it as I was hemmed in by shoppers on both sides. I squatted down and looked back, wondering if Gott and Himmell had missed me. They hadn’t. There was no sign of Gott, but Himmell was standing there, taking aim. This time I think I heard the phutt as the bullet came out. Just above my head, a white box with the figure “1” on it suddenly shattered and the light went out inside. I reached the top of the escalator and swung around past a collection of hats, then onto a second escalator with a third after that. On the third floor, not even knowing if Himmell was still behind me, I ran forward—through the children’s clothes department.
I stopped to catch my breath at another of the archways. There were fewer people up here. After all, who buys children clothes for Christmas except relatives who should know better? I couldn’t see Himmell and I thought I’d lost him, but then a plastic dummy about three inches away from me suddenly lurched over backward with a hole in its forehead and fell with a clatter of broken plastic. Gott had gone after Lauren. But Himmell was still after me. I turned and ran.
And now there were more people. I didn’t mind that. The more the merrier, as far as I was concerned. It took me a few seconds to realize where I was heading and by then it was too late to go anywhere else. There was a sign:
To Santa’s Workshop
Now I remembered the loudspeaker announcement. Santa Claus and my favorite nursery rhymes. I’d almost prefer to spend the afternoon with Himmell.
The straggle of people had become a line. I ignored them. A few people protested as I ran past them, but most had little children with them and they weren’t going to start a fight. I ran on, past a red screen and down a brightly lit corridor. It led into a day-care area where a woman was standing behind a desk, gently controlling the crowd. She called out to me, but I ignored her, sliding down a ramp to crash into a brick wall. Fortunately, the brick wall was made out of cardboard. I glanced back, hoping that I’d at last shaken Himmell. But there he was, one arm in a white cast jutting out of his body as if he’d been caught in the middle of a karate chop. His other arm was jammed into his pocket. I knew what it was holding.
I dived into Santa’s workshop. I didn’t like it. But I had no choice.
It was packed inside, with everyone talking in low voices while nursery rhymes played on the loudspeaker system. There were a lot of models—Elizabethan villages and that sort of thing, illustrating the rhymes. They’d fixed them up with those little dolls that do jerky movements. They didn’t fool me. Jack and Jill looked slightly ill, while Miss Muffet seemed to be having convulsions. The models were arranged so that the passage swerved around with dark sections and light sections. I moved as quickly as I could, pushing aside anyone who got in the way. Nobody complained. With their arms full of little kids asking inane questions, they had more than enough to worry about.
So had I. I was trapped in Santa’s workshop and I needed an exit. I saw one, but it was blocked by a security guard. I turned another corner past Little Jack Horner and stopped again next to Humpty-Dumpty. There was no sign of Himmell. Perhaps he was waiting for me outside. Some of the children were more interested in me than in the models. I suppose I must have looked pretty strange, panting and sweating—the way you do when you’re running for your life. I took a couple of steps farther into the workshop. At the same moment, Humpty-Dumpty exploded in all directions, his arms and legs soaring into the air. All the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men certainly won’t be able to put that one together again, I thought as I forced my way through the crowd.
And still nobody knew anything was wrong. It was incredible. But it was also gloomy. And if you’ve got your eyes on a ship with thirty or so white mice on it, maybe you won’t notice when a private detective’s younger brother is being murdered behind you. I looked around. Himmell had been held up by a tough-looking gang of seven-year-olds. Still walking backward, my eyes fixed on him, I turned a corner. Somebody seized me. I was jerked off my feet. I twisted around again. I couldn’t believe it. I’d bumped into Santa Claus and he’d pulled me onto his lap.
Now he looked at me with cheerful eyes and a white-bearded smile. He really was the complete department-store Santa: red hat, red suit, bulging stomach, and bad breath.
“You’re a bit big for Santa, aren’t you?” he asked in a jolly Santa voice.
“Let me go,” I said, squirming on his lap.
But he held on to me. I got the feeling he was enjoying himself. “And what do you want for Christmas?” he asked.
“I want to get away from a guy who wants to kill me.”
He laughed at that. There were a whole lot of people in Santa’s chamber, and if I hadn’t been so angry I’d have been red with embarrassment. A little girl—she couldn’t have been more than six—pointed at me and laughed. Her parents took a photograph.
“Ho-ho—” Santa boomed out.
He didn’t make the third “ho.”
There was another quiet phutt and he keeled over. I threw myself onto the floor. Himmell was on the other side of the chamber, reloading his gun. Nobody was looking at him. They were looking at Santa, at the body twitching on the chair, at the red stuff that was staining his beard. The little girl began to cry.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Santa’s okay.”
Santa died. I fled.
I got out of the workshop just as the people began to scream in earnest. I could still hear them as I ran across a floor of women’s clothes, searching for a way out.
“Security to third floor, please. Security to third floor.” The calm, unruffled voice came over the loudspeakers as I spotted a fire exit, pulled it open, and found myself in a quiet stairwell. I wanted to go back down to the street level, but even as I stood there, I could hear the tramp of feet coming up. They didn’t sound like shoppers. They were too fast, too determined. It had to be the security guards. I looked up. The stairway was clear. I made for the fourth floor.
Through a door, along a corridor, through another door, and suddenly I’d burst into the toy department. I was tired now. I couldn’t run much more. And the noise and the color of the toys somehow drained away the last of my strength. Robots buzzed and clicked. Electric organs played hideous tunes. Computer games bleeped and whined. Something whipped past my head. I thought it was another bullet and jerked back, sending a whole pile of robots flying. But it was only a sales clerk with a paper glider. The robots writhed on the floor. I shrugged and staggered off into the toys.
I was sure I’d lost Himmell now. From toys I went into sports—first the clothes, then billiard tables, weights, golf clubs, and hockey sticks. I rested against a counter that had been set up for a special promotion. There was a sign reading:
DISCOVER THE DELIGHTS OF DEEP-SEA DIVING
A young salesman was showing an American couple the latest equipment: masks, wet suits, harpoons.
“The harpoon works on compressed air,” I heard him say. “You just pull the lever here, load it like this, and then—”
And then Himmell appeared. He’d come from nowhere. He was only about ten feet away from me. I had nowhere else to run. He had his hand in his pocket and now he brought it up, the jacket coming with it. He smiled. He was going to shoot me through the pocket. Then he would just walk away. And no one would know.
I lunged to one side, grabbed the harpoon gun, then wheeled around. The salesman shouted. I pressed the trigger.