Page 56 of The Sound of Sleighbells

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Do it now, Digger told himself as he climbed onto the bike, fired it up, and headed back toward Branding Iron. He knew the old man, knew where he lived, and knew the layout of his property. The sooner he got his hands on that stash, the better.

It was a shame that Ed hadn’t given him the location before now. A few days earlier, Abner Jenkins had been staying with Judd. It would’ve been a piece of cake to stroll into the barn, find the stash, and make a safe getaway. But now Abner was home. Getting the cocaine would be more of a challenge, but it could still be done. He would just have to be careful.

With the wind chill numbing his face, he bypassed Branding Iron and took the road to the ranch country south of town. Finding the way to Abner’s farm was easy enough, even in the dark. Outside the rickety wooden gate, he turned off the headlamp and cut the engine. The house was dark, but he didn’t want any light or noise to wake the old man. Farmers had guns, and he had no doubt that Abner knew how to shoot. Digger’s success depended on getting into the barn, finding the stash, and getting out quietly. With luck, the old man would never even know he’d been here.

Leaving the bike outside for a quick getaway, he turned on the pocket flashlight he carried and moved cautiously toward the barn. The memory of blinding lights and a screaming siren was still raw in his mind. An aging farmer wouldn’t likely have a high-tech security system, but Digger had learned his lesson. Be prepared.

Keeping to the shadows, he used the flashlight to locate the side door of the barn. If it was unlocked, he’d have it made.

He was edging closer when a sudden sound chilled his blood. It was the deep, fierce barking of what he judged to be a large dog.

An instant later, the beast came barreling around the far side of the barn—a bear-sized bundle of shaggy fur and snapping jaws. As Digger broke into a sprint, a light came on in the farmhouse. A big man stood outlined in the open doorway, a shotgun braced against his shoulder. “Stop, you varmint!” he shouted. “Stop, or I’ll fill your carcass full of lead!”

The blast went over Digger’s head—probably a deliberate miss. Digger didn’t stop. Straddling the bike, he gunned the engine and sped down the road, leaving the dog at the gate.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Why couldn’t Ed have let him know sooner? Now, even at night, the dog and the man would be on alert. And next time, the old farmer might lower his aim.

If he wanted to get the stash without being seen, he would have to show up when nobody was home. He’d seen the posters and overheard enough talk to know that his best chance would be during the parade, when Abner was playing Santa. With the whole town turning out to celebrate, the neighbors would be gone as well. There would be no one to see him coming and going or hear the sound of the bike.

The dog might be a problem. If the beast wasn’t locked up, he could bring some choice leftovers from Rowdy’s, maybe laced with barbituates. As a last resort, he could bring a gun and shoot the thing. Digger didn’t like dogs any more than they liked him. But a dead or wounded dog would be a sign that somebody had been here. That could put the law on his trail.

The parade would be on Saturday. That meant six more days of hiding and waiting before he could make his move. Six days—each one a slice of eternity.

* * *

Ruth wheeled the floor polisher into the utility closet and locked the door. It was almost five, and the children had long since left the building, laughing and chattering, skipping and racing their way outside. The building was quiet.

Today had been the last Monday of school before the holiday. The students would be supercharged all week. Some of the teachers complained. But Ruth enjoyed the high energy and happy excitement. Sometimes she was even caught up in it herself.

Grateful to be finished with the day’s work, she was headed for the faculty room to pick up her girls when she heard an unsettling sound. It was running water, coming from the boys’ lavatory. Had she forgotten to turn off a tap when she cleaned the room, or had something sprung a leak?

Pausing, she opened the door and stepped into the room. A fourth-grade boy stood at a low basin, splashing water on his tear-splotched face. His startled blue eyes gazed up at her, as if he knew he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Ruth recognized him at once—the scruffy blond hair, the ill-fitting plaid coat. “Hello, Robert,” she said. “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you gone home?”

He dabbed at his eyes with a paper towel, but the tears kept flowing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McCoy. Please don’t get me in trouble. I’ll go now.”

“You’re not in trouble, Robert.” Ruth dropped to a crouch, putting her face on a level with his. “But I can see that something’s wrong. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“You won’t care. Nobody does.”

“Try me. Come on,” she coaxed gently.

“The fifth-grade boys were teasing me. They said my coat was a girl’s coat. They said maybe I ought to wear a dress, too. I tried to hit one of them, but he pushed me down, and they all laughed. I didn’t want them to get me on the way home.”

“I’m sorry, Robert. Kids can be jerks.”

“Mom promised that me and my little brothers could get new coats for Christmas. But she lost her job at the Laundromat. Somebody stole some money. It wasn’t her, but she got blamed. Now we won’t have any Christmas at all. I told her maybe we’d have another miracle, like we did at Thanksgiving. But she said that miracles only happen once.”

“What kind of miracle was it?” No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

“Mom came home from working the night shift, and she had all this food for Thanksgiving dinner. A big turkey and everything in Shop Mart bags. I asked her where she got it, and she just said it was a miracle.”

“Oh, Robert.” Ruth blinked away tears as she thought of the desperate young mother, flinging a rock through the rear window of the station wagon. One miracle wouldn’t be enough for this little family. They were going to need more.

Chapter Thirteen

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