D A Novel (George Right)

THE BOY WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS





There was a blizzard that morning, but by afternoon it had calmed down and only big white snowflakes slowly and solemnly descended in the motionless air. In the center of the city, the pre-holiday fuss still continued: cars, stalling and skidding in fresh-fallen snow, approached the brightly shining shops; impatient horns honked; music played; sparkling and multi-colored garlands twinkled, and glass doors let out more and more happy shoppers with beautifully wrapped boxes containing gifts... But here, on the outskirts, it was very quiet and absolutely lonely. Angie, sinking almost knee-deep in snow, slogged along a long lane which consisted mainly of closed gates of warehouses and blind eroded walls of old brick buildings. It was gradually getting dark– early, as it always happens in the end of December–but the girl didn't think about turning back. She knew that nobody missed her in her home. Mother, as always, lies on a sofa and watches soap operas on TV. Near her, a huge package of chips stands, into which she periodically dives her thick fingers gleaming with oil, and then she chews noisily, dropping crumbs on the floor, the sofa, and her greasy shapeless T-shirt which she always wears at home. She stops eating only to smoke a stinky cigarette during the commercial break; then she coughs long and deep-chested, heaving with all her bloated body, then says "holy shit!" and returns to her chips. On her mounded belly the TV remote control rests. When a soap opera ends on one channel, she switches to another one.

Father will drag himself home by midnight, if not later. This depends on how much his and his buddies' money will allow. The only good aspect of being on welfare is the fact that father doesn't have enough money to drink as much as before. But his friends often treat him. Actually, his drunkenness was what cost him his job, though he blames "that f*cking Jew," the manager Reichmann. Father's friends, of course, agree with him. It is even good if they managed to save enough money by Christmas in order to close down a bar properly. Then father will crawl home rather the worse for wear and will hit the sack immediately. But if, on a holiday, he can't get totally drunk, he will come home angry and will fight. Usually he fought with mother, but Angie also got her portion. At first during such nights the girl tried to hide under a bed or in a closet, but when father could not find her at once, he flew into an even worse rage, and when he finally reached her refuge, she got thrice as many blows as usual. So it was better to endure submissively some slaps on her face, standing barefoot on a cold floor and repeating "I'll never do it again, Daddy". What exactly she "will not do", Angie didn't know, and neither did he. For him, it was just as important to carry out the "education" ritual.

Yes, the greatest Christmas gift for which Angie could hope was that her father would arrive home too drunk to fight and would sleep until the next afternoon. She didn't dare even think about receiving something else, like even the cheapest toy. Only once, when her parents seemed to be in good mood, had she given a hint at wanting a gift. Not at all in a form of the request–she simply had begun to talk about what gifts her schoolmates received. But mother, of course, understood the hint very well. "Shut your mouth, girl," she bellowed, "don't you know your father was shitcanned from his job and we're on welfare? We don't got enough money for food (mother weighed well over two hundred pounds even then, and now she was approaching three hundred), and you're dreaming about fancy toys! Do you think you're a f*cking princess?"

The princess. Angie had seen her in that big store downtown. Certainly, she couldn't buy anything there, even a cola drink from the vending machine. But she could wander there slowly for hours, examining the displays and shelves. What toys weren't there! There were electric cars possible to ride in and small motorcycles for children–not to mention walking robots and dinosaurs, and radio-controlled planes. But looking at boys' toys was no more than just curiosity. Angie indifferently passed by the section of video games and the boxes with plastic models for assembling, spent some time near teddy bears, thinking up names for them (after all it would be silly to call them all "Teddy"!). And then her heart sweetly faded. She entered the section called "Barbie's World".

Here, there were Barbies for every fancy and taste, of all skin colors and occupations, in strict business suits and in flippant beach apparel, in evening dresses and in jeans, brides and young mums, teachers, stewardesses, even a mermaid with a fish tail and a Barbie in a wheelchair... But most of all Angie liked Barbie the Princess. Dressed in an airy, as if flying, white dress, with a small gold crown on her blond hair, the princess seemed an embodiment of all those light and joyful things about which, for Angie, it was silly even to dream. But she still couldn't stop dreaming. If... if only she could once leave the store, folding the cherished box to her breast...

But even simply to stand here looking at the princess for too long was dangerous. The store security guard could approach and inquire, whether everything was alright with the girl and where her parents were. Angie was frightened to death that she would be taken to the police; she was sure that in this case her father would either beat her to death or maim her. Once she managed to convince the security guard that everything was great with her, and since then she avoided standing too long near the shelf. She tried to memorize how the princess looked, and then to go keeping this image before her eyes...

"Little girl, hey there!"

Angie shuddered in fright: it seemed to her that it was the security guard again. But in the next second she recovered from her dreams and understood that she was standing in the middle of a snowbound lane. And the person who addressed her was Santa Claus, arisen as if from nowhere. Dressed in a snow-powdery red jacket with white welt, a red cap with a white pompom, red trousers, boots and mittens. His face was also red (though, certainly, not as much as his clothing), with a broad white beard, and on his shoulder he held a bag–red of course, and obviously not empty.

"Ho-ho-ho," said Santa Claus, smiling broadly in his white moustaches, "hi, little girl! Merry Christmas! Why are you backing away? Don't you know me?"

"Sorry," Angie said quietly, "I've never seen you before."

"What," white eyebrows frowned with astonishment, "you don't believe in Santa Claus?"

"Mum says that Santa is... ""...is a f*cking bullshit," the exact words almost escaped Angie's lips. "That he doesn't exist," she finished aloud.

"Ho-ho-ho!" his eyebrows spread above. "Then who do you think am I, eh?"

"I don't know," Angie muttered even more quietly. "Santa Claus came to our class. And Ricky, he's a big bully, pulled his beard. And Santa's beard was held on with a string."

"Well, but I am real," Santa resolutely objected. "And my beard is real, too. If you don't believe me, you can touch it," he even bent down to make it easier for the little girl.

Angie timidly stepped forward, then once again, and carefully touched the beard. Santa only smiled encouragingly, and she gently pulled. Having grown bolder, she tugged more strongly, and at last, spurred on by her own impudence, she jerked the beard sharply.

"Ho-ho-ho!" Santa exclaimed louder and more abruptly than before. "What a strong girl you are! So, do you believe me now?

"You are really real?" the girl whispered.

"What do you think?"

Angie felt tears well up in her eyes–tears of joy and offense simultaneously. "Then why... didn't you... come befo-ore..."

"Well, well, sweetheart," Santa took her cap off and soothingly palmed her head. "No need to cry. I'm sorry I didn't come before. But, you see, there are so many children in the world and all of them need gifts! There's not enough time, I have to rely on my helpers, and sometimes they let me down. But look what I brought for you now!"

He took the bag from his shoulder and for some time with a conspiratorial air dug inside it. And then he winked to Angie and took out...

"Barbie the Princess!"

"Barbie the Princess," confirmed Santa, handing over a box with the doll to the girl.

"Now she's mine? Forever?" Angie couldn't believe in her happiness.

"Certainly, forever. What gifts aren't given forever?"

"Thanks, dear, sweet Santa!" She tried to embrace him without letting go of the doll.

"And there's even more!" he interrupted her. "After all, I owe you gifts for seven years..."

"For eight," Angie could have corrected, but didn't dare.

"...so now you will get them all, too. But they're on my sleigh. You should come get your presents and feed my reindeer. Do you want to do that?"

"Of course I do!" The girl began to jump with delight.

"Then let’s go!" He turned and start walking on the virgin snow in the lane. Angie hastened at his heels, trying to step into the big pits of his footprints.

Without reaching the exit to a street, Santa turned into a narrow alley and for a long time the girl saw nothing except concrete walls on both sides and the wide red back with a bag right ahead. Then the walls ended, and they came out to a small ravine; in summer a stream flowed on its bottom, but now only deep snow lay there. On the other side of the ravine, black-and-white trees froze in condensing darkness. Angie understood that they had reached the forest adjoining the border of the city.

Santa began to descend resolutely into the ravine, and the girl had to follow him. It was not difficult to go down, but when they were clambering up, she quickly was out of breath and was even hot in her old jacket which was already small for her. Santa only darted a quick glance over his shoulder and continued to walk quickly through the snow between trees.

"Is it far?" Angie asked plaintively, barely keeping up with him.

"No," he answered without turning to her, "we're almost there."

"It's dark already," the girl said uncertainly.

"Are you afraid of the dark?" he looked at her again. "Ah, you little scaredy-cat! I fly in the dark all night on Christmas Eve! By the way, I can take you for a ride in my sleigh over the city!"

"Really?" Angie's doubts receded again.

"Sure. Maybe I'll even allow you to drive the reindeer."

Meanwhile they had already gone so deep into the woods that they would not have seen its border from here even in the daytime; now in the gloom it seemed all the more that the forest stretched for incalculable miles in every direction.

"Why did you... leave the sleigh... so far away?" the girl asked, panting.

"Well, after all we don't want someone to come across it and take all he gifts for himself! OK, we're almost there. That glade."

The glade was surrounded by high fragile bush. Santa made a way with a crunch and the girl followed him, anticipating seeing the magic sleigh and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Suddenly Santa stopped, and Angie almost ran into him.

The glade was empty and covered by untouched snow.

"Where is the sleigh?" the girl murmured.

"It'll be here soon. Meanwhile, undress."

"What?" Angie was shocked.

"Undress. You're hot, aren't you?"

She has indeed sweated and now willingly took off her jacket. Santa stretched out his mittened hand and took it from her.

"Come on," he ordered.

"What?" The girl felt fear again and involuntarily pressed the box with the princess to her chest.

"Now!" Santa's voice became hoarse and sharp. "Take off your clothes!"

"But..." Angie moved back, "I don't want..."

"But you want the doll? You still want the doll, you ungrateful little bitch?!"

"Take it!" Angie stretched the box out before her, continuing to move back. "Take it back, just let me go!"

"Santa Claus gives gifts to good girls," the grinning mouth said, "and now you'll find out what he does to bad girls."

"Help!" cried Angie, turning to run away. The brute hands seized her and threw her down in the snow.



"It's him, no doubt," federal agent Douglas once again looked towards the glade where the crime lab team was already finishing its work. Nearby a pair of ambulance orderlies with a stretcher shifted from one foot to the other in the cold, expecting a command to take away the body. "The Snowman. Damn, we've been chasing this son of a bitch for three years already. Well, maybe this time we'll get something we can use."

"Are you sure it's him, sir?" trainee John Rockston raised the collar of his uniform jacket and put his hands into pockets: he felt chilly, too. And he wasn't sure the only reason was the cold and not the impression of what he had seen. Textbooks and photos are one thing, but when you actually see this yourself for the first time... "Could be, just some local guy flipped his lid..."

"A local wouldn't lead a victim so far," Douglas objected. "There are enough basements and empty warehouses in the city. But the Snowman needs snow. A lot of snow and open air. And all the other details... There are, of course, imitators of another's modus operandi. But the Snowman never made the headlines. Only some brief mentions in the local media. He's a bastard, but not a fool at all. He chooses a time when editors prefer cheerful and sweet-tearful materials, instead of bloody horrors. Americans don't like their holidays to be spoiled. And, as after New Year's Day the murders stop, the topic loses its urgency. Till next Christmas."

Crunching through the snow, the chief of the city police approached them with a clipboard in his hand. His physiognomy was peevish and skeptical, as always when he was speaking with feds. Douglas tried to ignore it and inquired in a efficient tone:

"So, have you identified the victim?"

"Yes," the police chief nodded. He held the clipboard before himself, but didn't look at it. "Angelica Lawrence, 9. Disappeared two days ago. From, as they say, a problem family. The father is an alcoholic, on welfare, the mother's not much better... Typical white trash. They didn't even notify the police that their daughter was missing. The girl went to school normally, but it's vacation now... it's pure luck that a local man came across her before everything here was covered with snow."

"That's it," Douglas turned to the trainee, "a typical victim of the Snowman. Most often they are children with problems at home or at school. Actually, that's no surprise. Who else would walk alone during the holidays instead of being with family and friends?"

"Don't be so sure, sir," the trainee objected, "I liked to wander alone when I was a kid. And not because of any problems. It was just better for thinking."

"There are, of course, exceptions," Douglas agreed. "Of the eight victims, two were from completely normal families and had no problems with other children."

"Known to us," the trainee specified.

"What?"

"We know about only eight victims, sir. We don't know how many victims could still be lying somewhere under the snow."

"Yes, but there hardly could be many more victims. With his modus operandi, he simply wouldn't have had time... unless he started to kill earlier than two years ago. Did you have enough time to read the case materials?"

"Yes, sir," John understood that Douglas was testing him and began to narrate accurately and passionlessly, as at an exam: "The murders begin before Christmas and end not later than New Year's Day. Most often he chooses a new town every time–not so small that any new person or car would attract attention, but also not so big that it would be the difficult to find a lonely open place. Sometimes he commits two murders in a single town–probably if he is sure that the disappearance of the first victim hasn't caused an alarm. The victim is always white, age from seven to eleven; gender is not significant to the Snowman. He gets the victim to some place where there is a lot of snow. Apparently, children go with him voluntarily. Then he forces the victim to strip off all clothing and shoes, ties the victim's hands and, possibly, tapes his or her mouth. In this condition he makes the victim walk up and down through the snow and rolls him or her in snowdrifts for a while–not less a half hour. Obviously, it turns him on. Then he rapes the victim. Then kills, knifing about dozen times. The exact number and places of wounds vary. He doesn't leave any inscriptions or other 'hallmarks.' He always takes away with him the victim's clothing and other things."

"It all matches, doesn't it?" Douglas nodded to the police chief.

"Exactly," the latter confirmed. "Probably this bastard is also a fetishist."

"Modern psychiatry reckons a considerable share of sadists among fetishists," noticed Rockston. "For those guys, not just suffering in general, but concrete attributes are important. Snow or the victim's blood may be examples of this. But I'm not sure that he carries the victim's things away for that reason. Probably, he's just afraid that we'll find trace evidence on them. He's very careful. We still don't know his blood and sperm types."

"Do you mean he uses a condom?" the police chief asked.

"Exactly, or, maybe a foreign object, even a dildo. Is it possible to buy such a thing in your town?"

"Most likely, he carries everything he needs with him, avoiding being seen in local shops," Douglas interjected.

"By the way, why necessarily 'he?'" the police chief narrowed his eyes. "Couldn't that freaking dildo have been used by a woman?"

Federal agents looked at him respectfully, despite his tone.

"We considered such a possibility," the senior agent confirmed. "In favor of it being a woman is how easily our criminal manages to entice children. Serial molesters sometimes fail with clever kids who, remembering the admonitions of adults, not only refuse to go with the molester, but also immediately run home or to the nearest policeman and describe the bad guy. But the Snowman hasn't had a single screwup like that. And, also, many adults still warn children only about men, forgetting about women. But, still, it's not likely to be a woman. You saw the footprints, chief. The shoe size is definitely not female. Certainly, it is possible to wear oversized boots in order to fool us, but a woman in such giant boots risks drawing attention, and to run in such clodhoppers if something goes wrong would be difficult as well. Besides, our criminal's weight is about 220 pounds, and the force of his knife strikes demonstrate a lot of physical strength. All this is, of course, not proof, but still essential arguments against a female perpetrator."

The police chief shrugged his shoulders with irritation, probably, going to say something like "if you're so smart, why is the freaking a*shole still out there?" But at this moment the chief of criminalists approached.

"We've almost finished," he informed. "I ordered the body to be loaded into the van."

"Anything interesting yet?" Douglas inquired.

"We'll see in the lab," the expert shrugged. "Till now, everything as usual. No torn off buttons, scraps of clothes, and so on. The girl didn't cut her nails for a long time, so it may be possible to find something under them, but there's not much hope. It's the standard scenario: at first the victim is too frightened and obediently follows the guy's orders, hoping to buy her life this way. And when she finally understands that she has nothing to lose, she is already tied and is helpless. He, of course, has taken the rope with him again, as well as the tape he used on the victim's mouth."

"Too bad... Well, John," Douglas turned back to the trainee, "let's go back to the car."



"Cold weather with frequent snow, most likely, will sweep across New England until the weekend. Delays of flights and trains, and also snow drifts on the roads, are possible. So we would recommend to you to refrain from travel within the next few days if, of course, you don't want to meet the New Year in mid-course..."

Nicolas swore and switched off the radio. Nobody and nothing can be trusted, absolutely nothing. All will finally deceive and betray you. Even the snow, which always was his friend and gave him so much pleasure, now turned against him. His usual method was to choose a new town without any system, just far enough away from the previous one. But this time he has had to drive from one snow drift to another for two days already, and has covered practically no ground. If he continues in the same manner, even his off-road vehicle will probably get stuck right in the middle of a deserted highway. Besides, he has lost too much time already. In a new town, after all, it is necessary to reconnoiter, to find a suitable place and to think over the emergency variants... Damn, he can't lose the next day! It's almost New Year's Day, and who ever saw Santa Claus after the New Year? Flying deer definitely wouldn't go amiss now... Probably, he should have not left Greenwood so hastily. The girl wouldn't be found till spring; her parents didn't care about her... But his intuition had forced him to move on and he had gotten used to trusting his intuition. Perhaps, all the matter was that he hadn't gotten her far enough into the woods. But the snow was deep and the child looked too sickly–she would have become exhausted too early... Not without a reason she was scorned in her class. She had, of course, told kind Santa all about it. When he saw that they were broken down enough not to dare to shout–though he always chose such places where a shout couldn't be heard, but care never hurts–he always took the tape from their mouths and made them talk about themselves. A diploma in child psychology is a useful thing, but theoretical science is dead without field practice. Most serial killers, with each new victim, come closer to making mistakes and being captured. But Nicholas, on the contrary, learns each time more and more about his prey and becomes all the more elusive. And what a pleasure is to look and listen to them standing, naked and helpless, knee-deep in snow, shivering from cold and fear, and murmuring in their pitiful breaking voices about their pathetic lives! Only remembering it caused so fast and hard a response in his pants that he had a strong desire to stop the car right now and resort to a handjob. But no, now's not the right time... There will be long months ahead when these memories will be his only source of pleasure, so he'd better not waste their sharpness now...

Nevertheless Nicolas stopped his Ford. A fork appeared ahead–just the right time to check his coordinates and make further plans. He pulled out a map from the glove compartment and spread it over the dashboard. So, if he turns right now, Malcolmtown is five miles down the road. Population 16 thousand. And among them, of course, there will be enough bad boys and girls.



"So, what do they have at the lab?" Douglas inquired after Rockston hung up. They sat in Douglas' office, and outside the window the white veil of a blizzard streamed.

"Good news, sir. Near the nail on the right middle finger they found a hair. More precisely, a piece of hair. White. Now they'll analyze it and get everything possible out of it." John paused and then added, "Though it seems to me, it's not what they think. I think I know who it is."

"So who?"

"Santa Claus."

Douglas sniffed loudly, but then understood that the trainee was not kidding.

"You mean, a guy in Santa Claus costume?"

"Exactly. In fact, I've had this idea since this morning when we investigated the crime scene. Blood and snow, red and white. Colors of Santa Claus."

"An unorthodox association," Douglas grinned.

"To tell the truth, in my childhood I was afraid of Santa Claus," John admitted, a bit ashamed.

"Afraid? Why?"

"I didn't like the idea that some odd guy could get to me through a flue while I slept," Rockston said with a smile, and then continued more seriously: "And why are people afraid of ghosts? Not because ghosts are spiteful or capable of doing real harm. According to most legends, a ghost can't do any more harm than a hologram. And nevertheless, nine of ten people would yell in horror at seeing a phantom of their own beloved mommy. So why? Simply because it is something otherworldly. Supernatural. And that kind of horror is worse than any physical fear. Santa is like that and it would be more logical to ask why others are not afraid of him, than to ask why I was afraid..."

"All right, excursions into psychology can wait," Douglas interrupted impatiently. "Really, the Snowman dressed as Santa would explain why he entices children so easily. And a man in such a costume during this time of year doesn't cause any adult suspicion, not to mention that Santa's attributes mask his true appearance. Do we have any more arguments?"

"At first, I thought that red and white could actually be his fetish. But then I understood that it's also very convenient. Blood is not visible on red clothing, at least, not from afar. And he, obviously, hides his victim's stuff in a bag with gifts. The role of Santa is so ideal for a child killer that I'm surprised we haven't seen this earlier."

"Because this role has one big flaw–from the point of view of the killer, of course. It's available only several days a year. And a serial killer, even the smartest one, is governed not by his reason, but by his needs. He can tell himself a hundred times that it's reasonable to wait till Christmas, but if he gets an urge in July, he will kill in July. Our guy probably has a huge amount of will power... Or maybe he is stimulated by Christmas attributes. Anyway, well done, trainee! Damn, I should have thought of it myself earlier! But I guess in my childhood I was brainwashed by tales about good Santa... So, if you are right, that sample studied in the lab now is not a real hair, but a synthetic fiber."

"Yes. So it won't be too useful to us. At the best we will define the fiber's manufacturer, but it probably can be bought for different purposes nationwide..."

"Then let's return to the initial problem: where he is now. Your assumptions, trainee?"

Rockston understood that his professionalism was being checked again. He stood up and approached a blackboard where a map of New England was pinned.

"There were no new disappearances in Greenwood. Local police and teachers have already phoned around all parents who have white children of the suitable age. That means he's left the city. Theoretically, in two days he could reach any place in the country and even in the world. But in practice he is obviously limited, as before, to those areas where snow lies. He could reach an airport, but flights are canceled too often now because of snow. As he has only one week per year to indulge himself, he won't risk spending it in a waiting room. I can assume also that he in general avoids flying, so that his name wouldn't be on passenger lists. So... he travels by car. We can be certain that it's an off-road vehicle, but even a SUV can't go fast in this weather. We know that the son of a bitch is very careful and, probably, won't drive unsafely without an extreme need. That means, he hardly does more than twenty miles per hour on average, and mostly in daylight. It gives him about eight hours per day. In total, a maximum of 320 miles for two days. In the east he is limited by the ocean, in the south–by thaw. He is still somewhere here," John traced an oval with his finger on the map.

"That's right," Douglas frowned, "in any of dozens of towns in this area. And we can't ask for a stop and search of all Santa Clauses there. We have no proof, so we have no probable cause. Besides, we would become whipping boys as the idiots who emotionally traumatized children. Remember the teacher who was fired after he told his class that Santa Claus didn't exist? We're living in strange times, John. Once this country was the land of the free and the home of the brave. And now it is the land of lawyers suing for emotional trauma, defamation, and discrimination. Sometimes I don't understand who won the Cold War. If we won, what happened to our freedom of speech? Why we are afraid to call things by their proper names..."

The phone rang. Douglas took the call. What he heard apparently pleased him more than the previous topic.

"Looks like, John, you were right in substance, but mistaken in details," he said, having finished the conversation. "It is not synthetic. It is a human hair, from a beard or moustaches. And it was dyed. The original color is dark, but not black."

"That means... he has a real beard!" Rockston exclaimed. "Perhaps this bastard thinks he's a real Santa Claus."

"Do you understand the importance of this news, John?"

"Certainly, sir. Nowadays, there aren't a lot of men with Santa-shaped beards, either dark or not. And it's impossible to grow a beard in one day. So, many people know his bearded appearance, and he probably even has it on his photo IDs... Since he isn't gray-haired, how old is he?"

"About forty five. It's surprising that he started to kill only two years ago... If, of course, we have found all his victims. However, these bastards don't always start killing at a young age. Or maybe fantasies and pornography were enough for him before. We also know now that he is white, though that's not surprising. Even nowadays black Santas are still exotic. Most likely, he doesn't smoke and generally lives a rather healthy lifestyle... apart from his main hobby, of course."

"He isn't an actor," John reflected aloud, "I thought that he could be an actor, but an actor can't have a real beard..."

"I thought through one hypothesis," Douglas replied. "Even before your idea about Santa–which, by the way, isn't yet proved, though it is hard to think why else someone would dye a beard white. So, anyway, I tried to understand why he never had any failures. And I came to the conclusion that he understands children's psychology very well. So well that he knows a child literally at a glance, even before communicating with the kid. So, most likely, he's an experienced professional–either a child psychologist or some other occupation that deals with children, for example, a teacher... The first step, trainee?"

"To check all people of corresponding professions who were targeted in the investigation of sexual misconduct towards children. Including those acquitted and never come to trial."

"Correct. It made a rather long list, but all of them happened to have alibis. Obviously, our bastard is too careful to leave witnesses and victims alive. But since he is a professional, we can look for traces of his professional work. For a teacher it is more difficult, but he's not a teacher; he starts hunting prior to the beginning of Christmas vacation. But if we assume that his job is closer to a science, then what?"

"We can look for publications in scientific journals! On the topic of problem families, or conflicts in a school setting, or violence against children."

"Bravo, John. However, there are too many such publications. There may be even more psychologists, psychiatrists and psychoanalysts in this country than lawyers... Still, we have checked up on some of them, carefully, since we lack probable cause. Nothing remarkable was found. On the other hand, there are no guarantees that he really has published works..."

"And that he is a psychologist at all. If he simply puts on Santa's costume..."

"And here you're wrong, John. One doesn't exclude another. A five-year-old kid can be deceived by any guy with a white beard and in a red jacket. But the Snowman works with older children. And among these youngsters, not all will agree to follow a stranger if he doesn't impress them... Perhaps, the real beard plays a considerable role here–but it isn't the only factor."

"Perhaps. So, we should look for journal authors who have a big beard and are between forty and fifty years of age. As you worked on this already, I believe, you identified some authors?"

"Yes, but, as I've said, there are too many of them. But now, knowing about the beard and age, we can narrow our search."

"I would offer additional criteria, sir. Most likely, he writes articles alone, instead of co-authorship. And, possibly, he was born in a northern state. Perverts, of course, happen to be rather odd, but it seems doubtful to me that a heat-loving southerner would enjoy sex in freezing temperatures. Also, there is an off-road vehicle registered on his name... He, of course, can rent cars, but he prefers to use his own in order not to show himself in rental offices."

"Well, in these parts almost everyone owns off-road vehicles... But as a whole your ideas sounds reasonable. Sit down at the computer, John. Let's see how they teach you to work with information nowadays."



The third thing which Gregory Prime hated was lies.

In the beginning of his life he simply couldn't imagine that such a thing as a lie might exist. The idea that it is possible to say something that is not true seemed so absurd to him that it didn't deserve consideration at all. Indeed, why then speak at all? In adult terms, his conceptualization of that time would sound like this: a conversation is the purposeful exchange of information, so any corruption of the information contradicts the very essence of a conversation. Later, about an age of three, he found out that the lie nevertheless does exist and immediately he felt a deep contempt for it. For this reason, he hated fairy tales since they were just a pack of lies.

Both Greg's parents had higher technical education (his father was an engineer in a power company and his mother was a chemist in a pharmaceutical laboratory) and were atheists who adhered to materialism. At the age of three, the boy already knew the structure of the atom, what positive and negative particles were, and what a water molecule consisted of. And, certainly, he knew that no wizards and witches actually existed. The single attempt to intimidate Greg when he was mischievous, by saying that an evil sorcerer would take him away, caused so furious a reaction of horror that Mrs. Prime renounced forever using such methods. She apologized to the boy, repeating that it was a silly joke and there were, of course, no sorcerers at all.

When other children of his age tried to involve Greg in playing out some fairy tale plots (they, seemingly, actually believed in magic), he looked at them disdainfully, as at ignorant savages. At first he generously tried to explain the truth to them, but they, apparently, were too stupid to accept the education. Later, when he was four, Gregory understood that not true is not always a lie. It can also be an honest fiction, and fairy tales belong to this category. Then he began to read them, even with pleasure, perceiving them the way adults do: as entertaining stories which, however, don't have and can't have anything in common with reality. However, he preferred science fiction, for its scientific character.

But, recognizing the right to fiction in literature, Greg was still sure that in real life only the truth should be told. And especially that the truth and only the truth is told by his parents. People around him disappointed him more and more often–condemning lies verbally, they told lies all the time. Religion was one of the most unpleasant forms of lie–fairy tales, including terrifying stories about the omnipotent absolute tyrant, were straight-faced passed off as the truth. But, of course, Greg's parents explained to the scared boy that no god actually existed and that Christian beliefs were in no way better than Ancient Greek myths about Zeus who threw lightning bolts from Olympus. No religious dogmas have scientific confirmation; on the contrary, science found more than enough refutations of them. However, Mrs. Prime also had added that Greg should respect the feelings of believers and not say to them that they value stupid fairy tales. But the boy couldn't agree with her in any way: why he should respect another's stupidity and lie? Then Mr. Prime came up with a more compelling argument: "You see, Greg, not all of them can be persuaded; they just will not listen. So it is useless even to try–you'll only make them angry, but will not be able to set things right." The boy already knew this from his own experience and had to agree.

Yes, anyone else might lie, but his parents always told him the truth. And, consequently, Greg didn't even think to doubt their word about Santa Claus.

What they said about Santa Claus came, of course, from the very best motives. It never entered the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Prime to what long-term horror they doomed their son–the horror of the committed materialist who learns from an absolutely authentic, in his opinion, source about the real existence of a magic being.

Greg did not give a damn that this being was kind and gave gifts! It destroyed the whole scientific picture of the world! He desperately tried to save the situation, grasping at any rational explanation for this undead creature. Maybe Santa Claus is actually an extraterrestrial? In science fiction, aliens could do much more than humans and all that is thanks to their science. But aliens travel on spaceships, not on reindeer. And besides, if Santa is an alien, why isn't NASA interested in him? If he is some unexamined natural phenomenon, why don't scientists explore him?

Gregory shared these hypotheses with his parents, but they still didn't understand and only laughed at the scientific meticulousness of their son. Mrs. Prime with a smile told Greg that science didn't explore magic. Greg was ready to assume... no, not that parents lied him–he still couldn't even think about that. But maybe they, so clever and educated, nevertheless fell into deception themselves?

But alas–unlike god whom nobody ever saw, the existence of Santa Claus was confirmed by facts and independent authoritative sources. Beginning with the gifts which weren't under the Christmas tree in the evening, when the house doors were locked from within and the alarm system was activated, but which appeared there in a mystical way in the morning. And the unknown being not only inexplicably got into the house, but also guessed right every time what exactly Greg wanted to receive! The gifts, however, pleased the boy–unlike the thought about the one who had brought them... Greg, of course, understood that those dudes in red suits with false beards in a supermarket or a school performance at Christmastime were only disguised human beings. Officially they were called assistants of Santa Claus–well, this proved nothing, as priests are called attendants of god, too. But the real Santa Claus was also shown time and again on TV; he had a house in Lapland, and it was possible to write a letter there and even to receive an answer. Greg hadn't written, but saw with his own eyes such an answer which one of his schoolmates bragged about.

And if it were only broadcasts for children! Greg understood that in such programs everything could be shown. But quite serious, adult newscasts reported that Santa Claus had taken off from Lapland! The permission for his sleigh to fly over U.S. territory was issued by the Federal Aviation Administration! Its movement through airspace was traced by NORAD! And NORAD, gentlemen–it is very serious. Even more serious than the civil aviation agency. It is the North American Aerospace Defense Command, those guys who sit in the superstrengthened bunker deep under the Rocky Mountains and watch for Russian or Chinese nuclear missiles launched towards America–and, in this worst case, will strike back in time. From such people, one doesn't expect kidding! And nevertheless–Greg saw himself in the news how on their radar, the very same radar which separates peace from nuclear war, crawled a mark with the inscription "Santa"!

And there was more to come. All adults, even those who were very skeptical about everything shown on TV (such as, for example, the Primes' neighbor Mr. Stevens), confirmed the existence of Santa Claus. About god they didn't have the same unanimity. Even the elementary school teacher carefully noted that some people believed in god and some not, and there was no strict proof of either position, so it was necessary to listen to mum and daddy and also to your own heart (this mendacious expression enraged Greg–he wanted to shout out: "The heart is simply a muscle that pumps blood!") But about the reality of Santa Claus she spoke absolutely categorically.

And, of course, Greg's schoolmates believed in Santa, too. They, however, weren't an authoritative source in any way. Unless only in the matters of female anatomy–some of them considered themselves adult enough to look at pictures of naked ladies in the boy's toilet. Once they allowed Greg to look too, and he definitely could not understand what they found interesting in it. Well, he was, of course, surprised that women don't have a cock, but he could see that in the first photo–so why examine all the others so attentively? In general, his schoolmates remained the same stupid savages they were as toddlers when they believed in witches and sorcerers. They only increased in size and thus became more harmful and more dangerous.

His schoolmates were the second thing on Gregory Prime's personal hate list. He was a straight-A student in all subjects except sports, and that speaks for itself. The other boys rarely condescended to such mercifulness as demonstrating forbidden photos to him. Much more often they exercised in persecution of the "egghead," "geek," "nerd," and "four-eyes" who couldn't hit them back. Their mockery was as stupid and primitive as they themselves, but for some reason still very hurtful. The brainless pithecanthropes who did not even know the word "pithecanthrope!" But Greg had to adapt. He had not to show how much he despised them, even to simulate friendship with some of them. Thus, he had to lie, and for this he hated them even more. And all this still didn't save him completely. Only provided intervals of calm life between days when they remembered again their joyous pastime, "make Greg Prime cry." And after that his so-called "friends," just as if nothing had happened, called him again to play their primitive games. And he did.

But the schoolmates were still not the worst problem. This problem was extremely unpleasant and plaguing his life, yes. But at the same time–clear, explainable, terrestrial, material. They undermined his everyday comfort, but not the basis of the universe.

Gifts-giving Santa was much more terrible. He was an embodiment–and, strictly speaking, the only authentically known embodiment–of everything magic, mystical, illogical, supernatural, antiscientific, irrational.

In short, Santa Claus embodied that which Gregory Prime hated most of all.



"Three," John summed up, "three most probable candidates. I admit, I expected that it would be only one. I didn't think that there were so many bearded men among psychologists..."

"And that is only if our filters are correct," Douglas dampened the trainee's ardor, displaying the selected files on his computer screen. "If we dig in the right direction... So, Dr. Aron Rabin, Dr. Joshua Sullivan and Dr. Nicolas Wash. Well, let's go," Douglas moved the phone up to him."Hello! May I talk to Dr. Rabin? Dr. Rabin? Good afternoon, I am Special Agent-in-Charge Douglas of the FBI. No, everything is all right. We were interested in your article in the third issue of the American Psychoanalytic Association journal. The person whom we are searching for probably had a similar case of a childhood trauma, and your consultation may be useful to us. No, it's not urgent. Currently it's only a hypothesis which still may not prove out. I would be grateful, if you tell me your schedule for the next few days, to let us know when is a good time to contact you... Thank you for cooperation, sir! No, it's not him. He is at home, and his schedule is too busy for traveling–which can be, of course, easily checked, and he understands it... Hello! May I talk to Dr. Sullivan? And when will he be available? OK, I see. No, I don't need to leave a message, thank you. Good-bye. In a business trip, will return after New Year," Douglas informed John in a satisfied tone. "How do you like that?"

"It's him!"

"We still must check on the third one." The phone again gave out a melodious trill, dialing the number. "Hello! May I..." Douglas began and suddenly stopped. Having listened for some time, he still silently hung up. "An answering machine," he explained. "The text is standard–'leave a message...'"

"Perhaps, he simply went shopping."

"Maybe. Or maybe not. So, we have two candidates."

"Damn, they even have Fords of the same model!"

"No wonder, it's one of the most popular models of an off-road car. Well, now the routine starts again–to find leads to the cars across the area interesting to us. We will notify local police, and they will phone round to gas stations, roadside shops, and so on. I hope, in bad weather when there aren't too many cars on the roads, these two will be noticed quickly enough. Well, and, of course, we'll still call Wash periodically in case he returns."



Nice little Malcolmtown. Nicolas walked on streets through growing dusk pricked by small snowflakes. It wasn't the hunt yet, only a reconnaissance as military men say... Actually, the town was not as nice as he would have liked. The outskirts are densely populated and there is no suitable deserted area through which it would be convenient to lead a target to the woods. But there is a large park in the town. Large enough for his purposes. He must only make sure that this park isn't frequently visited by townspeople during the winter. Probably it is not–the park looks rather untended. Apparently, the local authorities have enough other things to take care of. Only the central avenue in the park had been cleaned and even it is powdered with snow again. And all around deep snow lies. A lot of snow.

He, as usual, had left his car in the woods outside of town. One more advantage of a SUV–he could avoid being seen in motels. However, this time there had been a minor mishap. He was seen refueling near town. Certainly, he didn't refuel at a gas station–there are superfluous eyes there, too, especially in bad weather when customers are rare. Filled gas cans lay in his trunk, so he proudly passed by the station without stopping, despite the red-blinking fuel warning light. He had to stop two miles later. But, while he was filling the tank by the roadside, a truck passed by in the opposite direction. Of course, the driver didn't pay any special attention on him. He was not in the costume–he never put it on ahead of time. The driver didn't reduce his speed and, even better, didn't stop and ask whether any help was needed. Those damned kind Samaritans who eternally poke into other people's business! The former good boys who hoped to deserve a gift from Santa. But this driver was not one of them. A bad boy. You were a bad boy and Santa will not come for you...

Santa will come for other bad children.



Finally two hypotheses remained to Gregory. According to the first, less logical but more attractive one, Santa Claus was an outstanding swindler who had managed to deceive the whole world. Certainly, he was not a usual scam artist. He obviously had mastered fantastic technologies unavailable to anyone else. Perhaps, he was an evil genius, as in comic books–though generally Greg was very irritated that in comics so often clever people are villains and, moreover, act like idiots, allowing stupid heroes to defeat them. And, considering that Santa had existed on the Earth for a very long time already (actually, Greg couldn't get a precise answer from anybody, how long exactly), he could be a medieval alchemist who had found a philosophers' stone and achieved immortality. Alchemy, of course, was a pseudo science, but nevertheless it was closer to science than to magic; mum said that all modern chemistry grew from it. This hypothesis, however, didn't explain one thing–the purpose of the swindle. On the contrary, the bestowing of gifts seemed to be an absolutely lossmaking business. But if this guy doesn't want anything bad, why does he lie, pretending to be a magic being? And why doesn't he share his discovery with the world? Greg heard many times that there's no such thing as a free lunch; it was simply surprising that adults who repeated it to him in a mentor tone didn't even think to apply this thesis to Santa Claus. And what if one day he submits a bill to the whole world, with all the interest that had accumulated over centuries? In that case, mankind will be in big trouble. And the one who stops the mendacious old bastard in advance will save the world.

The second hypothesis, however awful it was, coincided with the classical explanation. That is, Santa Claus really was a supernatural being. Maybe the one thing in the universe which was breaking the well-knit and logical materialistic harmony... Greg couldn't, didn't want to acknowledge it. But nevertheless he knew that a real scientist should test a theory with an experiment.

During pre-Christmas days on TV and in printed media there were stories about boys and girls who didn't believe in Santa Claus. And then, having stated their doubts, were convinced of the existence of Santa–either by a very serious and authoritative adult, like the editor of "New York Times," or by Santa himself. And though the reliability of these stories, especially of the second type, was doubtful by itself...

"Santa Claus, I, Gregory George Prime from Malcolmtown, Maine, USA, don't believe in you," Greg loudly proclaimed to the darkness of the big room where the Christmas tree stood. For some reason he was sure that it was necessary to address Santa at night. As, obviously, one would speak to vampires, werewolves, and other undead creatures–if they really existed... "But if you exist–come and talk to me. Don't sneak into the house late at night when I'm asleep. Come yourself, don't send any assistants. I'll meet you in the town park."

For the plan that Greg has conceived, his home was not appropriate in any way.



"What an unpleasant thing is waiting," John Rockston sighed, sitting down on the edge of a table and looking at the snow flying outside the window. "Especially if you know that, maybe, this very minute the bastard is already leading the next child into the woods."

"We can't do anything more now," responded Douglas. "The crime lab didn't dig out anything new; we can only hope to catch him with our nets."

"Almost twenty four hours passed since we set them. If he hasn't passed by any watching eyes during this time..."

"Than he, probably, has had time to settle down in some town already," finished Douglas. "I know. And then, if he isn't recognized in the streets–and photos are available only to policemen who are not too numerous in small towns–then we, most probably, will catch him only after one more murder. This is life, John. This is our job. Only in movies does the cavalry always manage to appear at the last moment... Well, time to make the next call to Wash."

But, before Douglas had time to pick up the receiver, the phone rang.

"Douglas here. When? And he...? How long ago? Yes! Yes, of course, we'll come personally!"

He hanged up and joyfully turned to the trainee.

"Sullivan is staying at a Portsmouth motel. Under a false name, by the way."

"Arrested?"

"Not yet. He arrived as early as yesterday evening, but the manager got around to checking the license plates only now. He isn't currently in the motel–obviously, somewhere in the city. The police have already begun to search for him. Grab your coat, let's go."

"To reach Portsmouth in such weather..."

"We have the use of a copter."

Douglas hastily took his jacket from a hanger, loudly zipped it, and took out his gloves from the pockets.

"Trainee, what are you waiting for?"

"Sir, we were going to make a call to Wash."

"Mm... you're right, we should... So, what's there? Answering machine again?"

"Yes."

"Certainly, the fact that Sullivan stayed at the motel under an assumed name doesn't yet remove suspicion from Wash... Though, most likely, he's simply relaxing somewhere down south now."

John put on his warm jacket, too.

"Sir, after all, isn't Claus the same name as Nicolas?"

"Yes. But that means nothing. If the guy has a screw loose, hardly it was because of his own name."

"Yes, but it could become an additional factor."

"Well, theoretically it could. But now our main target is Sullivan. Ready at last? Let's go. Lock the door."

Just after Rockston turned the key in the lock, the phone rang again in the office. John made a movement to open the lock.

"No need," Douglas stopped him, "after the fourth ring a call will automatically switch to my cell phone... Hello?"

This time he was on the phone slightly longer and even pulled a map out of his pocket, trying to unfold it on a door with one hand. Rockston helped him.

"Wash's car was seen," Douglas informed after hanging up. "Also yesterday evening. Here," he pointed on a map, "near Malcolmtown. However, the information about it came from here," his finger sharply moved to the south. "It seemed odd to a Malcolmtown truck driver that some guy fueled his car from a can instead of using the nearby gas station. And he, I mean the truck driver, looked attentively at him and remembered the number of his car. Actually, he didn't remember it completely–he either forgot the last digit, or couldn't make it out because of snow–but all the rest match. And today he talked about it in a diner where he stopped for dinner. The owner of the diner had already been contacted and made a call to the police."

"That guy was in the Santa Claus costume?"

"No. The driver even isn't sure if he had a white beard. 'Perhaps he did, or maybe it was just snow-covered.' And even if it was Wash, to refuel from a gas can is not a crime. He may simply had found a gas station with a good price and stocked up with fuel there. Anyway, it's less suspicious than using an assumed name."

"Not only killers register under assumed names," John objected. "For example, adulterers do. And not only them. There are some people who are just intensely private and avoid leaving any personal information anywhere."

"You use your head, trainee," Douglas nodded approvingly. "But we should make a choice. The local police will of course investigate in both places, and I would like to believe they will do it assiduously enough... though, to tell the truth, they don't like to listen to us until their noses are stuck right into the shit. So you and I should not lose the control over the situation and have to choose one of two opposite directions. What do you think we should do?"

John frowned for a second, then stated resolutely: "We should return to the office, sir. To look once more through the databases."

"OK."

With several mouse clicks Rockston came to a conclusion.

"I would bet on Wash, sir."

"Why?"

"Look at their driver's records. Wash had not a single driving offense. And Sullivan was ticketed for illegal parking, for speeding..."

"And we know that our son of a bitch is very careful," Douglas caught the idea and added with a laugh: "Seems to me, it's the first case in my career when good lawful behavior serves as a basis for suspicion. But you are probably right. We'll fly to Malcolmtown."

"Are you sure he is still there, sir?"

"The truck passed him late yesterday afternoon, and we believe that he doesn't drive in the dark during a snowfall. That means he could leave the town not earlier than this morning. But by this time the state police had been already notified, and he would have been already intercepted by officers posted either here or here," Douglas showed on the map. "He's still in town. And, probably, isn't wasting any time. Let's go."



"Hello?"

"Mrs. Prime? Sergeant Jills here. Is your son at home?"

"Just a minute, I'll look... No, apparently he went out to play. What happened? Did Greg do something wrong?"

"No, don't worry. May I talk to your husband?"

"He hasn't come home from work yet. Sergeant, what's the matter?"

"If your son returns, please, try to keep him at home."

"OK, but will you explain to me what this is all about?!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Prime. We simply got information that there's a man in town, who... er... pesters children and shows them obscenities. This tip may be false–most likely it is–but currently we're are checking it out."

"A flasher? I am a big girl, sergeant, and you can say what you mean."

"Yeah, something like that. Also our information says that he can be dressed as Santa Claus."

"Well, if so, he'll hardly manage to entice Greg. Though my husband and I didn't tell him Santa doesn't exist, it seems to me that he understands that himself already."



As usual, Nicolas noticed the future victim the first.

After several hours of fruitless waiting (there were some possibilities, but, having carefully estimated the probability of witnesses, he decided not to risk it) all, at last, went extremely well. The boy was obviously alone and went straight to the park. For a moment, a suspicion flashed in Nicolas' mind that someone could be waiting for the kid in the park–the boy stepped there so purposefully, not like just a stroller. But no, it was hardly probable. The snow showed no one else's footprints. However, a friend of the bad boy could appear later. But even if so–the park is big enough, and he will have time to lead the boy far away from the meeting point. And then, after finding out all that this nasty little thing knows, maybe he will come also for the uninvited visitor, who is for certain of the same age...

Standing behind a high pine, Nicolas studied his future prey, fixing the smallest details. It's very important to get a rapport at once, to cause reckless trust... It's a pity that no psychology could allow him to guess a name–this would have worked perfectly. However, the proper choice of a gift works wonders, too. So, the boy is obviously from an advantaged family–not rich, but advantaged. At the same time, both his parents most likely work and give him less attention than he would like. When he left home, nobody saw him off, otherwise his scarf would have been adjusted... There is for certain a computer in his house and most probably not only one, so a video game would not amaze him–he has plenty of them. His face is obviously not silly, and his inward life is complex enough for, taking into account the previous conclusions, the existence of some important misunderstanding between him and his parents; they think that they do the best for him, but actually it turns out to the contrary... He is not overweight, but his figure, gait, and general appearance demonstrate a lack of athletic skills, so hockey sticks and baseball bats are absolutely not for him. He's a typical four-eyes straight-A student–who is of course offended by his classmates–but not a cowed timid boy at all; oh no, the resolute air of this clever little face doesn't promise anything good to his enemies! If only he had a possibility for vengeance! Perhaps a real pistol would be the best gift for him, but it is, of course, not appropriate and, moreover, not in the interests of the good Santa. Toy weapons also don't suit–he is not one of those dreamers who could be content with illusion instead of reality. Soldiers, dinosaurs, and so on are also not right here–he still may have some liking for such toys, but improbably dreams of them. Here is obviously a scientific and technical mentality, an aspiration to accuracy and attention to details, a bent on logicality and validity, a desire that all be real or, at least, as close to real as possible. He undoubtedly likes to read, but at the same time he is too young to prefer books to toys. That indicates an exact model of some machine, and aggression, let's not forget how much aggression is hidden in this excellent student who cannot fight and is tormented by those whom he despises... A tank? No, a tank crawls, and he dreams to raise over his enemies whom he considers much below himself–so, of course, a plane, a heavily armed plane, a bomber!

"Good evening, young man!" No baby talk, no lisping–he hates it, but a solid adult reference should be pleasant for him...

And at this moment Nicolas understood that he had made some error in his judgment. Because in the eyes which turned to him, he read not only an expected surprise, but fear and hatred. And these feelings didn't disappear when the boy understood that it was Santa Claus before him. More likely, even to the contrary.

But anyway it was too late to back off. And there was no need for it. Even if Nicolas hasn't considered something, can't he easily cope with a nine-year brat?



Blades rhythmically whirred overhead. Outside the cockpit, it was dusk already; the pilot switched the illumination on, and the instrument panel lit up with soft amber light. Below the helicopter and very close to it, black trees on white snow ran back; from such a perspective one could see that they grew sparser than it seemed from the ground level. From above, low gray clouds hung even closer; periodically they, curling, surrounded the cabin, and then the whole world outside disappeared. Or snow pellets densely covered the windshield, which was not much better.

"Visibility as good as hell," the pilot complained, "and will be only worse further. I don't know how we'll fly to Malcolmtown. That is, we will–by instruments, but I don't know what you hope to accomplish out there."

"Is it possible to descend a bit more?" John asked without any real hope.

"Where? We're already flying almost on top of the trees. If we encounter a radio mast, it's bye-bye. We need either to climb over the clouds or to land and continue by car."

"It'll take two hours to get there by car," objected Douglas. "And he kills usually just at this time, at sunset. Every minute can cost lives."

"Oh yeah–ours," the pilot grumbled. "As you want, gentlemen–I'll deliver you to the place, but then I guarantee nothing."

"All right, we'll see then," Douglas waved away.

"That's what I doubt."



"You have come after all," Greg said.

"I always come to those who need me," Santa answered.

"You are not a disguised actor? Not 'an assistant?' You are indeed the real... magic Santa Claus?" Gregory faltered on a hated word.

"Absolutely real. And if you are so mistrustful, look what I have brought for you..."

"Do you swear on your life that you're telling the truth?" Gregory interrupted, ignoring the hand diving in the bag.

"I do," Santa smiled, and Greg internally rejoiced. Done! Now his position is faultless! If this creature has lied, he deserved death according to his own words. And if he has told the truth then a weapon can't harm a magic being, so an attempt is not an evil deed.

That's what he'll say, of course, if the weapon doesn't work.

Meanwhile Santa took from his bag a plane. With an air of triumph, he rotated the propellers of all four motors, moved the small barrels of defensive turrets, showing that they also turn, and offered the model to the boy.

"Strategic bomber Boeing B-29 Superfortress," skillfully stated Greg, examining the gift from all angles. "From such a plane a nuclear bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The bomb was called 'Little Boy.' 'Little Boy' killed 70 thousand people."

"You are very clever," Santa said. "And you know a lot. Much more than other boys of your age. (Greg couldn't keep himself from making a contemptuous grimace). And do you want to learn something more? I can show you my sleigh and explain how it works. After all it is interesting to you how it can fly, isn't it?

"Is it the truth?"

"Of course it is! Let's go, I landed in the middle of the park."

Greg followed Santa, thinking that if this being indeed would show and explain all this, the main plan should be postponed. But not canceled completely, certainly not. Simply it is necessary first to find out the enemy's secrets, as clever military commanders always do.

He was carrying the plane by the fuselage, and the wind, blowing in short gusts, rotated its propellers. Greg imagined how the motors of the "Enola Gay" roared approaching its target. It appeared to him so clearly that he really distinguished a sound coming from the sky... But it wasn't the even buzz of a bomber. It was the choppy whirring of a distant helicopter.

Santa, seemingly, heard this sound, too, and it perturbed him.

"Come faster!" he exclaimed, turning back over his shoulder. "There!"

The red mitten pointed to an arbor standing on a bank of the frozen pond. The arbor was big and old, with the peeled off stone columns and a crack meandering through the domed roof. No benches remained inside it. Sinking in the snow, Santa and the boy ran to it and dived under the roof just seconds before the helicopter rumbled deep-voiced over them, invisible in low overcast.

"Why did we hurry like that?" Greg exactingly asked, panting. The entire floor of the arbor had been covered by deep snow–a bit less in the center than along the edges.

"We had to," Santa conspiratorially winked, "I shouldn't be seen by adults now."

The noise of the helicopter gradually went away and at last completely faded out in the distance.

"Well, so when will we go to the sleigh?" the boy reminded.

"Later," Santa murmured, "the sleigh flies only when it is completely dark. And now..." he paused, listening, and, having heard no suspicious sounds, finished... "now you must undress."

"What?"

"Undress, be a good boy," demanded the voice which suddenly became hoarse, "you'll see, you will like it."

"Oh, just a minute," Greg answered with unexpected ease, though his heart beat already at some ultrasonic frequency and his fingers shivered when he unbuttoned his jacket. He carefully placed the plane on snow.

"Well, how long are you going to dawdle?" asked a dissatisfied voice.

"Just now," mumbled Gregory, resting his chin against his breast, "my button is stuck..."

The being in red bent down to him, ready to tear off the hindrance if necessary. At the very same time the boy jerked open his jacket, snatching out from the left inner pocket a bottle from which he had already taken out the glass stopper. The colorless liquid with a caustic smell splashed directly in the red face bent over him. Hydrochloric acid from a set for young chemists (which was intended for older schoolboys, but Greg had persuaded his mom) was not very concentrated–but it got into Santa's eyes and was quite sufficient to make him howl wildly with pain, crawling both hands about his face. At the next second a keen knife jerked from the right inner pocket sparkled in the air–it was Greg's main weapon upon which he put special hopes. He understood that his childish strength–and the length of his self-made knife–may be insufficient to punch through the red jacket and the flesh to the vital organs. Therefore he raised his hand and slashed the throat of the blinded and howling enemy with the sharp edge. Blood jetted fanlike, sprinkling the snow, Greg's clothing, and his face. The boy grasped the knife in his other hand and slashed Santa's throat from the other side.

His opponent who didn't even howl, but now only squealed, still made himself move one hand from his eyes and tried to seize the boy. Gregory quickly jumped aside. The enemy heavily moved forward, blindly ran into a column, started aside and, having lost his balance, fell down from the arbor porch to the snow outside. Gregory leaped onto his back like a wildcat. The previous wounds were only superficial, but now Greg, having seized with one hand Santa's hair from which the red cap had fallen, with the full force of his other arm, pricked and cut the hated neck. The enemy vainly tried moving his hands back to get rid of the little devil tormenting him. When one of his hands, which already lost a mitten, brushed Greg's face, the boy with all his strength sank his teeth into the enemy's finger (his mouth was immediately bit by acid).

The prostrated enemy didn't shout any more but only rattled and gurgled. His movements became more and more languid. At last, having ascertained that the opponent was already weak enough, Gregory arduously turned the heavy body on its back and unbuttoned the blood-sticky red jacket. Under it there was a gray sweater; Greg cut it, then a T-shirt, and bared pale skin and the left nipple from which a long black hair grew. The heart, as much as he knew, was a bit lower. A cut throat is good, but the procedure should be completed. Not without reason he had refused his initial idea to use an ordinary knife and, using a hammer and a file, had made a thin silver blade from the biggest spoon in his parents fine dinner set (luckily his parents hadn't noticed its disappearance ahead of time). A wooden handle from a toy sword suited to this knife excellently.

Certainly, no books explained how to kill Santa Claus. But if silver helps against werewolves and vampires, why won't it help in this case also? Certainly, Gregory didn't believe in werewolves and vampires. But mum said that legends contains particles of the truth in a fantastic form. Stabbing the heart played an important role in these legends, too.

Greg felt in the snow his fallen eyeglasses and put them back on his nose. Then, having sat astride the belly of the dying enemy, he clasped the knife handle with both hands, raised them high over his head and plunged the knife into the naked breast. The body under him convulsively jerked and uttered one more rattling. The boy with an effort pulled out his knife and struck once again. And then again, and again, and again...

Then there were policemen running through snow, led by sergeant Jills; and two strangers in FBI jackets; and a doctor who hastily examined and palpated him right on the scene and clicked his tongue with astonishment, looking at the red-and-white corpse; and mum who nearly fainted and to whom several voices simultaneously hastily explained that the boy was unscathed and all this blood was not his; and some guys with a microphone and a videocam at whom all others shouted and tried to banish them, while they shouted back about the right of Americans to the information...

Blood was cleaned off Greg (at least as much as possible on the first try ), and they embraced him, squeezed, tapped on his shoulder, shook his hands and all the time spoke, saying that everything was OK, that everything would be OK now, that he was a good brave boy, that he had done perfectly well and that he shouldn't blame himself for the death of this man because he was a very-very bad man who had killed many children already...

Gregory Prime didn't listen to all this chatter. He understood the main thing–the real Santa Claus does not exist and so harmony returned to his soul at last. The pleasant feeling of this harmony was only amplified by two circumstances. First, his plane, his battle trophy, which miraculously wasn't harmed during the fight–and whatever one may say, the bomber was excellent. And secondly, while lovingly moving his finger on its wings and fuselage, he continued recalling how warm blood fountained from his enemy's throat, how his groans choked with rattle, how the knife elastically stuck into the hated body and how it, clamped by Greg's legs, convulsed under the blows...

Fake Santa was right–he liked it.

Oh yes, he really liked it.