Sly felt his body go tight with dread. Of course. The glassy look in his eyes, the ruddy red skin, the dark circles that made it seem like he hadn’t slept in weeks. The rank smell that offended a child.
The man was stupid for sure—but he was also drunk.
And depending on the drink, drunks were often dangerous. Definitely unpredictable. There was no knowing how clearly he was thinking, if at all, and even from their distance, the two men could sense the desperation in the outsider.
Between glaring at the sheriff and the doctor, then daring a quick glance behind him as if fearing he’d be surrounded before giving Liam another rough shake in warning, snapping at the boy to be quiet, Sly was beginning to fear that the man was searching for a way out.
Desperate people made mistakes. He refused to allow Liam Johnson to be any kind of collateral damage just because the four-year-old thought he was hitching a ride with Santa Claus.
“You’ve got the boy. You’re in charge,” Sly lied. “How can we make this better for everyone?”
One hand still wrapped around Liam’s upper arm, he took the one off of Liam’s throat to swipe nervously at his mouth. Then Santa blurted out, “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to take the kid.”
“Oh?” Sly kept his voice neutral. Keep the outsider talking, he figured, and maybe he could convince him to let the boy go. It was worth a shot. “Then what did you mean to do?”
“Shit! I don’t fucking know! I—look, it’s Christmas and I needed cash. This place is in the goddamn boonies. There ain’t supposed to be cops—”
Sly thought he understood. “Small town, cut off from the rest of the county. Easy pickings, huh?”
“That’s it, that’s right. That’s all I was trying to do, boost a couple of sets, maybe jack a new car on my way out. How the fuck was I supposed to know the kid would think I was the real fucking Santa?”
“I… I just wanted to meet Santa,” hiccuped Liam. “It’s Christmas. Mommy said Santa was coming tomorrow but I’ve been… I’ve been so good. Maybe he came early.”
“There ain’t no such things as Santa, you little shit,” snapped the outsider in the mangy Santa suit. His red face went redder, his eyes nearly bulging out of his puffy face. It was as if the boy’s high-pitched voice and soft sobs reminded him how much trouble he was in. “Now shut it! All of you! No more talking. I want to— okay, back the fuck up, let me go, and the kid’s fine. If not...”
Just as he gave Liam another rough shake, the meaning of his words slammed into the little boy. Oblivious to the danger he was in, Liam screwed up his face and started to wail.
“I want my mommy!”
“Stop it!”
Liam only cried harder.
With his grip on Liam’s shoulder, Santa flung him into the cold, wet snow in front of him. Liam landed roughly on his knees and stayed down, huddling his small body as he found the breath to increase the volumes of his sobs even more.
Santa looked like he was ready to explode.
“I said shut up, boy!”
In a voice colder than the wind whipping around them, Lucas said softly to Sly, “Shoot him.”
8
Sly hesitated.
The gun was a reassuring weight in its holster. And while Rick Hart refused to load his gun, the sheriff kept his clip inserted in his magazine at all times.
He could shoot the outsider. Didn’t mean he should.
“Will you hit Liam?”
That wasn’t why he was hesitating. “I’m a better shot than that,” Sly retorted under his breath.
“What are you two whispering about? Stop it! Stop it right the fuck now!”
Lucas dared one more mutter. “I didn’t say kill him, Sylvester.”
And Sly finally understood. He’d let his suspicions and his concerns about Maria’s enigmatic brother twist him up until he was convinced a murderer stood in the place where a healer should be. Lucas De Angelis was a doctor, for God’s sake. He wanted to save both lives at the expense of injuring one.