The Fat Man (11 page)

T
he road to the Forest of Mistletoe was as bleak as prom time for the homely. I kept to the shadows and alleys, read news out of trash bins and pinched a bite to eat from the scraps wrapped in the headlines that were calling for my head. So far, they were still looking for me in Kringle Town proper, but I was pretty sure that was Cane’s doing. He was setting me up to take the fall for Raymond’s murder and the girl who knew how to tell a story was in on the fix. If Cane were trying to put the Fat Man on a permanent diet, he’d need help and I suppose he offered to buy Rosebud a newspaper to play with. So she trots her cute little self to Whoville, gives Lou Who the come-hither for his mailbox. They get the Red Ryder, kibosh Raymond, give Lou the sweet sayonara and the trail is colder than a North Pole outhouse. What they don’t count on is that I’m on to them, so they leave the little note to meet them in the woods where there would be nobody around. Pretty nifty. If I went to Bert or Santa with this story, I’d sound guilty and like I was the top nut on the fruitcake. They only choice I had was to take the bait and see if I could wiggle off the hook later.

The Forest of Mistletoe was the perfect place to tuck someone in for the big sleep. Lost in all the pucker talk, mistletoe is sometimes called the “vampire” plant because that’s what it is. Mistletoe attaches itself to a tree or shrub and sucks the life out of it. Think about that the next time some cute tomato gives you the come-hither standing under the twig. In the Forest of Mistletoe, the botany isn’t satisfied simply dining on trees. It wants blood and is partial to the sweet life-smack that pumps through elf veins. Many a short-round has gone into the Forest of Mistletoe on a dare, but none has ever come back. You might find an elf carcass, shriveled like a popped pimple, lying at the edge of the forest, but that was about it. There were crazy tales that some didn’t die but survived as some kind of mutant vampire elf. Rural and conspiracy elves claimed to have seen little monster dwarfs tearing through the bracken, thirsty for fresh blood. There was also talk that roving bands of elf vamps swooped down on the Isle of Misfit Toys on dark and haunted nights and feasted on the forgotten playthings. The tales sounded like something from Dingleberry’s
By George Adventures
, so I didn’t believe any of it. But when you stood in front of a wall of trees that was as dark as the inside of a chimney with the damper closed, it did take some of the starch out of your tights.

There was a sad excuse for a trail leading into the woods and I’m not too proud to admit that I took my time hiking it. The gloom that rose up before me was about as comforting as hearing a bump under the bed. A wicked wind trolled through the dark air, making the hard old trees creak like the coffins of residents who forgot they were dead. I wasn’t anxious to go skipping in there, especially knowing someone was laying a trap for me, so I was glad to be distracted by the three French hens.

“Bonjour,” said one.

“Bonjour,” said another.

“Hiya, mac,” said the third.

I came up on them as I rounded a bend just before I went into the Forest of Mistletoe for good. They were sitting on a rock, surrounded by the remains of a picnic. Their feathers were puffed up to keep the cold out and all three were getting help with little capes that were draped over their tails. The two hens on the left were identical, white and real lookers. As I got closer, I could see that the third hen was clearly a duck. And a guy duck. He looked like he had just survived getting plucked by a blind man, but barely.

Since they were French, I gave them a deep bow and said, “Whose acquaintance do I have the pleasure of making?”

“Oh, I am Coco,” said the first, giggling.

“I am Luci,” said the second. She blushed three shades of red.

“I’m Fuzz,” said the duck with a burp. “We ate all the food. If you’re beggin’, keep hiking, piker.”

I gave Fuzz a tough gander. “Relax, Fuzz,” I said. “I’m well-chowed and I don’t go for chicken feed. Speaking of which, you are clearly not of the same feather as these ladies. What gives?”

“Oh, Antoinette,” squeaked Coco.

“Au revoir,” Luci said with a tear in her eye.

“Apparently, their big sister amscrayed,” Fuzz said. “They said she ran off with some colonel guy who promised her a bucket of fun.”

“Sounds like Antoinette lost her head,” I said.

“C’est la vie,” Fuzz said. “It’s like water off of my back.”

“And you’re here to give them a shoulder to cry on,” I said, sizing Fuzz up in a second.

“
Oui
!” Coco cooed.

“
Oui
!” Luci chirped.

“Hey, I don’t claim to be no Don Swan,” Fuzz said, getting a little ruffled. “But they are cute chicks and they are
French
. Do I have to draw you a picture?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll wait and catch it on the late late show. How long have birds been hanging around here?”

“A couple of days,” Fuzz said. “It’s nice and quiet up here. You don’t get a lot of Nosey Parkers minding your beeswax in this neck of the woods. Good for the amour, you know?”

“
Oui, oui
,” Coco and Luci said with a kind of enthusiasm that would turn you off eggs for good.

“Seen anybody go into the forest?” I asked.

Fuzz gave me the once-over and, for a minute, I was afraid he had been reading the news and caught on as to who I was. But it ended up that Fuzz was just worried how much longer this chitchat was going to go on before he could return to getting henpecked. “There was another elf a couple of days ago,” he said, pointing his beak toward the trail. “He didn’t stop to talk. Seemed like he was in a hurry to move along. He didn’t look like he was made out for the outdoorsy stuff, though. He was a real dandy.”

“Well, Candy is dandy,” I said mostly to myself.

“What’s that, buster?” Fuzz asked. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing, Fuzz. Anybody with this elf?”

“Yeah, some doll,” Fuzz said with a dirty grin. “I think that’s why he was in a hurry. Do I have to draw you a picture?”

Fuzz didn’t have to draw me a picture. The picture I had hit me in the gut like a jackhammer.
She
was with him, helping him. Of course, that poem that came to the paper was written
at
the paper, on her own little Royal typewriter. I was a schmuck. I tried to give myself a kick and tell my heart that it didn’t matter. I wasn’t really the type for whispering sweet nothings and slow dances. I wasn’t known for moonlight and mush. I’ve never dotted an “I” with a heart or lingered in the shadows saying “night-night” a million times. I told myself that the lump in my throat would pass probably about the time I got my third set of teeth. “What did this doll look like?” I asked it like I didn’t care, but the effort was like trying to do push-ups with an elephant on your back.

“She was cute,” Fuzz said with a shrug. “I didn’t really get a good look at her, because she really isn’t my type. I mean, I wouldn’t go
a l’orange
for her, but I could see why some guys would. The dandy followed her like a baby duck.”

“Thanks,” I said, though I would have preferred it if he had put a pipe through my skull. “I’m heading into the woods, but I’ll make sure I steer clear of them. I don’t want to disturb their amore.”

“That’s a rough patch of thatch in there, buster,” Fuzz said. “I hear a fella can get kissed off in there if he isn’t careful. What business you got in there?”

“Now who’s the Nosey Parker?” I asked, leaning in close and putting on my best tough-guy face. “Now listen, ducky. You never saw me. You never talked to me. Nobody like me has been around here. Remember, you’re a duck, not a pigeon or a canary. If you sing, you could get mistaken for a goose. Christmas is coming, bub, and the goose is getting fat. Do I have to draw
you
a picture?”

Little beads of sweat formed on Fuzz’s beak. Coco and Luci shook like they were strapped to a paint mixer. “Sure, mac,” Fuzz said. “I get it. I never saw nobody. I’m no stoolie. Your secret’s safe with me. I know the score. Happy trails to you. Don’t worry. I got my ducks in a row.”

“See that you do,” I said with another hard look just so he knew I meant business. Then I turned to Coco and Luci and tipped my hat. “Ladies, I bid you adieu.” They were too afraid to speak. They just bowed their heads to me and then turned away, waiting for the fox to leave the henhouse.

 

F
ive steps into the Forest of Mistletoe, the temperature dropped to something colder than an Eskimo undertaker. I thought that if Cane and Rosebud actually wanted me to waltz into the trap they were setting for me, they could have at least tried to take a little doom out of the forecast. I walked slowly so I wouldn’t make as much noise, but the snow and broken branches snapping under my feet weren’t making it easy. I stopped every few steps and gave a good listen, but either the woods and the wind and my imagination were playing tricks on me or I was about to be lapped up like spiked eggnog by Uncle Rumhound.

The trees were close together and blocked out most of the sky. Running up the trunk and snaking around almost every branch was an eel of mistletoe, quietly draining the life out of a tree. When the vampire plant had sucked the life out of a branch, it would toss the dry wooden corpse aside. My trail was covered in leftovers and, every once in a while, I would see a strand of mistletoe inch toward a fresh piece of plant life.

And then one of the plants saw me.

I was caught. About ten paces away and six feet up the trunk of an oak tree, a nest of mistletoe turned and looked right at me. The gnarl of branches almost had a face and the twigs gave a dry rustle like it was blinking its eyes. It was as if the plant face couldn’t quite believe that someone had delivered a fresh dinner to him and he had to check his vision—or he was nearsighted. He gave a kind of hoarse growl, a low, raspy rumble, like a distant thundercloud with asthma. The noise got the attention of another vine, as big as a python with muscles like a gorilla. The vine dragged itself along a trunk to my left and whistled to a shrub just behind my right. The shrub was an ugly tangle of twigs, the bastard child of tumbleweed and a mongoose. I’m pretty sure it had teeth. I was surrounded and hoping that my green thumb had turned nice and black so I could compost this gang.

Up on the tree, the nearsighted bush crept down to the forest floor, looking to block me from running left. He slinked in between a gap of trees, kind of licking his lips and wheezing. The mistletoe vine stretched itself out to get within a few yards of me. As it pulled itself across the bark of the tree, it sounded like rats in a wall. Behind me, Tumbleweed gave a bored snort, as if I was dead already and not too tasty.

I looked around for Cane. I figured he would want to come and gloat, make some speech about how this was a fitting end to my sorry existence, and how Kringle Town would be better off once I had been turned into plant food. Actually, I was hoping Cane would arrive and humiliate me because it put off what was looking like a rotten way to go. But there was no Cane. No Rosebud. The forest was as quiet as a tomb, which was fitting.

I decided to run for it, but the mistletoe gang read my mind. Nearsighted gave a scream that didn’t even belong in hell and, a second later, Python was around my legs once. Tumbleweed catapulted up with a growl and rammed into my shoulders, sending me to the ground. I kicked my legs to keep Python from wrapping my feet tight, hoping that I could somehow break free and make a run for it. Tumbleweed had other ideas though. I was reaching for a branch on the ground when the mean little weed rolled up on my neck and searched for the sweet spot. I managed to twist and throw him off long enough to grab a branch and whack him in the face, but the rotted wood crumbled when I hit him, only slowing him for a second. Meanwhile, my legs were getting tired and the python vine was starting to tighten the noose. Tumbleweed launched into me again and was met with a face full of elf fist. It worked better than the branch, but it also made him mad.

Over my shoulder, I noticed the nearsighted mistletoe was on the ground and crawling my way. He looked very old and brittle, making me the Senior Special. The other two plants had been sent to capture me so I could give the old bramble a proper meal. He was going to have me all to himself, the hedgehog.