The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [63]
Holding on to Butter, I tried to take inventory of who or what could still stop us as we rumbled to the bridge. I had taken care of the Three French Hens by hitting them with the Four Calling Birds, killing seven birds with one stone. I didn’t know how many swans were out of commission and the Cratchit cousins had eighty-sixed the geese. I wasn’t worried about the turtle doves because we could hear them three blocks over, lost and arguing.
“Turn left, turn LEFT!”
“I know where I’m going!”
“No you don’t! Stop and get directions!”
“I don’t need directions!”
That left the partridge and a handful of swans. If we got lucky, we might be able to outrun them and Not So Tiny Tim’s mob.
We didn’t get lucky.
Ginger skidded around a corner on two hoofs and then came to a quick stop in the middle of a junction where five streets spilled into a huge square. Coming out of the street straight ahead of us sat the partridge, feathers ruffled. The other three streets seemed empty, but the smirk on the partridge’s beak made me hesitate. The little bird skipped forward a little and waved his pear tree branch at Ginger. “Try and run over me, you big dairy truck,” he said, “and I’ll grind your legs into chipped beef.” Ginger took a step back and I can’t say that I blame her.
I scanned the three streets for a trap. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear the awful hissings of swans. But the sound was bouncing off the buildings and alley walls, so I couldn’t tell from which street and how many swans there were.
The partridge gave a short little laugh. “I know what you’re thinking. Did I kill four swans or five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all the excitement, I kind of lost track myself. But seeing as how if you choose wrong, there might be a hard-beaked swan ready to take your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
I was in a spot and the partridge knew it. I know I got a couple of swans when I busted out of the Five Golden Rings and the leaping lords mashed at least a couple more. Were there enough left to fill the three alleys? The Pottersville mob was closing in.
“What do you want to do, darling?” Butter asked.
“Any idea which street is a straight shot to the bridge?” I whispered.
“I think the one on the right,” Butter said. “But wouldn’t that be the one they block?”
“Or that is what they would want us to think,” I said. “Go right.”
“You got it, sweetie,” Butter said. Then with her right hand, the milkmaid ripped off her bonnet and waved it in a big circle. “Forward, ho!”
Ginger blasted across the square, sparks kicking off her hoofs. The rest of the cows rumbled right behind, pounding the earth so hard it almost shook your teeth out. By the way the partridge was swearing, I knew we picked the right street. I could see the bridge just up the hill. Once we crossed to the other side of the bridge, getting back to Kringle Town was a cinch.
But why make things easy? To this day, I don’t know what made me look at the cemetery, but I did.
“Hold on a second, would you, Ginger?” I said. “Stop right here.”
There just wasn’t something right about leaving Sherlock Stetson to rot in Potter’s Field. Even if the kids never cottoned to him, Sherlock Stetson was a good toy and a stand-up guy. I just couldn’t leave him.
I zigzagged through the graveyard as fast as I could in the moonlight. Butter, the milkmaids and the cows were waiting for me by the road, and I could hear the mob roaring up the hill. I found Sherlock Stetson in a few pieces and scooped him up in a jiffy, careful not to leave any parts behind. I stuffed him in my vest pocket and hightailed it back.
“Heck of a time to pay your respects,” Butter said. I had barely landed on Ginger’s