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CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 2

“Seven Days In December”

by

Patrick J. Carson

About 63,000 Words


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PROLOGUE
The Year 1838

Professor Clement C. Moore shivers as he makes his way down Willingham Street,
the snow around him decorating the night like fireflies as it drifts down with the northern
winds and smothers the teacher with its eerie, yellow-lightened presence. The gas
streetlamps are lined up as far as he can see and once again, as he has for most of his
life, the professor marvels at man's ingenuity. Only two weeks before, as a guest
speaker at the General Theological Seminary, he had told his audience that New York
City was the nineteenth-century technological equivalent of the "Garden of Eden."
Though there had been a few rebukes from fellow scholars he'd primarily gotten away
with it. After all, it was the truth. New York City, in his mind, was almost as magical as
the Heaven that awaited him.
A white horse and carriage miraculously appears beside Professor Moore and the
driver, unrecognizable in the thick flurry surrounding him, pulls his load to a slow stop
and calls down to the Professor.
"Excuse me, sir. Are you Professor Clement Moore?"
"I am."
"Dr. Nicholas thought you might need a ride on a night such as this. Come on
then, get in and I'll take you the rest of the way."
With frost already forming on the wisps of his mustache, the Professor didn't need
to be told twice. He quickly steps up and into the carriage and shuts the door behind
him. Settling his lean body into the soft leather cushions, the carriage just starts moving
again before Professor Moore realizes he is quite warm. Hot, in fact. He removes his
coat as he peers around the cabin, laughing out loud as he spots the small, wood-
burning Franklin stove nestled to one side with its tiny exhaust pipe leading to the
ceiling. Dr. Nicholas's insatiable fondness for comfort was already legendary--but never
for himself. It was the comfort of others that Dr. Nicholas was concerned with.
A smile creeps across Professor Moore's face as he thinks of ole’ Dr. Nicholas and
wonders again why a gentile such as Dr. Jonathan Albert Nicholas would request his
presence on a night of such significance as Christmas Eve.

Even before the carriage pulls to a stop Professor Moore bolts out the door, across
the drive and up the seven steps to the front of Dr. Nicholas's mansion. Coat still in
hand, Professor Moore wonders if it wasn't a good idea to fight the elements even for a
moment without protection. But, to his delight, the doors swing open after only three
knocks and the Professor steps into the house, closing the bitter winter behind him once
more. He immediately puts a friendly hand on the small, meticulously dressed man
standing before him.
"Henry, if the Doctor ever retires you I'll employ you at once."
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The houseman chuckles as he takes the derby and jacket from Professor Moore's
hands and replaces it with a mug of hot tea.
"When I'm retired, sir, the Missus and I are moving south. We won't miss this
weather."
"See? Prepared and intelligent."
Professor Moore takes a sip from his tea and he watches Henry disappear into a
small foyer closet with his wet clothes. "Are they here yet?"
Henry steps back, closes the door and nods. "Last one arrived just a minute ago.
Perhaps you better move along to the library."
"Quite right."
"I'll show you the way."
"You know I've been there many times, Henry. Take care of the others."
"As you wish, sir."
Through a side door, Henry vanishes. The Professor takes another moment with
his tea and lets the warmth of the house permeate his body before heading down the
hallway of hardwood floors that lead to his destination. A moment later he stops at a
door of burled walnut. He knocks gently.
"Dr. Nicholas?"
A moment later he knocks again. Receiving no answer, Professor Moore slowly
turns the knob and pushes the door in.
"Jonathan, are you near?"
But as Professor Moore enters the leathery parlor, all thoughts of Jonathan Albert
Nicholas disappear. The sight before him is riveting. A moment later the smell of the
room joins his senses and for an instant Professor Moore forgets where he is.
A full grown fir tree sits in the center of the room. But this is a tree the likes he
has never seen. The trunk is resting in a stand of water barely visible through the deep,
dark over-hangings that protects it. The branches themselves are alive with trinkets
made of jade, rubies, metal and carved wood--angels, crosses, bulbs of a kind that are
unknown but heavenly to gaze upon. Strings of a red and white substance make their
highways all the way up to the top of the tree where, like a crowning memorial, a brilliant
star cast of gold and silver watches over the room with strength and pride.
But it is the final element that brings these innate objects into a living world. A
deviance of nature that shakes the whole room from its normal demeanor into one of
flickering, shadowy fantasy. For sitting in and among the needles of the tree are lighted
candles, their flames teasing what in the outside elements would be their enemy, but in
here seems to be a frolicking companion. The fire lights up its friends and as a whole
they throw their scent into the room to consume whomever might be near.
"Clem?"
Without losing his reverie, Professor Moore looks at the large man now standing
beside him. The smile that always appears when he thinks of or sees Dr. Jonathan
Nicholas appears performly as he gazes at the thick white hair and beard, the rosy
cheeks and finally into the twinkling eyes that always seem to make you feel at once at
ease.
"Jonathan, I don't know what to say. It's more beautiful than I can describe."
"I thought you might like it."
Professor Moore takes a few steps closer to the tree and fingers one of the tiny
candle holders. "What do you call it?"
"Simple name. It's called a Christmas Tree. It's quite the rage in Europe."
"And they're available here in America now?"
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Dr. Nicholas chuckles as he takes a pitcher off a nearby table, kneels down and
pours water into the stand beneath the tree. "Not yet. But I'll tell you something, Clem."
The Doctor straightens back up and turns to the Professor. "I predict that by the middle
to late eighteen hundreds almost every household in America will have one of these in
their living rooms."
Professor Moore looks lovingly at the tree. "I wouldn't doubt it, Jonathan."
"Come sit with me a moment, Clem. The others are probably already anxious for
our arrival."
Professor Moore laughs as he watches the great bulk of a man known as Dr.
Nicholas sit on the floor before the tree. The Professor joins him, delighted at what the
rest of society might think of these two scholars if they should see this scenario. It felt
good to be a child again.
"You and I are the emotional ones, Clement. Don't get me wrong, the other men
here tonight are decent, devoted and hard working people but it is men like you and I
who keep the feelings alive. I want you to be sure to keep it alive in the decades to
come."
"Now, what are you saying--"
"Please don't say anything. Not now. What I am attempting to accomplish, what
my family has been trying to accomplish for decades, continues its reality tonight. And it
may be new to you, but it is not new to me or the other men here with us. They have
been working with me for years."
"You're kidding?"
Dr. Nicholas chuckles again and instantly Professor Moore smiles as he watches his
friend's whole body shake.
"I'm not kidding. But this is no riddle. As you listen tonight to our conversation,
remember that technology is catching up to us. And what technology is bringing I feel
will stagger man's imagination. With a little of God's help, the things we talk about will
happen. Our goal still may be years away but we will achieve it."
"Jonathan, I'm completely confused."
"If you think you're confused now, just wait a while. You're going to think we've all
lost our minds."
Dr. Nicholas laughs again and stands up, pulling Professor Moore up with him then
putting both hands on his shoulders. "Promise me, Clem, that you will keep the
emotions alive. You will eventually know what I mean by this."
Professor Moore gazes at the green, firey forest of beauty beside him for a moment
before turning once more to the beaming, elderly face of his friend. A man who had
befriended him only a few years ago. A man who had showed up out of nowhere to give
a young man a scholarship so he could finish his theology schooling. A man who had
taken him in like family never asking anything in return. Until now.
Professor Moore feels his own smile widen as he allows the last remnants of his
naiveté relinquish itself to a devotion he had never known possible.
"I promise, Jonathan."

As the carriage pulls away from the mansion just after midnight, Professor Moore
doesn't even notice that the weather had calmed. The blizzard in his mind was all he
could deal with. None of what he saw or heard tonight could have happened. Powerful,
influential men sitting around a room talking about a fantasy so immense that even a
child would laugh at its plausibility. Flying machines and moving pictures and motor-less
carriages. It was absurd!
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Yet these things did happen tonight. These sane men had talked the impossible,
and all of them believed that what they planned would come true.
Professor Moore looks out his window and notices the streetlights again. They are
lined up in a perfect row as far as he can see. Man’s ingenuity. A tiny grin reaches the
corners of his mouth and he thinks of a certain tree and of a great big man who had
other men dreaming of an idealistic future.
One thing Professor Clement C. Moore knew for sure.
This would be a night before Christmas he would never forget.
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CHRISTMAS EVE
Present Day
169 Hours, 12 Minutes Remaining . . .
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TEN FORTY-EIGHT p.m. (Mountain Standard Time)

The rain pounding through downtown Phoenix, as it usually did, brought traffic to a
virtual stand-still and Michelle Larough thought that even from her perch seventeen
stories above she could hear the taxi drivers and pedestrians screaming their usual
unpleasantries at each other. Michelle looked up and out her office window and couldn't
even see the building closest to her anymore. No one would have guessed that a storm
of this magnitude would hit Arizona on this particular night. Christmas Eve was
supposed to be warm under the desert sun.
Michelle turned and slowly walked back to her desk, sighing as she looked for
about the fortieth time tonight at the blank computer screen sitting in front of her. This
had to be one of the worst Christmas's of her life. Her four year relationship had ended a
month ago, just in time for Christmas, and just before that her father had surprised her
with the news that her tenure with his firm would start in Arizona. He wanted her to
start at the bottom.
Michelle glanced through the plate-glass window that divided her office from the
main editing room and up at the huge sign that ran across the south wall. Just below the
muted TV screen that was showing a preview for a new Christmas movie, "Santa's Big
Day," the words of the sign spelled, "United Press Syndicate." The name was impressive;
one of the biggest newspaper syndicates in the world, but anybody who knew anything
about anything knew that Phoenix was about as far away from the real action as
anything was. In fact, Michelle was one of only three employees who worked at this
office. She was also the one who drew the short straw; the short straw that designated
who would work the late shift on Christmas Eve into Christmas morning.
"Phooey."
Michelle thought for sure she could see the word hang in the empty air in front of
her for a moment before gazing for the forty-first time at her blank computer screen.
The biggest syndicate in the world, her dad is Chief Executive Officer and Michelle was
hired to do a cooking column. The very thing she hated to do most in the world and she
was supposed to write about it. Two weeks earlier she had called her father to complain,
to tell him she just couldn't do one more insidious word on the ecstasies of flour and
eggs without going absolutely bananas. He told her it would build character and left it at
that, though he did remind her that he couldn't make it to Phoenix in time for Christmas.
"Phooey."
Michelle sighed again and reached for one of several cookbooks that decorated her
desk very much like the street below drew automobiles on a rainy night. The offices
around her were fairly bare, void of any personality, but her own desk screamed of
confinement. She smiled to herself as she visualized the simplicity hidden in the chaos
that was her work-place.
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The phone rang.


Michelle stared at it. Who would call a syndicate at eleven o’clock on Christmas
Eve? The phone rang again, but Michelle was momentarily hypnotized by the blinking
red light on the console in front of her. On the fourth ring she reached over and picked
up the receiver, now aware consciously of just how lonely she was tonight. Of how badly
she wanted to talk with someone. Anyone.
"United Press Syndicate."
At first all Michelle heard was heavy breathing and for a second she thought that
this would be a fitting call for an already terrible night. An obscene phone call would
truly be the lowest of lows. A perfect little cap.
"Is this the newspaper?" The voice of the man sounded winded and far away, as if
he had been running.
"I'm sorry, it's not," Michelle said, "We're a syndicate. We do columns and comics
mostly." This man would never know how much she hated saying those words after
having slaved for five years to get her degree in investigative journalism. But she had to
have a job. And daddy had a job for her. Cooking.
"Oh. Well, I saw your name in the newspaper and got your number from
information. I thought you did news."
The man was breathing easier now and his voice sounded a little stronger.
Michelle heard him sniff. Could he have been crying? Instinct took over and Michelle
knew she would live to regret the next words that suddenly escaped out of her mouth.
"Do you have a news story to report, sir?"
"I don't know if anybody else would be interested but it sure made my Christmas."
The man cleared his throat. "My girl got a present from Santa Claus."
Michelle's heart abruptly settled into the pit of her stomach as she realized the
context of what she had just heard. For a moment she had had visions of grandeur, that
this man would change her career overnight just because he had dialed the wrong
number. That she would learn of a secret plot to blow away all the local casinos or hear
of how solid evidence had been found to impeach the local governor once and for all.
No, not tonight. Tonight some guy was going to tell her about how Santa Claus had
suddenly decided to make a personal appearance after almost two-hundred years of
hiding in chimneys.
"Like I said, sir, we aren't a news agency. Try the Arizona Republic. I'm sure
they'll be interested in your story."
The man on the other end of the phone cleared his throat again. "Yeah, okay. I
don't know how it happened, it just showed up tonight. The return address said ‘Santa
Claus, North Pole’ and I told my girl she could go ahead and open it."
"What was it?" Michelle found herself asking.
The man started to choke again. "I lost my job a few months ago and my wife was
offered a temporary job by her sister in Houston. All my girl wanted for Christmas was to
visit her. But we just couldn't afford it. That's what it was. That was the present Santa
sent her. A plane ticket to Houston."
Michelle was quiet for a moment as she listened to the man softly sob over the
phone. Whoever had done this favor for this man was someone special, and for the first
time this year Michelle felt the Christmas mood fall over her. She smiled to herself,
alone in the dark of her office, and thanked no one in particular for this strange man's
phone call. Looking at the LCD panel over the phone, Michelle wrote down the name and
number of the man. Caller ID was standard equipment now for most corporations.
"Sir, I think you ought to call the newspaper. It's a lovely story."
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"Yeah, I might. I’ve already called a television station but they didn't seem all that
interested. They said they might come over, but who knows. Merry Christmas, Miss."
"Merry Christmas, sir."
Michelle slowly put the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back in her swivel
chair, the blank screen in front of her mocking her empty life. The wonderful feelings
she had had a moment ago were dissipating into an even deeper depression than before.
What had happened to her and Ronald? For three and a half years, almost all the
way through college, they had been happy together. And every Christmas they had
flown out together to spend the holiday with her father. Just the three of them. Ronald's
parents were both deceased and Michelle's own mother had passed on about ten years
ago. Her father, who never remarried, had accepted Ronald with open arms.
But the second they had graduated from the University things somehow changed.
Neither of them could find a job and when Michelle's father had offered them jobs in
Phoenix, Ronald declined. He wanted to do it on his own. Nepotism was not an option.
After moving here herself, the two of them tried to keep the relationship alive long
distance.
It didn't work. Flying out to see her on Thanksgiving, Ronald had told her that they
ought to go their separate ways. She agreed. It wasn't until tonight that she realized
she missed him. Or at least the thought of him, or the two of them and how it used to
be.
The phone rang again.
Michelle looked at the LCD and saw it was a different caller. Amazing.
"United Press Syndicate."
A woman spoke. "Yes, can you tell me who I talk to about a story, please?"
Michelle pondered this astonishing development for a split second, wondering if
someone was having a little Christmas cheer at her expense. "You have a story, Ma’am"
"Yes, I do. You see, my daughter received a present from Santa Claus. I mean, it
said it was from Santa and we just can't figure out who sent it."
"What was the present, Ma’am?"
"It's incredible. It was exactly what she wanted. A talking Barbie." The woman
laughed a little. "But that's not the best part."
"Excuse me?"
"I have at least three friends on the same block I live on who also received gifts
from Santa. All of their children got exactly what they wanted and what the parents
couldn’t afford to give them. It's truly a miracle."
Michelle frowned. “Ma’am, I’m not trying to be rude, but are you joking around
with me?”
“Not at all. If you want, come over and I’ll show you the tag. It’s signed by Santa
Claus.”
Adrenaline shot once again through Michelle's body. There was a story here after
all. Someone was playing Saint Nicholas in a big way.
Michelle politely told the lady that they weren't a news agency and hung up the
phone. What should she do? She hated the thought that she had a scoop here and
couldn't act on it. She also had the access. Being a syndicate, she could have the story
over the wire and into every newspaper in the world in time for tomorrow mornings
newspapers. But that wasn't her job. Writing about cooking was her job.
Frustrated, Michelle got up and walked into the main editing room. She absently
gazed up at the TV screen and froze in her tracks. Apparently, the man on the phone
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earlier had been greatly mistaken. The television station had been very interested in
what he had to say.
A small child holding a plane ticket in her hands was staring back at her from the
television. Next to the child stood a man and another man holding a microphone whom
she remembered as a reporter for a local station. Michelle's mind went blank and she
just knew she would never remember where the remote for the TV was. She looked
down and there it was lying about four inches away from where she had rested her hand
to steady herself. She quickly hit the mute button.
". . . and you have no idea who sent it?"
The girl on the television looked at the reporter with wide eyes. "I told you
already, Santa Claus sent it."
The reporter laughed and looked up at the father. "You must be a happy man."
"I am. Thank you, for whoever did this. I mean, Santa Claus."
"And that's it folks. We have been getting calls from people like this from all over
the city. Nobody knows exactly where the presents come from or, for that matter, how
that somebody knew what to send. In every case we know about, the children have
received the precise gift they've asked for." The reporter looked up at something off
camera for a quick second then shook his head and looked back. "We now have
received over two-thousand calls at our station alone. This is incredible."
Michelle hit the mute on the remote again.
"My God."
And this time Michelle could clearly see the words hanging in front of her.

"Dad?"
"Is that you, Michelle?"
"Who else calls you dad?"
Her father's warm chuckle floated distantly through the heavy interference of his
mobile phone. Michelle laughed with him then asked, “Where are you, by the way? I
tried you at home first."
"Oh, I'm taking care of some last minute stuff, Shelly. What's on your mind?"
Michelle took a deep breath. What would follow wasn't going to be easy.
"I need your help."
"Okay, shoot."
"I have I story I want to put over the wire. A live story, not a column."
"That's pretty uncommon, Shelly."
"I know. That's why I need your help."
"I think you better ask Ed. He's your immediate boss."
"I did. He said no."
"Oh."
Michelle could hear her father thinking on the other end of the phone. She also
knew what he was going to say.
"I'm sorry, Shelly, but I'm not going to override one of my managers. Especially in
favor of my daughter."
"Dad, it's 11:40 PM and I've got exactly twenty minutes to get this over the wire in
time for the newspapers to use it before they go to print for tomorrow's papers. This is a
real local story, dad, and I know it's going to go national. I want to be the one who
scoops it."
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"Michelle," and Michelle knew he was really upset if he didn't call her Shelly, "I
know what you want to do for a living but that's not your job right now. I'm not
going . . ."
But Michelle had stopped hearing her father as she noticed the TV screen above
the giant "United Press Syndicate" sign. She had changed the channel to CNN and a
reporter was now sitting at her desk with a video insert picture next to her with a caption
that read, "Santa in Arizona?"
"Dad, do you have a television in front of you?"
"Yes, why?
"Turn it on."
"Now, Michel--"
"Turn it on now, dad, and turn to CNN. Please hurry."
There was silence for a moment as she heard rustling sounds. When she heard the
voices of the television over the line she turned the sound on on her own TV.
". . . reports from Phoenix, Tucson, Flagstaff, Prescott, Sierra Vista, Yuma and
virtually every city in Arizona are coming in. Over 40,000 families in all have so far
received gifts from, apparently, Santa Claus. No one knows who's behind this incredible
charitable deed, but you can bet starting tomorrow there will be a whole lot of people
trying to find out. For now, the children and the parents of Arizona are probably some of
the happiest people on earth. This just in to Headline News. Now our station is
confirming over 60,000 families across the state of Arizona have received gifts from
Santa--"
"Michelle?"
"Dad?"
"Is your story done?"
"Yes. I'll wait to the last second just to change the totals."
Silence.
"Send it, Shelly. I'll call Ed. Nice work."
Michelle hadn't danced for years, but there in the wee hours of her lonely office
building, her feet started to move.
Without even knowing it, Santa had given her the best Christmas present she had
ever had.
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CHRISTMAS DAY
157 Hours, 24 Minutes Remaining . . .
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TEN THIRTY-FOUR a.m. (Eastern Standard Time)

Fleeting thoughts of skin cancer, then Jonathan Sinclair forgot about it and went on
to other, more depressing thoughts. Today was Christmas Day and his whole life was on
the verge of flushing down the toilet. Jonathan's face stretched into a woeful grin as the
crashing Atlantic Ocean next to him echoed the approximate sounds of a flushing toilet.
Over and over and over. Jonathan rolled so the southern Florida coast sun could fry his
lean, muscled back awhile. Might as well keep those tan lines even.
Jonathan propped his head in his hands, letting his longish blond hair fall around
him, and looked around at the throngs of people running around in the sand pretending
like it was still summer, some splashing timidly in the tepid sea. The occasional mother
running into the water to save her child's life. The lifeguard too busy talking to scantily
clad women to ever save anyone's life. Another normal winter day in sunny Fort
Lauderdale. Another normal day for everyone else, that is. For Jonathan it was the worst
day of his life.
Jonathan groaned and picked up his exhausted body and towel. Might as well go
home and mope. At least he wouldn't get sunburned. The weather was incredibly hot
this December even for Florida. Jonathan wiped off remnants of humidity from around
his eyes and started home.
It might not be so bad if Jonathan knew for sure there was no way to save himself.
He could at least move on, have a good cry then start thinking about the future. But
there was some hope, a little, itty bitty hope, and it was driving him insane. It was a
crazy hope, from someone he'd never heard of. Some lady calling from a charitable
organization saying they might be able to fund his operation for at least a little while. He
had almost begged. The lady had said she would let him know the day after Christmas.
But Jonathan knew it wouldn't happen. He had had many cases of caring parents
and long past orphans pledging help to raise money. Most never panned out. Especially
from people he didn't know.
More flush noises from the sea.
At two years of age Jonathan had been abandoned and left at the doorstep of St.
Patrick's Orphanage. At four years of age he knew he wanted to run it. On his
eighteenth birthday, Sister Monahan had surprised him with the news that a trust fund
had been left to him when they had found him as a baby and the money was now his. At
twenty years of age the church officially shut the orphanage down and Jonathan, who
had been contemplating becoming a priest in order to run the place, decided not to
follow that path and just buy the orphanage himself. All orphanages were gone by that
time, most closing or turning into some kind of Foster Care facility, so Jonathan opted to
open a group home for children, a place were children under ten were cared for until
found a home. Now, almost ten years later, he had no more money. His creditors had
given him until the day after Christmas to get current on his mortgage, or, goodbye
Sinclair’s Home For Children.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 15

Tomorrow was the day after Christmas.


Tomorrow he would be saved or goodbye home.
And tomorrow was a hundred years away.
Jonathan looked at his watch as he stepped onto the hot pavement that was the
walkway to his home. Eleven AM and all wasn't well.
To top off everything else that had happened his kids, orphaned kids, were
spending the day out of town with another group home facility in Miami Beach. His
assistant Pamela had set it up and had gone with them. Leaving him alone. Probably
better off anyway. He wasn't exactly the best company right now. And if a miracle
didn't happen by tomorrow he should be figuring out where he'd place the kids. They
had to be out by the first of the year. He himself had to be out by January and he hadn't
even begun to think about his own plight. No job. No money. No family. No place to
go.
The flushing of the sea finally stopped as Jonathan shut the front door behind him,
his apartment connected to the west side of the group home, opposite the ocean.
Jonathan's shoulders sagged as he looked around the apartment. Thirty by twenty feet,
one room not including the bathroom, and it had been his home for the last ten years.
The entire building had been the only home he had ever known. He loved it so.
Jonathan threw his towel on the floor then flopped down on the couch. He had never felt
so alone.
Jonathan reached over and punched the remote control lying on the coffee table
beside him, the babbling of strange voices to keep him company, then settled back into
the hard cushions of the ancient sofa he felt lucky enough to still possess. He had
owned so few material things in his life. He had always just wanted the children. Maybe
a little love.
But now that he thought about it he couldn't remember the last time he had been
in love. Yes, the children, but not that kind of love.
Women.
Jonathan couldn't believe that at a time like this he was thinking about women.
Then again, maybe it was a good time. Kill the time. Make all current issues fade away
for awhile.
Women. He hadn't had a girlfriend now in almost two years. It just never worked.
His orphanage took too much of his time. His dedication. The two somewhat serious
women he had dated both left him for the same reason: "Jonathan, you just don't care
enough about me to spend any time with me!"
They were right. Looking back now, though, he knew he didn't really love them.
He thought he had at the time but realized later he was just lonely. Wanted something.
Maybe that was what was so wrong now. Here he was in the deepest trouble of his
life and he had no one to turn to. No one to put his head on their shoulder. He suddenly
realized that he needed a friend so bad right now he felt like crying.
He wanted a friend.
He craved companionship.
And the last thing Jonathan imagined before he went to sleep was the strange
notion that the television was reporting that Santa Claus had appeared in Arizona.
"Why don't you come to Florida, Santa . . . ?" and Jonathan slipped off into a bliss
of darkness.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 16

EIGHT-SIXTEEN a.m. (M.S.T.)

The movie theaters and tourist shops were all closed in old downtown Tempe,
Arizona, but in a few hours the sidewalks would be packed again with Christmas Day
enthusiasts. Just in time for them to arrive the rain had stopped and the sun stood
proudly beaming its toothy smile across the town and off the remnants of water that
lingered behind in puddles everywhere. Arizona was not a state that believed in building
streets with drainage.
At a bus-stop bench on the corner of Mill & University, caddie-corner from the
Harken's Theater Complex, sat a large man wearing sneakers, shorts and a T-shirt
sipping on a diet Coke. The smile on his otherwise exhausted face reached practically
into the streets around him. He tried to hide his smile a little as another man, extremely
tall wearing a suit and tie, approached and sat down beside him.
The fat man spoke after a moment of silence. "Mr. Green, why are you wearing a
suit?"
"I've been in this suit for three days."
"Well, at least take your jacket off. Look at this! The dead of winter and its
seventy degrees at the break of morning. No wonder this place is flooded with
snowbirds."
"Snowbirds, sir?"
"Snowbirds, Mr. Green. Winter visitors. People who come to Arizona to live only
during the winter time. I might think about it myself someday."
"I doubt it, sir."
"You're probably right. Oh well."
The two men looked around the quiet town in comfortable silence, each
contrasting the other. One man tall and skinny, well dressed and clean shaven. The
other short and big and a face full of hair. A few seconds later they watched somebody,
probably a student from the nearby Arizona State University, run a red light. No cops
nearby on this Christmas morning. Mr. Green finally opened his mouth.
"I thought you'd be dying for a report. You act like you're not even interested."
"Oh, I am. But the truth is no matter what you tell me I know it was a great
success. An excellent beginning. I've only had two hours sleep and yet I've never felt
better in my life. All right, let’s hear it."
"Let's start with how many deliveries were not made."
"That's fine."
"None."
The man's head actually jerked as he turned to Mr. Green.
"What!"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 17

Mr. Green smiled. "It's true. There was only one case of a truck breaking down in
Lake Havasu and that was at the end of the driver's route. He carried his last package to
its destination."
The man shook his head and whistled. "Never in my wildest dreams."
Mr. Green continued. "Overall, a complete victory. All items delivered, no wrong
or mixed up packages and not one person anywhere knows who did it. In fact . . ." Mr.
Green pulled a newspaper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the man next to him,
". . . the biggest story in the country right now is who was behind it all. You're a marked
man, sir."
The man was silent. He shook his head again. "Outstanding, Mr. Green."
"I'm glad it’s over. Half my exhaustion is from nervousness."
"Well, you'd better rest fast. Next year we're doing Los Angeles and Seattle as
well."
"I’m very aware of that, sir. We'll be ready."
Mr. Green stood up and started to walk away. He stopped without turning around.
"Sir, what you did was a miracle."
"No, Mr. Green. What we did was a miracle. And not for us but for every family
out there, including the ones who've only now just heard about what happened. This is
how it should be. Men like you are to be proud. Be so very proud of yourself, Mr.
Green."
The man could see Mr. Green nod to himself then walk away.
The pleasantly obese man rubbed his white beard and took another sip of his diet
Coke. He had promised his wife he'd try and loose a few pounds.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 18

EIGHT-FORTY-TWO p.m. (M.S.T.)

Richard Langstrom, alias Mr. Green, tried once more to figure out what was
bothering him. Everything had gone right. Not one mistake. Yet there was a nagging
feeling inside of him that wouldn't go away. Like he had forgotten something. Or had
been careless with something valuable.
Richard turned left on Apache Trail Boulevard and suddenly laughed out loud. One
of the greatest feats in modern time had just been accomplished without a hitch and he
was worried about something he couldn't even put his finger on. The man sitting back
there at the bus-stop was right. It was okay to be proud of his part of what they had
accomplished. God knew how much work over the years there had been but this
morning was more than proof that it had all been worthwhile. After almost two
centuries, Santa Claus was finally alive.
Thinking of his own five-year old daughter, Richard felt his heart warm in a
completely different way. He felt terrible missing Christmas Eve with his family. But he,
like all the others, were taking the next few days to spend with their loved ones. As soon
as he got back to his hotel room he would pack and hit the airport.
Work would start again soon enough. The next general meeting was on January
third and there were ten thousand things Richard felt like he had to do before then.
Including a year-long agenda and a general forecast for the next two cities. This next
year was going to make last year seem like a cake-walk.
Richard finally stepped through the front entrance of Courtyard by Marriot, past
the tables that displayed a nice array of continental breakfast and down the hall towards
his room. He stopped at room 1055, used his key and swung open the door.
He stopped.
This was where something was wrong. He knew it now. He looked slowly around
the room. The bed was still unmade and his suitcase was still where he had left it on a
dining room chair. Through a mirror on his bathroom door he could see his toiletries
strewn about around the sink. Everything nice and normal, just like he left it.
Richard quickly picked up the bathroom and threw the stuff in his suitcase. He
wanted nothing more at this point than to be out of there. With one last look around the
room he went out the front door and started back down the hallway. He was ten steps
away when it hit him.
Rushing back to the room, he fumbled with his room key and fairly flew back into
his room.
It was gone.
The card was gone.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 19

NINE-O-FIVE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Edgar Austin Bolton sat in his car with saliva literally dripping over his lip and onto
his van dyke beard. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. After years of petty
theft and small-time blackmail, opportunity was finally knocking on his door. Big time.
This was the one he had waited his whole life for.
He pulled a metal flask out of his pocket and took a sip of cheap whiskey then
reached over and picked up the newspaper lying beside him and looked at the headline
one more time, the byline by one Michelle Larough. "YES, VIRGINIA, THERE REALLY IS A
SANTA CLAUS! REALLY!" And Edgar knew there was, too.
Edgar Austin Bolton also knew he would be rich.
Very rich indeed.
Edgar leaned his small frame up in his seat a little and took another peek out his
windshield. There he was. Sitting at a bus-stop not a hundred yards away. The big, fat
man who was going to change his life forever.
Three weeks earlier Edgar had managed to get a job as a front desk man at a fairly
nice motel. Perfect for rummaging rooms for the occasional bundles of cash left behind
in suitcases and under mattresses by stupid, unsuspecting tenants. He never took it all,
just enough so that the tenant could be mistaken.
Then this morning a man checked in that Edgar thought reeked of money. His suit
had to have cost at least a thousand bucks. Glancing at the man's check-in card, he
learned the man's name. About an hour later the man walked back by the desk and out
the front door carrying a bunch of over-night mailing packages. Edgar, after slipping the
master-key in his pocket, suddenly had to go to the bathroom and excused himself.
He didn't knock, he just let himself in. He didn't know how much time he had but it
was prudent to assume not much. He threw open one of the suitcases and immediately
found a men's purse. Whistling, he counted over six hundred dollars. Taking a fifty for
himself, he zipped the purse closed and shut the suitcase.
Then turned around in panic.
Someone was coming through the door.
He leaped over the top of the couch and landed behind it with a dull thud. Good
carpet in this hotel. He held his breath, wondering if he had been seen or heard.
Almost immediately he heard the phone being picked up followed by dialing
sounds. A moment later the man spoke.
"Yes, hold on why I make sure this is a clear line." Edgar's eyebrows rose as he
heard an electronic pulsating noise. "It's okay . . . Yes, this is Mr. Green."
Edgar's eyebrows lifted a little further. This man's name was certainly not Mr.
Green.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 20

"I sent the reviews over-night mail . . . Yeah, Mr. Red had a special truck sent over
for these packages . . . Nicholas wants to meet me now? . . . Hold on and let me grab a
piece of paper." Edgar heard some rustling. "Okay, shoot . . . At a bus-stop? . . . Isn't
that only a few blocks from here? . . . Thought so . . . Yeah, I can be there in about ten
minutes . . . Okay, heck of a job there, my friend. I'll see you in about a week . . . Merry
Christmas to you, too."
Edgar was up and over the couch the moment he heard the door close. Who was
this guy? And what was that all about?
Walking towards the phone, Edgar picked up a business card that was lying on the
desk beside it. On the back of the card was jotted, "Nicholas at bus-stop Mill &
University." Edgar frowned and turned the card over. This guy was the Chief Executive
Officer of a large airline company. But why all the secret spy stuff? Edgar shrugged his
shoulders and stuffed the card in his pocket. He'd been away from the front counter too
long.
He was back at his place at the front counter only five minutes when he saw the
newspaper. It didn't take long to put two and two together. He grabbed his coat and left
without a word to anyone.

Edgar pulled the card from his pocket and looked at it again with glee. This was
the first time in years he had felt this way. The last twenty-five years had been filled
with odd jobs and occasional stints in jail. Three times in all those years he had asked
his family, his mother, father and brother, for help, but every time they told him the
same thing; “We love you, Edgar, but you’re scum. Leave us alone, except for every
other Christmas, and don’t ask us for money.” And he did, for the most part. He led his
own life, one of misery and loneliness. He paid his dues.
And now somebody else was going to pay. Whether it was Mr. Santa, who was still
sitting across the street wearing his dumb shorts sipping on some drink, or the departed
Mr. Green or the media, somebody was going to pay.
Edgar finally wiped his chin.
It really wasn't elegant for a man of his position to slobber.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 21

ONE-TEN p.m. (M.S.T.)

"Nice work."
The words still echoed through Michelle's head as she watched her father walk into
the boardroom towards his place at the head of the table. It was so rarely that he
complimented her that getting one this way, breaking the rules no less, was an extreme
pleasure. She watched her father and once again admired that her dad was a big man in
more ways than one. Besides being CEO of United Press Syndicate he also stood six-
foot-four. When he arrived at the end of the table every eye was riveted on him. He had
a charisma unlike any Michelle had ever seen.
"Ed, I want to start off by saying I'm sorry again for going over your head
yesterday. You know I don't like doing that. You’re the manager of this division and I
don’t take that lightly."
Edward Bell shook his head emphatically, his aged, wrinkled double chin keeping
tempo with the four gray hairs still left on his scalp. "Mr. Larough, it's not a problem. I
made the wrong call. I should have at least tried to get in touch with you and thrown it
by you. I didn't. I was wrong. Let's move on."
"Thanks, Ed."
As Mr. Joseph Larough sat down Michelle looked around the table. This meeting
had been scheduled quickly and she felt proud to be in the company of these top people.
She was doubly proud of why. They were here because of her. Nellie Shouburn was the
petite but powerful woman in charge of scheduling and Tom Shaw was Nellie’s opposite,
a big, humorous man who was vice-president in charge of content. All of them had flown
in from New York earlier today just because of what she had done.
"Okay, let's get started,” Joseph Larough began, “As you know, Michelle's article
about Santa Claus was the only one that went over the wire in time to get picked up
nationally. In fact, more than fifty papers world-wide carried the story as well. Because
of the television coverage, by the time the papers hit the streets it was the biggest story
going. Needless to say it was quite a coup for us. Michelle's is the largest selling story in
this company's history.”
Michelle acknowledged the various congratulations from around the room.
"The question is, how do we follow up on it? Obviously this is not normal for us."
Tom, for some unknown reason wearing a fork on his lapel, spoke up. "You realize
that there will be hundreds of reporters doing follow up on this. And finding whoever's
behind this is going to be priority one. Will you please pass the peanuts, Nellie?"
Nellie handed over the bowl of peanuts while she spoke. "It's quite amazing,
really. For the first time since the legend of Santa Claus began, there actually is a Santa
Claus. Tom here is right. This story will never die until somebody finds out who or what
did this."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 22

"There have been cases of anonymous benefactors before but this case can't even
begin to compare to the others," Tom said, "How many families received gifts at last
count, Michelle?"
"Over a hundred and ten thousand."
The room was silent for a moment.
Ed spoke first. "No one can keep something this huge a secret. I'd say exposure
of Santa Claus will come in less than a week."
Nods from around the table. Except Michelle.
"I'm not sure I believe that."
"Why not?" From Joseph Larough.
"Because I think they would have been caught already. Do you know how many
people have to be involved with this? And yet even now we know virtually nothing."
"What do we know for sure?" said Tom.
"The only common denominator known so far between the families that received
gifts is that they were delivered by United Parcel Service."
"UPS!" exclaimed Nellie.
"Yes. Over two thousand trucks statewide that delivered on average 50 packages
apiece. Their official comment on where they got the packages from is, and I quote, ‘the
North Pole.’ I found that one out about two minutes before this meeting started."
"You have to be kidding," said Nellie, “Can that really be true? Can people and
planes actually survive up there?”
Michelle shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s part of what I’ll research.”
The five people in the room stared at each other. Michelle decided to drop them
another bomb. "But I know something no one else has put together yet. Of course,
someone will, but not yet."
"What now?" said Nellie.
Michelle reached down and opened up her briefcase. A moment later she threw a
doll and a toy car on the table.
"So what? They're toys," said Tom.
"Not just toys," said Ed. "Look at them more closely."
Nellie and Tom each picked up a toy to inspect. After a moment Nellie said, "I
don't get it."
Michelle leaned across the desk for effect. "They're home-made."
Tom said, "What do you mean?"
"Those toys were made by no known manufacturer. No bar codes. No
identification. No serial numbers. In other words, whoever is behind this is making their
own toys, too. Not all of them, mind you, but a lot of them."
Tom suddenly stood up and started pacing the room. "I can't take this anymore.
This is weird. And we're out of peanuts."
For the first time in a while, Joseph spoke. "The question is, to bring this discussion
full circle, how can we benefit from all this? Michelle here wants to turn this into a
regular column. Update it once a week as she learns more about it."
Tom sat down again as the four of them pondered Joseph's question. Ed spoke
first.
"As much as I hate to say it, I don't think it will fly. I've got to go back to the
comment I made earlier because I believe it. I think this guy will be exposed within a
week. Maybe only a few days. You just can't keep something this big a secret for that
long."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 23

Tom nodded. "Especially when people find out what you just told us, Michelle.
This is too much." Tom took the fork off his lapel and jabbed at a bowl of prunes.
"I'm afraid I have to agree, Michelle." Nellie said. "We do comics and columns.
Why set you up to do this on a regular basis when this story could be dead tomorrow?"
Michelle couldn't believe what she was hearing. With slow horror she started to
also realize that they were going to send her back to the cooking desk.
"But look at what I've already found!"
Ed continued. "It works against you, Michelle. Like you said yourself, any second,
if not already, somebody else will figure out that a lot of these toys are self-
manufactured. The madness in the media will double, if that's possible."
Ed looked away from Michelle's face. The disappointment read there was enough
to make a grown man cry.
Michelle's dad stood up. "I'm afraid you're out-voted on this one, Michelle. I think
everyone will agree that you should do one or two follow-up articles to put on the wire.
You understand that investigative reporting is not our business.”
Michelle was looking down at her lap. She nodded slowly.
"It was a heck of a scoop, Michelle." Joseph looked at the other three. "May I have
a moment with my daughter?"
The three others patted Michelle on their way out. Michelle's father looked at his
daughter for a moment. Michelle finally looked up at him.
"I do understand, dad."
"I've got to go, but I want to tell you something."
"Okay."
"You know with your name on that by-line, and with the rest of what you have, you
could probably get the kind of job you want from another company. Almost anybody
would hire you right now. I love you, Shelly."
With that Michelle watched her father walk out of the room.
And Michelle put her face in her hands and cried.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 24

SEVEN-TWENTY-FOUR p.m. (E.S.T.)

Jonathan Sinclair woke up with a knocking in his head. His initial reaction was that
he was dreaming, but as his mind cleared he believed it must be coming from the
television. After a quick glance, and seeing only a large man trying to lift a car, he
realized that there must be somebody at his door. A second knocking confirmed it. He
rose off the couch and went to see who it was.
He opened the door and realized that the sun was setting and he had slept the
whole day through. His next thought was wondering the identity of the attractive,
middle-aged woman standing in front of him.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Sinclair? I'm Sheila Armstrong with United Way. We talked on the phone a
few days ago about donating some funding for your group home."
With sickening horror Jonathan realized that his house was a mess, his hair must
look like a sea-salted bird's nest and that he was standing in front of this woman almost
completely naked. His swim trunks had little fishies on them.
"Mrs. Armstrong, I'm sorry. I must look--”
"Please don't be. As you can see, I’m wearing sweats myself. And please call me
Sheila. My husband passed on a few years ago and I just happen to be heading this way
from my sister’s house. I almost always spend Christmas with her. Thought maybe you
could show me around. If I'm imposing I'll gladly come back tomorrow."
"No, no, not at all. Let me throw on a T-shirt and I'll give you the ten cent tour.
Come on in. And I'm sorry about your husband."
"Don't be. It was a short life but a good one. He was happy. So was I."
As Sheila stepped in Jonathan stepped across the room to his dresser. "Sorry for
the mess."
Sheila grinned, her smile so wide it seemed to touch the short, blond hair that
hung on either side of her face. "Don't apologize, Mr. Sinclair. It's not nearly so messy in
here as you think it is.”
"Call me Jonathan." Jonathan slipped a white Gator's T-shirt over his head.
"All right. You don't live extravagantly, do you Jonathan?"
Jonathan smiled and approached nearer to whom he hoped would be a God-send.
"Don't need much. Sheila, all I really need are the kids. They're my life's work. Finding
them homes is all I know."
Sheila smiled back. "Why don't you show me the main building?"
"Love to."
The two of them exited the apartment and walked around the large brick building,
through sea-green lawns and trees to the front of the home and up to the front door.
Jonathan took out a key-ring and let them in. A play area encompassed the left front and
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 25

school desks littered the right. In the back of the room was a small kitchen area with a
very large table.
Jonathan pointed. "The kid’s rooms are through that far door, two to a room. Ten
rooms in all."
"How many kids do you have now?"
Jonathan scratched his head in frustration. "Only six, now. When I realized I was
running out of money, and that I wasn’t having any luck raising more funding, I stopped
taking kids on. It's hard enough thinking about placing the six I have left. I want to find
them homes, not Foster Care."
Sheila nodded and walked into the playroom. The area was crowded with boxes of
toys and dolls, tricycles and a large card table surrounded with little, bright red chairs.
Sheila picked up a small orange ball, bounced it a couple of times then held it to her
side.
"Why, Jonathan?"
"Why?"
"Why do you do what you do? Especially under the pressure it must be day to
day."
Jonathan's shoulder's slumped and he parked himself behind one of the tiny school
desks.
"I was an orphan,” Jonathan explained. “No one ever chose me." He looked up at
Sheila. "I guess sometime when I was young, I vowed that I would never let that happen
to another child. It's not fair not to have a family." Jonathan grinned. "Don't get me
wrong, I wasn't really unhappy. I was treated well. I just never got to say the words . . .
Mommy and Daddy. And I think a child should be able to say that."
Jonathan stopped speaking for a moment, his eyes retreating to a distant past.
The muffled sound of the waves crashing outside filtered into the room. Sheila kept
silent.
Jonathan continued. "I remember when I was a small kid I had a good friend
named Fred. Simple Fred they called him. One afternoon a young couple came to
interview him for possible adoption. After the interview Fred and I went outside to play
while the couple went into the Head Sister's office. It was a Catholic orphanage then.
Well, Fred and I decided to play Hide-and-seek and I came in here to the main building to
try and trick Fred. While here I passed the Sister's office and accidentally overheard
their conversation.”
Jonathan paused as he rubbed his finger over a carved initial on the desktop.
"The husband was telling Sister Monahan how Fred wasn't good enough. How Fred
wasn't the type of child that would exemplify his name. The wife piped in that they were
looking for a young child that was, well, smarter. Better looking.”
Jonathan looked back at Sheila. "That was the day I knew what I wanted to do with
my life. That I would do anything to make a child happy. Wanted. Loved. Regardless of
their physical traits, their mental skills or race. Wanted for who they were. Just another
human being, a very young human being, who needed a family who wanted them back."
Sheila laid the orange ball on the floor and slid into a desk beside Jonathan.
"Jonathan?"
Jonathan grinned ruefully and waved a hand in the air. "I'm sorry. I don't know
why I just went on like I did. This has been . . . an . . . interesting Christmas. Different.
I'm not myself. I guess I'm not fit to run this joint anymore."
Sheila repeated herself. "Jonathan?"
He looked up and into Sheila’s eyes.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 26

"Jonathan, I’m so sorry. I really am. United Way has no budget left to fund you."
Jonathan stared at Sheila for several seconds. "I understand."
Sheila shook her head. "I tried to find something."
Jonathan stared at her a moment longer then jerked himself to his feet. "At least I
know. I appreciate you coming by to tell me personally."
Sheila didn't move. "I want you to sit back down, Jonathan. Please."
Jonathan sank back into his seat. His eyes were glued to the floor.
"Jonathan, I know a man who is a great contributor to United Way. I talked to him
about your plight. He doesn't have the budget, or the write-off, this year to go through
us. But he may be interested in helping you directly. I don't know the extent he can
help or if he will at all, I just know he said he would talk with you. Would you like to meet
him?"
Jonathan kept his eyes on the floor." I don't know why. I don't think I have any
more hope left in me."
Sheila nodded. "I understand. But you might try one last time. What have you got
to lose? He said he'd come here to meet you."
"When?"
"Day after tomorrow. Ten a.m. would be convenient for him if it is for you.”
Jonathan gave a tired smile. "Okay. I appreciate what you are doing. I can
probably put off the creditors another day."
Sheila stood up and walked to the door. "I wish I could do more. People like you
deserve all the help they can get."
"The kids deserve the help, Sheila. The kids."
Sheila smiled. "We all do at times, Jonathan. There's nothing wrong with that.
Nothing wrong at all." Sheila quietly closed the door and left Jonathan alone again.
Jonathan laid his head down on the tiny desk.
Three minutes later he was asleep.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 27

DECEMBER 26th
133 Hours, 19 Minutes Remaining . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 28

TEN-FORTY-ONE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Byron Van Horn was probably the most famous man in America that nobody
recognized by sight, even though he stood six-foot-seven and had a chest fifty-five
inches round with not an ounce of fat. He was extremely good looking, well mannered
and when you were introduced to him he immediately made you feel at ease. He always
treated you as if you were a friend.
Byron Van Horn was a newspaper reporter with some of the most famous
accolades in his field. He had broken some of the most famous stories in recent time.
He had an uncanny ability to be in the forefront of every major news event of the last
decade and yet he accepted his lot in life with unabashed humility. Everybody liked
Byron Van Horn.
Almost everybody.
What only a few people knew about Byron was that he was one of the worst
plagiarists the journalism trade had ever known. And the worst kind of thief. Not one
story that really mattered had he discovered himself. He either bought, borrowed but
most times stole his information from other reporters. Byron Van Horn was journalism's
worst con man.
He had not always been appalling. When Byron entered college twenty years ago
he was driven with grit and integrity. He longed to sweat out the story that no one else
could, promising himself he would work endless hours to be first with the scoop. His
hero's pictures, and their articles, were pasted to his dorm room walls so he could fall
asleep every night under their watchful guise. Byron's only ambition from the time he
was twelve years old was to be an investigative reporter.
But by his senior year in college Byron knew he was in trouble. Other classmates
were writing rings around him, exposing and digging out stories that he couldn't even
come close to competing with. He found himself getting lazier and more interested in
girls, who found him incredibly charming, rather than spending long nights at the
newspaper morgues. Then he realized he had a problem with short-term memory. Time
and again he would forget an appointment or interview. Never maliciously, he just
forgot. Three months before his graduation, and with a final term paper due, Byron
unabashedly admitted to himself that he probably was not going to make it. For three
days he sat in bars and nightclubs drinking, pondering what he might do with his life. He
had never considered anything else.
He felt as if his life might as well be over. He was a loser.
At the end of the third day Byron found himself at the school library. It was late at
night and no one else was in the building. Half drunk, he suddenly realized he had no
idea why he was here. Maybe because he had spent half of the last five years
researching in this decrepit building. Trying to build a future. A career. To no end.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 29

He walked the lonely isles, gazing at the endless shelves that marked the history
of man and invention. He had wanted to be part of these records. To have somebody
study him someday. That was out of the question now. His chances at success had
just . . .
That's when he saw it. It was just lying there on one of the back tables near the
magazines. A briefcase.
Byron stumbled over and casually hit a button on the briefcase. It snapped open.
Byron looked around and still didn't see anybody. He reached in and picked up a thick
sheaf of papers and started skimming through them. He blinked, then read through the
papers a little slower. Halfway through he dug through the briefcase to find the name of
the owner. Sure enough, it was the property of a classmate of his. A journalism
classmate. And these papers were evidence that the local sheriff was up to his hat in
pay-offs to one of the current county judges. There were even pictures.
Byron slowly laid the papers back down into the briefcase and tried to organize the
thousands of thoughts that were screaming through his drugged brain. The only
conclusion he could come up with was that his life had just been saved. He also knew he
would never be the same kind of man again. His life at that moment changed forever.
Two weeks later he was being heralded a genius. A classmate of his was arrested
for assaulting him but everybody understood.
Jealousy was part of the business.

Byron Van Horn made the trip from Los Angeles to the Phoenix Biltmore Hotel in
just under five hours. He pulled up to the front of the hotel in his Mercedes, a moment
later handing his keys to the valet, complimenting the valet on his prompt service.
Byron always had a kind word, even to those whose station in life was less than his own.
His social graces were what made Byron loved by all those who didn't really know him.
Even walking through the plush lobby of the Biltmore, where celebrities and
politicians alike stayed almost exclusively, Byron felt all eyes turn to his presence. His
demure was foreboding; his size and good looks were captivating. Many had told him he
should go into politics. He would have been good at it. He just couldn't stand crowds.
That's why he never went into television. Lord knows he had many offers for television.
With a wry grin, he checked in and made his way to the elevator. The counter maid had
let him know she wasn't busy the next evening. Five minutes in Arizona and he already
had plans.
On the elevator up to his room Byron suddenly remembered why he had come. It
was funny how his mind could forget things so easily. Never a face. Or a name. Just
things. Things he should think about. Things that were really important.
He had really blown it Christmas Eve. He knew better than anybody that
Christmas Eve was a gold mine for a good story. Most reporters wanted to be with their
families. Only the hard core or single were ferreting out news on a holiday. It was one of
the best times of the year to sit by the ticker-tape and wait for a good story to come over
the wire. Many times Byron had done just that. And when a newsworthy item came
over the wire he just made a couple of phone calls, verified some of the sources and
typed out his own story, which he sent over the wire himself. More times than not,
because of his good name, the newspapers across the country would print his version of
the story even though it wasn't the first one out. Celebrity status had its advantages and
Byron had been taking advantage of it for years.
But night-before-last he had become impatient. A woman from the mail-room
had been encouraging him for days to come to her Christmas party, a party for her and
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 30

her friends at the paper whose families were out of town for the season. At ten-thirty
Christmas Eve Byron decided that nothing was going to happen this particular evening
and left to join the party.
He missed Michelle's story as it came in a little over an hour later. Had his name
been on a second article, wired immediately after hers, he would have picked up most of
the print world-wide. He would have been the star, not some nobody apprentice from
nowhere, Arizona. It was a mistake that Byron hardly ever made. It was one that Byron
couldn't afford to make again. So, when his answering service had told him yesterday
that some weirdo was on the phone from Phoenix who had seen Santa Claus in the flesh,
Byron took the call. Sensing a tone of genuism, and a lead that no one else would have,
Byron decided right there and then to drive to Phoenix and meet this character. He
would never pay him for anything, but he might learn something anyway.
Byron Van Horn smiled to himself as he exited the elevator.
Like it or not, Michelle Larough was about to have some competition.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 31

TWELVE-TWENTY p.m. (M.S.T.)

Sky Harbor Airport was packed with after Christmas travelers and it was the last
place Michelle wanted to be. Sitting in bed with a nice cup of cocoa, a mindless romance
novel and a box of Kleenex followed by a long sleep would have suited her just fine. But
she had agreed to drive Nellie, Tom and her father to the airport and she hadn't even
started her second article yet. There was also something else she planned to do. Sleep
would have to wait.
Tom and Nellie were checking through security when Michelle had asked her father
if they could find a place where they could talk privately. They finally found a relatively
calm spot by the flight insurance machine.
"Are you going to quit on me, Shelly?"
"I'd like to ask you something I've never asked before."
"Okay, shoot."
Michelle had to look away. It was the first time that she could remember that she
couldn't look her father in the face.
Joseph Larough interrupted her before she even began. "Shelly, since your mother
died you haven't asked me for anything until yesterday and that was professional. I
would have made the same call for any employee. I would love the chance to give you
something you wanted personally."
Michelle suddenly reached over and hugged her father. He wasn't a man who
talked much about the death of his wife but Michelle knew how much it had hurt him.
The first few years after she had passed on it was only in each other's arms that Michelle
and her father had each found solitude. And right now Michelle found it again. She
silently thanked God for her father being the kind of man he was.
"I want to borrow some money."
Her father chuckled and held her at arms length. "That's the big favor?"
"Yes. I'll probably need quite a bit."
"Okay, you got it. Am I out of line to ask what it's for?"
"No, you're not out of line, dad. I'm going to give Ed my notice.
"You're going to take another job?"
"No. That's why I need the money. I want to follow up this story freelance."
Joseph Larough looked at his daughter with immeasurable eyes. "You're taking a
fantastic risk. What are you going to do if someone exposes the story right away?"
"Then maybe I'll come back and take up the art of cooking. But like I said in the
meeting, I don't think that's going to happen. This wasn't a spur of the moment lark.
And I think this thing's only just started."
"What do you mean?"
"I think this was only a test."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 32

Michelle's father took his hands off her shoulders. "A test?"
"A test. I think this is only the beginning. I believe next year we'll see it done not
only in Arizona but in other parts of the country as well."
Joseph silently looked at Michelle, his eyes still unreadable. "That's quite a
theory."
"This whole thing reeks of it. Dad, these guys have toy factories. They're not
going to limit themselves to one city. And they're not going to get caught easily."
Michelle and her father both looked up as they heard the last call for his plane to
New York over the public address system.
"Shelly, if I miss my plane you won't get a cent out of me." Joseph smiled. "You've
always wanted to take on the world, honey. Good luck. I love you."
"I love you too, dad."
A quick hug and Michelle watched her father disappear in the thicket of people
mulling through the airport, then Michelle eased onto a plastic seat that had
miraculously been vacated. She could hardly believe that she had done what she had
just done. And while part of her felt exhausted and lonely, deep inside she felt more
excited than at any other time in her life. She reached into her purse and felt around
until she held an object in her hand. The only secret she had ever held from her father
now lay comfortably between her fingers. A clue that no one else knew about. Nothing
much, really. Maybe nothing. Last evening she had visited a number of the families that
had received gifts from Santa. At the eleventh house she had found something. A tiny
piece of paper in the wrappings of a present given by Santa. She alone knew what was
printed on that piece of paper.
She would do anything to find out what it meant.
Michelle suddenly wondered why everybody walking past her was looking at her
strangely.
That's when she realized she was giggling.
That made her giggle harder.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 33

TWO-THIRTEEN p.m. (M.S.T.)

One thing Edgar Austin Bolton knew was that he was on his own and that he
couldn't do anything without money. He didn't dare show up back at the motel. The fifty
dollars he had lifted might have been reported. To say nothing of his sudden departure.
He took his prized business card out of his pocket and looked at it again. But what
did he really have? A card with a note scribbled on it and a personal glimpse of a man
who looked like Santa Claus. And absolutely no corroboration from anyone on either
one. Yesterday morning Edgar had tried to follow this Santa character but he had
disappeared several blocks from the bus-stop. Just stepped out of a bus and into a taxi
and vanished down an empty street.
Then today he had tried twice to sell his story to some big time reporters, people
he had thought for sure would nibble on what he had. Again, no luck.
This wasn't turning out like he'd originally planned.
He couldn't afford a third strike.
Edgar turned into a Circle K and parked near a pay-phone. Getting out, he picked
up the phone and dialed information.
Time for plan B.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 34

TEN-TWELVE p.m. (Universal Time, Coordinated)

The big man with the full white beard stood looking at the whiteness outside his
window. Arizona heat was fine but for him there was nothing like the sight and smell of
a new fallen snow. He heard footsteps from behind and turned around to face his
visitors. Mr. Green, Ms. White, and Mr. Brown sat down in leather chairs without saying a
word.
"Are all of you really that scared?"
"I'm sorry again, sir." said Mr. Green as he crossed his long legs. "I can't believe I
was that careless. In all these years I've never done anything so stupid."
The big man laughed. "It was just a card with some writing on it. And even if
someone does try to link it to Mr. Green, so what? It doesn't prove anything." Besides,
we don't even know who took the card or what they'd do with it."
Mr. Brown cleared his throat as he rubbed a hand across his thin mustache, then
over his dark, handsome face. "I'm afraid we do, sir."
"What's that?"
"Sir, we know who took the card. It was an employee of the motel Mr. Green was
staying in. A desk clerk who took a long bathroom break and quit a few minutes after
getting back. Left without saying a word."
"So?"
"He quit at the exact same time Mr. Green was visiting with you."
The big man nodded and stroked his beard a moment. "Okay, I follow you so far."
Ms. White held up a small notebook as she ran a pencil with her other hand
through her blond hair. "There's more. We know this man got the job at the motel by
using a phony name and identification. His real name is Edgar Austin Bolton, he's forty-
two and has a criminal record." Ms. White looked up, a rare glint of worry crossing her
blue eyes. "He has a background of robbery and bribery."
There were murmurs from around the room.
Ms. White continued. "It was fortuitous that Mr. Green discovered the problem so
quickly after it happened as we were immediately able to act and discover who the
culprit was. We traced Edgar's address, through sources we all know about, and we
went directly to his home. Fortunately, we found him there."
One big white eyebrow raised. "Fortunate for us, you mean."
"Yes." Ms. White agreed.
Mr. Brown leaned forward and put his elbows across his knees. "Sir, I was only
thirty minutes from the motel. I was able to lift his prints and we had his identity within
an hour. An hour later we were at his house. He apparently wasn't worried at all about
being caught." Mr. Brown cleared his throat again and looked around the room, not
wanting to face the large man in front of him.. "Sir, we know this man means business."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 35

"And what business would that be?"


Mr. Green spoke up. "Today he tried to sell the card to two different reporters."
The big man sighed and sat down behind his desk. He knew things like this could
happen, had happened before, but he disliked the uncertainty more every year.
Especially now that they were so close to completion.
"You said tried?"
"Yes, sir. Neither reporter took Edgar seriously. We were able to talk with both of
them afterwards. I'm glad you're sitting down, sir."
"And why is that?"
Mr. Brown sat back in his chair and tried to look calm. His already dark eyes for a
moment became darker. But he didn't say anything. Ms. White finally spoke.
"Edgar was hiding in Mr. Green's room behind the couch when Mr. Green called Mr.
Brown. Edgar was apparently robbing the place, though he won't say exactly why he
happened to be there. That's one of the reasons the reporters didn't take him seriously.
It's not a reliable source if it was in the middle of a crime. Anyway, he heard all the
conversation between Mr. Brown and Mr. Green. Mr. Green's side, at least. That was
enough."
The big man groaned. After a moment of silence he squirmed in his chair. "Let's
hear it. I know there's more."
"Yes, sir, there's more." Ms. White smoothed her dress, then stopped for a
moment as if she had found a bit of unnoticed lint. She gently picked it off and flicked it
into the air. Her eyes finally found the large man in front of her. "Edgar followed the
directions on the back of the card. That's why he left the motel so fast. He actually saw
you and Mr. Green talking together. This man has seen you, sir."
The big man stood slowly and went back to the window. He tried to find peace in
the land that he loved so well outside. "Edgar followed me from the bus stop." Not a
question, but a statement.
Mr. Brown stood up as well and leaned on the edge of the desk. "He tried. He let
Mr. Green go. He already knew who he was. You were the big prize. When he first
arrived he even ran a red light right in front of you. He couldn't believe that he was
actually seeing Santa Claus. Or what he perceived as being Santa Claus."
"I remember a car running a red light that day."
"That was him. He circled around and waited. When Mr. Green left he followed
you. You walked the first six blocks so it was easy. It got a little harder when you
jumped on a city bus. You lost him when you jumped off and into a taxi."
The big man smiled for the first time since the beginning of their conversation.
"Mr. Brown, your precautionary measures paid off. I'm not sure I ever believed they
were necessary."
"Yes, sir. I just arranged everything like I always have. It's my job. You know how
important it is not to link any two of us together."
"I do know." The big man walked back over and squeezed Mr. Brown's shoulder
before sitting back down behind his desk. "Does somebody want to tell me what this all
means?"
"Right now, nothing." Mr. Green rubbed his eyes. "We'll just keep tabs on Edgar
and try to stay ahead of him. But somewhere along the way somebody's going to tell his
story. There's a lot of tabloids and talk shows that will do it. He just hasn't approached
the right people yet. And when his story does get out, well, most of the problem is going
to fall on my own back. I'll be surrounded by reporters asking if the story is true. The
fact that I was in Arizona on Christmas day will be easy to prove by the motel records.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 36

"What are you going to say? Are you going to lie?"


"Of course not, sir. I'm not going to say anything. No comment. And hope the
story dies after awhile."
The big man relaxed in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. The three
others waited patiently for him to speak. After several seconds, he did.
"I'm not sure I see a real problem here. There is no evidence besides this man. In
a way it's probably a blessing that this particular man is the one who took the card.
Anybody else might have been believed. And if nothing else, besides Mr. Green having
to squirm a little bit, we'll get even more publicity than we expected." The big man
shook his head. "No, the story of what Santa did in Arizona this year will certainly not
die, but Edgar's will. I'm certain of that. Mr. Green?"
Mr. Green tried to look up at his large friend and couldn't. He put a hand up to his
face and tapped an eyebrow with one, long index finger.
"Mr. Green, look at me."
Mr. Green forced his eyes up to the man in front of him. Immediately Mr. Green
smiled.
"Mr. Green, nothing will happen from this incident. It was a monumental
coincidence that Edgar was in that room. And there's nothing he came away with that
can really be used against us. Not that one thing alone, anyway. So I need you to be
thinking about future problems, not one that's past.
Mr. Green nodded. "I won't let you down, sir."
"You never have and you never will. Now, if you gentlemen would excuse me and
get back to your families as fast as our planes will take you there, I'd appreciate it. I
know your loved ones will."
The two men chuckled and walked out of the room. Ms. White stayed behind. The
big man came around from his desk and took a seat beside her. When he looked at her
she was almost shocked, though she had seen the look before. A look of vulnerability
that he almost never showed. He whispered when he spoke.
"Is he ready?"
Sheila Armstrong of United Way took his hand. "Almost, sir. You need to meet him
tomorrow at four o'clock."
The big man nodded.
"I'll be there."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 37

SEVEN-SEVENTEEN p.m. (M.S.T.)

Michelle pulled the blanket around her a little tighter as she took another sip of
cocoa and watched half-heartedly the muted television in front of her. After the last
whirlwind forty-eight hours this felt like Heaven. God knew when she'd have another
night like tonight.
She had waited most of the day to wire in her story in case some new information
should break. She was glad she did. At seven PM, CNN reported that a second media
release had been proffered by the Chief Executive Officer of United Parcel Service. UPS
claimed that when they were first contacted, by facsimile, they thought it was a joke.
The job indicated over one-hundred thousand packages needed to be delivered from the
North Pole, and the document was signed Santa Claus. But also with the job-order came
a bank account number in case funds needed to be verified. For the fun of it, UPS did a
quick estimate on how much the operation would cost and called the bank listed for
verification of funds. To their surprise, UPS was told the funds were good.
UPS now took the job seriously and did a detailed analysis into what a job of this
magnitude would really cost. Planes were needed to pick up the cargo at the North Pole,
apparently held in one massive warehouse, and take them to Anchorage, Alaska. From
there a plane trip to Arizona. At Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix several semi-trucks would
have to be on hand to take the packages to the various local shipping centers. Finally,
the gifts would be distributed to their prospective recipients. UPS was paid in full up
front on condition, in writing, that they in return would provide the full service asked for.
The only other stipulation of their agreement was that UPS would say no word about this
event to the press until after twelve PM on Christmas day. At twelve-o-one PM on
Christmas a final facsimile was received by UPS that only said six words, "Thank you,
Merry Christmas. Santa Claus." The phone number used by Santa Claus was a mobile
number.
Michelle laughed as she watched the story run one more time on the now silent
television in front of her. She knew that within ten hours there would probably be a
hundred planes scouring for THE warehouse in North Pole. She knew it would be found,
too. Empty. No clues. But every TV set in America would be watching video footage of
Santa's warehouse. Nothing would be made of the phone or bank account numbers
either. It would lead nowhere. Dead end. Over and out.
Another item Michelle had sent with her article was her research of the North Pole.
There were a few things about the place that had surprised her. One of which was there
was little precipitation in that region of the world. It was just too cold to snow very
much, and when it did it was in the winter. Most of the time the arctic was just cold and
windy. And very dry. During the summer it was light twenty-four hours a day and in
winter is was dark all day. Michelle had learned that many people had died exploring the
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 38

arctic, especially if they got wet somehow in the freezing cold, but more people then not
had walked around up there fine. The weather wasn’t a whole lot different than northen
Alaska.
The issue of planes being able to fly up there was also resolved. It wasn’t really
that much of a problem. The plane had to be big enough to hold enough fuel and had to
be equipped with a special compass as most didn’t work that well so close to the “Pole.”
Other than that, planes went around the region all the time. Michelle also knew that the
antarctic, on the south side of the world, was made up of ice and land, of which there
was little land in the arctic. But there was some land. Several islands were in the arctic,
as well as easy availability from Greenland, Russia and Alaska.
Yes, it was possible that something was up there, and UPS had picked up stuff from
that far north, but the bigger question was why? Why go to all that much trouble?
After watching the first few seconds of another advertisement for the movie,
"Santa's Big Day," Michelle shut the television off and contemplated her own plight. No
job and no leads. Well, maybe one.
The phone rang and Michelle picked it up and said hello as she glanced at her
watch. Seven-Forty. A long day for someone else, too.
"Yes, would this happen to be Ms. Larough?
Michelle immediately felt her body tighten. "This is she."
"Ms. Larough, my name is Edgar Bolton. I wonder if I may have a word with you? I
have a bit of information that might interest you."
Michelle's grip on the phone grew stronger. This man's voice literally made her
skin crawl, yet she didn't know why. It wasn't the southern accent and it wasn't the high,
whiny tonal quality. That was only annoying. No, there was something else. Something,
well, wrong.
"Mr. Bolton, it's rather late in the evening. Tomorrow would be a more appropriate
time. Goodnight--"
"--Ms. Larough, I know it's late but I know something about Santa Claus. A bit of
hard evidence, if you will."
"What do you mean?"
"I have seen him. Santa Claus, that is."
Michelle felt her heart-rate pick up a little. Although she didn't feel comfortable
talking with this man her instinct told her he wasn't lying.
"You've seen him?"
"Yes. Christmas morning. In Tempe. He was with another man who was, shall we
say, also not an unknown individual."
Now Michelle knew what this man wanted. She wondered to herself why he had
come to her, and no sooner had she thought it did the man answer it.
"I saw your column in the paper. I thought you might be interested in the, ah,
details of what I witnessed."
"Sir, did anyone witness this sighting with you?"
"No. I was alone."
"Then I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to publish anything you tell me."
Edgar was quiet for only a moment. "Ms. Larough, I'll be frank with you. I did
more than see these men. I have a card with a written note from the man who was with
Santa that day. I can't tell you how I have it, just that I do. And I know that to anybody
who is trying to find Santa this card is an invaluable clue. Perhaps the best lead anybody
anywhere has. I need money. Do you wish to discuss this further or do I take this
information to someone who does?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 39

Michelle could tell that the last thing this man wanted to do was go elsewhere. He
sounded almost panicky. He obviously needed the money or he wouldn't be calling her
this late at night. America’s Late Night Live, the television show, would probably pay a
lot more than she would.
Michelle stopped herself. She realized that she actually was going to pay this man.
She had to. If what he had was real then she did want it. It was a much more tangible
lead than the only other one she had.
"Let me give you my address."
"That's not a problem, Ms. Larough. Your address was listed with information. I'm
one block away."

Michelle was amazed at how well she had pictured Edgar Bolton before she opened
her front door and saw him standing there. He was short, less than five-foot-two, and
wore a suit that looked even older then his forty-odd years. His hair was greasy, dyed
coal black which didn't match at all his graying van-dyke beard. His eyes were big for his
face and they searched the room behind Michelle before resting on her, eyeing her like
the ranchers at one of her father's farms eyed a prize cow. When the ends of his mouth
turned up into what Michelle assumed was a smile she nearly dropped her cocoa.
"I'm Edgar, Ms. Larough. May I come in?"
Michelle opened the door wider and motioned him in. He walked past her and
headed straight for the couch where he sat down.
"Nice place. I wouldn't have guessed you were so attractive, Ms. Larough"
Michelle decided she'd better stay on her feet. "It's late, I'm tired and I don't think
I'm going to like you, Mr. Bolton. Show me what you have."
Edgar tried to look hurt for a moment then obviously changed his mind and
cackled instead. He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and held it out to
Michelle. She took it.
"This man is the Chief Executive Officer of a very large airline, as you can see. I
overheard him first talking in his motel room to someone over the phone who gave him
the directions you read on the back. I went to said location and observed him sitting at a
bus-stop with the so-called Santa. Unfortunately, I tried to follow Santa but he lost me.
Michelle could hardly breathe. It was everything for her to keep her composure,
especially in front of this man. He obviously didn't know just how valuable this card was.
"And why were you in his motel room?"
Edgar grinned, showing a surprisingly full set of false teeth. "Some things are best
left a mystery."
"I don't think it'd be hard to guess."
"As you wish, Ms. Larough. You may be right in that I cannot go to certain persons
with this evidence for fear of what might happen to me. But to you this card is perhaps
the only lead to Santa Claus that anybody has. And you can use it and nobody has to
know about me."
"How much?"
"Now, I've been thinking about that. Please keep in mind that I could take this
card and follow up on this myself. If I found Santa again and prove who he was I'd be a
millionaire. But, after thinking about it, my ambitions are not so high."
Michelle looked at the holes in Edgar's shoes and knew that this man couldn't
afford a one-way ticket to Tucson.
"I just want what is rightfully mine. What I deserve. Something fair."
"You want something fair?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 40

"Yes, fair. I am, after all, the one who gathered this clue."
"And if this card turns out to be a fake?"
"It's not. It would be easy to verify at least the name. By the way, he didn't use
his real name when he was talking on the phone. He used the name Mr. Green and
another person he referred to as Mr. Red. Lots of secrets here, eh, Ms. Larough?""
"You pretty obviously stole this clue, Mr. Bolton."
Edgar stood up, his smile gone now. "I want ten-thousand dollars."
Michelle stared at him. She wanted this card so bad her sides ached. Then she did
one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life. She laughed and handed the
card back to Edgar.
"Good night, Mr. Bolton. Good luck."
Edgar stood looking back and forth between the card in his hand and Michelle in
complete amazement. His left eye started twitching.
"But you need this!"
"But I have it. I know what and who is on this card."
Edgar was floored. He just stood there staring at Michelle as if she'd just shot him
and he was too stubborn to fall over. Then a thought passed through his face. "But you
don't have proof. That card is hard proof. That handwriting can be analyzed."
Michelle turned and walked away from Edgar, feigning dismissal. She knew she
needed the card. She stopped as if having a sudden thought.
"You may be right, Mr. Bolton. Here." Michelle stopped at the dining room table
and opened her purse. "I have a hundred dollars."
"No!" Edgar screamed, more to himself than at Michelle. He paced back and forth
furiously in front of the couch before turning to Michelle again. "I have one last proposal.
You give me one-thousand dollars for this card. Now. Or I'll take it to the press,
someone will want it, and tell them I got the card from you. Your fingerprints are now on
it. Which one will it be?"
Michelle contemplated as she looked at the small man before her. That last
remark was smarter than she expected, but still lame. He could have gone to the press
anyway. He still could, for that matter. All he had to do was lie about how he got the
card. He apparently hadn't thought of that yet. Bad dresser, bad black-mailer and bad
liar. Edgar Bolton didn't have a lot of humane characteristics.
Pulling out her checkbook, Michelle wrote fast and tore the check out. She walked
back over to Edgar and put in on a coffee table and held out her hand. Edgar picked up
the check.
"How do I know it's going to be good tomorrow?"
"Because I'm a person whose word is good. I don't need someone like you on my
back. Now give me the card."
Edgar stared at the card one last time, wondering if this was how his once in a life-
time bonanza was supposed to end. He dropped the card on the carpet and practically
ran across the room and out the door.

Michelle's whole body trembled as she picked up the card and went back to the
kitchen table. This couldn't be happening. She knew this story was big but in no way
could she have imagined the immensity of its scope. If it was true. But it had to be.
Facts are facts.
Michelle looked down at the card one more time. Richard Langley, Chief Executive
Officer, United Airlines. Then Michelle looked at the notes she had left spread on the
table earlier. United Parcel Service. Michelle didn't need to look in her purse for the only
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 41

other clue she had. A piece of an envelope that had been found in the wrappings of one
of the presents she had looked at early last evening. An envelope that contained the
name of its company. Another very large corporation. United Way.
Her three only clues were United Airlines, United Parcel Service and United Way,
three of the biggest businesses in the world.
Working together.
Michelle absently gazed at her final paycheck sticking out of her purse and her
heart stopped.
Staring at her from her paycheck were the words United Press Syndicate.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 42

ELEVEN-FIFTY-THREE p.m. (E.S.T.)

Mr. Black looked up in astonishment as three people stormed into his office. They
didn't say a word, just walked up to his desk. Grinning. Mr. and Ms. Gray were married
and Mr. Brown was standing next to them.
"What are you doing here?" asked Mr. Black.
"Mr. Brown stayed with us for Christmas." said Ms. Gray. "We thought we'd fly
over and see you."
More inane smiles. Mr. Black leaned back in his chair. "You know the big man said
no working until January."
Mr. Brown said, "We're not working. What are you doing?"
Mr. Black looked at their stupid grins one more time then stood up.
"Okay, out with it. What's going on?"
Nobody said a word. Just smiles all around.
"Do you want to let me in on it or not?"
Mr. Gray finally spoke. "Edgar sold his story."
"Really? To whom?"
"To Michelle Larough."
The room abruptly exploded with laughter. A second later Mr. Black, who's real
name was Joseph Larough, joined them.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 43

DECEMBER 27th
110 Hours, 14 Minutes Remaining . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 44

NINE-FORTY-SIX a.m. (E.S.T.)

It was just as hot today as it had been the last two days but Jonathan didn't mind.
He was too busy raking the front lawn of the home, trying to keep his mind off the man
who was supposed to arrive any minute. A man who would make or break him.
Jonathan threw down the rake and started shoving grass into a black, plastic
garbage bag. He had called his assistant Pamela Christmas night and arranged for her
and the kids to stay an extra couple of days at the Foster Care facility in Miami. He just
couldn't handle seeing the children until he knew what was going to happen to them.
Jonathan pressed his forefinger and thumb against his eyes at the thought he may have
to tell his six kids that the only home they had ever known wasn't going to be there
anymore. The look on their faces would be devastating. Not the look of sadness, but the
look that so many orphans made so well. A look of resignation, as if they had known all
along that they were not wanted. An acceptance that they knew they would be alone
the rest of their lives. Jonathan hated that look and had spent every day of his life trying
to remove it from the children’s memories.
Now he might be the very one to bring it back.
Jonathan swung a garbage bag of grass over each shoulder and trudged behind
the main house towards the small gravel road that separated the home from the ocean.
Sighing with relief, he dropped the bags into a dumpster that was already so full and
over-flowing with torn Christmas wrappings from the neighboring homes around him that
the gravel road next to his property seemed like an ill-wrapped present. Jonathan leaned
over and started picking up trash from the road. If he didn't do it, the garbage men
tomorrow surely wouldn't. A moment later he squeezed an impossible armload of paper
into the dumpster. As he turned around for his second load he stopped. He had thought
nothing in the world could make him smile right now but what he saw a hundred feet
down the gravel road made him do just that. In fact, he almost laughed out loud.
Coming down the gravel road towards Jonathan was an extremely large man on a
bicycle. His long white hair and beard blew inland from the ocean breeze and he looked
almost ridiculous in his khaki shorts, tennis shoes and T-shirt with the logo "Just Do It!"
crossing the span of his chest. His pale skin was obviously not used to the sun, as it was
tinged and peeling, but his eyes were gleaming as he desperately tried to keep his
bicycle upright. With little luck. The bicycle was weaving all over the road as if the man
was either drunk or hadn't ridden a bike before. Assuming the latter, because of the
man's clear eyes and jovial and serene face, Jonathan finally chuckled out loud. He
couldn't remember the last time he witnessed a man having so much fun doing
something so badly.
Ten yards from Jonathan, and with a little scream, the large man suddenly
tipped over and crashed sideways onto the gravel road, landing with a grunt. Jonathan
trotted over to give the old man a lift up, but the man was laughing so hard when
Jonathan arrived all Jonathan could do was laugh with him. The large man, who to
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 45

Jonathan looked the spitting image of Santa Claus, lay sprawled on his back, his arms
wide, the bicycle laying across his legs, yet he was laughing so hard tears were starting
to roll out of his eyes. For a good minute, the two men roared together.
Finally, Jonathan held out his hand and helped the strange man to his feet. "Are
you hurt?"
The large man wiped a large hand across his cheek and shook his head. "No, not
in the least. I can't remember the last time I rode one of these things. Such fond
memories." The man stuck out his hand. "My name is Mr. Nicholas. My friends just call
me Nicholas."
Jonathan took Mr. Nicholas's firm grip into his own.
"My name is Sinclair. Jonathan Sinclair."
"Ah!" Nicholas reached down and up righted his bicycle, then looked at Jonathan
with a leveled eye. "I think I'm the man you want to see, Jonathan. Sheila Armstrong
from United Way said you'd be expecting me at around ten." Nicholas pulled an ancient
gold pocket-watch from his shorts and popped it open. "Well, Glory be, it's ten o'clock
now."
A small boy suddenly bolted out of the nearest house and came running towards
the two men, a real NFL football in his hand. The child stopped short, his eyes riveted on
Nicholas.
"Santa, what are you doing here?"
Nicholas chuckled and kneeled down in front of the boy. "I've got friends, too,
young man. This is my friend, Jonathan. We were just having a little visit."
The boy looked at Jonathan with wide eyes. "You're that man that runs that place
for kids next door!"
Jonathan smiled. The boy gazed back at Nicholas. "Wait'll I tell the gang. Thanks
for the football, Santa."
"You're more than welcome. You better run along now."
"Okay. Wow, wait'll I tell the gang." The boy turned and ran down the gravel road
opposite the way he came. He disappeared around a far corner as the two men watched
on.
Nicholas read Jonathan's thoughts. "I'm not what you expected?"
Jonathan turned to Nicholas, a relaxed yet somewhat embarrassed expression
crossing his face. "I've got to tell you something funny."
Nicholas smiled. "Good. I like funny."
"Christmas Day I was falling asleep when I heard that story on television about
Santa Claus in Arizona. Have you heard about that?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have."
"Well, right before I fell asleep I remember asking for Santa to visit me. To help
me out. I wanted him to come to Florida." Jonathan spread both arms out towards
Nicholas, palms up. "Now, here you are." A frown crossed Jonathan’s face. "My gosh,
you're name is even Nicholas."
Nicholas put one hand on Jonathan's shoulder and wheeled the bicycle next to him
with the other as he led Jonathan back towards his home.
"Life is a wonderful blend of coincidences, don't you think, Jonathan? And what
should I tell that young boy just now? That I'm not Santa? That Santa doesn't exist? No,
no, I couldn't do that to a young child. I run into that sort of thing all the time. Besides, I
kind’a believe in Santa Claus.
Nicholas stopped and turned Jonathan towards him. "Do you believe in Santa
Claus, Jonathan?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 46

Jonathan looked into the twinkling eyes of the old man next to him a moment. "I'll
tell you what, Nicholas. You find a way to keep my home open and I'll personally go to
my grave vowing that you are the one and only St. Nicholas himself."
Nicholas roared with laughter and started towards the home again. "I like a good
negotiation, Jonathan. I really, really do."

For the next several hours Jonathan took Nicholas on a guided tour of his life's
work, and as the time passed Jonathan realized his affection for this large, jovial man
was growing by the minute. In his tiny apartment Nicholas fairly bounded around the
room, looking in every nook and cranny, bobbing his head up and down like an excited
child as Jonathan explained each individual nick-nack that he had collected over the
years. In the children's rooms Nicholas was not satisfied until Jonathan explained the
child's full name, where they had come from and some unusual trait characteristic to
that individual child. In the playroom Nicholas flopped his heavy self on the caved-in
couch and buried his nose in a scrapbook that contained pictures of kids from the past,
pointing, exclaiming, demanding details and laughing until the room shook at some
enjoyable moment captured on film. At one point, when Nicholas was enjoying a silent
moment flipping the pages of the scrapbook, Jonathan interrupted.
"What do you do, Nicholas?"
Nicholas looked at Jonathan, a confused look on his brow. "Excuse me?"
"What do you do for a living. You make money somehow."
Nicholas chuckled as he looked back down at the book in his lap. "I'm a corporate
executive."
"You're white collar?"
Nicholas waved a hand in the air.
"I wear a lot of collars. Now let me look at this, Jonathan. We'll get back to the
money later on. Now what happened to this child here? Look at those eyes!"
Jonathan smiled and leaned over to explain.

By five o'clock the sun was trying to settle in the early winter sky as Jonathan
showed Nicholas the outside grounds. When they happened across the small tree-house
that occupied a strong palm tree, Nicholas insisted he had to go up. Afraid that the old
man would have an accident, Jonathan soon realized he had nothing to fear. Nicholas
skated up the small wooden planks as if he were still twelve years old and settled himself
to enjoy the view. Jonathan scooted up after him and sat next to him. He watched
Nicholas look inland to the city then over to the ocean to his left. Nicholas's eyes
focused on the sea in silence for a moment.
"I don't know much about the ocean, Jonathan. I haven't spent much time there.
A little in my youth, but that’s all. It is so beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes." Jonathan followed the old man's gaze. "I've spent my whole life watching
that horizon, trying to comprehend its enormity. I've always said that if a man doesn't
want to believe in a power greater than himself then that man needs to spend some time
with the ocean. His significance becomes clear pretty quickly."
Nicholas breathed in a huge lung-full of salty air. "I've never been in the Atlantic
ocean."
Jonathan stood up, crouching to avoid the low branches over his head. "Let's go
down there."
"Down where?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 47

"The ocean. Let's get our feet wet. Then you won't have to say what you just said
anymore. Besides, you got anything better to do?"
Nicholas stood up next to Jonathan, his eyes gleaming like a child who's just
discovered sweets. He turned his gaze to Jonathan. "Sir, I have nothing better to do at
this moment than go stick my feet in that ocean."

The two men walked side by side down the length of beach outside the property of
the Jonathan’s home, each holding his shoes in his hands as the ocean swept across
their feet. The sky was darkening and the moon had decided to join the sun early for a
brief visit before going their separate ways once more. Nicholas giggled as he wiggled
his toes.
"It's really no so cold."
"Now you know why southern Florida is so popular."
"I see."
Nicholas sighed as he switched his shoes to his other hand. "As old as I am and
there is still so much I have never seen. Or experienced. I guess you can't do
everything."
Jonathan nodded. "I don't want to do everything. Just what I'm capable of."
Nicholas stopped and put a hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "You're a good man,
Jonathan. I'm glad."
"And I'm glad I got to know you, Nicholas."
"Let's have a seat. I want to ask you something."
The men found a driftwood log to sit on some twenty feet from the water. Nicholas
laid down his shoes. "Are you ready to negotiate?"
Jonathan chuckled. "I'm ready. Not much to negotiate. I'll do pretty much
anything you ask to save the home."
"Okay, I believe that. But I'm only going to ask you one thing. Just do one thing
for me and I'll see that ‘Sinclair’s home for children’ never closes."
Jonathan gave his only attention to the older man next to him.
"Jonathan, I want you to give me twenty-four hours of your life.”
Jonathan's eyebrows hit the top of his head in surprise. "You want what?"
"If you leave with me tonight, spend twenty-four hours with me and go wherever I
want us to go, then we have a deal."
Jonathan shook his head in confusion. "You just want me to visit with you for a
day?"
"Well," Nicholas grinned, "There's a little more to it than that. I think I can
promise you a good time. At least an educational time. I want to show you a little of
what I do. To share a piece of me with you. You're the kind of man I believe would
respect it."
Jonathan stood up and walked toward the edge of the ocean, his back to Nicholas.
Reflecting on the water in front of him, he watched the last of the sun fall out of sight as
he considered the strange, yet lovable man who sat behind him. Jonathan had nothing
to lose. And he trusted Nicholas besides. He turned back towards Nicholas.
"I'll call Pamela, my assistant, and tell her I'll be gone a day. She can handle
things."
"Good. I'll get my bicycle now and take it back to the place I rented it from down
the beach. I'll be here to pick you back up at midnight tonight."
Jonathan watched as a strange serenity crept over the large man in front of him,
visible even in the moonlight. Nicholas stood up.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 48

"Thank you, Jonathan. You've made an old man happy."


CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 49

FIVE-ELEVEN p.m. (M.S.T.)

Byron Van Horn sat up in his Mercedes and grinned as he watched Michelle
Larough come running out of her apartment towards her car. Byron had been waiting for
her almost five hours and he felt a sudden rush of accomplishment like he hadn’t had in
several years. He was actually out on the beat, sweating for a story. He forgot how
good it made him feel.
Edgar Bolton had to be one of the stupidest people Byron had ever met. After
Byron had told him he would pay him nothing for his information, Edgar threatened to go
to Michelle next. Byron encouraged him and Edgar left in a huff. What good was a
business card? But Byron decided to postpone his evening engagement with the counter
maid at the Biltmore and do a little more digging himself. Getting Michelle's address
from information, Byron sat outside her apartment and waited. Late last night, just as he
hoped, Edgar had showed up. A half hour later Edgar exited Michelle's place with what
appeared to be a check in his hand. Following Edgar home, then to the bank later this
morning, Byron learned that the check was indeed from Michelle. Byron almost gave
himself away to Edgar at the bank when, standing directly behind Edgar in line, he had
looked at the check and almost laughed aloud at the petty amount that was given to
him.
But later, after catching a few winks in his hotel room, Byron started pondering
why Michelle had paid Edgar at all. Byron eventually decided she knew something no
one else did, and Edgar's little piece of paper must mean more to her than it did to
others. Now Byron really wanted to know what Michelle would do next. He returned to
his car and went back to Michelle's. Five hours later she was finally leaving.
As she entered her car and turned down the street, Byron followed, only to turn in
and park just ten blocks from her apartment. She had stopped at the Phoenix Library.
She was going inside. Byron got out and pursued her on foot.

Michelle swept through the big double doors of the Phoenix library and headed
towards the reference section. With a sigh of relief, Michelle found an empty study room
and put her coat inside on the small table. After turning the sign on the door to
"Occupied," Michelle moved towards the "Who's Who" section of the reference wing. It
was time to get her ducks in order.

Byron watched Michelle walk away then noticed with delight that her jacket was
sitting all alone in the study room. Without two seconds of delay, he stepped over,
entered the room, found her key-ring in the upper left pocket of her coat and stepped
back outside. He looked around to see if Michelle or anyone else had noticed what he
had done. Nobody. He left the library, a spring to his step.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 50

Thirty minutes later, Michelle pushed aside the heavy books she had gathered and
studied her notes. The tiny room was cold and she wanted to get out of there.
Assuming that the Chief Executive Officer of United Airlines was standard
procedure for all the corporations involved, Michelle had looked up the other head
officers. What she had was a list of three names:

1. Richard Langley - United Airlines - CEO


2. Sheila Armstrong - United Way - CEO
3. Stephen Player - United Parcel Service - CEO

Michelle, after considering the list for a moment, suddenly jotted down a fourth
name.

4. Joseph Larough - United Press International - CEO

Michelle had no right to include her father's company but the nagging feeling that
he was involved just wouldn't go away. The story had come too easily. Or had it?
Maybe it was just coincidence. And if he wasn't involved, where had he been when she
called him near midnight on Christmas Eve? He hadn't been home and she finally had to
reach him on his cellular phone. Looking back, he completely avoided her question as to
where he was at the time. Something about last minute stuff. What did that mean?
Michelle looked at the other names. There were no geographical similarities
between the headquarters of the various companies. They were spread out all over the
east, southeast and west coast. There was no connections in the types of companies
they were either. But in that respect there was some reasons to see why they might
make a good team.
UPS had already verified they had done the deliveries for Santa. And with a quick
phone call earlier today she had confirmation that several United Airline planes were
borrowed by UPS for some of the air deliveries. She had gotten this information out of
pure luck, mostly because the lady she was talking to at UPS was long-winded.
It was United Way that gave her the biggest problem. That company was non-
profit. But then it abruptly hit Michelle what United Way did. It kept track of people in
need.
It all fit.
Now all Michelle had to do was prove that they were working together.
No small task.
Michelle gathered her purse and coat, then collected the books to take back to the
reference wing. She needed a plan of action. When she got home, she would come up
with one.

Byron made copies of Michelle's keys at a nearby lock shop then made a quick
stop at a local computer store. Looking at his watch, he realized that almost a half-hour
had passed. He slammed his Mercedes in gear and started back towards the library.

Michelle put the reference books back where they belonged then headed back
through the main lobby towards the front exit. Halfway through the lobby Michelle
noticed a cluster of people standing at the edge of the room looking at the central
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 51

television that was mounted on the wall. Michelle stepped closer to see what everybody
was looking at.
They had found it.
Staring at the screen, Michelle watched as video footage of a large warehouse was
being shown. As she had thought, the building was empty, but just the image that all
those thousands of packages had been kept there, and all under the guise and name of
Santa Claus, in a place called North Pole, gave the huge room an air of mystery that
couldn't be escaped. Outside footage of the sleet and snow compounded the illusion.
This had been Santa's storehouse.
A minute later the news switched to another story and most of the people walked
away. Michelle stood there a little longer lost in thought. The people behind this were
brilliant. Every small detail had been meticulously planned. They had accomplished
what most would have thought impossible. In reality, this couldn't be happening, not
without being caught. But it was. And they weren't. So far, they had gotten away with
everything.
Michelle snapped out of her thoughts and realized she was still looking at the
television. With interest, she saw that the Christmas movie, "Santa's Big Day," was
being advertised again. Suddenly, Michelle comprehended the title and with wide eyes
she walked closer to the screen. It had to be there. What she knew to be true had to be
true. It made such perfect sense. No other company would have been so brazen.
With a smile, Michelle watched as the name of the distribution company of
"Santa's Big Day" crossed the screen at the end of the commercial.
United Artists.

Byron ran through the library's front door and almost tripped over his feet trying to
stop himself. Michelle was standing not ten feet away looking at a television set
mounted on the wall. Before he could decide what to do, Michelle turned and walked
back into the library. Byron slowly walked over to the check-out counter and politely
informed the clerk that he had found a set of keys.
As he left the library he heard the announcement over the loudspeaker that if
anyone lost their keys, please come forward with proof of identification.

Michelle grabbed the "Who's Who" of motion pictures and looked up the name of
the CEO of United Artists. Her name was Jeanette Sommersby. Looking at Jeanette's
personal statistics, Michelle, with a lump the size of a cantaloupe suddenly forming in her
throat, found her next bit of positive proof. She finally had some kind of confirmation.
A connection between the companies.
She had been right all along.
Michelle slid the book back onto the shelf and grabbed for her keys at the exact
same moment she heard the message over the loudspeaker.
Going to the front desk, she identified the keys as being hers.
Thank God.
This was no time to start getting absent minded.

As twilight began to consume Arizona, Byron Van Horn sat in his car and hit the
hydraulic switch that started the slow process of bringing the top down on his Mercedes.
It was going to be a beautiful evening and he wanted to enjoy its full effects. He
watched with peaceful uninterest as Michelle came out of the library, got into her car
and drove off.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 52

He would pay her a visit a little later on, even though she would never know it.
Byron couldn't ever remember having so much fun.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 53

EIGHT-THIRTY-EIGHT p.m. (Central Standard Time)

Mr. Brown, whose real name was Isaiah Brown, and the only one in the inner circle
fortunate enough to have the same given name as his code name, stepped out of his
private helicopter and headed for the elevator that would take him to his office four
floors down. His grandfather had erected this building over sixty years ago, some five
years after he started his company in the basement of his house. Now UIS, United
Investigative Services, was one of the biggest detective agencies in the world. This
building in Houston was the international corporate headquarters.
Stepping alone into the elevator, Isaiah smiled as he ran his hand across the rich,
hardwood paneling that decorated the inside of the little cubicle. His father's idea. He
wanted people to think they were vain. Mainly because vain clients tended to pay more.
His family was the Robin Hood of the investigative world.
Isaiah remembered back to when he was twenty-six years old. For most of his
life his father had disappeared two days out of every month, never to talk about where
he had been. When Isaiah approached his father on the subject he only shook his head
and said he'd explain someday. But over the years that explanation wasn't good
enough. Isaiah was, after all, an investigator, and one week after his twenty-sixth
birthday he electronically bugged his father's Cadillac and followed him. When the trail
ended at the airport, with his father zooming away in a private jet to gosh knows where,
Isaiah set the groundwork for the following month. The next time he also had a jet
waiting of his own.
So, when his father's plane was in the air, Isaiah followed, this time able to keep
the bugging device he had slipped into the lining of his father's jacket in sight. It was
definitely to his amazement as to where the planes had ended up, but it was his fathers
turn to be amazed when he burst into the room where his father was meeting with
several other people, most of whom Isaiah knew. Longtime friends of the family. But at
the moment he crashed their party, they looked at him as if he were a stranger,
including his dad. The room was dead silent for a good minute. Then a large, unknown
man with a white beard had stood. And when he started chuckling, the whole room
started chuckling with him.
"Hello, Isaiah," said the big man.
"Hello," Isaiah said back and he looked around the room sheepishly. "I just
wanted to know where my father went every month."
"He comes here, son." The big man with the beard held out his arms. "And now
you will come with him."
"Sir?"
The big man turned his palms up. "Welcome to your destiny, Isaiah." From that
point on he and his father had been best friends, and when his father retired three years
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 54

ago Isaiah took the helm as the head of UIS, both the public and private aspects. He
devoted his life to it, even to the point of giving up having his own family. He thought
sometimes about it, that there might still be time to have a wife and children, but most
of the time he just shook the thoughts away. Again, as happened on occasion for the
last few years, Isaiah pictured Ms. White, or Sheila Armstrong, in his mind. Her husband
had died unexpectedly some years ago, and Isaiah had the greatest respect for her.
Isaiah grinned. Respect was a tame word. But he was too good a friend to make a play
for her. He had also loved her husband as a brother. The timing still wasn't right. Oh,
well. He was too busy now anyway to be thinking about romance.
Isaiah stepped out of the elevator and into his office where his evening secretary, a
very pretty woman with her long, black hair pulled up in a bun, was waiting behind her
room-sized desk. Isaiah kept a secretary on shift twenty-four hours a day.
"Mr. Green is waiting in your office, sir."
"Thank you, Jeannie. If I have any messages, please hold them. And no phone
calls tonight.”
"Very well, sir. I trust you had a merry Christmas?"
Isaiah winked. "Is it Christmas?"
"Not anymore, sir. Maybe you'll remember next year."
Isaiah chuckled and pushed his way past the east Indian rosewood that made up
his office door and stepped inside. Mr. Green had his back to him, studying the Houston
skyline through the plate-glass windows that made up the east wall of Isaiah’s office.
Isaiah spoke as he threw his briefcase and jacket on a sofa and dropped into the
comfort of the leather office chair behind his desk. "Are you ready for this?"
Mr. Green didn't turn around. "No. Should I be?"
"No, probably not. But we don't even know what he's really going to say yet.”
Richard Langley turned from the window and faced Isaiah. "You ever watched that
show, America’s Late Night Live?"
"A little."
"Then you know that they don't do anything unprepared. Fast, yes, but never
unprepared. That's why that show is so popular. I still can't believe they got him on
there so fast."
"Yeah, they've been advertising it pretty heavy all afternoon. I thought those
shows booked weeks in advance?"
"Not this one." Richard sighed and sat on the couch next to Isaiah’s coat and
briefcase. "That's why it's so popular. Heck, they've been at the top of the ratings since
they went on the air."
Isaiah pointed at his briefcase. "Open that up, Richard, and take the top folder.
That's your itinerary. We've tried to be as thorough as possible."
Richard did so and glanced over the papers with little interest. "What's my reason
for being in Arizona on Christmas Eve?"
"A real one. You helped supply extra planes to UPS for the shipment from up north
then from Alaska to Phoenix. You were there to keep an eye on things and make sure
the planes got routed back to their original ports of call. Besides that, you have no
comment on the outrageous accusation made from a man you do not know."
"Great. I can't wait."
"Are you and your wife and child still going on vacation?"
"We thought maybe we wouldn't with all this going on."
"Maybe you should. It'll keep you out of the way of the press. I've got plane
tickets in your name for the Bahamas."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 55

"The Bahamas?"
Isaiah chuckled. You're not really going there. It's just a ruse. Why don't you go
and stay with Nicholas for a couple of weeks. He won't mind. Besides, we're supposed
to meet him anyway on the third of January. It'll give you time to be with your family,
give you some peace of mind and time to prepare. Everything will be huncky-dory."
"Thank you. Coming from a man who isn't about to have his name blasted all over
America."
"Like I said, we don't know what's going to be said yet. But I think we are prepared
for the worst, if it should happen. Either way, like Nicholas said, it will pass. There's no
real proof." Isaiah looked at his watch. "All right, it's about time."
Isaiah hit a button on his desk and a portion of the wall across from him gave way
to expose a big-screen television. Isaiah hit another button and the set came flickering
to life. Isaiah looked back at Richard Langley.
"You ready for this?
"No. Should I be?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 56

SEVEN-FIFTY-ONE p.m. (Pacific Standard Time)

Fifteen thousand dollars!


Edgar Austin Bolton's head was still reeling as he shifted again in his chair, one of
two that accommodated the massive stage that faced the audience all around him. The
bright spot-lights were making him sweat a little but he didn't care. His day in the sun
had arrived and he didn't mind being a little warm. He looked again at the television
monitor to his left where he could see his profile from camera two. He couldn't believe
how good he looked. They had him sit in make-up for a half-hour while two artists
worked him over. When one suggested dying his van dyke to match the color of his hair
he agreed. Now he looked ten years younger. Edgar rubbed his hands down the
expensive suit they fitted him in. He had never looked or felt better in his life.
It had all happened so fast.
After cashing Michelle's check, Edgar had gone back to his apartment. His dreams
of making a fortune were down the drain and, even though he hadn't had a thousand
dollars to his name in years, he knew it wouldn't last long. Flicking on the television,
Edgar pondered what to do next.
That's when he saw an advertisement for "America Late Night Live," the new and
popular prime-time program that had started a few months ago. Acting on impulse,
Edgar called information for Los Angeles and got the phone number. As he dialed he
realized that his chances were slim. But what the heck, he had nothing to lose.
To his surprise, he was immediately connected to an associate producer who
listened to what Edgar had to say. When Edgar finished, the woman on the other end of
the phone had gotten his phone number and address and told him they would get in
touch if they were interested. Edgar hung up dejected.
But not an hour later there was a knock on his door. Two men in suits declared
they worked for "America Late Night Live" and they wanted a detailed version of what
Edgar had told the woman in Los Angeles. Edgar told them everything except being in
Richard Langley's room and Michelle Larough. He didn't want them to know that he had
already been paid for the story. Or that he was a thief. An hour later the two men used
Edgar's phone and talked in whispers for ten minutes. When they re-approached Edgar,
he was dumbfounded when they offered him the chance to be on their television show
that very evening. When Edgar started to ask about payment, the older of the two men
held out to Edgar a check for seven thousand dollars. Edgar's eyes nearly popped out of
his head. Then he was told he would get an additional eight thousand after he
completed the show. If he agreed, they would have to leave immediately for Los
Angeles. The motel and airfare would of course be paid out of the program's expenses.
Edgar had been shell-shocked. All he could do was shake his head, yes. He signed
the document they offered him without reading it. They mentioned if he signed it he
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 57

couldn't back out because they were going to start advertising his appearance on the
program right away. It didn't matter to Edgar. He was rich.
His ship had finally come in.
Edgar jumped as the buzzer sounded that warned the audience and camera crew
alike that air-time was beginning in thirty seconds. The crowd quieted down, the back
lights went down. Edgar looked into the monitor one more time. He looked good.
Suddenly loud music filled the auditorium and the audience started their applause.
A moment later an unseen announcer introduced the hostess as she came running into
the room, smiling at everybody, raising her arms for more applause. She was an
attractive lady in her middle forties but looked twenty-nine. Adrian Goodall looked like
the girl next door, peaches and cream, apple pie. Just a little older so she seemed a little
more believable. She waved her hands and the crowd quieted down.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thanks again for joining us here at America's Late Night
Live. We have an absolutely incredible program for you tonight, as you will see. Now,
we have all heard about the amazing events that went on in Arizona on Christmas Eve.
Over a hundred thousand presents were delivered to children all over that state,
apparently, by Santa Claus. We know that most of these presents were delivered by
United Parcel Service. As I’m sure all of you are aware, the biggest mystery in the
country right now is . . . who is Santa Claus? Well, tonight we have a worldwide media
exclusive. With us in the studio right now, is a man who not only claims that he actually
saw Santa, but can identify another public dignitary he saw talking with this Santa Claus.
And remember, you heard this first, on America's Late Night Live. Members of the
audience, let's please give a warm round of applause to Phoenix, Arizona’s own Edgar
Austin Bolton!"
The crowd thundered as Edgar nodded and grinned and gazed around the
auditorium. He even found himself winking at an attractive woman in the nearest front
row, and lost his concentration for a moment when she winked back. Being a television
celebrity was going to be fine. It was good to be the king.
"Now Edgar," said Adrian. "Why don't we start at the beginning. You were working
at a hotel when this whole episode starting unfolding.?"
"Yes, as a front desk clerk. But only until something, uh, more suitable in the job
field in which I'm trained opened up."
"I see. And how long had you worked at the hotel?"
"Two months. Anyway, on Christmas morning I had the opportunity to check a
gentleman in, that, well, lets just say he was obviously a man of influence."
"Edgar, are you saying this man was under the influence?"
The audience chuckled with Adrian and Edgar.
"No, he wasn't that way at all,” Edgar said. “He was dressed to the hilt. He was a
man with money. When I looked at his check-in slip I saw he was the Chief Executive
Officer of a large airline. It was no big deal, really. The hotel I worked in dealt with big
money people all the time. I checked him in and he went to his room. I didn't give it a
second thought. But later, when I was in the middle of checking somebody else, he
walked by the front desk with a bundle of over-night packages. As he was passing by I
noticed he dropped something. I was too busy at the moment to pick it up but when I
finished with my client I walked around the desk and found what the man had dropped.
It was a business card."
"Was it the man's own business card?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 58

"As a matter of fact, it was. But I also noticed some writing on the back. I didn't
give it much thought at the time, but when the morning papers hit the rack at the hotel
and I saw the headlines, I put two and two together."
"Just what was written on the back of the card?"
"It read, 'Meet Nicholas at bus-stop, Mill and University.'"
A low murmur ran through the audience and Edgar paused appropriately for effect.
Edgar continued. "It was only a hunch, but when I saw the newspapers I couldn't
help but think that this Nicholas might be the mystery man that everybody was talking
about. And then came the clincher."
"Which was?"
"I received a phone call at the front desk a few minutes later. I'll try and recite
exactly how it took place. I answered the phone and a man said, 'May I please speak to
Mr. Green.' I looked in our guest records and found no Mr. Green and told the man on
the phone so. The man was quiet for a moment then excused himself and asked for
Richard Langley's room. I switched him through, though I knew no one was in the room
at that time."
"And who is Richard Langley?"
Edgar paused as he let the crowd anticipate for another moment. "Mr. Langley is
the Chief Executive Officer of United Airlines. He was the man who dropped the card I
found."
Another round of murmurs, this time a little more audible.
"And what did you do next, Edgar."
"At that point I thought it was just too weird. It almost sounded as if this man
calling in was using some kind of code name. So I thought, what the heck? I ran out to
my car and drove to Mill and University. It was only a few blocks away. And there they
were."
"Who were?"
"Richard Langley. He was sitting at a bus-stop talking to another man."
"What man, Edgar?"
"Why, Santa Claus, of course."
This time Adrian herself paused, with a beaming gaze at the audience, as the noise
in the room rose from a low murmur to an all out chat-fest. People were looking at each
other, shaking their heads. A few people in suits suddenly had cellular phones in their
hands and ran quickly out of the room. Edgar looked again at the woman in the front
row again and chanced another wink. This time when she winked back, Edgar thought
he might hang around after the show. Perhaps this particular lady might want to have a
little drinkie-poo in some dark, out of the way place. Maybe two drinkie-poos. Adrian
Goodall turned back to Edgar after the noise subsided.
"How can you be so sure it was the Santa Claus?"
"Well, besides the things I already told you leading up to what I saw, the guy with
Mr. Langley was fat, had white hair, a long white beard and was sipping a diet Coke with
a big grin on his face. Who else do you know that would sip a diet drink with a grin on
his face?"
One more chuckle from the crowd.
"What did you do then, Edgar?"
"I tried to follow Santa, but he disappeared. He walked, then got on a bus then
ducked into a waiting taxi. His vanishing routine had obviously been scheduled ahead of
time."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 59

Adrian was nodding as if of course. Her next question was put slowly. "Edgar, why
were you following him in the first place? I mean, just to walk out on your job to see if
this man existed was a pretty spontaneous act. What were you hoping to gain if you
followed him?"
"Adrian." Edgar looked at the hostess as if she ought to know better. "I wanted to
know what everybody here and throughout America wants to know. If this guy really
was Santa Claus, maybe I had the only clue in the world as to who he was. As it is, I
think I did see him. It's too bad I lost him."
Adrian nodded violently. "Yes, it is." Then she turned back to the audience. "Stay
tuned, folks, as we have to go to a commercial break. We have a lot more to talk about
tonight. When we get back, we'll not only talk with Edgar a little longer, but then we're
going to introduce a surprise guest that is actually going to corroborate much of what
Edgar has told us. Don't change that dial!"
Edgar blinked.
"What?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 60

THREE-FOURTEEN a.m. (U.T.C.)

Michelle Larough put the cup of water for her hot cocoa into the microwave and hit
the ONE MINUTE button. As she waited, she leaned against the refrigerator and looked
across the kitchen into the living room where a commercial was advertising the benefits
of a beer and good looking women on the television.
So much for her exclusive from Edgar. But she didn't worry about it that much.
She knew so much more than others knew. She just didn't know where to go or what to
do next. So much evidence and yet, really, so little proof. Without corroboration, every
newspaper in the country, at least every legitimate newspaper, would throw her story in
the G file, for garbage. Half her evening had been spent typing and arranging notes on
her computer yet nothing jumped out at her. Instead, she had got up from the computer
feeling lonely. Nothing else, just lonely. So she turned on the television.
The microwave beeped and Michelle took out her hot water, poured in Nestles and
went back into the living room where she flopped on the couch. On the television,
Michelle watched what appeared to be Michael Jordan jump across the Pacific Ocean for
a hamburger.
Michelle wondered who the surprise guest was next on America's Late Night Live.
She knew it wasn't herself.

Isaiah Brown looked over at Richard Langley who was sitting on the edge of the
sofa with his head buried in his hands. Isaiah sighed as he finally spoke to his friend,
their first words since the show began.
"Well, Richard. I guess it's about as bad as we thought it might be."
"Thank you for your interpretation."
"Anytime. Still think you and your family should stay in New York?"
"No."
You want to watch the rest or have you had enough."
Richard sat back in the sofa and grabbed his knees.
"I'll see it through. Might as well have all the information. Wonder who this
surprise guest is."
"Hard to say. Somebody else at the hotel maybe?"
"I suppose."
The two men sat in comfortable silence a moment. A twitch of a grin finally
showed at the corner of Richard's mouth.
"Man, did you see Edgar's face when she said they had a corroborator?"
"Perhaps the most enjoyable moment of the night."
"Yeah."
The two men found each others eyes and suddenly broke into laughter.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 61

They shared a common bond.

"Hello?"
"Ed, it's Joe Larough."
"Hey, Joe. How's Michelle doing since she quit on me?"
"Don't know. Haven't talked to her. But on that subject, you're not watching
television right now, are you?"
"No, the missus and I are playing poker."
"Poker?"
"Yeah. So far I owe her fourteen back-rubs."
"Oh. Do you mind if I interrupt? I'd like to ask a favor."
"Need a back-rub?"
"Funny. I want you to turn on your TV and watch channel twelve."
"I can do that."
"Then call me back."
"Right."
Ed laid down the phone then spread three fours and two kings on the table. "I'm
full."
Ed's wife patted his hand. "I know, dear."

Byron Van Horn sat gazing at his television in his Biltmore Hotel room and couldn't
stop laughing. He had been in the media business long enough to know what was
coming next. This was going to be fun.
Then he had to get some rest. Just a few hours.
Business beckoned.

Mr. and Mrs. Gray, Mr. Red and his wife and Sheila Armstrong sat together in warm
comfort, oblivious to the wet and cold outside, and didn't say a word. The television had
been muted for the commercials.
They were thinking of their friend, Richard.
And wondering about their future.

Jonathan Sinclair zipped up his duffel bag, sat it by the front door and looked at his
watch. Eleven-fifteen. He turned and looked around his apartment with the funny
feeling he always had when he went away, even for a short time. A feeling that he would
never see his home again. He shook it off, knowing that it meant nothing, just a little
superstition, and sat on his hard couch. Forty-five minutes until Nicholas arrived.
Jonathan thought about turning on the television but decided against it.
There was nothing good on television anyway.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 62

EIGHT-SEVENTEEN p.m. (P.S.T.)

Edgar blinked again.


Who was going to corroborate his story?
The music kicked in again and the audience went crazy as Adrian Goodall first
smiled at the crowd then turned to camera three for a nice close-up of her pearly whites.
The people of the audience finally simmered down enough for Adrian to speak.
"Welcome back to America's Late Night Live. Now, we have all just heard that the
gentleman on the stage here, Mr. Edgar Austin Bolton, has actually seen Santa Claus
with his own eyes. In a moment, we're going to bring in a guest who says she might
have more information for us. But right now, let me ask you a few more questions, if you
don't mind, Edgar."
Edgar nodded, but not with the enthusiasm he would have before the commercial.
"Do you really believe that the man you saw on Christmas Day was Santa Claus?"
"Yes, I do."
"And do you really believe that the man you saw him talking to was the Chief
Executive Officer of United Airlines, Mr. Richard Langley?"
"Yes, I do. I gave you a photocopy of what I think is his handwriting on the back of
his card that I found."
Adrian pulled a sheet of paper from her vest and held it out to the audience. "This
is the photocopy he's talking about ladies and gentlemen. We had it analyzed and will
bring you the results later on in tonight's show." Back to Edgar. "What proof do you
have that this actually came from Richard Langley?"
"Proof? I don't know. Go check the hotel where he was staying. I'm sure they can
tell you that he was staying where I said he was."
Adrian again turned to the crowded auditorium. "We did check the motel. And
Richard Langley was staying there, just as Edgar said. He checked in December twenty-
second and checked out quite early on Christmas morning." Back to Edgar. "But Edgar,
we ran into an interesting thing. The hotel staff says you were never a registered
employee of that hotel. Didn't you say you worked there?"
Edgar could only look at Adrian in silence, the weight of the crowd bearing down on
him. This was not going in the direction he wanted it to.
"Edgar, isn't it true that you falsely filled out a work application to get a job at that
hotel, used a fake name, including your six year-old nephew's social security number,
because you have a long police record?"
The crowd started mumbling again and Edgar felt his whole world crashing piece
by piece.
"Edgar, isn't it true that your whole life you've made a living robbing and
blackmailing people?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 63

Edgar finally exploded as the audience oohed and awed. "This has nothing to do
with what I saw! Why are you bringing this up?"
"Edgar, isn't it true that after you found the card and saw Santa and Richard
Langley, you tried to sell the card and your story to several reporters?"
Edgar jumped to his feet. "I don't have to stay here and take this! You have no
right to treat me this way!"
Adrian calmly replied, "You're right, Edgar. You can leave if you'd like. But you
don't have to. We just want people to know the whole story. Besides, I'm sure anybody
in this room would try to sell the story if they had it for their own. I know I would, being
a reporter. I don't think there's anything wrong with that."
Edgar stood for a moment, confused. Then he realized what was going on. He
could leave, all right, but then he wouldn't get the other eight thousand dollars. Damned
if he does, Damned if he don't. He decided he'd rather be Damned rich, and slowly sat
back down.
Edgar finally spoke. "It's true I've had some problems with the law in my past. But
everything I've said here today is the truth."
Adrian nodded. "What did you do with the card? Our guess is that you don’t have
it anymore, that’s why you gave us a photocopy."
Edgar considered a moment. "I sold it."
"To a reporter?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I'd rather not say. Obviously she . . . I mean, whoever I sold it to decided not to
print or talk about it at this time. I would like to respect their feelings."
"Is there anything else you would like to tell us about what happened that day or
after. Any part of your story that you would change, in light of what we have just talked
about?"
"No. Everything I told you was the truth. I saw what I saw and everything
happened exactly the way I said." Edgar peeked over at the lady in the front row and if
eyes could be machine guns, hers were cannons. No drinkie-poos tonight.
Adrian paused and walked back into the audience a little ways. "Ladies and
gentlemen, our next guest talked with Edgar in person a little after noon on the day after
Christmas. Please give a warm welcome to Mrs. Blythe Joyner, a freelance reporter for
the National Inquirer."
Amid applause, a well dressed but homely woman in her fifties stepped out of the
wings and onto the stage. She had a seat next to Edgar, who was now as white as a
ghost. He couldn't believe this was happening.
"Mrs. Joyner, thank you for coming today. You spoke with Edgar about his story?"
"Yes, it was early afternoon on the twenty-sixth, yesterday. I was in the middle of
dinner with my son, I only see him on holidays, when I got the call from my office
regarding Edgar's inquiry. I called him back immediately and went to meet him."
Edgar was sweating bullets. The underarms of his jacket turned dark, but he didn't
notice.
"Now, Mrs. Joyner, is what Edgar told us today the same as what he told you?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"No?"
The quiet of the room was deafening.
Adrian continued. "What did he tell you that he didn't tell us?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 64

And Mrs. Joyner told the audience about how Edgar snuck into Richard's hotel
room, how he ducked behind the couch, how he listened to the phone conversation--
--Edgar dropped his chin on his chest. It was over. He was the laughing stock of
the world and he knew it. He also knew it was going to get worse. Ten minutes later he
proved himself right as Adrian brought out his brother and nephew and they talked
about his sordid past and how they loved him but couldn't associate with him because of
the kind of man he was. They wouldn't press charges regarding his using his nephew's
social security number but they would have to get the young lad a new number so it
wouldn't happen again. Later in the show Adrian brought out Edgar’s aging father and
mother and they cried and moaned for their dear little boy. Edgar just stared at his
shoes, nodding or shaking his head in a stunned coma when asked a question, which
wasn't often now. Next they brought out the manager of the hotel Edgar had worked in,
what seemed years ago now, and the manager said they didn't know if they were going
to press charges or not, but they had beefed up employee screening because of this
incident. Lastly they called in the handwriting expert who, after much professional hem-
hawing, finally declared there was no way to be sure that the handwriting on the card
matched Richard Langley. Especially being a photocopy.
Edgar was being proven a liar, a cheat, a forger and a blackmailer. His story, true
or not, was being torn to shreds. No one believed him now. Everyone was convinced
that he had made the whole thing up.
Long after the show was over, Edgar still sat in his seat on the stage. His mother
and father had tried tearfully to talk with him but he had just waved them away. Same
with his brother. He couldn't look at his nephew. At some point the older man from
America’s Late Night Live who had visited him in Phoenix and given him his first check
showed up and gave him the second check for eight thousand dollars. Edgar had
pocketed it without looking at it. Finally, he was alone in the auditorium, and it was
more comfortable for him when the last lights were shut off, leaving him in the dark.
Edgar suddenly remembered his companion in his pocket and pulled out the tin
flask that held the magic potion. A little drinkie-poo was in order. He popped the cap
and held out the flask to the empty room.
"To fame," Edgar said out loud to no one there, and his answer was the echo of his
own voice reverberating around the room until the sounds, like the dreams of his whole
life, slowly drowned and drifted away.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 65

DECEMBER 28th
95 Hours, 58 Minutes Remaining . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 66

TWELVE-O-TWO a.m. (E.S.T.)

With his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a half chewed Snickers in his
mouth, Jonathan stood on the front lawn of his home and looked at the stretch limousine
parked on the curb. One of the back doors opened and Nicholas stepped out. He waved
at Jonathan and leaned against the back of the limo, his white hair and beard shining
silver under the glow of the halogen street lamps. He wore black engineer boots, blue
jeans, a red flannel shirt and yellow suspenders decorated with little blue smiley faces.
"You ever been in a limousine, Jonathan?"
"Never have."
The trunk magically popped open.
Nicholas motioned. "Put your bag in the back and hop in. We have a full night
ahead."
Jonathan nodded and threw his duffel bag into the trunk, then slipped through the
back door of the limo. Nicholas followed, closed the door behind him and watched
Jonathan look around the interior of the luxury car. White leather stretched across the
seats to the floor which was covered with a spotless, ivory carpet made of wool. A
crystal table stood between the seats that faced each other off which the polished, inlaid
brown mahogany of the side panels glinted. There was the bar, the stereo, the television
and the phone. Whoever was driving was hidden by an opaque divider. Jonathan finally
glanced at Nicholas with a nervous smile.
"Nice."
"Are you uncomfortable?"
"A little. I don't know what to make of all this."
"Why make anything of it. Enjoy it."
The long automobile pulled out on the road and the two men rode in silence a
moment.
Nicholas raised a hairy eyebrow. "You don't enjoy the finer things in life much, do
you, Jonathan."
"I never had much money."
"Besides being too busy with your kids. Making sure they're taken care of. How
much have you gone without for yourself for the sake of the children?"
Jonathan turned to Nicholas with a firm look. "Nothing. I have had everything I
need."
"I believe you. So why isn't okay for you to enjoy this bit of luxury? You've
deserved it."
"I'll try."
"Jonathan." Nicholas lowered his voice. "Jonathan, look at me."
Jonathan moved his gaze towards Nicholas and suddenly all nervousness floated
away as he stared at the thick white hair and beard, the rosy cheeks and finally into the
twinkling eyes that danced with the reflection of passing headlights.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 67

"Jonathan, you've spent your entire life taking care of and making others happy.
For the next twenty-four hours, please honor me by letting me take care of you. And
maybe making you happy."
Jonathan smiled. "All right, old man. Let's see what you got."
Nicholas chuckled and reached for a decanter. "Well, for starters, how about a sip
of the best huckleberry soda in the world?"

The immaculately polished limousine pulled into the loading zone at Fort
Lauderdale/Hollywood International Airport and Nicholas and Jonathan stepped out.
After grabbing the duffel bag from the trunk, the two men walked through the automatic
sliding doors that led to gates one through ten. But inside, Nicholas varied his direction
away from the main gates. Jonathan wondered where they were going but refused to
ask. He'd find out all in good time.
Jonathan watched with an emotion he could not describe as Nicholas stopped
every ten yards to bend down and chat with a young boy or girl that would shout
"Santa!" and run up to him, thanking him for their presents and stockings. He would pat
their heads, give them hugs, occasionally shaking a parent's hand, all in good cheer.
When finally Jonathan and Nicholas were past the main terminal, Jonathan commented
on Nicholas's actions.
"You’re really rather patient about playing the Santa role, aren't you?"
"I've learned to live with it. Traveling at night it's not so intense. During the day
I'm bombarded. But I don't mind being a Santa to these kids one bit. In a way, it's a role
I've learned to accept. I think I play it rather well, don't you think?"
"You do. How do you get any work done?"
Nicholas grinned. "I stay out of the public eye as much as I can."
Nicholas stopped at an unmarked door and motioned Jonathan through. Stepping
in behind him, Nicholas closed the door and headed down a short corridor that let to a
glass doored exit some twenty feet away. Pushing open the glass door, the two men
stepped outside. A young lady appeared out of nowhere and stepped up to Nicholas.
"Your plane is ready, sir. Take off at your request."
Jonathan's eyes opened wide as he peered at the small jet where the young
woman was pointing. It was white and sleek and its nose suddenly plunged to the
ground in a sharp decline, like a bird's bill. Jonathan turned to Nicholas.
"You own a Concord jet?"
"Well, not really. But I do tend to borrow it at times. It belongs to a friend of
mine."
Walking towards the ladder that would take them up to the door of the jet,
Jonathan noticed the small words written across the main body of the plane.
United Airlines.
Using the hand rails as a guide, first Nicholas then Jonathan climbed the steep
stairs and entered just behind the cockpit of the plane. Nicholas stepped aside and
motioned Jonathan towards the back. Jonathan obliged.
The inside was like nothing Jonathan had ever seen in a plane. It was wide and
spacious, decked in thick carpeting and chandelier-like lighting. The seats were few and
huge and comfortable looking. Bookshelves lined one area and an entertainment center
lined another. A man in an apron with a tray at his side stood motionless off to the left.
Jonathan cautiously took a seat. Incredible.
Nicholas sat in the chair in front of Jonathan. "Quite nice, don't you think?"
"I suppose. Reminds me of my apartment."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 68

Nicholas chuckled and the silent waiter moved forward as someone closed the
hatch. Nicholas ordered milk and Oreos. Jonathan just shook his head, and the waiter
disappeared.
As the plane started down the runway, Jonathan looked for his seatbelt. He
glanced up at Nicholas, who shook his head and said, "If we go down in this thing, it
won't matter anyhow."
"Thank you for informing me."
"You're welcome. Now relax."
When the jet finally let the engines go full throttle and pointed its beak skyward,
Jonathan leaned back and enjoyed the sensation. This beat Disney world any day. No
ride there could pull these G's.
A few minutes later, the plane leveled out and Jonathan looked at Nicholas and
laughed. "Now, for me, that definitely was a once in a lifetime experience."
"Do you know that not one Concord jet has ever crashed? Amazing, I think. One of
the fastest planes in the world and not one wreck. Puts a little peace in my mind."
Jonathan looked around the room, then leaned over and gazed out one of the
windows. The lights were far below him and seemed to be moving quickly. Jonathan sat
back up and eyed the mysterious man in front of him. He couldn’t keep quiet any
longer.
"Where are we going, Nicholas?"
"Where?"
"Yes, where. Unless it's a secret."
Nicholas smiled. "Well, it kind of is. But it won't be much longer. At least to you."
"When you're done talking in riddles I'd love to know."
The waiter abruptly appeared, this time with the tray in his hand upright. He took
a glass of milk and a saucer of black and white cookies and laid them on a small, velvet
covered table next to Nicholas. He then lifted a cellular phone off the tray and held it out
to Nicholas.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "For me?"
The waiter nodded. Nicholas took the phone with a quick look at Jonathan and the
silent waiter was gone again. Nicholas held the phone to his ear.
"Yes? . . . Of course, I understand. I told you to call if there were any problems . . .
I see . . . Are you sure about it? . . . No, don't do that. Don't panic. I think you ought to
call the police. Just make sure you or your men don't hang around. We don't want to be
seen in this picture . . . That's right . . . That'll be fine . . . If it doesn't go well, give me a
call back. Otherwise I'll talk to you later on . . . Of course . . . Take care."
Nicholas hung up the phone and started to lay it on the table next to his milk and
Oreos, but the silent waiter was there to retrieve it and make a clean getaway. Jonathan
ventured a question.
"Problems?"
"Nothing that can't be handled."
Nicholas grabbed an Oreo and tore the two sides apart, licking the white filling in
the middle with great delight.
Jonathan pushed. "You sound like you could be with the FBI or CIA or something."
"No, no. A little business problem."
"It's rather late in the evening, or should I say early in the morning, for business."
"Not mine." Nicholas gulped down some milk and grabbed another cookie. "I can't
believe how good these are. No wonder I can't lose any weight. Now, what were you
saying before the phone call?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 69

Jonathan shook his head and chuckled. "It doesn't matter. I just was wondering
where we were going."
"Ah!" Nicholas stood up and walked over to a window near the forward section on
the far side. Leaning over for a moment, he gazed out of the porthole with his back to
Jonathan. Finally, he turned back to Jonathan and straightened his shoulders. He looped
his thumbs under his suspenders and his eyes sparkled.
"I do believe we are heading north."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 70

TWO-TWENTY-NINE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Byron Van Horn quietly slipped through Michelle's front door and stood for a
moment in the dark, listening. No dog. No cats. After his eyes grew accustomed to the
dark he didn't even see any goldfish. Miss Larough apparently wasn't very maternal. He
didn't believe for a second she was lazy.
Tip-toeing over the shag carpet, and while acknowledging the layout of the Santa
Fe styled apartment, Byron thought again of how Edgar was blasted on national
television. Nothing could have been better. Now Byron could come forward with the
whole story and be the real hero. No one would even care about Edgar anymore.
Regardless of whether he was right about some of it or not he was still a criminal. Byron
wasn't. Or, at least, no one knew he was.
Working his way further through the apartment, Byron finally found what he was
looking for. Michelle's Packard Bell computer was sitting on a small desk located in an
alcove just off the dining room. Just for pure curiosity, Byron snuck down the hall and
peered into Michelle's bedroom. She lay on her back, the blanket pulled to her
shoulders, the window above her bed open with moonlight shining through, accenting
Michelle's sharp features. Her soft snore kept pace with the shadow of a swinging tree
branch outside.
Interesting. Byron had no idea she was so good looking.
He backtracked to the dining area and took an empty diskette out of his pocket,
one that he had stopped and purchased earlier today, and fitted the diskette into
Michelle's computer. Turning on the tower, Byron had a seat and waited for the machine
to warm up. When the hard-drive finally loaded, he clicked until he found the main
menu. He chuckled to himself as he spotted the title "SANTA CLAUS" under her word
processor program. Clicking again, Byron read a few paragraphs and knew this was
what he had came for. He quickly saved it on his own disk then shut the computer down
again, slipping the duplicate disk into his breast jacket pocket. He sat in total silence for
a moment, waiting to see if for some reason he had been discovered. All he heard was
the low purr of Michelle's breathing down the hall.
Good news.
Byron stood up and started towards the front door then, as an after-thought,
turned and pushed the office chair back under the desk. No sense taking any chances.
He glided across the room and softly opened and stepped through the front door. As he
pulled it closed behind him he thought he saw something down the hallway out of the
corner of his eye. Staring to his left, he could see nothing. He also saw nothing down
the right hallway except a cactus sitting lonely in a clay pot. But bells were going off in
his head. Something was wrong.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 71

Byron straightened his tie and took off down the right passage, knowing the
elevator was down around the corner. As he turned into the next hallway, this time he
glimpsed a black shoe and the bottom of a blue pant leg disappearing around the far
corner of the next hallway, just past the elevators.
Byron calmed himself. It could have been anybody. Somebody who had just come
out of the elevator going home. A janitor. Maybe a service man.
Byron walked the ten yards to the elevator doors and hit the DOWN button, which lit up
on impact. The hallways around Byron were dead quiet.
Byron jumped nearly an inch off the floor when a loud "Bing!" shattered the almost
surreal silence. His heart was already pumping ferociously before he realized the "Bing"
sound was just the warning indicator that the elevator doors were about to open, which
they now did. Byron stepped in, hit the 1 button, the doors closed and Bryon leaned
against the metal walls in exhaustion. No wonder he didn't do this kind of work
anymore. The paranoia alone was going to kill him.
As the doors opened again, Byron walked out and stopped in the lobby. He looked
around and saw absolutely nothing.
Good news.
Byron nearly skipped through the lobby and fairly threw open the double doors
leading outside, sucking up the fresh desert air with relief.
Out of nowhere, two men appeared in front of Byron just as four police cruisers hit
their sirens and screamed to a stop in front of the apartment building. One of the two
men held up his hand and flashed a badge.
"Wonder if we might have a word with you?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 72

SEVEN-TWELVE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Michelle Larough closed her front door on the last of the police officers and nearly
collapsed against it. For nearly four hours the men in blue had been going through her
apartment, fingerprinting and asking her questions. They made her check the disk that
was found on Byron and it was, indeed, information from her computer. The keys found
on Byron also fit her front door.
Michelle's mind was reeling. The police had apparently pounded on her door for
nearly five minutes before she finally woke up and answered it. When they told her
someone had broken into her apartment she almost didn't believe them. Maybe it was
because she couldn't fathom the thought that someone, especially a man, had watched
her as she lay in her bed sleeping. But the police showed her his fingerprints on the sill
of her bedroom doorway. Then the disk and keys. It was a nightmare come true.
Then they told her who it was. Michelle had known of Byron Van Horn most of her
life. He was almost a hero. Why would a man of such esteem go to such lengths for a
story? But as Michelle sat on her couch watching television, her mind pretty much in a
state of shock while policemen ran all over her apartment, the news broadcasters broke
the story of Byron's crime. They talked about his career and then they talked about
Michelle and how it was she that had scooped the story of Santa Claus. There was no
confirmation at this time, but sources close to the police reported Byron was stealing
more information from Michelle regarding the Santa Claus story.
Then the news started reporting that Byron Van Horn, award winning journalist,
had several lawsuits against him from several small-time reporters who claim Byron had
stolen their stories from them. Some of the suits dated back years, but had been kept
quiet because no one believed that Byron could possibly be guilty. That would all
change now. One newscaster reported that sometime later in the day he would have
one of the reporters, who was accusing Byron of plagiarism, on the show.
Michelle propelled herself off the front door and made her way into the living room
where she now shut off the television. She just couldn't take anymore. Her name and
face, which had gone relatively unnoticed outside her own field, was now being plastered
in the consciousness of everybody in America. Michelle walked over to her dining room
window and parted the shutters. She spotted three television vans parked on the street
out front. So much for her ability to investigate anything anonymously. They would
pounce on her for a comment the second she tried to leave.
Michelle moved her eyes upward and gazed at the warm, red sliver of sun that was
showing over the horizon. Here it was, morning, and she had had probably two hours
worth of sleep. And the real truth was, she had no idea how to continue her
investigation.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 73

Could it be coincidence that all those companies were innocently hired by the
same conglomerate that was posing as Santa Claus? That all of them just happen to
start with the name United? No. The information that she found at the library confirmed
it in her mind. It was too big a stretch. Also, even though Edgar's credibility had been
destroyed, she believed his story.
The sun poked its head a little higher into the Arizona sky and Michelle watched
the long shadows of night start their disappearing act, replaced by lighter shades of gray
and gold. Traffic started picking up. A garbage truck did its stop and go, rumbling like a
beast woken too early. Restaurants were opening their doors and Gas stations were
turning on their OPEN signs. An old man was walking a dog twice his size, gripping the
leash with both hands as the hound sniffed and snorted for some unseen glory . A
couple sat at a park bench across the street, holding hands, the occasional kiss.
When was the last time Michelle had a kiss? She couldn't remember. Maybe she
didn't want to remember. Her last few with Ronald had not been great. Not good at all,
in fact.
The couple across the street got up from the bench and vanished around the
corner of a convenience store. Michelle closed the shutters and submerged herself back
into the gloom of her unnatural light. Life was not going where she expected it. Her
story was not going where she wanted it. Her father felt like a stranger. She had no real
friends. People were now breaking into her apartment. And her loneliness was
becoming a dull, all-consuming ache in her heart.
She had to do something to snap out of her depression.
Michelle walked over to her computer table and picked up her laser printed notes.
She shook her head. All Byron had to do was look in her tray and he would have found
her typed briefs all nice and neat. But his fingerprints weren't on her notes.
Flipping to the back pages, Michelle found the page that had the information she
last dug up at the library from the ‘Who's Who’ book. She found the name of the CEO of
United Artists, Jeanette Sommersby. Next to it was listed the name of her husband,
Roland Osborne . . . who also just happened to be the Chief Executive Officer of United
Van Lines.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 74

SEVEN a.m. (P.S.T.)

Mrs. Gray, known as Jeanette Sommersby by most, sat down on the bed and
waved a cup of hot coffee around her sleeping husband's nose. He finally opened one
eye and mumbled, "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because it's our last day together and you're not going to sleep it away. I'm not
going to see you again for three whole days. What’s wrong, don't you like me anymore?"
Roland Osborne smiled and sat up, taking the proffered coffee mug and kissing his
wife on the cheek. "I like you. When you're nice, like now, I even love you."
"How romantic. How about I wear a veil and walk two steps behind you
everywhere you go."
"Mm. No good. The veil would have to go. I want people to know how beautiful
you are."
Jeanette smiled and took a piece of paper out of her robe. She waved it in the air
then threw it on Roland's chest. "From Brown. It was quite a night last night."
Roland blew at his hot coffee while he read. After a few minutes he laid the paper
down and watched his wife brush her hair. She didn't look tough enough to run a movie
studio, but Roland knew she was. He also knew she left her work behind her. What little
time they did spend together was his favorite in the world. She was his guiding light.
Richard finally spoke. "So Isaiah saved us again, eh? My God, what would we do
without that man?"
"Hard to say." Jeanette moved the brush to her left hand. "The only reason we
were onto Edgar so fast was Brown's quick reaction in Phoenix. This time it was his
surveillance on Michelle. In both cases, what could have been a fiasco turned instead
into nothing. What happened to Edgar on that television program was a miracle."
"Some luck in it, that's for sure. God bless the talk show."
Jeanette laughed, set down her brush and went over to her husband. He laid down
his coffee and took her in his arms. They held each other in silence a moment, savoring
their closeness. The morning light radiated throughout the room, the smell of winter
permeating the thick walls. Jeanette lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Do you think the time is near."
Roland nodded. "He said it was. I don't really know what he means, but I believe
its going to happen. He's never lied to us before."
"Will everything change?"
"Some things. So many years have been spent. But like all things, time has its
way with us. And there is a plan for all of us. There always has been. Sometimes we
don't know the outcome of that plan, but it comes. We don't have any choice. Just
faith."
"Thank you for clearing that up."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 75

This time Roland chuckled and rolled his wife over so they were both side by side,
facing each other. Richard ran his hand through her long hair and said, "Whatever
Nicholas is planning is okay with me. As long as you're at my side."
Jeanette touched her husband's cheek and whispered into his ear, "I will always be
at your side.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 76

THREE-FOURTEEN p.m. (U.T.C.)

"That's a lot of ice."


Jonathan gazed at the miles and miles of whiteness that stretched below, the white
sun about even with the height of the jet as it careened through the northern sky.
Turning from the window, Jonathan looked at Nicholas, who had just finished a Bavarian
cream filled croissant for breakfast.
"That's a lot of ice, Nicholas."
Nicholas licked his fingers. "Sure is. Cold ice, too. You wouldn't want to be out
there, I can guarantee."
"Is there a reason why we're flying so low?"
"Well, the weather out here's kind’a tricky. Sometimes we fly low just to stay out
of the nastier turbulence. I don't think that's the case, this time. Trip’s been pretty
steady. I think we're about there."
"There?"
"Where we're going."
"I see."
Jonathan sighed and sat back in his chair. He appraised the large gentleman
sitting in front of him for the tenth time that night. Nicholas just looked back at him with
a grin on his face.
"Nicholas, are you going to tell me we're going to the North Pole?"
"I was going to. Guess I don't have to now."
"That's what I thought you'd say. I'm getting the feeling you're more into this
Santa thing than you've been saying."
"I have to admit, it's a full time thing for me at this point."
"Aren't you carrying it a bit far? I mean, the North Pole?"
"Isn't that where Santa lives?"
"In stories. No sane person would ever consider this . . . ," Jonathan waved a hand
at the window and the ice beyond, " . . . even remotely inhabitable."
Nicholas rubbed his beard and nodded. "Could be. But is Santa sane?"
The look Jonathan gave made Nicholas roar with laughter. Two electronic beeps
suddenly filled the cabin.
"Better hold on, young man, I think we're going down."
"Down?" Jonathan peered again out the window, then pressed his face to the glass
and looked forward. As the plane headed lower, all Jonathan could see was more ice.
"What are we going to do, land on an iceberg?"
Nicholas remained silent as Jonathan kept his cheek against the window,
desperately looking for what the jet was landing on. Lower and lower the plane
descended until now it was only a few yards from the earth's cold surface. Suddenly,
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 77

just in front of the nose of the plane, a slate of ice lifted and a gaping black hole
appeared. A moment later, Jonathan, who for a second squinted his eyes and waited for
the huge crash that was most assuredly going to happen, was immersed in blackness.
The next moment Jonathan was looking at nothing but a white streak that ran parallel
with his view out the window. As the jet's wheels hit the ground, Jonathan realized the
white streak was lights lining the interior of whatever it was they had landed in. The
plane started to slow and Jonathan could now see they were running down a tremendous
cavern, the lighting getting brighter the further in they got. The walls, floor and ceiling
were all made of what appeared to be metal. Only a wide red streak ran the length of
the floor, and as the plane taxied into a chamber the size of a football field, the red
stripe ended in a circle. The jet parked in the middle of it.
Jonathan turned back to Nicholas, collapsing in his seat. "This isn't happening."
"Of course not. We're really back in Florida and I've hypnotized you. Now, can you
bark like a dog?"
"I'm serious. The cost alone . . . !"
"Quite extensive, financially. But with all the ice movement we had to be sure it
would last. Metal was the only thing durable enough. I'm quite pleased with the result,
actually."
Jonathan heard a noise and looked one more time out the window. A small person
in a green suit was pushing a ladder over to the jet's doorway. Jonathan blinked and
stared back at Nicholas. "I suppose that's an elf."
Nicholas stood up, motioned Jonathan forward with him, and they walked forward
to the hatch. "What exactly is an elf, Jonathan?"
"Small creatures. Mischievous, playful, usually quite emotional."
Nicholas threw open the door. "That's interesting. Sounds remarkably like a child
to me." Nicholas stepped out onto the ladder and yelled down at the boy below him.
"Billy! How goes it, young man?"
The boy smiled and gave Nicholas a salute. "Fine, sir. Welcome home."
Their voices echoed in the huge room as did Nicholas's and Jonathan's footsteps as
they scooted down the ladder. They landed next to the boy in green.
"Billy, this is Jonathan. He's my guest."
Billy smiled, a small boy with short brown hair. "Nice to meet you, sir. Do you
have any luggage?"
"No, just my duffel bag here. I'll carry it."
"Yes, sir. This way, then."
The three of them walked towards a waiting golf-cart that sat at the edge of the
room. Nicholas and Jonathan crawled in back while Billy got behind the driver's seat, but
before they began moving Nicholas put his hand warmly on the young boy in front of
him. "Billy, how did your science test go on the twenty-first?"
Billy lowered his eyes. "Not very well, sir. I should have studied harder."
"Will you study more next time?"
Billy looked up with bright eyes. "Yes, sir. I won't make the same mistake."
"That's all a person can do in life, Billy. Live and learn, try and do better the next
time round." Nicholas turned to Jonathan as Billy started the cart down a hallway some
ten yards high and at least half that wide. "Billy's family works down in section G."
"Section G?"
"Yes. During off-hours Billy does some work with the aircraft. That's where his
interests lie. We try and have most of the kids do small jobs in the field they're most
interested in."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 78

"Most of the kids? There's more?"


"My gosh, yes. I'll show you around later. Right now I'm going to take you to my
home."
"You live here?"
"Of course."
Jonathan, stunned, sat back and listened to the dull whine of the cart as it made its
way down the corridor. Every hundred feet or so they would pass a gigantic door with a
huge letter printed on it in red, probably twenty-five foot square. Jonathan finally
pointed at one that had a gigantic G written on it.
Nicholas said, "Yes, Jonathan. Section G. Billy's parents work there."
Jonathan nodded, then saw the end of the corridor was near. The cart pulled up to
what appeared to be an elevator. The three males jumped down and Billy hit a button.
There was only one.
"How many people live here, Nicholas?"
Nicholas pursed his lower lip and looked at the ceiling, then grabbed his
suspenders and he looked at the floor. The elevator doors, instead of pinging, suddenly
broke into a medley of Jingle Bells as they slid open. Nicholas motioned Jonathan inside
then stepped in behind him. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Jonathan and
answered his question.
"Over ten thousand children and eighteen thousand adults live with me down here,
Jonathan. But let's keep that a secret, eh?"
Nicholas's booming laughter echoed through the now empty corridors, save for a
little green elf, as the elevator doors glided shut before him and Jonathan.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 79

NINE-FIFTY-FIVE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Edgar Austin Bolton crawled out of bed, reached for the Jack Daniels on his dresser
and took a couple of nice, long hits. He let the burning sensation in his stomach subside
then looked at the bottle in his hand. Breakfast of champions. He had forsaken the
metal flask some time ago.
Edgar stumbled into the living room of his apartment and flopped down on the
couch, a moment later casually removing the Cracker Jack box from beneath his thighs
and throwing it across the room. Dinner in a box. Breakfast in a bottle. Twentieth
century was a great time to be alive.
A hummingbird stopped in front of Edgar's window, took a look at the mess inside
and flew off. Even a nest had some sense of order. Edgar's place looked like it had been
hit by a hurricane.
Since the night of the television show, Edgar had done nothing. He had boarded a
plane, drank, grabbed a taxi, drank, stopped by the bank to deposit his check, drank and
arrived home, deciding at that time to drink some more. He had not cleaned, eaten a
decent meal or even watched television with the exception of the news earlier this
morning. He just sat in his chair, drank, and finally, some time this morning, must have
found his way into his bedroom and passed out.
Edgar fished his checkbook off the coffee table to his right, hidden just under a pair
of socks, and focused on the little print in the back of the checkbook. Fifteen thousand,
seven hundred, forty-four dollars and twenty-one cents. More money than he had ever
had in his life.
Only now he didn't have a life.
For years he had dreamed of glory, of richness and fame. He wanted to be liked
and respected. Well, he had gotten the fame, but none of the rest. Everybody hated
him. He was the world's biggest loser. His chance of ever having respectability was
gone forever.
And now he had no idea what to do with his life. Everything seemed so pointless.
Edgar took another drink, not bothering to wipe the remnants from his lips. A man
in his position need not bother.
Someone knocked on Edgar's door.
Edgar rolled his eyes at his door and wondered who was bothering him. Realizing
it was probably the landlord, and wouldn't he be surprised when he was handed a check,
Edgar grunted and lifted his tiny body towards the door. He flung it open, momentarily
blinded by the morning light. Then the light was blocked by something large. Very
large. And it was a man.
Byron Van Horn stepped inside and closed the door behind him without being
asked. He fingered Edgar aside and walked into the living room, eyeballing the trash
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 80

and clothes strewn about without saying a word. Edgar finally smiled and took a drag off
his bottle.
"Well, if it isn't the big reporter man. Did you change your mind? You want to buy
my story now?" Edgar's cackle was followed by a lot of coughing. Byron turned and
frowned. "I guess we're brothers of a kind now, Edgar."
"What's that mean?"
"Haven't you heard?
"Heard what? That your whole career is down the drain? No, I haven't heard a
word." Edgar cackled again and sprawled out on the couch.
Byron wiped some crumbs off an easy chair and sat down. " I am now the most
famous reporter in the world. Unfortunately, I'm famous for being a thief. That kind of
puts you and I in the same boat now, doesn't it?"
Edgar took a minute, his mind swimming with booze. He finally laughed. "Big man
reporter's down the tube, huh? Serves you right, you over-sized punk. You stole from
me, too. That's what you get." Edgar rolled himself into a sitting position. "Here we are,
two men at their bottom. That why you came over? Share our misery?"
"No it isn't."
Byron watched Edgar take another swig from his bottle. "I think you're drinking
too much, Edgar."
"Ask me next if I care what you or anybody thinks. You want a drink?"
Byron shook his head, no. He got up and stood next to the window, then said, "I
have nothing to lose at this point. My career, as I've known it, is over. But as bad as I
feel, for some reason I believe it was all meant to be. Like it's right that it ended this
way. I've never liked deception. Not really. And now that it's all in the open I don't have
to hide anymore. In a way, it's like I'm a free man for the first time since I was in
college."
"Hold on while I grab my hanky."
Byron turned back to Edgar. "There must be something you haven't told anybody
about what you saw that day. You ended up telling so many tall-tales that something
must have been overlooked. Some small detail that you think was insignificant."
"Don't tell me you're going to still try and follow this story?"
"Why not? But I'll do it for real this time. Now tell me what you heard on the
phone that day, when you were hiding behind the couch."
"I told you. First he made sure the line was clear, then he got directions to meet
Santa. That's it."
"There must have been something else. Think."
"Nope. Well, I told you he mentioned that Mr. Red fellow."
"What about him?"
"Let's see . . . Oh, he said Mr. Red was sending over a special truck to pick up the
overnight deliveries."
"Special truck."
Byron paced the floor then stopped suddenly. "Edgar, you saw Richard Langley
carry his overnight packages outside?"
"Yes."
"What kind of packaging were they in?"
"What?"
"The packaging. What company was he sending the packages with?"
"Oh." Edgar took another drink and propped his feet up on the ottoman, thinking
back. "They were brown. Yeah, they were UPS. They were UPS overnight envelopes."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 81

Byron nodded again. "Of course. UPS is the company that delivered all of Santa's
packages. They've already admitted it. But if what you're saying is true--"
"--I have no reason to lie at this point."
"Then what you heard was somebody at UPS doing a little more than a regular
delivery. No one picks up packages on Christmas Day. Yet, somehow, somebody sent
over a special UPS truck to pick up Richard Langley's packages. All in the name of Santa
Claus."
Byron sat back down on the easy chair and put his chin in his hands as Edgar
watched him in drunken fascination.
Byron continued. "And we know that Richard Langley works for United Airlines."
Edgar burped and waited some more. Suddenly, Byron looked at Edgar with a
huge grin.
"Hey!"
"What?"
"Where does Michelle work?"
"Nowhere. She's free lance."
"Not now. I mean when her story on Santa broke."
"I don't know."
"Michelle works for United Press Syndicate."
"So?"
"And do you know who the Chief Executive Officer of United Press Syndicate is?"
"Who cares?"
"Michelle's dad." Byron practically jumped to his feet. "Isn't it amazing, that the
woman who broke the story on Santa Claus just happens to work for her father, who just
happens to be Chief Executive Officer of a company called United Press Syndicate, which
just happens to start with the same name as United Parcel Service and United Airlines,
two companies we know for sure who were involved with the Santa thing?"
Edgar closed his eyes. His head was swimming twice as fast as it was a few
minutes ago as he tried to stay with Byron's reasoning. Liquor and analytical thinking
didn't seem to go well together.
Byron nodded, his eyes ablaze with excitement. "I personally think it's an
incredible coincidence. Which leads to another thought."
Edgar moaned.
"Thank you, Edgar. You've been a big help."
Byron carried his large frame to the door and let himself out. Just as he was about
to close the door he paused for a final comment.
"You drink too much, Edgar."
With that, Byron shut the door and was gone.
Edgar nodded and took another drink. Then he forgot about Byron and thought for
a moment about Michelle. Good ol' Michelle. Michelle who was sitting on top of the
world. Michelle who told him to his face that he was basically worth nothing. Michelle,
whose father happened to be a very, very rich man, something Edgar hadn't known
before.
Taking another sip, and just before he passed out, Edgar had another thought.
Maybe there was more than one way to be famous . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 82

TWO-SIXTEEN p.m. (C.S.T.)

Isaiah Brown gazed out the tinted plate-glass window of his office at the afternoon
skyline of Houston. Rain was falling and traffic below reacted appropriately. It was a
badly needed rain for the region, but the mood Isaiah was in didn't get any better with
this sort of weather. This Christmas had not been the best for him.
The phone of his desk beeped and his secretary's voice filled the empty room.
"Mr. Joseph Larough is on hold, Mr. Brown."
"Thank you, Jeannie, I'll take it. By the way, what are you doing here? I thought
this was Gina’s shift?"
“She couldn’t make it, Isaiah. I told her I’d cover for her.”
“It seems like you’re always covering for somebody, Jeannie. Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll put Mr. Larough through.”
Isaiah walked over and hit the "Hands Free" button on his phone.
"How you doing, Joe?"
"Better, I guess. I was sure scared for a while."
"Don't blame you."
"Thanks for keeping me posted. What made you decide to keep an eye on
Michelle?"
"The same reason I keep an eye on everybody involved, Joe. When she wrote that
story, considering her relatives, she became part of it. I had a feeling there were some
people out there who might go the extra mile for a story like this."
"Thank God for your feelings. You've been saving all our necks the last few days."
"It's my job."
"I know. But I wish there was something more I could do to help protect Michelle.
My gosh, a man breaking into her apartment. It makes me sick."
"Your job of protecting her ended when she moved out of your house, Joe."
"So how come it's okay for you?"
"Because it is my job."
Both men chuckled for a minute.
"You all right, Isaiah? You sound kind of funny."
“I'm fine."
"You're fine? Now I know something's wrong."
Isaiah laughed and sat back in his office chair. "I'm too close to you, Joe. Just
feeling out of sorts. Like I work too much. Like maybe I need to lighten up a little."
"Nicholas's been saying that to you for years."
"Maybe now I'm starting to hear him. Who knows. Nicholas said some things were
going to change. Maybe it's time for me to change, too."
"You'll be all right, Isaiah. You need anything, let me know."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 83

"I will. By the way, your daughter sold her latest article."
"She did? When?"
"Earlier today. She finagled a double exclusive with the L.A. Times and New York
Times. It'll be out tomorrow."
"What'd you do, tap her phone?"
"No, nothing like that. A couple of couriers showed up at her apartment to have
Michelle sign for the articles. We followed them and backtracked. When the trail ended
at the newspapers, well, you know how much people like to talk at a newspaper office.
Especially the young reporters trying to impress somebody."
"It's about time. I wondered if Michelle would ever contact anybody."
"You haven't talked to her, have you?"
"No."
Isaiah considered his friend's tone of voice. "You think she knows, don't you, Joe."
"I do. And I think she doesn't know what to think of me. And I don't have a clue
what I'm supposed to do. When she first broke the story I talked with Nicholas about it.
He said I could tell her."
"But?"
"It just doesn't seem right. It's her first real story. I think she needs to follow it
through. I don't know. So much going on. Just hope I'm doing the right things."
"Don't we all?
"I suppose. You going to keep an eye on Michelle?"
"Yes. But I think she's going mobile."
"What do you mean?"
"Something one of the couriers said.”
"And that was?"
"When Michelle opened her front door and was signing the documents, the courier
said he saw suitcases sitting around her living room, open and half packed. I think she's
about to take a little trip."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 84

FOUR-FORTY-ONE p.m. (M.S.T.)

Michelle snapped closed the last of her luggage and sat it by the front door with
the others. Her toiletries were still in the bathroom along with one change of clothing
that she would wear tomorrow. Her memories in this apartment weren't exactly the
best. It was time to get on her feet and get going. The only damper to her decision was
she had no idea where she was going.
Michelle went into her bedroom and sprawled out on top of the covers of her mini-
four poster bed. She had the rest of the day to consider what course of action she
should take in the morning. Whatever it was, it better be good. The L.A. and New York
Times had already agreed to purchase her follow up stories, but she knew they’d pass in
a second if her new articles didn't contain something absolutely new. Like her ones did
earlier today.
Before someone else discovered it, Michelle finally relinquished the information
that nearly half of the toys given out over Christmas by Santa Claus were manufactured
by an unknown entity. She not only detailed what kinds, but also asked that if anyone
had any knowledge as to the maker of such toys, or of any models she hadn't listed, to
please write to her at her e-mail address or personal mailbox. The discovery of an
unknown manufacturer was enough alone to make the newspapers pay through the roof
for her story.
But Michelle also added Edgar's story, and the fact that she had bought what
information he had. She felt it was the least she could do, Edgar's motives non-
withstanding, to lessen the pummeling that Edgar had taken on television. He may have
lied about a lot of things, but she didn't think he lied about what he saw that day. So,
Michelle told about the card, the writing on the back, including a photograph of the card
and the back of it, and of Edgar's eyewitness accounting of what he saw. Michelle had
paid a thousand dollars for the information, she might as well use it.
She also wrote of how big of a coincidence it was that United Parcel Service had
delivered the packages for Santa Claus and United Airlines, besides the CEO being seen
by Edgar, was also the airline carrier for UPS's extra cargo. It seemed too much a
coincidence for there not to be a connection. Like the old saying goes, where there's
smoke, there's fire.
What Michelle did not write about were the leads she had that connected the other
companies. There still was not enough proof, and she didn't want a hundred reporters
getting in her way as she tried to find evidence that definitively linked all companies
together. United Way, United Van Lines, and United Artists were all tied into this
somehow. Now it was time to find out how.
Michelle let her thoughts drift again to her father. Was his company, United Press
Syndicate, involved? Had he set her up with the story? Or was it just pure chance that
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 85

she was in the right place at the right time? Maybe his company wasn't involved at all.
Maybe it was just Michelle's fanciful thinking. But if it was, why had her father not even
tried to contact her with all that had been going on? Especially with the national news
that Byron had broken into her apartment. No, it wasn't like her father. Something was
amiss. The extent of it she didn't know. But she had every intention of finding out.
Anger for her father started swelling inside Michelle and for his, and her, sake she willed
her mind to think of other things.
Michelle urged her tired body off the bed and went into the kitchen for a bite to
eat. If she couldn't sleep, at least she could fill her stomach. She opened the fridge and
considered the alternatives. Tuna salad. Sauteed Mushrooms. Baked chicken in a
lemon sauce. She finally closed the refrigerator, grabbed a granola bar and went back
into the bedroom. Her three hours of sleep were wreaking havoc on her body but she'd
catch up tonight. If only she knew what course of action she should take tomorrow.
Sheila Armstrong worked for United Way and lived in the south-east. Richard
Langley at United Airlines lived in New York. Jeanette Sommersby lived in Los Angeles
and her husband, Roland Osborne, lived in Seattle. Stephen Player of United Parcel
Service lived in Chicago. If, indeed, these entities were all working together, gosh knows
how they coordinated everything, being that they all lived so far from each other. And
these weren't exactly mundane jobs. These people had jobs that dictated enormous
pressure and responsibility.
Michelle shook her head. Maybe the whole thing was crazy. She must be nuts to
think that something this huge, let alone the plausibility of it all, could really be
happening. Michelle threw the granola wrapper on her night stand and rolled over on
her side, gazing through her window at the sky that now beheld a collection of dark
clouds. In the distance she could hear the after effects of an electrical storm. Arizona
was finally going to get another taste of winter.
Suddenly, Michelle started sobbing. It came out of nowhere, thoughts of
nothingness floating through her mind. That all her dreams of success would somehow
be different than what they were. She had imagined she would be so happy, on top of
the world with a glass of Champagne in her hand.
Instead, she lay exhausted on her bed on a rainy day . . .
. . . Alone.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 86

THREE-FORTY-NINE p.m. (U.T.C.)

When the elevator doors had opened, Jonathan could only stand there with his jaw
practically resting on the ground. It was the last thing he would have ever expected to
see.
Before him lay an entire city.
Children were running down snowy wooden sidewalks which paralleled the perfect
rows of storefronts that went off in various directions. Horse drawn carriages carried
packages and people alike down cobblestone streets. Mothers and fathers with their
infants strolled unhurriedly from shop to shop, laughing, talking with others as they
passed. A man in front of a saddle shop swiped the snow back from his entryway with a
shovel while across the street a woman and two little girls loaded the wagon of another
woman with bags of flour, sugar and other household supplies. To Jonathan's left he
witnessed a one-man band playing to an audience of all ages in front of a music store. A
diner on the corner was serving large mugs of hot drinks to merry customers that sat
around outside tables overlooking a small ice-skating rink that was filled to capacity with
jubilant skaters. But even with all this in front of him, it was what Jonathan saw in the
background that made everything seem so unreal.
Jonathan knew that the elevator had gone down. Yet in the distance, beyond the
stores and the small houses out-skirting the city, rested rolling hills and mountains,
green and white in all their majesty. Jonathan could see the small, snaking roads that
cut up their sides, leading to who knew where.
Jonathan had finally turned to Nicholas, who stood gazing at Jonathan in thoughtful
silence. A gentle snow started falling around them.
"Welcome to where I live, Jonathan."
"This can't be real. What have you done?"
"You've seen those stadium domes before, haven't you? Well, this is just a little
variation from that. We can dictate what sort of weather we want to have in any given
season. Keeps a realistic sense of time."
"You can't do this."
"I can't?"
"It's not possible. The financial burden alone . . . "
"Stop talking nonsense, Jonathan. Let me show you around."
Nicholas and Jonathan moved on through the city, stopping so Nicholas could chat
with this person or that. He seemed to know everyone by name, especially the children.
They stopped at a bicycle shop and Nicholas spent fifteen minutes, after rolling up his
sleeves, helping the store owner dig a wrenched chain out of the gears of an old
Schwinn. After slipping on a new chain, the owner slapped Nicholas on the back and the
two of them talked of the man's wife and the upcoming birth of their next child.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 87

They stopped at a bakery, where the shopkeeper's wife pulled Nicholas aside and
showed him a freshly baked tray of hot, fruit-filled donuts. Nicholas tried to turn the
woman down but could not; his appetite and love for good food eventually won out and
he devoured three of the donuts while Jonathan and the woman looked on, the woman
beaming from ear to ear.
The two men stopped at a road-side puppet show where Nicholas got down and sat
with the rest of the children as they laughed, gasped and yelled at the two sock-puppets
that played and ridiculed each other. When the puppets finally finished and bowed and a
curtain fell before them, the children and Nicholas all stood and applauded. Nicholas
patted each of their heads before the kids all headed out in different directions.
Jonathan and Nicholas had finally stopped at a tall red building on the edge of
town, a decorative sign in gold running its width. Jonathan couldn't help but smile as he
looked at the words.
Nicholas's United Savings & Loan.
"This is the only business I own, Jonathan. It is the only business I want to own."
"There's big money in banking."
"Yes, but that's not why. It's more of a control issue. If I oversee all the money
that comes into this place, then I can make sure that it is not abused."
Jonathan looked around again at the city, the homes and the countryside. The
sheer expense was more than he could comprehend and he glanced again at his
newfound friend with the white beard.
"And what is this place, Nicholas? Why have you created this?"
"All for a reason. Good reasons, I should think. And I could never have done this
alone. Many people are responsible for this community and what it stands for."
"And what does it stand for?"
Nicholas put his arm around Jonathan and started leading him away.
"Love, Jonathan. Love."

Now, the two men stood in a quiet, residential street before a large, but not
extravagant, red brick two-story home. The pointed roof was made of who knew what as
it was covered with two feet of snow, but it was the windows that gained most of
Jonathan’s attention. Every window in the home, set five feet apart, was a picture
window. Not one small window appeared on the exterior of the house. Drapes
prevented Jonathan, and assumingly others walking by, from seeing inside. Nicholas
pointed. "This is my home."
"It's not what I expected. I thought maybe you had a castle on one of those
mountain tops."
"No, no, not me. Way too extravagant. In fact, this house is exactly how I like to
live. It's just right. Come, let's go inside."
They tromped up the steps and entered a small porch where they took off their
shoes and shook the snow from their shirts. Nicholas handed Jonathan some slippers,
like the ones he himself had just put on, and then the two of them stepped into the
house.
Jonathan was immediately bombarded with not only a sense of comfort and
warmth, but also with the smell of good things cooking. Not new smells, but ones of
recent past that all seemed to blend together to create an embodiment of richness that
permeated the entire surroundings. The inside of the house was finished in white pine
but in polished form, the interior lights reflecting off the walls in hazy colors of red and
yellow. The den they were standing in was decorated with a simple couch and loveseat,
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 88

both covered in thick, multi-colored blankets. Decoupages decorated the walls. Deep
throw rugs covered the hard wood floors of oak.
But it was the toys that made Jonathan smile.
They were everywhere and of every kind.
Shelf after shelf lined all walls that Jonathan could see. Dolls and cars and trains
and balls were stacked not only on the shelves but were laying around on the couches,
chairs, coffee tables and the floors. Race car kits, hand held video games, plastic
animals and rubber human beings were littered in corners, on the fireplace and even on
the sills of the doorways. There was hardly one spot that Jonathan could see that wasn't
adorned by a plaything of some sort.
Jonathan teased, "Are you having a hard time putting your childhood behind you,
Nicholas?"
Nicholas chuckled. "I like to test the toys myself. Make sure they're sturdy and
not dangerous."
"Test them?"
"Yes. These are ours. We make them."
"You make toys?"
"Of course."
Jonathan put a hand to his face and rubbed his forehead. "This is just too much.
You have actually made the myth of Santa Claus a reality. Jonathan’s hand stops on his
forehead and his look at Nicholas as if for the first time. You are the man behind what
happened in Arizona. My God, Nicholas, you are Santa Claus."
"I'm trying. Let's step into the parlor."
The two men left the den and stepped into a bigger room that was surrounded by
bookshelves and filled with large leather chairs. As Jonathan moved deeper into the
room he was surprised to see an older woman get up from one of the chairs and look
their way. She too had white hair, and wore a simple dress with an apron tied loosely
around her waist. She smiled broadly at Jonathan's raised eyebrows.
"I suppose Nicholas didn't mention me?" the lady said.
"My apologies. Jonathan, please meet my wife, Margaret."
Jonathan's eyes widened even more as he looked first at Margaret then at
Nicholas. "Your wife?"
"Yes. Is it so surprising that I might be married?"
"No, not really. You just never said anything."
Nicholas walked over and gave his wife a hug, then she put a hand on his cheek.
"You didn't sleep last night, did you, Nicholas?"
"No, Maggie. But I'm so happy. Wondrously happy."
Margaret turned back to Jonathan and stepped a little nearer. "And you are
Jonathan Sinclair?"
"Yes. Do you know me?"
"I . . . uh . . . "
Suddenly, Margaret looked as if she might faint, and Jonathan grabbed one arm as
Nicholas grabbed another. They slowly lowered Margaret down onto one of the leather
chairs.
"Maggie, are you okay?"
Margaret looked at her husband and nodded with a slight grin. "I'll be fine."
Nicholas nodded, a somewhat grim look on his face. "Sit down, Jonathan."
Jonathan sat slowly on a chair facing the old couple. Both of them were now
looking at the floor.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 89

"What's wrong?" Jonathan asked.


Margaret raised her eyes to Jonathan. "There's something Nicholas hasn't told
you, Jonathan."
"Yes?"
Nicholas sat down on the arm of the chair beside his wife and took her hand. Then
he turned his gaze at Jonathan. He started to open his mouth, then stopped. With effort,
he finally spoke. "I'm afraid I've had an ulterior motive for bringing you here."
“I'm not surprised. I've been going crazy trying to figure out why you're showing
me all this."
Nicholas nodded. "For good reason, I assure you. I've just not known how to bring
it up."
"Bring what up?"
Nicholas got up and started winding a grandfather clock that sat majestically in
one corner of the room. "Have you ever wondered about your parents, Jonathan?"
"Of course. Every orphan does." Jonathan was suddenly still. The room was quiet
for a moment except for the sound of the gears of the clock. "Is this about my parents?"
Margaret spoke up. "Yes, it is. We know who they are."
Jonathan leaned forward. "You knew my parents? Wait a second. You said are,
not were."
Nicholas finally turned around and faced Jonathan. "Yes, they are alive."
Nicholas and Margaret watched Jonathan as his face suddenly radiated with
childlike desire, a vulnerability of dreams long forgotten. Nicholas walked back over and
stared down at the young man before him.
"And Jonathan, I've brought you here to meet them."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 90

DECEMBER 29th
65 Hours, 49 Minutes Remaining . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 91

SIX-ELEVEN a.m. (M.S.T.)

The rain was coming down in droves as Edgar made his way through the dark
streets of old, downtown Phoenix. Morning had arrived a few hours ago but the cloud
cover and the towering buildings around him made it almost seem like night. He carried
no umbrella and, in fact, almost didn't notice the wetness around him. He had other
things on his mind.
Edgar took another hit from his freshly filled metal flask and finally stopped in front
of a twenty-story high-rise. He looked up into the sky, trying to see the top of the
building, but couldn't. Too far. Too dark. Oh, well. Didn't matter. His eyes moved
lower to the part of the building he could see, and for a moment he stared in awe at the
grand, monolithic design in front of him. Then his eyes adjusted to the mist and he was
reminded of himself: ruining, dying, a shadow of its former self. Standing for no good
reason.
Edgar walked passed the "CONDEMNED" sign, through a tattered fence and
entered the building through a long ago busted out doorway. He knew this building well,
almost a home-away-from-home. Whenever he had run out of money or couldn't find a
place to stay he would always come here. Nobody bothered him. Nobody asked for
money. It was a space he could always rely on.
Today, he would visit it one last time.
Edgar made his way through the rubble, old beer cans and wine bottles and found
the staircase leading upward. The elevator had been boarded up a long time ago and
without electricity it was useless anyhow. The building was so dilapidated that most of
the wall on the first floor along the staircase had fallen away, leaving only a skeleton of
concrete-metal steps leading upward. Edgar picked his way, step by step, and headed
towards the second floor. On the second flight his foot broke through a step and he
skinned his knee. Didn't matter. Onward. Upward.
As he climbed the steps he felt his pockets, making sure he had everything he
needed. His flask, of course, a new cigar, several sheets of notepaper that he had
written on early this morning and matches. His new cellular phone was clipped to his
belt. He was ready. Prepared.
Flight after flight Edgar climbed, fighting constantly the decay of the building,
knowing that it should have been torn down years ago. He had heard stories of children
getting hurt in places like this. But not this one. If they had, it would have been torn
down. It was Edgar's blessing that it wasn't.
He finally made it to the top floor, jumping a span of almost four feet of missing
flooring to land on what used to be the penthouse suite. The floor was wide and open
and had a specially made balcony that overlooked the city and jutted out an extra ten
feet more than the smaller balconies on the floors below. Old boxes, papers and waste
lay strewn around and Edgar smiled as he pondered the remnants of window shades and
drywall that hung everywhere. Talk about a fire hazard. He walked over and through
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 92

where the sliding glass doors used to be that led to the balcony and peered out over the
edge to the ground below. Rain once again pounded his head and shoulders.
It was a good place to fulfill his destiny.
Edgar stepped back under what was left of the roof, had another swig from his
flask and sat down, taking out the sheets of notebook paper he had written on earlier
this morning.
He started folding the papers into little airplanes.
Dozens of little, paper airplanes.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 93

EIGHT-TWENTY a.m. (M.S.T.)

After ten hours of sleep, Michelle thought that she should wake up feeling fresh
and invigorated. Instead, she felt like she had been run over by a tank. Her head hurt,
her body ached and her eyes almost completely refused to open. After three cups of
coffee, she finally felt like the clamps had been lifted from her eye-lids.
Of course, it would be raining cats and dogs outside. Michelle walked over to the
dining room window with her fourth cup of coffee and peered through the shutters. She
watched a man look dejectedly at the water drenched curb next to his car. He finally ran
and jumped, but landed with a splash a few inches short of the edge of the puddle. He
stepped out of the water and looked at his soaking dress shoes, then hobbled out of
sight.
Not a good clothes or hair day for Arizonans.
Michelle closed the shutters and walked over to her computer desk. She set her
coffee down and dug out her notes. There must be something here she had overlooked,
something that she could get a handle on and follow up. Not only had nothing come to
mind yesterday, but this morning was even worse because it was today that she was
going to do whatever she decided yesterday to do today. Her head suddenly hurt more
and she rested her forehead on the desk. This was beginning to be nuts. She was going
nuts.
It seemed months ago that she was sitting at her office on Christmas Eve, woeing
over her career and love life, though in actuality only a few days had passed. Now she
had a career but still no love life. Funny. She wasn't any happier than before. Maybe
this was a good lesson to learn. A career isn't much of a thrill if you don't have someone
to share it with. Heck, she didn't even know if she had a father to share anything with
anymore.
Someone knocked on her front door.
Michelle got up and opened it, shocked by who she saw. The last person she
would have guessed.
"May I have a word with you?" Byron Van Horn asked.
Michelle stammered for a moment, not knowing what to say. "I thought you'd be
in jail or something."
"I'm out on bail. Please, Miss Larough, I know I'm probably intruding, but it is
important I speak with you. Only a moment."
"I don't think so."
"Please, Miss Larough."
The look on Byron's face was intense and, to Michelle, sincere. She opened the
door wider. "Come in. I only have a minute before I leave."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 94

Byron stepped in and stood awkwardly in the middle of Michelle's living room.
Michelle shut the door and had a seat on the corner of her recliner.
"Have a seat, Mr. Van Horn."
"Thank you."
Byron sat down on the couch, still looking awkward. "I want to say first and
foremost that I'm deeply sorry for what I did. Breaking in here . . . I can't hardly believe I
let myself go that far. I hope you find it in your heart, someday, to forgive me."
"We'll see what someday brings, Mr. Van Horn. I know you by your reputation well.
I can't say I wasn't completely shocked."
"My reputation is not what it deserves to be. I . . . have always been a phony."
Michelle looked at Byron in surprise as she could see he was almost in tears. She
watched as he collected himself, the strength returning to his eyes.
"Miss Larough, I'd like to share some things with you."
"All right."
"Do you know you are being watched?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. There are people watching your every move. Two of them are outside
right now."
Michelle stood up then slipped more fully into her recliner. "Now why would I
believe that?"
"Ever since I was caught breaking into your home, something's been bugging me.
I finally figured it out last night. Who caught me? Who actually saw me going into your
apartment? The police only said that someone saw me. What did they tell you?"
Michelle thought about it a moment. "Exactly that. They said someone saw you
and they could verify that you were here by your fingerprints."
"See what I mean? Usually when something like this happens, the first thing the
police do is interview who witnessed the crime. That didn't happen here. And said
person, whoever that may have been, was never brought up again."
Byron paused as he watched Michelle star at the carpet..
"Miss Larough, this morning I came over here and watched from a distance. Two
men in a white Aerostar are definitely watching you. And I think I know who they are."
Michelle got up and walked to the window, pondering what Byron had told her. It
made sense. She peeped through the shutters and saw a white van sitting down the
street. She could barely make out someone sitting in it. Then the passenger door
opened and a man stepped out, looking her way. Michelle kept her back to Byron,
though she feared she already knew the answer to her next question.
"Why?" whispered Michelle.
Byron stood up. "I think it's people who know your father."
Now Michelle turned and faced Byron. Her eyes were unreadable. "What does my
father have to do with this?"
"Everything, I think. Miss Larough, I believe what Edgar saw and said is true.
"You know Edgar?"
"He tried to sell me his story before he came to you. I know you gave him a
thousand bucks."
Michelle sighed and sat down on the couch. "That information is all out in today’s
papers."
"I haven’t read it. But I can tell you I think UPS is linked to this thing in a big way
with United Airlines. And here’s something you may not know. Ever heard of United
Investigative Services?"
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 95

"No."
"Well, they own the van that's parked out there. I had their license plate run."
Michelle just put her face in her hands.
Byron pressed on. "I entered this building knowing full well that they are out there
going crazy, wondering what I'm doing here. But about your father. He owns United
Press Syndicate. Whether he turned you onto the story or not, I don't know. But the fact
that no one else has a reason to keep an eye on you exists out there, I can't help but
think what I do." Byron paused and watched Michelle for a moment. "You've suspected
all along, haven't you?"
Michelle looked up and sat back in the couch. She was resigned. "Yes. It was too
big a coincidence. And I agree that if I'm being watched it's probably dad. I suppose
that if such huge companies are involved they might want to watch me, but if my dad
wasn't involved, he would have called me the second he found out you broke into my
apartment. He's part of it. His company's part of it."
"Miss Larough, what are they doing? Why don't they just come out and admit it?
Gosh knows the PR couldn't hurt them."
Michelle got up, walked over to her desk, picked up a sheaf of papers and handed
them to Byron. "This is what came out in the L.A. and New York papers today."
Byron took the typed notes and read them through while Michelle went and gazed
some more out her window. The man from the van was now standing next to a
television pole reading a newspaper outside the apartment building driveway. Byron
shook his head and looked up.
"My God. They're really building toys?"
"Yes."
The two of them were silent for a few minutes, listening to the pounding rain
outside, each lost in their own thoughts. Byron broke the silence.
"They're not going to stop with just Arizona, are they?"
Michelle smiled. "You've got my mind, Mr. Van Horn. No, I don't think it's going to
stop here. I think this is just the beginning.
Michelle walked over and stood in front of Byron.
"You don't seem like the kind of man who would break into a person's apartment at
all."
"I was. I've done a lot of things I shouldn't have. But I remember my own father
telling me something I've only just remembered in the last few days. I can be, at any
time I choose, whatever I want to be at whatever time I choose to be it. Getting caught
breaking into your place set me free. I choose, now, to start over. I don't want to be a
thief any longer. I ask again for your forgiveness, Miss Larough. And I want to help if I
can. I don't even want a byline. This is personal."
Michelle smiled at the giant before her. "Call me Michelle."
"Please call me Byron."
"Well, Byron, what do we do now? I've been sitting around here for the last
twenty-four hours going crazy. I have no idea what to do next."
"Got any clues I don't know about?"
"Yes. United Way, United Artists and United Van Lines are also all in on it."
"Wow."
"That's the understatement of the year."
This time Byron walked over to the window and looked out through the shutters.
Now the one man from the van was arguing adamantly with another man, both of them
pointing occasionally up towards Michelle's window.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 96

"It must be driving them nutso, trying to figure out what I'm--"
The phone rang. Michelle walked over and picked it up.
"Hello? . . . Yes, I'm listening . . . Go ahead, I said I'm listening." Michelle waved
her arms at Byron and whispered the words, "'Edgar.' I'll do whatever you ask. Just
don't do anything rash . . . Yes, I have a cellular phone . . . " Michelle rattled off her
cellular number. "I'll wear it . . . Where? . . . 101 N. Wood Street . . . Okay, I've got it . . .
I'll be there in a half hour . . . Yes, I'll be alone. Wait for me, Edgar . . . All right."
Michelle hung up the phone and went into the kitchen where she pulled her cellular
phone from the charger.
"What's going on, Michelle?
"Edgar wants me to meet him. I'm going to.”
Byron watched the grim look on Michelle's face. "I saw Edgar yesterday, Michelle.
He's wasted. Drunk. I don't think he's very sane. You need to be careful."
"I'll be careful. I'll call you."
Byron looked at the expression of determination on the woman in front of him and
knew he would get nowhere. He had been dismissed.
Byron buttoned his coat. "Those goons out there probably deserve a break
anyway. I'll see ya, Michelle."
Byron stepped across the livingroom and out the front door, shutting it not quietly
behind him. Michelle went back to the living room phone and dialed a number. Her
father answered after one ring, his voice of the same, echoey character it always was on
his cellular.
"This is Joe Larough."
"Hello, dad."
A moment of silence.
"Hello, Shelly."
"I don't have much time, but I need to ask you a few questions. Will you be honest
with me?"
"Always have been. Shoot."
"Do you know about the men who are watching me? The men who work for United
Investigative Services? The men who probably reported Byron Van Horn for breaking
into my apartment?"
Another pause.
"Yes, I do."
"Is your company involved with all the others in this Santa Claus creation?"
"Yes."
"Well, let me tell you something, Dad. I just got a call from an Edgar Austin Bolton,
whom I'm sure you know. He's sitting on top of a condemned high-rise some miles from
here waiting for me to get there. Alone. So I want you to tell these men in front of my
house to back off. Don't, I repeat, don't follow me. You'll find out where it is soon
enough and you know why? You know why, Dad? Because after I arrive, Mr. Bolton is
going to call the press and demand that Santa Claus come out in the open and reveal
himself. He wants Santa Claus to admit that he was there at the bus-stop that day in
Tempe. And do you know what he's going to do if Santa Claus doesn't show? He's going
to jump, Dad! He's going to jump off a twenty-story building!"
Michelle slammed down the phone and ran out her door.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 97

ELEVEN-FIFTY-EIGHT a.m. (E.S.T.)

Joseph Larough hung up the phone and pondered only a second about what he
should do. Isaiah Brown had just called him to let him know that Byron Van Horn had
shown up at his daughter's house. Joseph dialed back Isaiah's number and his secretary,
Jeannie, put him right through. Joseph quickly explained to Isaiah what Michelle had told
him.
"Okay, Joe. I'll handle it from here. By the way, Byron left a few minutes ago."
"No idea why he was there?"
"None. She didn't mention him?"
"No."
"All right. I'll tell my boys to keep out of sight. But we have to keep an eye on her,
Joe."
"I know. Keep me posted."
"I always do."

Isaiah hung up the phone and immediately called his men in Phoenix and told
them Michelle was onto them. "And don't let her see you following her."
"That's fine, Isaiah. We have a bug on her car. In fact, she's running out to her car
now."
"You got another car in the area?"
"Yes. I'll have them go to wherever she ends up."
"Good. It's important you stay out of sight until I say."
"We will, Isaiah. Still can't figure out how she made us. She's hasn't ever given us
a second look."
"It wasn't her. My guess is Byron. I'm ordering my jet ready. I'll be there in just
over an hour. I don't feel good about this at all."
"See ya."
"Oh, by the way. When you find out what building Edgar's held up in, find the
schematics on the building."
"You want blue prints?"
"And any connecting buildings."
"Sure. Why?"
"Better safe than sorry."
Isaiah laid down the receiver then walked over to a picture of his grandfather on
the wall. Sliding the picture sideways, he opened the safe now exposed and took out a
key. Walking back to his desk, he unlocked his top left drawer and grabbed another key.
He scooted to the front of his desk, pressed an area under the front lip of the desk and a
small arm of steel popped out. He inserted the key, turned it and a hidden drawer slid
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 98

out from the front of the desk. He picked up the white phone inside and held the
receiver to his ear.

Nicholas held the phone to his ear, listening, his head hung low. He finally spoke.
"All right, Isaiah. Get a hold of Stephan and make sure you have a truck available.
Then call Sheila and find a nurse. Have her standing by as well. And tell Joe to get on a
plane immediately for Chicago. The Concord that's usually in New York I have with me.
I'll send it to Chicago to bring Joe here. I don't want him sitting around going crazy. And
if the media does get involved, I don't want him watching everything by himself. Tell
him to leave now. Right now . . . That's right . . . You know what you have to do, don't
you, Isaiah? . . . I'll talk to you soon."
Nicholas hung up the phone and looked across the dining room at his wife and
Jonathan in the kitchen as they talked with animation to each other in front of the stove.
Nicholas quickly turned away so they wouldn't see the tear that dropped from his eye. A
tear for all men who were on their bottom.
A tear for one man named Edgar.

This time Byron was prepared, though earlier today he had no idea why he had
taken such precautions. He drove his Mercedes three blocks then parked it and jumped
into a Dodge Neon he had rented some hours before. The car was a little small for his
big bulk, but it would do the job. He did a U-turn and headed back the way he had come.
He hid his face with his hand as Michelle came roaring past him. He pulled the Neon to
the curb and took a look through the now pouring rain. Just as he thought. The van was
still there. They'd follow her another way. But he had an address. 101 N. Wood. Byron
gunned the gas, did one more turn-around and went after Michelle.
He had a feeling she was going to need some help.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 99

NINE-THIRTY-FOUR a.m. (M.S.T.)

Just like Edgar had done a few hours before, Michelle stood at the base of the
condemned building on Wood Street and looked up, trying to see the top of the high-rise
through the pouring rain. She saw only blurred images, though for a moment she
thought she saw a movement of some sort. Thunder sounded in the distance and
Michelle knew the weather was going to get worse. Over all, this day was not starting
out on the fun side.
Michelle's cellular phone jingled and she held it to her ear, wincing as she heard
again what seemed only a shadow of Edgar's former voice.
"Michelle, you've arrived! And in fast form, too! You're such a good person. So
responsible."
"Edgar, I'm standing here in the rain. What do you want me to do?"
"Come in, come in, by all means! Please, we wouldn't want a wet Michelle."
Edgar's cackling drifted through the phone, making Michelle grit her teeth. "I
can't come in. There's a fence around the building and it appears from here as if all the
doorways and windows have been barricaded."
"Not to worry. If you'll just mosey on down to your left, you'll find I've conveniently
dislocated one of the fence poles. Just move the wire away and, Michelle Larough, come
on down! Or up. Or over. Whatever."
Michelle moved to her left as she listened to Edgar's incessant laughing. What
scared Michelle more than anything was she believed him, believed he would jump if she
and everyone else didn't do as he asked. When she had first met him, though he had
made her skin crawl, he did seem to have some semblance of reality. Now, it was
almost like listening to a ghost. Somebody who was already dead. It frightened Michelle
in a way she had never experienced before.
She waded through soaked, yellowed newspapers to the fence, pushed it aside like
Edgar claimed she could and headed towards the building. She spoke back into the
phone.
"Where now, Edgar?"
"Right on in the front door, Michelle. It only looks like its boarded up. I have to
keep up appearances, you know."
Michelle picked her way up the crumbling three steps to the front entrance and
pulled the last door on the right, which used to be an automatic sliding door. She
stepped through, not surprised that the door didn’t close on its own behind her.
The room around her was obviously at one time a beautiful lobby, remnants of its
majesty suggested by its immensity and design. Now it lay in decay and ruin, pillars
lying on their sides, the floor eaten away by moisture and heat. The murals on the
ceiling were faint memories of exotic art.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 100

Edgar’s voice filtered though the shadowy room over the small speaker of the cell-
phone. "Sad, isn't it, Michelle? The story of this hotel is quite interesting. When it was
built, it was one of the biggest, grandest hotels in the city. On the evening of its grand
opening a gigantic party was held. Dignitaries, celebrities from Hollywood, politicians
and other great beautiful people were all here, all invited to share the glory of this
magnificent structure. The party went on until the wee hours of the morning until
everybody, at some time or another, finally went to their designated rooms. But one of
the contractors had made a mistake. Some of the wiring was faulty. A simple little wire
in one of the air conditioning outlets. It caused a fire. A man and woman died. The
whole hotel had to be evacuated. The owner was sued. He tried to fight it, to keep his
lovely building open, but he lost in court. He couldn't afford the repairs. He finally
started renting out the rooms by the week to, well, less desirables. Within five years this
place was shut down by the health department. I always wanted to know what
happened to the owner. He gave his whole life for this hotel. He lost it all. He just made
one mistake. Only one. The contractor he hired for the wiring wasn't licensed. Such a
sad story. You need to go up the stairs, Michelle."
Michelle had been completely caught up in Edgar's story, something about it so
real as she heard it explained over the small speaker of her phone. And Edgar told it so
clearly, as if reciting the tale was long rehearsed. It didn't sound like the drunk man
Michelle knew he was. Hearing her name jarred her back to the present. She looked
over at the dilapidated staircase standing alone, the wall next to it a pile of rubble on the
floor, its metal skeleton a horrifying reminder of something once grand.
"I can't go up those stairs, Edgar. It's a deathtrap. This whole building is a
deathtrap. Come down and let's talk outside or in a restaurant. I won't call anybody, I
promise."
Edgar snorted. "I just climbed them. I climb them all the time. For years. They're
fine! Go on, Michelle. Unless you want me to do what I need to do without you."
Michelle suddenly realized why she was here. Her guilt. She felt guilty for Edgar,
as if she were somehow responsible. She had broken the story and now she felt like her
story had broken Edgar. He needed her help. She was obliged to do nothing less.
Michelle started up the staircase.
"Are you climbing, Michelle?"
"I'm coming. I'm afraid, so it's going to take me awhile."
"That's okay. That's why you're a winner. You're afraid, but you'll do it anyway. I
just heard your daddy was rich, Michelle. He actually owns the company you work for, or
used to anyway. It must be nice having a rich daddy. He give you money?"
Michelle winced at Edgar's question, but kept the phone to her ear as she
continued to carefully place her feet. "Yes, he has."
"My parents don't have any money. Wouldn't have mattered anyhow. They hate
me, always have. You saw them on television, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Yes, the whole world did. You know what my one mistake was, Michelle? The one
mistake that changed my life? I had a friend, he was my best friend all the way through
high school. Big, popular, but always let me hang around with him even though I was
small and nobody paid much attention to me. You don't mind me talking to you, do you,
Michelle? This is my confession. Even that night in your apartment I felt like I could tell
you the truth, that I didn't need to hide from you."
"I'm listening, Edgar."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 101

Michelle paused as she thought for a moment she heard a sound below her.
Nothing. She looked at the staircase leading up into the next floor. It appeared to be in
better shape and she sighed a little in relief.
"Then one day, after school, I was with my friend when he stole the gym coach’s
wallet from his office,” continued Edgar. “That night, at a party, he asked me if I was his
friend. I said I was. Then he told me if I was his friend, and anybody ever asked about
the wallet, I wouldn't tell on him. I told him I wouldn't. Then he handed me a beer and
went around the rest of the night telling everybody how I was his friend. It was the best
night of my life."
Michelle kept climbing as Edgar paused for a moment. The direct sunlight Michelle
had left behind on the second floor and the opaqueness around and above her was
beginning to close in on her, like a giant ghost’s hand slowly squeezing with her in its
grasp. She shook it off and kept climbing. On the fourth floor the hand railing was gone
again but Michelle moved on.
Edgar went on. "The next day in school I was called into the principal's office and
asked if I knew who stole the wallet. I said no. Then they told me that someone had
seen me. They said they knew I had taken the wallet from the coach’s office. I just
stayed quiet. Then, low and behold, they escorted my friend into the room and he
pointed at me and told them I was the one who took it. Then he left. I stayed quiet.
They kicked me out of school, failed me in my classes and my parents hated me ever
since. That's my one mistake, Michelle. I stayed true to my friend. And I've paid for it
ever since."
Michelle heard Edgar start to cry on the other end of the line. The hand railing
was intact again on the tenth floor and Michelle picked up her pace a little.
"If you can't trust your best friend, who can you trust, eh, Michelle? I'll tell you.
Nobody. You can't trust nobody. Who do you trust, Michelle? Do you trust your daddy?"
Michelle felt the sting of the tear in her eye and started running up the stairs, not
thinking about the danger.
"You think you can trust people? Maybe 'cause you got money. Money buys a lot
of pain away, I guess. At least, I used to think it did. Do you trust Santa, Michelle? Do
you think he's doing what he's doing for the good of all the children of the world? Is that
what you think?"
Michelle finally reached the top of the stairs and stared at the four foot gap
between the stairwell and the main floor.
"I'm at the top, Edgar."
"Come on in."
"I can't. I can't get past the top of the stairs."
"It's not a big deal. Just don't look down. Look ahead and jump. It's the fear that's
getting in your way. Pretend my life depends on it."
Edgar's choked cackle echoed through the phone and now Michelle thought she
could hear Edgar ahead of her as well as the phone. She remembered her father telling
her the same thing Edgar just had. After her mother died, she had stopped doing things.
Her father cornered her one day and asked why. She said she was afraid. Her father
had told her it was fear that was getting in her way. That it was okay to fear, but not to
let it rule her.
Michelle jumped, and landed safely in the main suite.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 102

NINE-FIFTY-ONE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Byron listened in horror as Edgar's distant voice reverberated around the empty
caverns of the hotel, his story drifting down the spidery staircase like an afterthought.
Byron had followed Michelle inside the building and up the staircase behind her.
His going had been twice as treacherous as Michelle's as he was twice her size. Once,
he had tripped on a chunk of cement and froze as the cement banged off the floor below.
He heard Michelle stop for moment as well, listening. Then she moved on. And he did
too.
He thought of his own one mistake. The mistake that changed his life. But his
didn't include others. He was alone when he stole that briefcase and the story that
night. He had no one to blame but himself. Perhaps that was why now it was easier for
him to try and make retribution. He did trust others. His heart ached for Edgar for the
first time. He was a sad man.
Byron started up again as he heard Michelle say . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 103

NINE-FIFTY-THREE a.m. (M.S.T.)

"I'm here, Edgar. Where are you?"


"Just follow your nose, Michelle. I'm enjoying the Arizona skyline."
Michelle looked around her at the once marvelous penthouse. The dormant
elevator shaft, its doors wide open and dark, stood to her left and to her right rested the
crumbling remains of the window shades, walls, ceiling and floor. Garbage littered the
entire area. The room stank of old liquor. Perhaps new liquor, as well. Michelle spotted
Edgar on the balcony as she made her way into the room. He sat in the rain, a metal
flask in one hand, a cellular phone in the other. He stood to greet her, taking a quick sip
out of the flask. Michelle stepped closer and saw Edgar more clearly now. His face was
pale and drawn in, his eyes red. His eye sockets were cut over his cheekbones like two
dark crescents. He looked at the phone in his hand.
"Isn't technology marvelous? I've sat in the rain talking to you and it hasn't even
hissed! By George, I think I'll buy some stock in this company. That is, if I live, which I
probably won't."
Michelle looked at the dozens of paper airplanes that rested on the floor between
her and Edgar. "Interesting hobby you have there, Edgar."
"No hobby. Part of the plan."
Edgar swayed a little closer to Michelle and came in close enough for the rain to
stop falling on him.
"You didn't answer my question."
"What question?"
"About Santa. Do you really think he just wants to help all the little kiddies?"
"I don't know him."
"I'm asking you to guess!"
Edgar's screaming shocked Michelle. His eyes were now wild.
"I can tell you! I know what he's doing. He's in it just like everyone else. He's
doing it all for one reason. For himself! He don't give a care about kiddies. He cares
about what's in it for himself. Probably a book, or a movie deal. Maybe he just wants
the world to look at him as like a God or something. But he doesn't fool me. He's like
everybody. It's all a joke. It's all for him. And I'm going to prove it. You know how I'm
going to prove it, Michelle?"
Michelle stayed still. "Yes, Edgar. You told me."
Edgar gazed at Michelle with a blank stare. Then he chuckled and walked back
over to the balcony.
"Yes, I did tell you, Michelle. I forgot. But it is the only way for me to prove myself.
The ultimate ultimatum. Either Santa Claus comes out and tells the world that he really
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 104

was there that day, sitting on that bench, and verify everything I said was true, or else I
crawl onto this railing and do the bungee without a cord."
"There are other ways."
"No, there are not. Santa has the opportunity to prove that he really cares for
other human beings. And if he does, I get rich and people believe me again. But you
know what's going to happen, Michelle?"
Edgar walked back out of the rain, closer to Michelle. He pointed with his finger
first at her, then at himself.
"You're looking at a dead man, Michelle. And I don't really care."
"You need help."
"And I'm going to get it. In a little while. Now, throw your phone over the
balcony."
Michelle looked out into the rain and listened to the thunder get closer, stalling for
some reason to keep the phone.
"No, Edgar. I don't know who it might hit."
"Good thinking. Then throw the phone to me. Now, please."
Having no choice, Michelle tossed the phone to Edgar, who just stood back and let
the phone hit the ground. He then crushed it with his foot.
Edgar grinned. "Hope my own phone holds out. It's the last one we have."
Now Edgar chuckled and walked over and stood next to Michelle.
"You get the story. The real inside scoop. But in a minute I'm going to call a few
television stations and tell them what I'm doing. You can help me by throwing these
airplanes over the balcony when I say so. Though I have to say, it's not good flying
weather."
"They'll come after us."
"Good thinking again. I almost forgot."
Edgar stepped past Michelle and walked through the main suite towards the
staircase. Michelle followed, wondering what he was up to now. Edgar grabbed an old
two-by-four stud and wedged the end of the board between the top stair of the staircase
and the wall. He moved the board back and forth and Michelle watched as the whole
concrete-metal staircase wobbled.
"An interesting thing I noticed, Michelle. Did you see on the first floor how the wall
fell down but the staircase still stands? That's craftsmanship. And then I noticed that
the stairway up here was the same way. See how the staircase isn't attached to the wall
at all? Except this wall is still standing. So if I move this board I've got stuck in here
really hard to my left . . . " Edgar started tugging at the board as Michelle watched on
helplessly as the staircase started leaning dangerously away from the wall. ". . . and
then I move it a little more. . . "
Suddenly, a deafening "Crack" filled the chambers as the staircase broke loose
from its mooring. Edgar jumped back and fell on the floor, then he and Michelle watched
as the staircase collapsed on its side, falling onto the staircase below. When it hit the
lower level, a white cloud of old cement and sheet rock shot upward, followed by the
hollowed crashing of the lower staircase giving way. Michelle stood frozen as the
rumbling died away, and waited for the shaking floor she was standing on to give way.
Finally, the building quit moving and it was quiet again. Edgar got up off the floor and
chuckled.
"Guess we're alone, Michelle. Just you and I in the honeymoon suite. Kind of
romantic, huh?"
"You could have killed us."
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 105

"But I didn't. Come on, let's go back to the balcony."


Michelle followed, her feet and legs feeling heavy. Edgar held the phone back up
as they walked back outside.
"Now, Michelle my darling, I'm going to call the television stations, and you're
going to start throwing those little planes over the edge there."
Edgar started dialing and Michelle picked up one of the paper airplanes and
unfolded it.
Written on it were Edgar's last will and testament.
"Start throwing them, Michelle. You and I both know our friend won't show."
Michelle picked up another plane and threw it over the edge.
And wondered if Edgar was right.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 106

TEN-TWELVE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Byron hid behind the elevator shaft and tried like crazy not to cough from the
residual white smoke that still bellowed up from the stairwell. Now there was no way
down from this floor, and between the smoke and listening to Edgar speak for the last
ten minutes Byron was also sick to his stomach.
Byron slid down and sat against the wall of the shaft. All he could do was listen
and wait. Edgar was now calling the television stations so the area around the building
would soon be a mad house; police, reporters and television trucks everywhere. But
they were down there. He was the only one up here close enough to help.
If Edgar started going off the deep end, or tried to harm Michelle in any way, Byron
would have to make a move.
Whether he wanted to or not.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 107

TEN-FORTY-THREE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Isaiah Brown stood under his umbrella and watched the chaos around him from
across the street of the high-rise. Police and fire vehicles had blocked off the front
perimeter of the building and a net was now held in place by a dozen firefighters at the
base. The fence had been torn away and where it used to stand, just behind the fire
trucks and squad cars, reporters and spectators alike were running rampant. Radio,
newspaper and television personalities were everywhere, sticking microphones in the
face of anybody who wanted to say anything. Isaiah passed unobtrusively by one
woman who was talking with a young, energetic paramedic. The young man was holding
a piece of paper out to the camera.
"That's right, this is his will. This guy plans on dying."
"Then you believe,” said the woman reporter, “And the officials of this city that
you represent believe, that Santa Claus won't show?”
“Not really,” answered the paramedic. “But can't say we blame him. I mean we,
the police that is, don't give in to terrorists or anything. Why should Santa?"
“And you believe in this Santa Claus?"
The man shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "Kind’a have to. A hundred
thousand kids didn't get presents from nobody. I feel sorry for the guy. If this guy,
Edgar I guess, jumps, well, there are a lot of people who aren't going to like it too much.
They'll think Santa should have done something. Maybe he should, I don't know."
Isaiah moved on and past the crowd to the front of the next structure, a parking lot
located just east of the high-rise. He walked past the empty booth that used to hold the
lot attendant and started towards the west end. Five feet from the wall that separated
the parking garage from the high-rise sat a brown van. Isaiah stepped over and jumped
into the passenger seat, closing the door behind him. He looked over at the big,
somewhat overweight man sitting in front of the steering wheel.
"A few too many donuts on stakeouts, I'd say, Jose."
Jose smiled and opened several large papers across the seat between Isaiah and
himself. Isaiah pondered the sketches.
“What about the back staircase?” Isaiah asked.
“Long since dilapidated. There’s nothing left.”
“You’re telling me we have no choice?”
“There’s only one way. It’s that way or no way.”
“Are you ready?”
“The other men are in the back of the truck, waiting for your move.”
“Edgar and Michelle are on the twentieth floor. The staircase that Edgar just
collapsed is only from the top floor down to the eighteenth floor. Can’t we throw a line
from the eighteenth floor and scale up?”
“I don’t trust the integrity of the building. Too risky. As much as we don’t like it,
the other way has better odds. I’d feel better about it.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 108

Isaiah sat back and sighed. The weight of the decision was now fully on his
shoulders. People might get hurt, or die. But he didn’t see any other alternatives. If
they were going to do anything at all, his choices had now been reduced to one. It was
now or never.
“Let’s roll.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 109

TEN-FIFTY-ONE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Edgar peered through the rain over the edge of the balcony and tried to make out
anything besides the blinking red, yellow and blue lights from the police and fire
vehicles, but couldn’t. There was lots of movement, he just couldn’t tell what it was. He
couldn’t hear anything either except an occasional yell or loud voice that drifted up. He
finally turned back to Michelle, who sat on the other end of the balcony inside from the
rain.
“Well, here I am, Shelly. Famous for the second time in a week.”
“Don’t call me Shelly. And I hope you know you’re not going to prove anything by
what you’re doing.”
“Oh, but I will. If Santa doesn’t come, I will forever taint his image. No one will be
able to receive a gift or present from him without remembering that he didn’t care
enough about one poor, miserable soul to come out of hiding to save his life. Because,
when it’s all said and done, he’s a phony just like everyone else. I think that’s
accomplishing something. I may have been a nobody in my life, Michelle, but, by God, I
will be a somebody in my death.”
Edgar stepped out of the rain and pulled the cigar from his pocket. Lighting it,
he blew big puffs of smoke and watched them disappear into the damp air around him.
He tossed the match over his shoulder, grabbed his flask and took a drink. He coughed
for a full minute.
“Did you read my will, Michelle?”
“You know I did.”
“What do you think all those reporters are thinking about my will down there?”
“I really don’t think they care. Giving presents to children from money left by a
man who commits suicide isn’t exactly what I call charitable.”
“But it is! I will be the real Santa Claus. I would give my life for them.”
Michelle cringed and pulled her knees up against her body, wrapping her arms
around her legs. She shivered. Edgar was almost completely gone now. Being here was
the most frightening thing she had ever experienced. Edgar looked at his watch.
“Only five minutes ‘till the deadline. You know, Santa could have at least called. I
would have given him another few hours to get here.”
“You’re sick, Edgar. I don’t blame him for not showing. You don’t blackmail people
for things you selfishly want. Especially with your life.”
Edgar threw the cigar into the suite and angrily approached Michelle.
“Do you see those people down there? Do you think they’d come to me for any
other reason? Heck no. They’re here because of my life. Nobody would give me the
time of day if it weren’t for what I’m doing. Even when I was the only eyewitness in
America who had seen this Santa Claus all they wanted to do was destroy me! Make me
be out to be bad. Well, now I am bad, and they love it. They’ll talk about me for days
because I’m bad. It wouldn’t matter what I’m doing if I lived because nobody cares. It’s
what this world does now. Be bad. Be famous. Be good. And we’ll forget you. Just like
Santa. Sure, he’s a mystery. But what about when he’s not? Nobody will care. But
they’ll sure remember Santa if a man kills himself over him. It doesn’t matter how good
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 110

and generous he is, the first thing people will remember is this day. The day he did
bad.”
“You’re wrong, Edgar. You will be famous for a day or two, and then you will be
forgotten as just an another sick man who wasted his life. While Santa will live on
actually doing things for other people. The things people remember are not the things
that you say you are going to do, but by the things that you actually do. He will have
given. You will have taken the ultimate selfish act. You will have taken your life.”
Edgar started screaming, his eyes flashing. “You’re wrong! You wait and see!
They’ll talk about the money I left the children, and how I called the bluff of one of the
world’s biggest. . . ”
Edgar’s voice trailed off as he looked at the wide open and scared look in
Michelle’s eyes. Only she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking to his right. Edgar
turned and gazed into the suite.
The right wall was on fire.
Just below it on the floor, next to what was left of an old, burning window shade,
lay what was left of his smoking cigar.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 111

TWO-FIFTEEN p.m. (E.S.T.)

Joseph Larough had ignored what Nicholas and Isaiah had told him and now stood
in the main-house livingroom looking at the television set. People were running around
in a panic and a reporter suddenly stood in front of the screen reporting that it had now
been confirmed that a fire had broken out on the top level of the building.
Joseph put his hands to his face, horrified.
“Oh my God, no. Please, no.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 112

ELEVEN-SIXTEEN a.m. (M.S.T.)

Michelle jumped, pulled off her coat and ran into the suite. She began pounding on
the wall with her coat, trying to put out the flames.
“Edgar, you’ve got to help me!”
But Edgar only stood watching Michelle, knowing what she was doing was
hopeless. He could actually see the fire crawling up the wall and then across the ceiling,
spreading in every direction as it moved. It became hypnotizing, and though he knew
Michelle was yelling at him he didn’t care anymore. This was the last sight he would see.
The flames grew more and more brilliant by the second and he was fascinated by the
fact that in a short while they would come over and wrap him in their warm comfort.
Then he saw what had to be the devil himself, heading towards him from the back of the
suite. It moved quickly, its dark black form racing towards him to take him away,
moving through the firey room as if it cared not at all. But then it turned from Edgar’s
path and headed towards Michelle, suddenly enveloping Michelle with its long arms.
Michelle kicked and screamed but it wouldn’t let go, carrying her now towards Edgar
again. With his eyes wide, Edgar waited for the thing to grab him too and take him to
wherever they would go, wondering why it was taking Michelle along with them,
wondering what she had done that could have been as bad as what he had done. Then
the thing, with Michelle, was upon him, and Edgar realized the truth. Holding Michelle,
and now standing next to him, was Byron Van Horn.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” stuttered Edgar.
“I thought I was here to help Michelle. Looks like I’m not doing a good job of it.”
Michelle finally broke free of Byron’s grip and looked back into the flaming room,
the smoke starting to impair any visibility inside.
“Thanks, Byron. Even though I don’t know what for. There’s nowhere else to go.”
“I know. Let’s get further out onto the balcony.”
The three of them moved closer to the railing. Byron looked back at Edgar.
“Are you happy, Edgar? Instead of killing just yourself, you can take two more with
you. Three for the price of one.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“No, you never do, do you Edgar. You just keep making the same mistake over
and over and you never know why it keeps ending up so badly. Only this time you
sucked other people into it. Me, I don’t care much about, because I’m not sure I’m worth
half a darn myself. But Michelle didn’t do anything. And you can take credit for all of it,
Edgar. At least give me your phone. I can call down and tell them what’s happening.”
Edgar reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone, tossing it to Byron
listlessly.
“It don’t work. The battery’s dead.”
Byron dropped the phone and walked over to Edgar, grabbing him by the lapel and
lifting him up into the air.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 113

“I ought to throw you over myself!”


Michelle spoke quietly from across the balcony. “Let him go, Byron. That won’t
solve anything.”
Byron slowly put Edgar back on his feet. Edgar just grasped the railing like a little
child, tears spewing from his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to.”
Michelle nodded. “No, you didn’t. Maybe they’ll get a ladder up here or
something.”
“Not in time, Michelle.” Byron turned towards the fire and smoke. “It’ll be on us in
a minute or two.”
As Byron finished speaking the floor of the balcony suddenly shook and the three
of them watched in terror as the wall beside them exploded and a support pillar crashed
through. In what seemed like slow motion, Byron watch as the rest of the wall collapsed
and the side of the balcony doorway imploded. The long, thick beam that ran the length
above the balcony doorway, like a sling-shot, abruptly shot sideways towards Michelle.
Michelle had just enough time to turn her head before the beam struck her, throwing her
towards the edge of the balcony. Her body fell on the railing, for a moment teetering
between falling inside or over the edge. Then, with a sickness he had never known,
Byron watched as her body slowly starting slipping towards the ground below. Edgar
just stood watching as Byron leaped by him and desperately grabbed at Michelle. He
caught a piece of her blouse, but it just ripped in his hand. With a last lunge, he grabbed
Michelle with his other hand and this time had a firm grip. He pulled and Michelle’s body
finally fell over onto his side. Byron grabbed her with both hands and sat down, holding
her in his lap. He tried to wake her, softly calling her name, but she didn’t respond. He
finally just held her and rocked her back and forth. He looked up in surprise as he heard
a voice. Then he realized it was Edgar. Edgar’s face was swollen, his cheeks a pale red.
His eyes had gone blank.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Bryon only looked at him, putting his arms closer around Michelle. Edgar stepped
up on the railing. He looked down over the edge then back at Byron. “I’m sorry.”
Edgar repeated.
Byron’s face relaxed and nodded. “It’s not your fault.”
A final little grin appeared on Edgar’s face, as if he realized what Byron had just
said, and then it was gone.
Edgar vanished over the railing.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 114

ELEVEN-THIRTY-THREE a.m. (M.S.T.)

Byron watched for a moment the blank space that Edgar had occupied before
turning back to Michelle. He reached behind her head and felt the large knot that had
formed there, then put his ear close to her mouth. He could hear her breathing, and he
sighed with relief. He put his arms back around her, trying to keep the rain out of her
face, and hoped she would be okay. She was so young, had so much to live for.
His own life didn’t matter much. He just wanted to make amends. Maybe do
something right for once. He had wanted so much to help Michelle. But it was too late
now.
A hand touched his shoulder and Byron was suddenly gazing into the kind, dark
eyes of man a kneeling down in front of him.
“Are you all right?” the man asked.
Byron turned and looked at the fire and the smoke behind him then back at the
man again. “Who are you?”
“My name is Isaiah. The man beside you is Jose. Now answer me, are you all
right?”
Byron turned the other way and saw a bigger fellow standing next to him, his face
dark with soot. “I’m all right.”
“How about Michelle?”
“I don’t know. A beam hit her in the head, knocked her almost off the balcony. I
grabbed her in time. I think she’s alive.” Byron started crying. “I just wanted to help
her. I pulled her out of the fire, pulled her off the railing, but it’s like nothing I do is good
enough. I just wanted to help.”
“Byron, look at me.” Byron focused on Isaiah, watching again the kind eyes. “It
looks to me like you helped a lot.”
Byron blinked. “You know my name.”
“Yes, I know your name.”
“You’re the people watching Michelle.”
“Yes. Can you stand up?”
Byron nodded and Jose plucked Michelle from his lap as he got on his feet. Jose
disappeared into the smoke of the suite with Michelle across his shoulder.
“Did you see where Jose just went, Byron?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to hold your nose and cover your eyes and follow him. Just run until
you’re stopped. There are two men who will stop you on the far side of the suite. The
smoke isn’t as bad on the other side as most of the fire is on this side of the room. Can
you do that?”
“Yes.”
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Byron started to go then stopped and looked at the man who was saving his life.
“Edgar jumped.”
“There’s a fire net down there. Chances are he’s okay. You need to go, Byron.
Now run.”
Byron covered his eyes with one hand and plugged his nose with the other and
jumped into the smoke, moving his legs with effort. After what only seemed a second,
strong hands grabbed him and he opened his eyes to see two big men holding him.
They led him immediately over to the elevator shaft and clipped a harness over his
shoulders and around his waist. Isaiah was now standing beside him again.
“We’re going to lower you down, Byron. Use your hands to keep your body away
from the wall.”
“Okay.”
Byron sat down and dangled his feet down the shaft for a moment, then he slid
forward. The harness pulled tight and he slowly went down. It was pitch black, and
twice he banged his knees on some unseen metalwork, but finally he saw daylight below.
He landed on his knees, took off the vest and watched it as it disappeared back up into
the darkness.
Three minutes later, the two other men were down along with Isaiah. Isaiah
started away, and through a hole knocked into the brick wall next to the building, Byron
could see a brown, UPS truck waiting. He grabbed Isaiah by the shirt.
“You’re not with the police.” Byron stated.
“No.”
“And you’re not taking Michelle to the officials, are you.”
“No. We’re taking her where she belongs.”
Byron grabbed both the Isaiah’s shoulders. “Take me with you! I know I don’t
deserve it, and I know if you know me then I know what you think of me. But I want to
go. I want to be part of what you’re doing.”
Isaiah just stared at him.
Byron pleaded. “Please let me go. You don’t trust me, but you can. Please trust
me.”
Isaiah smiled, and put his own hand on Byron’s shoulder. “I do trust you. You
saved Michelle’s life. Let’s go.”
Isaiah ran off towards the van and a stunned Byron watched him jump into the
back of the truck. Isaiah waved Byron towards him.
“We’ve got to go. Hurry!”
For the first time since he was a kid, Byron felt all responsibility for his life
dissipate, and with a laugh, he ran towards the brown truck with the big UPS lettering
stenciled across its side.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 116

DECEMBER 30th
31 Hours, 38 Minutes Remaining . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 117

FOUR-TWENTY-TWO p.m. (U.T.C.)


Michelle opened her eyes and wondered where she was. She recognized nothing.
The room she was in was dimly lit but she could see the walls were painted a mild
yellow. Thick, dark, wood beams ran the width of the ceiling and red drapes hung over
two windows on the side of the room she was facing. Pictures of laughing children
decorated the walls.
Michelle tried to turn over, then realized her body felt like a ton of lead. A sharp
pain suddenly revealed itself on the back of her head and her eyelids wanted to shut
against her will. She remembered something about a fire but that was all. Maybe she
was in a hospital--
Then she saw a large, older woman, dressed in a white apron and white blouse and
skirt and thick, white hair heading towards her from the other side of the room. Behind
the woman Michelle could see a small table lamp with a book opened, a marker in it.
Maybe this was a hospital room. But not like any she had ever seen before.
The lady reached the side of the bed and smiled down on Michelle.
“How are you doing, Michelle?”
“I’m fine.” Michelle thought her voice sounded more like a croak.
“You just lie there and relax, young lady. Let’s look at your vitals.”
The woman spent the next few minutes checking Michelle’s blood pressure and
temperature, feeling behind her head, all the while Michelle believing she would pass out
at any given moment.
“Do you remember your name, young lady?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“I’m Michelle. And I hurt, but I’m not mentally incapacitated.”
“That’s good. Everything else looks okay. I think you’ve just had a bad bump on
the head. No concussion. Nothing too serious.”
“I’m so tired.”
“That’s fine. Just go back to sleep. Everything will seem better when you wake
up.”
Michelle nodded and finally closed her eyes again. She murmured one more thing
under her breath before giving up entirely.
“Thank you for caring for me.”
The older woman reached over and whispered in Michelle’s ear. “You’re welcome.
Welcome home.”
Michelle slightly nodded her head and fell back to sleep, thinking there was
something she needed to ask.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 118

NEW YEAR’S EVE DAY


13 Hours, 34 Minutes Remaining . . .
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 119

TEN-TWENTY-SIX a.m. (U.T.C.)

When Michelle opened her eyes for a second time, the room was filled with bright
light streaming through the now open windows. The red shades had been pulled back
and Michelle could hear street sounds from outside. This time Michelle sat up in bed
without any trouble. A slight ache on the back of her head was all the discomfort she
felt.
She crawled out of bed and walked to the window, smiling at the snow covered
streets and the children playing in them. Wherever she was, it wasn’t Phoenix, Arizona.
Michelle tried to remember what had happened to her but could recall very little.
The last she knew, Byron, Edgar and herself were standing on the balcony with the fire
hot on their tails. It was a miracle she was standing here now.
Michelle jumped a little as someone walked into the room. She turned and
watched a man, quite attractive at first glance, look up at her and stop cold in his tracks.
The young man stammered, “I’m sorry. I thought . . . well . . . I’m so sorry.”
The man turned to leave the room but Michelle spoke to him. “Wait. Don’t go.”
The man turned back and sheepishly waved his hand. “I thought you were asleep.
I should have knocked.”
“You obviously have one on me.”
“How so?”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course. You’re Michelle Larough.”
“See. You know me and I don’t have a clue who you are.”
The man laughed and started towards Michelle. “I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Sinclair.
I was . . .”
Jonathan stopped again halfway to Michelle and the red appeared once more at
the corners of his tan cheeks, set off more so by his long, blond hair. Michelle couldn’t
help but think it cute.
“What’s wrong, Jonathan?”
“I . . . I guess I’m just not used to meeting women in their underwear.”
With a gasp, Michelle peered down at herself and realized she was wearing only a
nightgown. Jonathan turned around and said, “There’s a robe on the other side of the
bed.”
Michelle quickly stepped over and slipped it across her shoulders, tying it at the
waist.
“It’s okay. I’m decent now.”
Jonathan gazed at her again, trying to hide the smile that wanted to break out over
his face. Suddenly, they both started laughing.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 120

Michelle spoke first. “It’s my turn to apologize. I didn’t even think about what I
was wearing.”
“I’ll live. You feeling all right?”
“Not bad. Ten times better than whenever it was I woke up last time. How long
have I been here?”
“About two days. I’ve been kind’a keeping an eye on you, knowing you were new
around here. Fact is, so am I. I thought when you woke up you might need a kindred
spirit.”
“Just exactly where am I?”
“You’re in a hospital.”
“Thank you, professor. I mean, what town am I in? And how did I get here?”
Jonathan moved across the room and had a seat where the nurse had been sitting
the first time Michelle woke up.
“You were rescued. A few men climbed the elevator shaft of the building that was
burning down around you and pulled you down out of it. Apparently a beam snapped
loose and hit you in the head. You were unconscious when they found you.”
“What happened to Edgar?”
“He’s all right. He jumped. He didn’t know there was a safety net opened by the
fire department across the ground at the bottom. I heard he broke a leg, but he’ll be
fine.”
Michelle nodded then turned and gazed again out the window. “You know I’m a
reporter.”
“Yes?”
“Then you’ll understand that I know when somebody’s trying to ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“You’re ignoring a question of mine. I’ve asked you twice and you’ve side-stepped
it both times. Now, where am I?”
Jonathan laughed and stood back up. “You hungry?”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Tell you what. You like a good mystery, don’t you?”
“To a point.”
“To a point. Good answer. If you’ll be patient with me, I’ll answer all your
questions. But are you hungry?”
“Now that you mention it, I’m famished.”
“Great. Why don’t you get dressed, I’ll call up a nurse to make sure you’re okay to
go out, then I’ll meet you downstairs and buy you lunch. I’ll give you any answers you
want.”
Michelle pondered the question for a moment. “Who are you, anyway? I have
absolutely no idea what you, or me for that matter, is doing here. Where are all the
people I know?”
“They’re around. How about lunch?”
Michelle looked again at the young man before her and couldn’t help but smile.
He was actually a little nervous, though he was trying hard not to show it.
“All right, Mr. Sinclair. Send in your nurse. I can’t believe I’m trusting a complete
stranger who won’t tell me anything.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I have seen you in your underwear.”
Michelle lifted her hand as if to strike Jonathan and he stepped out of the room,
chuckling as he shut the door behind him.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 121

A different nurse than the night before gave Michelle the thumbs up then showed
her a change of clothing and a jacket in the closet for her to wear. Michelle quickly
dressed, admiring the lengthy white dress with long sleeves, and skipped out the door,
down the tealed floor and staircase to the lobby below. The room was decorated with
white pine four-by-four furniture, throw rugs across a white pine floor and surrounded by
white pine walls. A receptionist behind a small counter was talking excitedly in a phone
and waved at Michelle as she walked by. Jonathan was waiting by the front door and
opened it for Michelle as they both stepped out on the snowy sidewalk.
“I understand I’m to thank you for the clothes,” said Michelle.
“Not me. They’re a gift from a lady I’ll introduce to you later. I’m just the
messenger.”
“Well, thanks for bringing them. Where are my old clothes?”
“They were a little . . . let’s face it. They were ruined. I think they were thrown
away. You can buy some new clothes here. This town has the cutest shops you’ve ever
seen.”
“I’ll bet.”
Michelle gazed around her in awe, the shops all trimmed in fashioned wood, most
fronted by covered awnings that the snow weighted down to a bulge. People
everywhere seemed to be laughing, talking with each other, calling out by name every
one that passed. Michelle saw no cars but that most transportation was done by horse
and carriage that ambled slowly down the cobblestone streets.
Michelle chuckled. “I feel like I’m in a storybook somewhere.”
“Maybe you are. Let’s head this way. I know a great restaurant that looks over a
skating rink.”
The two of them started down the street, passing a bicycle shop, a butcher shop, a
bakery, a candy store, several small department stores and finally even a stable.
Michelle shook her head.
“I think I better learn how to ride a horse.”
“It’s not hard. I learned in one day.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Of course, I can’t sit for long periods of time yet, but that comes with time.”
Michelle smiled and let a flake of snow land on her tongue. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“Yes. It feels like a home.”
Michelle looked sideways at Jonathan and caught the peaceful look on his face as
he too kept looking around at the city before him. The way he said it, that it felt like
home, sounded so sincere.
“Michelle, welcome to Sam’s. I believe he has the best food in town.”
The two of them entered a small, cozy and dimly lit restaurant that was lined with
tables of black and gold. Torches lit the room from the walls and each table supported
an individual candle. Through the back wall picture window Michelle could make out the
dozens of people that were skating back and forth on the rink outside. Jonathan led her
to a table next to the window and they had a seat. A tiny man dressed all in black made
his way towards them, his smile blinding in the dark room.
“Jonathan, it’s good to see you. You make me proud of my establishment that you
would eat here so much.”
“I just told this young lady that you serve the best food in town. Michelle, meet
Sam.”
Sam turned his brilliant face towards Michelle. “Has he told you he has eaten
nowhere else in town? How would he know if I’m the best?”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 122

Michelle grinned while Jonathan ordered for them.


“Two lunch specials, Sam. That is, if Michelle will let me order for her.”
“Of course.”
Sam disappeared into a side room.
“What are we having?” queried Michelle.
“Hamburgers and fries. Topped with a chocolate shake.”
“They’re not into health food around here?”
“Oh, yeah. Whatever you want. But you’ve got to try his hamburger. I tell you, if
you hate hamburger, you’ll love Sam’s.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
Michelle sat back and studied Jonathan over the lighted candle as he watched the
skaters on the ice outside. He was not too tall, longish hair and his smile reached from
ear to ear. Even his profile gave the impression he was happy.
“What are you doing here, Jonathan?”
“Me? It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time. What do you do for a living?”
Jonathan brought his gaze back to Michelle and chuckled. “Actually, it’s not so
long. I run an group home for children in Florida. It’s not a big one but it keeps me
busy.”
“How did you end up doing that?”
“I’m an orphan myself. Grew up in the very building I own now, in fact. I knew
when I was young it was what I wanted to do with my life.”
“And the reason you’re here? You said you only just arrived yourself.”
Jonathan pursed his lips and picked at the table with his fingernails. He was quiet
for a moment, suddenly making Michelle seem selfish.
“I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“I don’t mind. I’m not hesitating because I don’t want to talk about it. I just have
never said it out loud before.”
“Said what.”
Jonathan smiled at Michelle and she could see the genuine joy in his eyes. “I came
here to meet my real parents.”
“My gosh.”
“Yes. Every orphan’s dream. To suddenly be reunited with the parents you never
knew you had. I have to say, it’s more than a dream come true. It’s a miracle. I can’t
remember ever being so happy. I feel so . . . free.”
Jonathan quieted down again but this time Michelle didn’t force the conversation.
It was a comfortable silence. She turned her gaze back outside. After a moment, her
attention became focused on something funny looking off to the left.
“Jonathan, what is that out there?”
“Where?”
“Out there, where I’m pointing.”
“Oh. That’s a wall.”
“A wall? In the middle of the city?”
Actually, that would be the side of the city. You see, Michelle . . . Are you ready for
some answers?”
“More than ready.”
Jonathan smiled again and reached across the table to take Michelle’s hand.
“Michelle, welcome to the North Pole.”
Michelle instinctively jerked her hand back. “What?”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 123

“Yes, it’s true. And we are currently sitting in a restaurant in the middle of a city
that is resting on the ocean bottom, one mile from the ocean’s surface, in a man-made
iceberg fifteen miles square.”
Michelle blinked, then looked again at the young man across the table from her,
wondering what insane asylum he had just been released from. But after staring at his
serene face for a moment, Michelle jumped out of her seat and ran through the
restaurant towards the front door.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 124

ELEVEN-TWENTY a.m. (U.T.C.)

Michelle flew out the front door and made her way caddie-corner across the
cobblestone intersection to what from the restaurant appeared to be a snowy monolith.
Now, up close and running her hands over it, Michelle knew it was just cement. She
looked up and couldn’t see how high it went, the white flurry above blocked her view. To
her left and right the wall seemed to go on forever, no end in sight. She heard footsteps
and turned to face Jonathan, who just stood on the side of the street with his hands in his
coat pocket looking at her.
“Jonathan, I’m not so hungry now.”
“That’s okay. I told Sam. He understands.”
“I’m not sure I do. But I have a funny feeling you’re going to tell me I’m in Santa
Land.”
“Yes, I was going to.”
“He lives here?”
“Yes.”
“And he actually exists. I mean, he’s a real person who’s personally arranged all of
this?”
“Yes. But not alone. A lot of people have gone into making this a working model.
To make the dream come true.”
“Are you trying to tell me all those corporations are part of this? United Parcel
Service, United Artists, the rest of them?”
“They serve their purpose. They are necessary.”
Michelle tried to absorb everything as she looked beyond the city at the mountains
in the background. “How can you have mountains down here?”
“I told you. This is the ocean floor. The mountains were here. They just helped
with the flora a little. See the snow falling around us? It’s real snow, but it’s controlled
by the city. All the weather is here. So is the time of day and night. There are times we
can open the top and let a little natural climate inside, but not often. Besides, it might
be seen by the air. From the outside, from any planes or ships that may pass, which
aren’t many, we just look like a gigantic iceberg sitting on the ocean floor.”
“What I can’t understand is why? Why go to so much trouble? I mean, everybody
loves the thought of Santa Claus, but to try and make the myth real is crazy. And why
would all those big companies go along with it. I mean, they don’t even get any PR from
it. It doesn’t make sense.”
Jonathan reached over and took one of Michelle’s hands. “I can’t tell you why, I’m
going to leave that to Nicholas. But I can show you how.”
“Nicholas? Nicholas is Santa?”
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Jonathan chuckled and started leading Michelle along the wall. “Yes, he is Santa.
He’s having a small party at his house tonight for New Year’s Eve. We’re both supposed
to attend. I’m sure he’ll want to explain the ‘why’ to you then.”
The two of them stopped at a double door that was set into the wall. Jonathan hit
a small button. “Do you want a tour?”
Michelle nodded, then looked up in surprise as Jingle Bells started playing at the
same time the doors opened revealing an elevator inside. Jonathan gestured with his
hand for Michelle to enter then he followed her in.
“Where are we going, Jonathan?”
“Michelle, we are going to visit Santa’s workshop.”
And Michelle watched the city disappear as the double doors closed in front of her.

When the elevator doors opened, all Michelle could see was a wide corridor with a
red line running down its center with a ceiling that was at least thirty feet high. The only
other color besides the red line, everywhere, was steel gray. Jonathan motioned her
towards a small, electric cart that was parked near the elevator doors.
“You can take your coat off now,” Jonathan said. “The temperature is rather even
from this point.”
“What’s at the end of this corridor?”
“Eventually, the aircraft hanger. But we’re not going there. I want to show you
some of what makes this place tick.”
The two of them crawled onto the cart and they started down the long hallway,
occasionally passing the gigantic doors with letters painted on them.
“You’ll see the doors painted with letters, first A, then B, C and so forth,”
explained Jonathan. “Each one designates a certain work area. Each one accomplishes
something different than the next.”
“Where are we going?”
“I want to start with Section G. When I arrived, I met a young boy who later
showed me around a little. His parents work in section G and it became my favorite
place the second I saw it. It’s the wood-working section.”
Jonathan finally pulled up in front of the doors with the letter G painted across it
and parked the cart. They got off and Jonathan hit a button that was nearly hidden on a
side arch. The doors suddenly whined and opened inward.
Michelle was immediately bombarded with the sounds of machines. As they
stepped into the room she was first accosted by the sheer size of the room, then by what
she saw.
To her left were saw mills, roaring as more and more tree logs were brought in by
a continuous train of trucks. To her left was an area of smaller jigsaws, skillsaws and
other kinds with people working furiously around them, cutting the wood into all kinds of
shapes and sizes. To her right Michelle could see machinery she didn’t recognize and
asked Jonathan about it.
Jonathan answered. “The area closest to us is a recycling center. Everything we
use is recycled, brought here to be used again. The farther area is the paper mill. We
make all of our own paper; wrapping paper, writing paper, whatever. Needless to say,
it’s also convenient that we don’t have to bring this stuff from the outside.”
Michelle smiled and looked at Jonathan. “I thought you just arrived here?”
“I did.”
“You keep using the phrase, ‘We.’ Like you’re part of it.”
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Jonathan thought about it a second. “I guess I am talking like that. Maybe


because I want to be.”
“What about the trees. Where do they come from?”
“Follow me.”
Jonathan led Michelle down a permanent scaffolding to their left, arriving
eventually at a small door set back of the area of the saw mills. Jonathan motioned
Michelle through ahead of him and when she entered she instinctually squinted her eyes
from what appeared to be sunlight. When her eyes adjusted, she could only stare in
awe.
Below her, and stretching for what seemed forever, was a landscape more
beautiful than she had ever seen in her life. Trees and greenery were everywhere,
decorating the mountains and flatlands alike, sharing the space with cliffs and soft,
rolling hills. Through the center ran a curving, roaring river that ended in the distance at
a humongous wall. Michelle whispered to Jonathan, who had put his hand on her
shoulder.
“Is that a dam?”
“Yes, it is. It rectifies two problems, actually. It not only filters the water, which
we get from the sea, but it also generates most of our power. There are solar panels
above that help supplement, though. The sunlight you see here, of course, is simulated,
but it keeps the plant and tree life healthy, giving us most of our oxygen as well. Over
all, a grand achievement I would say.”
“It makes the Arizona Biosphere seem like a toy.”
“This is for real. They need this area to survive. None of this would be possible
without this section. Come on, let’s walk down by the river.”
The two of them picked their way down a rock staircase until they arrived at the
river’s edge. A man several hundred yards down the bank sat fishing. He didn’t pay
them any attention.
“We stock it with fish. Another food source.”
Michelle gazed around her and shook her head in disbelief. “This is by far the most
perfect place I’ve ever seen in my life”
She looked over at Jonathan and caught him staring at her. He looked away,
embarrassed.
“Jonathan, what were you just thinking.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“I really can’t say. I . . . it’s corny anyway. And it’s too forward.”
“Why don’t you let me decide.”
Jonathan walked to the bank of the river and picked up a stone, tossing it out to
the middle. It sank without a fight.
“The night you arrived, Michelle, I went over to see you, thinking I might be able to
help you. God knows everyone was concerned for your health. I guess I was also
curious to meet somebody who, like me, had never been here before. But when I saw
you lying in bed that night, all I could do was stand there and watch you. I spent hours
the last two days just looking at you, wondering what you were like. You see, I felt like . .
.”
“Like what.”
“Like I knew you. Like I had met you somewhere. And I wanted to hear you talk to
see if the feeling persisted.”
“That’s the oldest pick-up line in the book, Jonathan.”
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Jonathan grinned back at Michelle’s smiling face. “Yeah. But it’s true.”
“And did it persist?”
“What?”
“When you heard me talk.”
Jonathan slightly nodded his head, looking away at the river. “More than ever.”
Michelle stood looking at Jonathan another second in silence then walked across
the grass towards him. She put her arm through his.
“Will you show me more, Jonathan?”
“I will.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 128

TWELVE-SIXTEEN p.m. (U.T.C.)

In no particular order, and mostly hand in hand, Jonathan toured Michelle around
the rest of the complex. The two of them raced up and down the main corridor, taking
turns driving the electric cart, stopping at whatever section the driver decided was their
next desire.
They started at Section W, where a dozen people wrapped presents that wouldn’t
be given for almost a year. The room was filled with tables and comfortable chairs and
spools of wrapping paper over five feet wide, each stacked to the ceiling so that when
one was finished, another would drop in its place. A conveyor belt carried the finished
products, labeled by special tags, out of the room and out of sight to a destination
elsewhere.
Section N was the nutritional area, where virtually all food groups were stored or
processed until delivered to the local markets. Several yards of one wall were lined with
refrigerators and freezers and another was equipped with shelving stacked to the ceiling
with flour, sugar, spices and other non-perishables. A back area housed a canning area,
dormant this time of year, that packaged fruits and vegetables for the long winters.
Seeds were stored in a humidifier.
Section O contained all goods only obtainable from the outside, things like all
metal products, plastics, electrical and mechanical supplies, tools, medicine and medical
equipment and cloth other than wool and cotton.
The assembly hall was located in Section A. Once a month, almost the whole
township showed up at the arena-like section, designed to hold thousands, to talk about
common interests, problems and solutions.
General storage was located in section S, where all items for the city not
perishable, yet ready to deliver, whether from outside or in, were stored, like finished
furniture, housing materials, rocks and brick, plaster, fencing, carts, buggies and other
necessities.
Section M designated all things to do with clothing or cloth. Huge weaving
machines pumped constantly in the middle of the room while all around it sat desks and
tables with sewing machines and other tailoring tools. Not only the city’s clothes were
made here, but all items like bed sheets, table cloths, sofa covers, rugs, and seat covers
were stitched as well. In a nearby corner, little pieces of material were used for putting
together dolls dresses, stuffed animals and any other toy related clothing needs.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 129

Which brought Jonathan and Michelle to Michelle’s favorite section. Section T


housed the toy factory, and it was a delight to all senses.
Nearly all aspects of the complex came to bear some significance in this room.
Section P that molded the plastics shipped its parts here to be fitted, glued, and painted.
Section G brought the wood products that had been cut and bored to be stained, nailed
and screwed. Molding machines from Section I and its processing of indigenous metals
were pressed into pieces and particles and brought and assembled to recognizable
objects. Paper products of every kind, cardboard, fillers, support props and others were
brought from Sections M, S and G. Craftsmen were everywhere, forming, sanding,
cutting and shaving. Areas were designated for dolls, others for bicycles, play cars, balls
of all kinds, board games, stuffed animals, skate boards and roller blades, tiny radios,
hand-held computer games, world globes, make-up kits and mirrors, bats, mitts, braids,
tea sets, little dirigibles, boats, kites, diaries, bracelets and necklaces, watches and rings,
plastic dinosaurs, darts, crochet and the list went on endlessly. Michelle watched in awe
as all these things disappeared when finished down a black pathway leading out of the
section.
“Where do they go?” she asked.
Jonathan pointed with his thumb at the wall to his right. “Sections X, Y and Z are
the holding tank for all finished toys.”
“What about the warehouse that was shown on television?”
“It was real, but they will use a different one every year. They have about twenty-
five of them picked out right now. But those are only a final housing area for the planes
to pick up at. That way no one can find out about this place.”

Michelle and Jonathan rode quietly back down the corridor towards the elevator.
When they arrived, they parked the cart and put on their jackets. They stepped into the
elevator and when it arrived below they walked out to a quieter town than it had been
earlier. The sky was darker and the gas street lamps were on, illuminating the town in a
storybook setting. Michelle stayed quiet for a while longer as they picked their way
through the city, then spoke softly to Jonathan.
“I’m still sleeping, aren’t I? I was knocked out and I haven’t come to yet.”
Jonathan smiled. “I felt like that, too. Still do. It’s so hard to believe that a place
like this actually exists.”
“And that Santa Claus does.”
“That gets easier as you get to know him. Are you ready to meet him?”
“Is it time?”
“Almost. Come. His house is this way.”
“He lives in town?”
“That’s what I said. I told him I thought he would live in a castle up in the hills.
But none of that is for him. He’s really a simple man. You’ll like him. And his wife.”
Michelle stopped and grabbed Jonathan’s arm. “His wife? He’s married?”
“Sure. Aren’t most people?”
“Wow.” Michelle let Jonathan pull her further down the street and out of the
commercial area into the residential district. “I guess it really shouldn’t be a surprise
he’s married. Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“You never asked.”
“Funny.”
“I don’t know. I’m still reeling from my own discoveries. It’s been a life-long
dream to meet my real parents. It’s now come true. It’s practically all I can think about,
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 130

even though today I was able to let it go for awhile. I was able to relive what I saw a few
days ago through your eyes.”
Jonathan stopped Michelle and they stood in front of a quaint, small house. They
could see shadowy movement through the open windows, but it was the far left scenario
that held Michelle’s attention. The picture window there was at least eighteen feet high
and through it rose the greatest indoor Christmas tree Michelle had ever seen. Its
warmth seem to leap from inside and extend itself to comfort Michelle standing out in
the freezing night. Michelle smiled and turned her gaze to the young man next to her.
“This is it.” she stated.
“This is it. The Nicholas residence.”
The two of them stood for a moment in the cold, pondering the household before
them. But it wasn’t the somewhat modest two-story structure in front of her that
grabbed Michelle’s attention; it was the magnificent picture window on the right side of
the home. Standing over twenty feet in height, the Christmas tree staring out at them
was a wonder to behold. It lit up the night with its intensity and Michelle could feel its
spirit even out here on the street. When Michelle finally spoke, her words were soft, yet
leaving condensation in the night air.
“Will your parents be here tonight? I’d love to meet them.”
“Yes, they will. And you will meet them.”
Even as he was finishing the words, the front door of the house opened up and
Michelle’s eyes were riveted on the man who stepped through and started towards them.
He wore black logger boots and black jeans held up by a pair of straight black
suspenders over a white, short sleeve button up shirt. His hair, eyebrows and beard
were snow white though by the street lamps looked almost yellow. He came closer and
Michelle couldn’t shake her look away from his eyes, eyes that were calm, appraising,
deep yet with an excitement that was visible without words. He was a large man and
finally he stood next to Jonathan before Michelle, a slight grin shadowing his face.
Jonathan spoke first.
“Michelle, this is Nicholas.”
“Hello, sir.”
“Hello, Michelle. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have been treated well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have seen the city and the complex?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And has my son treated you properly?”
“Yes, s . . . ”
Michelle’s voice trailed off as she looked at the big fat smiles of first Nicholas, then
Jonathan. Then Jonathan and Nicholas. She had never seen two like smiles such as
theirs in her life.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 131

FIVE-FORTY-THREE p.m. (U.T.C.)

The fireplace threw its white and yellow light across the library and made the room
seem more crowded than it already was, though over a dozen bodies did occupy the
premises at the moment. Eggnog, hot chocolate and soda were carried by everyone and
several tables contained goodies ranging from cookies to candy canes. Michelle ignored
the food and tried to get Jonathan to slow down and talk to her.
“I want to know why you didn’t tell me he was your father?”
“Not now. There’s a whole bunch of people here who want to meet you and I
know, if you’ll let this go for a while, that you definitely want to meet them. Like this
gentleman, for instance.”
Michelle looked up and into the eyes of Byron Van Horn and she did indeed forget
all else for the moment. Byron stood looking at Michelle with awkward eyes, then
glanced quickly at a middle-aged lady by his side for some kind of moral support. She
winked at him and he turned back to Michelle just as Michelle jumped into his arms. He
wrapped his huge arms around her, then pushed her back so they could look at each
other.
Michelle reached up and touched his cheek. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
“It was nothing. I was just in the right place at the right time.”
“That’s not true and you know it. I could never say thank you enough. And . . .”
Michelle glanced quickly at Jonathan then back at Byron. “ . . . what are you doing
here? No one told me you were here.”
Byron laughed and unconsciously put his hand on the shoulder of the woman still
standing next to him.
“Isaiah Brown let me come,” Byron said. “Believe me, it surprised me too. Oh,
Michelle, please meet Sheila Armstrong.”
“Pleased to finally meet you, Michelle.”
Michelle shook Sheila’s hand and gave her a closer look. An attractive lady,
probably in her forties.
“You’re CEO of United Way.”
Sheila grinned and winked at Jonathan and Byron.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 132

“Good thing we brought you when we did. You know more, obviously, than we
thought you did.”
“I was lucky. I found a piece of stationery in the wrapping of one of the presents
that was sent out. I didn’t know when I found it whether or not it meant anything. Later
I did.”
Sheila looked worried for moment. “That was a grievous mistake. I’m glad you
told me. It won’t happen again. Please excuse me. I think I better tell Nicholas now I
made an error.”
“Can’t it wait, Sheila?”
Sheila looked at the concerned face of Byron and relaxed. She grabbed his hand.
“Why don’t you come with me?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled Byron behind her after a quick wave to
Jonathan and Michelle.
Jonathan chuckled. “Get the feeling they like each other?”
Michelle smiled and let her gaze wander over the crowd. She suddenly nudged
Jonathan in the ribs with her elbow.
“Ow! Michelle, why’d you hurt me?”
“Sorry. My eyes are adjusting to the light. I recognize some of the people here.”
“Who?”
“That couple over there by the fire. I did some research at the library and then
went home and got on the Internet. I was able to dig up a few photos. I’ve never seen a
picture of the man before but I can sure guess who he his. The woman he’s with is
Jeanette Sommersby, CEO of United Artists. He must be Roland Osborne, CEO of United
Van Lines.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Man, they knew you knew things, but I don’t think they
knew how much.”
“And that man over there. That’s Stephen Player, CEO of UPS.”
“Next to him are his wife and two children. They live here. He doesn’t get to see
them as much as he wants but he wanted his children to be raised in this kind of
environment.”
“Oh, my gosh.”
Michelle caught her breath as a woman, a little girl and finally Richard Langley
marched up holding out his hand.
“So pleased to meet you, Miss Larough.”
“Hello, Mr. Langley. So you were there on the park bench on Christmas Day.”
“I have to confess. Getting caught was the biggest boo-boo I ever made. Please,
this is my wife, Terri, and my daughter, Crystal.”
They both said hello and Michelle shook both of their hands. The little girl was
busy with a caramel apple. Richard looked at Jonathan.
“Feeling more at home, young man?”
“Feels good.”
“I’m glad. I’ll talk to you two later, if you don’t mind. I think my daughter needs a
hanky.”
The three disappeared into the crowd and Michelle pointed at a man standing
alone by the side of the room.
“Who’s that?”
“Isaiah Brown. United Investigative Services.”
Michelle leaned back her head as who he was dawned on her. “He was the one
watching me.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 133

“Good thing, too. He was the one who orchestrated getting you off that roof
before the fire ate you up.”
“He’s also the one Byron mentioned, the one who let Byron come here.”
“Because Byron saved your life. That was why.”
Michelle let her eyes fall to the floor, taking a moment to let everything absorb.
When she looked up, she saw again the lone figure of Isaiah Brown.
“Why does he look so sad?”
“I can only guess, but I think he got his heart hurt a little.”
“How so?”
“He’s had a crush on Sheila Armstrong for years. But he knew her husband well
and has always felt awkward approaching her since his death. Now, Byron shows up and
. . . well, I think you can guess the rest.”
“How sad.”
“Don’t be too sad. I know just enough about Isaiah to know nobody would want
happiness more for Sheila than him.”
Without thinking about it, Michelle slipped her arms around Jonathan’s waist. He
raised an eyebrow, then smiled to himself and put an arm around her in return. They
watched in silence the people before them as they ate, drank and laughed. Michelle
spotted Nicholas on his knees, taking a bite out of little Crystal’s candy apple. The girl
screamed with laughter at his exaggerated munching.
Michelle sighed. “So that’s your father.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to tell me more right now.”
“No. But you’ll learn.”
Michelle grinned. She knew she would. Her eyes fell again on the gigantic
Christmas tree that looked over the room next to the fire. She left Jonathan and walked
towards it, fascinated by its decoration. She ran her hand along one ornately carved
ornament then touched gently one of the candle holders. Then she suddenly became
aware the room had become quiet. She turned and saw everyone looking at her. But
before she could react, she saw a woman she vaguely remembered stepping up to her.
“You’re my nurse! The one who was there when I woke up the first time.”
The woman laughed, her white hair swinging behind her. “I only volunteer part
time. I’m Mrs. Nicholas. My friends all call me Maggie. I’m so happy to see you are all
right.”
Michelle’s face brightened and she looked at the older lady in front of her. “You’re
Jonathan’s mother.”
“Yes.”
“And Santa’s wife.”
Maggie laughed again. “Yes, I am.”
Michelle noticed again everyone looking at her, the silence of the room.
“What’s everybody looking at?”
“Probably you, my dear. That white dress. The long sleeves. You look positively
like an angel standing there next to the tree like that.”
Michelle blushed. “Well, just don’t mount me on top. And speaking of the tree,
these ornaments are incredible. Where did you get them all?”
“We’ve collected them throughout the years, Nicholas more than I. Some of them
go back hundreds of years.”
“Handed down through your family?”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 134

Now Maggie stood quietly looking at Michelle, saying nothing yet conveying a
sense of importance.
“What’s wrong, Maggie? And why is everyone still looking at me?”
Nicholas suddenly stepped out of the crowd and stood beside his wife. Michelle
was immediately taken by his stare. It was as if he was looking at her soul, not just into
her eyes.
“You still don’t understand, do you, Michelle?”
“Understand what?”
But Michelle felt every nerve on her body start to tingle, and the room started to
shake a bit. Nicholas stepped closer to her and it was as if she was partially hypnotized.
“My name is Jonathan Albert Nicholas, Michelle. I am over seventeen-hundred
years old . . .
The library started to darken and the room was swirling but Michelle couldn’t take
her eyes off the man in front of her . . .
“ . . . I am Saint Nicholas, Michelle.”
And Michelle fainted dead away.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 135

SIX-TWENTY-NINE p.m. (U.T.C.)

Images of crashing cement and fire, and Edgar standing in the middle of it, his
arms wide, laughing with uncontrollable abandon. Then a rainy street and man standing
alone. She got closer, thunder pounding and lightning flashing yet still she couldn’t
make out the figure. Then she saw it was her father, smiling, but not at her. Some
object she couldn’t see. She moved towards the object and the rain stopped. The sun
came out and she was faced with the serene smile of Nicholas. He looked at her and
touched her arm. “It’s all right, Michelle. You’ll be all right . . . ”
Michelle opened her eyes and Nicholas was not there, but the smiling, concerned
face of her father was. He sat on the edge of the couch she was lying on saying, “It’s all
right. You’ll be all right, Shelly.”
“Daddy.”
Michelle reached up and wrapped her arms around her father as he did her in
return. After a moment, she pushed him back at arms length.
“Where have you been, dad?”
Joseph laughed and patted her hand. “I went by your apartment and got some
things you might need. It was easy enough. You already had suitcases packed. Were
you going somewhere?”
“Yes, though I didn’t know where exactly. I just knew I needed to get out of my
apartment. Then this thing with Edgar happened.”
“It was hard for me to watch you go through that. But you’re fine now. At least,
we thought you were fine. You fainted.”
“I know. Too much, too soon.”
“Yeah, well there’s a guy in the kitchen warming up some soup who’s kicking
himself for letting you go without eating. He’s blaming himself for what happened to
you.”
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan.”
Michelle leaned back down on the sofa and grinned at her father.
“I like him.”
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“He likes you.”


“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Don’t play with me. What Nicholas told me tonight.”
“Yes. Your grandparents and their’s before them knew him. Helped him. This
wasn’t all planned in a day. It took centuries. You weren’t supposed to find out about it
yet, though.”
“Why?”
“Because I was supposed to wait until you were thirty before you were told.”
“But Jonathan . . . ?”
“Jonathan was thirty last month.”
“Oh. But there are children here?”
“Only children that are raised here. Some families choose to live here, like Richard
and Stephen. The rest must wait. Which leads me to another thing. I want you to know,
with all my heart, that I didn’t hand you this story. It was pure chance. I had a job
opening in Phoenix and I gave that to you. The rest you did on your own. I hope you
believe that.”
“I do.”
“And besides, thank God it was you. I understand you know a lot more than we
knew you did.”
“I knew things. I couldn’t prove them.”
“Are you feeling better? Everybody is waiting in the library for you. Nicholas is
going to explain a lot of things.”
Michelle started to get up. “I’m ready.”
“Just hold it right there. That man in the kitchen was wearing a hole in the floor
worrying about you. I think you better eat some soup to calm his nerves, even if it
doesn’t help you.”
Michelle smiled. “Send him in.”
“I love you, Shelly.”
“I love you, too, dad.”
They hugged one more time then Joseph exited the room. A minute later Jonathan
came tip-toeing in, a bowl in his hands and a wrinkled look on his brow. He awkwardly
stepped towards her.
“Michelle? You okay?”
“No, Jonathan. I’m dead. Haven’t you ever seen a ghost? Will you stop looking at
me like that? I’m fine.”
“You wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t caught you in there.”
Jonathan walked over and sat where Joseph had only a minute before. Michelle
looked at the various toys around the room, then at Jonathan. He handed her the bowl.
“Eat. You should have hours ago.”
Michelle sat up, took the bowl and chanced a sip. After one taste, she began
devouring the rest of what tasted to her like a delicacy.
“My gosh, I’m ravished.”
“Wow. Wonder why.”
Michelle ate while Jonathan watched her in silence, his eyes betraying satisfaction.
When Michelle finished, she handed the bowl to Jonathan which he laid on the floor next
to him.
“Feel better?”
“That was incredible. Who made it?”
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“Mom.”
Michelle and Jonathan gazed at each other a second then they both started
laughing at the same time. Michelle took Jonathan’s hand and said, “Haven’t said that
word, mom, much, have you?”
“No. But I can’t say I don’t like it.”
“I’m still finding it pretty hard to take what Nicholas told me in there.”
“You? I walked around in a fog for two days. I not only found out my parents were
alive, but then I found out they happened to be none other than Santa Claus and his
wife. It was quite a reach, I’ll tell you.”
“And you believe it?”
“It’s not a matter of what I believe. I know it’s true.”
“How?”
“Are you ready to go back in the other room. They’re waiting for us.”
“What’s going to happen.”
“I guess every year Nicholas repeats his story on New Year’s Eve, telling his history
as it happened to him. I know a lot of it, but not all. I’d like to hear the rest.” But
there’s something else going on this year that everyone seems uptight about.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody else does either, and that’s what’s upsetting
them. Nicholas has always been fully upright about the things he did. But all year he’s
been telling everybody something’s going to change. Earlier today he said he would tell
everybody tonight.”
Michelle stood up and Jonathan followed suit.
“Well,” Michelle said, “Maybe we ought to get in there.”
Jonathan nodded, but they stood for another moment looking at each other.
Jonathan squeezed her hand, which he had not let go of.
“To a new beginning.”
Michelle smiled.
“To an old one that hasn’t ended yet.”
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SIX-FIFTY-NINE p.m. (U.T.C.)

“When I look back on my life it’s kind of hard to believe that it happened to me.
No, not the things I did. That seems like me all right. But what mankind made of my life,
what history says of me, that’s what’s hard to swallow. And it’s funny, too. Funny, that
if I step out of myself and look at the past, I am probably the most famous Saint to ever
exist, yet almost nothing is known about my so called real life. Over a thousand
churches have been named after me. Four hundred in England, over three-hundred in
Belgium and so on. Even the first Dutch Protestant Church in the new America was
named after me, ‘The Nicholas Collegiate Church.’ My image was even carved into the
vessels that brought the Dutch to America. Of course, back then I was skinny and wore
a broad-rimmed hat. But even centuries before then people spoke my name and gave
gifts to others, as I was taken on by many as the Patron Saint of Children. That was
probably the one thing I never reacted to or minded. I’ve always loved the children.
“At first it was hard to live with the fact that my name had been Sainted. Not
when, at the end, I was living the lie that I was, which I’ll get to later. I was moving
about, from one country to another, trying to figure out my plan in life. Make some
sense as to why I kept on living when nothing or no one else was allowed to. I didn’t feel
deserving of this gift. To me, even my life was proof of that. Because with all the fame
my name became associated with, the truth is, to this day, most historians know nothing
about my life. I was Sainted, yet no one knows when I was born, nor where. No one
knows the year I died, though the day of my death is marked, which I’ll also talk about
later. There was a reason people remembered when I died, even if they don’t remember
why. Anyway, so few facts about me are noted that almost my entire life in the church is
based on rumor and gossip. It is only known that I entered the church at a young age,
which I did, and that I loved the children, which I also did. Anything beyond that is
almost completely untrue.
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“Tonight, I will tell you my true story. And all of you who have heard it will
remember it better. Those who haven’t will be one of the few who will know it at all.
“I was born in Patara, which is now called Turkey. Shortly after that my family
moved to Asia-Minor, a short distance away. My family were hard working, church going
folks, and I was given a happy childhood. I’m not sure there’s ever an explanation for
things like this, kind of like young Jonathan there knowing he wanted to run the adoption
agency at a young age, but I knew early on I wanted to join the church. It was what I
devoted my life to. At the age of nineteen I was ordained and was allowed to practice in
my home town. Just a few years later, when the local Bishop died, I was the first to walk
into the church after his burial and so I was made the new Bishop. I don’t think there
was any other reason for it. I was just first. And from that point on my life was fairly
simple. I preached, I helped the locals, and I especially tried to help the kids. Customs
and traditions were a bit different then, but people are people and people don’t really
change. Just their habits.
“There was probably only one other rumor about me that was slightly true, the one
where I threw money through the window of a man with three daughters. He had no
dowry to give them to get married with. Back then, if a father had no money to give his
daughters, the daughters never got married. When I learned of this poor man’s fate, I
took over a few coins one night. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Two of his
daughters were married within a year, but I laugh when I think of the third. She never
did get married. But there were reasons, I assure you, and good ones too. I knew her
quite well, bless her soul.
“My years with the church were simple and dutiful, and my life was full. I saw my
parents pass, then my brothers and sisters. It seemed like my life just kept going on
while others died around me. I said my blessings and accepted my own death when ever
my time was due.
“But as time passed, I just went on living. After several years, I began to wonder
what was going on. People would comment on how young I looked and one day, looking
into the clear, steady waters of a local pond, I realized I did look fairly young. I must
have been close to a hundred yet I didn’t look a day over forty-five, fifty at most. And I
felt good too. Sometimes, after realizing my youthfulness, when I was running with the
children in the community I would see the curious glares of the other old people around
me. I knew what they were wondering. How could I do what they long ago had since
been unable to.
“Then one night I realized the truth. I was chopping some kindling behind my
cabin when I accidentally hit the tip of my finger. It’s gory to listen to, I’m sure, but that
is what I did and I cut the top part of my finger straight off. I ran to the house and
washed it in water--we had no real medicine then-- and wrapped it in a cloth. It hurt like
crazy but I lay in my bed all curled up and finally managed to go to sleep. When I woke
up in the morning I was in absolutely no pain. And the shock of my life came when I
removed the blood-stained cloth and saw my finger had grown back. It was whole once
more.
“I was so frightened I stayed in my cabin for several days wondering what I was,
thinking bad thoughts, considering perhaps that I was even evil. But then my head
leveled out and I realized I didn’t know what was happening to me. That maybe it wasn’t
evil at all but some other reason. Some reason that I didn’t know about yet. And that
calmed me. It made me feel all right to know that I didn’t know my purpose in this life. I
had led my life to that point like that anyway, so what was the difference? That I was
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living longer? And because of this I should change everything I had come to believe?
No. I would trust. Trust that my life would go where it was intended.
“But I knew that I would have to change my lifestyle. With great regret and
sadness, I understood that for the first time since childhood I would have to move from
the area that I loved so well. From the people I cared for so much. The village elders
were already watching me with curiosity and now I would have to implement a plan to
join them. I needed to become old.
“So I grew a beard, which happened to be white, and as the months went on I tried
to act my age. I even hung around the elders more so they would acknowledge my
aging process. I walked differently. I started to talk differently. I changed my clothing
to a white robe that was dignifying for an aging Bishop. I didn’t like misleading
everyone, but somehow, deep inside, I knew it was the right thing to do. The one thing I
didn’t do, though, was stop helping the children. If anything, I redoubled my efforts to
spend time with them. But instead of running with them now I just watched and cheered
them on. In the evening I would help with their education, urging them onto greater
knowledge. That was very satisfying to me.
“Then, one day a few years later, I began the last part of my plan. I walked
through the city in my robe and visited all those I could and told everybody that I was
going to go for a swim that evening in the warm ocean. And, as the sun settled over the
mountains, I went to the sea, left my robe and wooden shoes, a box of gifts for the
children and a towel on the shore, and I left my home town for the first time in my life.
Aways down the beach I picked up a basket of clothing and money I had stored there
earlier on and I traveled to a destination unknown at the time. I just kept walking.
“So on December sixth, in the year 379 AD, the people of my village believed I had
drowned. That was the day I died. And to this day it is remembered that I died on that
day, though not the year, not because I had really done anything spectacular, but
because that was the day that the old, St. Nicholas, who was over a hundred and
fourteen years of age, came to die. Somehow the reason for my death also disappeared,
but not the day.
“I settled in one place then another over time, staying just long enough to know
the community and help in what ways I could. Usually with the children in some
capacity. I stopped preaching officially, of course, though I did what I could to spread
the word in one form or another, and I shaved my beard immediately. I didn’t need to
look old anymore. But the second I thought my youthfulness might be discovered and
wondered about, I would leave. I would tell the townsfolk of another job opportunity and
depart. I still used my own name because back then there was little forms of long-
distance communication. It took months and even years for stories to spread, and even
then it had to be big ones, ones of importance. I never did, in those first centuries, ever
run into somebody who recognized me for who I was.
“Then, later on in that same millennium, having traveled at this point to the
western part of Europe, I was sitting around a fire telling tales with a group of townsfolk
when someone told the tale of a man named Nicholas who had been Sainted by the
church. He was from Asia-Minor and lived down by the sea and he had been dubbed the
Patron Saint of Children. He had died centuries ago on a day in December, the sixth,
though no one knew what year.
“I was dumbfounded. Devastated, to say the least. Could they possibly be talking
about me? Then the gentleman who was telling the story went on to say that stories of
this man were abundant around the eastern world, and that many celebrated the eve of
his death with presents to other loved ones. This, because it was what he had done to
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others in life. I got up and left the fire and went back to my villa where I lay, my heart
heavy and pounding. What if these stories are true? Did the church really pass such an
undeserved decree? And if they did, did they not understand that I was just a simple
man who led a simple way of life as was taught to me by my parents? I had to know. I
needed to know the truth. I packed my things, which were few, and left at once to go
back to my childhood home to see what realities of fate had befallen my name.
“And I came to find that it was true. I had been Sainted. The day of my death was
celebrated. I also, for the first time, found churches in my travels that were named after
me.
“After that I traveled more often, stayed in one place less. And every year with
growing frequency, on December sixth, people would exchange presents and tales of my
life would be spread, each year more stories untrue than the next. Then, as I passed
from one country to the next, I found the celebrations a bit different. In the Netherlands
the gifts were left in shoes by the fireplace to be opened in the morning. In Austria if the
child was bad the parents of the child were left a birch rod for whipping, which I was
disgusted with. I also found my name changing as I went along. In the English
territories the children spoke the Dutch name for St. Nicholas so fast it came out more
like Sinterklass. In Germany I was known as Kris Kringle, which came from the words
Christ-kind. It was about this time, in the middle ages, that controversy began between
the major churches and it was one of the horrible times of my life. Many believed that
because my name was being abused and changed for the act of gift-giving, and by many
countries at the same time that Christmas was being heralded, I had turned into some
kind of Pagan God and was actually bad and shouldn’t be tolerated. In a lot of countries
it actually became illegal to celebrate my name or Christmas by using my name. But I
really think all that was more political than anything and in time I generally became
known as simply St. Nicholas, a happy, good man who loved to give toys to children
around the time of the Holy birth. Comparisons became less talked about and more and
more St. Nicholas became a part of the holiday season without controversy. I was glad
when that whole mess was settled, even though I was just an innocent bystander as the
world decided the fate of my name. It was all pretty unbelievable to me at the time. I
just kept traveling, moving from one place to the next, wondering again and again what
my purpose in this life could possibly be for.
“Well, time went on and I finally found myself settling in England, not too far from
the coast, tutoring foreign languages to the local college students. By this time I spoke a
couple dozen dialects so teaching came easy, and I grew my beard back because that is
what teachers did then. But also at this time I kept hearing more and more about this
new place called America. The fact was, you couldn’t be an Englander without hearing
about America. It was supposed to be a radical place, a place of freedom and difference.
So by the late sixteen-hundreds I decided, since I had been everywhere else on the
European continent, and I had no particular plans anyway, that I might go check out this
America myself. A few years later I caught a ride on a Dutch merchant boat heading
that way. I must say, I had a good laugh when I found that a figure of St. Nicholas had
been carved into the front of the boat for luck. Little did they know the real Nicholas was
riding along side.
“The thing that was most amazing about the new continent was the raw energy
that you could feel just by walking down the street. Western Europe had gotten so
formalized over the years by the British that a place like America was bound to happen.
Yes, people had a religious base, but their attitude was one of growth. If something
could be bigger or better, then so be it. Who really had the right to stop it? The
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government? No. Not in America. There it was your duty to pursue whatever you
wanted to pursue. If you came up with an idea to make something new and exciting
then it was your right to do it. It was your responsibility.
“I fit right into this new world, and I was taken in by many because I spoke so
many languages so well. And, because this was a country of immigrants from
everywhere, a man who knew languages was in high demand. I was escorted from one
colony to another, helping one community mediate with the other so all could get along,
regardless of background. It was fascinating. Many a night I would have conversations
with the men who were fighting for America’s freedom, hearing them speak of equality
and the right to be what they wanted to be. Many a night I would talk with someone like
Ben Franklin, yes, yes, I knew him, and I would be mesmerized by his need to excel. We
would be in the middle of a conversation and he would stop and gaze at the fireplace
and tell me how he could make it burn brighter and longer. We would be on the porch
and he would look at the sky and tell me how he wanted to harness the amazing
strength of a lightning bolt. He was never satisfied. I’m not saying he wasn’t content
with his lot, because like so many men there he was rather a peaceful man. Life would
come and go and he knew it. But while alive, he wanted to make as many things happen
as he could. And watching him and men like him I grew to love it. I had always adored
education and the learning process and the possibilities of the human condition and
here, in this new land, everyone thought the same way.
“Then I experienced my first Christmas in America. Here, all around me, were all
the religions of the world celebrating together. The Dutch were down the road and the
Protestants across the street. The Catholics held communion next door to the Germans.
And, to my incredible amazement, the one thing they all held in common was the giving
of gifts to their children, and all under the different names of St. Nicholas. Sinterklass
and Kris Kringle, Father Christmas and La Befana, Jultomten and Swarte Piet.
Everywhere I went people were giving to each other and their children and laying the
blessing on someone else. Laying the reason because of a baby in a manger, but laying
the blessing of the gifts on the mythical legend of an old man from Patara who just
happened to have been Sainted the Patron of Children.
“It was my first Christmas there that I knew what I wanted to do with my life, or
what was left of it. I had not started this dream, this dream to give at the time of Holy
celebration, but I could finish it. I could propel its myth and fantasy and maybe, just
maybe, someday I could actually make it come true. Make true that all children of the
world, regardless of class or race or financial standing, could receive just once a year a
little something that they have always wanted. What harm could it do to give a child,
who would someday like the rest of us have to face the harsh realities of life, some nice
token of affection? A gift to remind them that it is okay to dream. And want. And
believe that though some things may seem impossible, all things are not. For one
moment, once a year, a child could say to him or herself that the impossible happened
today, like the child in the manger, and therefore maybe that child will believe in the
impossible. That the impossible can come in the form of giving. I decided that first
Christmas I would do anything I could to make sure that a child could receive that gift of
the impossible. From that point on it would be my mission to give all the children of the
world the gift of the impossible. No matter what I had to do, I would spend my life
dedicated to sending all nation’s tots a Christmas legacy and united spirit. It was that
very night that Santa Claus was born.
“I began right away the process of gathering men and women who believed as I,
who thought the same regarding children and the dream of giving all children a bit of
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hope on Christmas. At first, I had to be very careful. Many a time I almost gave myself
away to people who would have given me away, or thought I was crazy. But over time I
started finding others I trusted and a small group of us starting meeting and planning.
We didn’t know at the time how we were going to accomplish the actual gift-giving, but
we felt time would lead us to the technology to make it possible. What we did do right
away was perpetuate the myth. We started, in our own way, to bring all the centuries of
rumor and gossip and stories into one tangible character. Someone adults and children
alike could relate to. We started spreading the fantasies of Santa Claus.
“One night in the early eighteen hundreds, in my house in New York, which I still
have, a group of us were discussing how we could best describe Santa Claus physically.
Washington Irving, a writer in our group, suggested we tell the truth. Describe me for
what I was. And what I was at the time was getting a bit over-weight. I don’t know why I
started gaining weight at that time in my life, but I did. All the years before that I had
been skinny, just as the stories betrayed. But Washington decided, and we agreed, to
write a piece that described me currently, along with the other, more fantastic
characteristics like my sleigh and reindeer. So, in 1809, Washington published
‘Knickerbocker’s History of New York,’ in which he portrayed me as a stout, jolly man. A
few years later, another close friend, Clem Moore, wrote a poem called, ‘An Account Of A
Visit from St. Nicholas.’ This really clarified a lot of what Santa Claus was supposed to
be. But it was my old friend Thomas Nast, a cartoonist, who created the final image,
drawings he made for ‘Harper’s Weekly’ that fulfilled the legend of a man known around
the world as Santa Claus. All these men were part of this group. All of these men did it
for the sake of this cause, though they have said otherwise to the general public.
“The myth worked. Millions of parents give their children presents on Christmas
Day and others still on December sixth. The first part of the plan was a success. But
time was a factor in the second part of our plan. We knew we needed to keep waiting,
but all the while planning so we would be ready when the time was right.
“For the second part of the plan we knew we needed money and knowledge. We
needed to know where the children were and how to reach them. We also needed a way
to obtain the presents to give them. In the late 1800’s something else also came to my
mind. So I incorporated into our plans a way for all those involved in our scheme to have
a certain lifestyle if they chose. Wherever our headquarters ended up, and only I knew
we would take the myth of the North Pole into reality, everyone participating would be
given the opportunity to live with all the values set forth by the teachings of our youth.
A good place. A happy place.
“In the late 1700’s we started forming businesses that would give us the financial
strength to carry forth our ultimate goal. We started dozens of companies, many that
came and went with the times like United Telegraph and United Railroad, all companies
that would not only bring us money but the eventual ability to bring each child their
present. But as technology changed, so did our plans and businesses as well. It was
really in the twentieth century that things began to come together. Many of the
businesses we created still exist. We had many entertainers in our group and they
formed United Artists. Just before that Isaiah’s grandfather began UIS, a company
imperative to our operations. United Van Lines and United Airlines followed as
technologies developed. Finally, after more than two centuries, we had the ability to
know where the children were, track them, educate them, mystify them and globally get
to them by airplane. But we had one problem left. The last company we formed, not
until just a few years ago, was also the most important. How could we get presents to
each home? UPS finally came to service, and only a few years after moving into this new
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home. Ritualistic fine tuning and organization was all that was left for the myth to once
and for all become a reality.
“As to our little town here, it was at the turn of the last century that I understood
the long dream of a home in the North Pole could finally be realized. Great structures
were being built, like the Titanic and the Empire State Building. The sophistication of the
modern world had developed enough to finally build our roost. When I finally told the
group my plan, they thought I was insane. But as we began to move forward, they got
more and more excited and all efforts were put into this structure we now sit in. We
started with the blueprints in 1914. We finished construction and moved in in the
summer of 1971, just two years after man landed on the moon. Part of the reason it
took so long was that we could only work four months out of the year, summer, when the
weather was tolerable. To this day, as knowledge is updated, so is our facility. It is the
most modern living environment on earth.
“And yet all of this built and lived in with the values that I walked the streets
preaching about over sixteen hundred years ago.
“Which leads me to a part of the story I have bypassed. A part of the story that is
partly easy to talk about, but another that is also very difficult. I have told before the
story of my wife. But this is the first that I have talked about our son.
“In the middle ‘60's, I was up north supervising the construction of this place,
making sure everything was going as planned. It was a particularly bad summer and the
weather was terrible. Every year we thought we’d finally be able to move in but
something would come up and delay us. That year it was the weather. Anyway, I was
watching Sheila’s father, who was operating a crane unloading pipeline, when suddenly
the ice we were on shifted. At the same time an unusually rough gust of wind hit the
crane and the pipe it was hauling was flung several yards from where it was supposed to
go. In fact, in was flung towards where I was standing. It landed square on my thighs,
breaking both of my legs in an instant. Of course, everyone rushed over and carted me
off to one of the temporary housing shelters we had set up at the time and made a fuss
over me. I wasn’t too worried. Many times over the years I had been injured and always
in the morning I would wake up as good as new.
“This time, however, when I woke up with the next sunrise I wasn’t healed. My
legs were swollen and black and blue. And I was in awful pain. It was a shock to my
system. I didn’t know what to do or think. What was happening to me?
“The doctor was called in and of course they flew me back to New York and put me
safely in bed with a nurse to watch over me. But I was still in shock. I didn’t want to talk
to anybody and I made the nurse hold all my calls and visitors. I laid there for two weeks
with all kinds of thoughts drifting in and out of my mind, all of them wondering what I
had become. Over time, I realized I had sinned the worst sin of all, pride. I thought I
would live forever. I thought I could do anything given enough time. Now, I came to see
I had become an egotistical old fool. Even so, with this acknowledgment to myself, I
didn’t want to face anyone. I just wanted to be left alone to try and figure out what I was
supposed to do with myself. The truth was, I wanted to lay there, alone, and feel sorry
for myself in a way that I had never done.
“Then one day, as I was laying in bed, the nurse disobeyed my commands and
brought two children to my bedside. They had knocked on the front door looking to earn
a few dollars in yard work. And as I looked at their young faces I became alive again.
Oh, to see their smiles! I gathered them around my bed and we told stories and played
games and when they finally left I was happy again for the first time in a long time.
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 145

“Over the next few weeks the nurse paraded children through my room and one
after another I talked with them and shared dreams, hopes and fantasies. Slowly at
first, then with more regularity, as the children left the nurse would come back and we
would discuss the children at length, their strengths and weaknesses and where they
might need some assistance. The more we talked, the more I came to respect this
nurse, who had for the most part said nothing about my recovery, nor a word about what
she had done for me. But except for the children and my talks with the nurse, I still felt
lost and afraid. Some times were worse than others.
“One morning the nurse walked in with my tea and caught me sobbing. When she
sat down on the bed and asked me what was wrong I found myself telling her the whole
story. I left nothing out, telling every detail of my life, no matter how incredible it might
sound to her. I cried and talked, and talked and cried until the sun had gone down. She
said nothing, only listened. When I was finished, she excused herself and walked out of
the room. I thought she would never return, with the possible exception of bringing a
couple of white-coats to take me away. But she did return. She came in quietly and sat
down on the bed next to me and looked me in the eyes. She rubbed my forehead then
asked for my forgiveness. I asked her why. She said because she had fallen in love with
me . . .
“I lay there and I looked at her and suddenly I realized what God had done for me.
I wasn’t an immortal anymore. I wasn’t a preacher or a priest. I wasn’t a Saint. I was
just a regular man looking into the eyes of a woman whom I loved just as much as I knew
loved me. She was kind and caring and beautiful and she knew me like a well-read book.
I pulled her towards me and asked her to marry me. We did the moment I could walk
again.
“Maggie moved in and I continued my work up north as much as possible. I would
spend a month or so up there and a week or two at home. I never thought I could ever
be as happy as I was at that time, but I was wrong. One night I came back from the
North Pole and found Maggie tearful by the fireplace. I started to ask her what was
wrong when I realized they were not tears of sadness, but of joy. She told me I was to be
a father.
“It all made sense then.
“As I held Maggie in my arms and comprehended what she told me, I realized at
that moment I was going to die. Isn’t that what children are for? To replenish, to live on
when the parent is gone? And as I thought about it I was truly at peace for the first time
in my life. I was normal. And I was going to be a daddy. I was so happy I couldn’t even
begin to tell you. Maggie and I danced around the house for hours, telling each other
about the million things we were going to teach the baby, what the child would and
could learn from us. So it was, the winter of 1969, just two weeks before Christmas,
Jonathan was born. It was the most satisfying day of my life. I held him so close Maggie
thought I would suffocate him. He was my worldly joy.
“But not two months after his birth these strange thoughts started crossing my
mind. I couldn’t help them, they just came. The time for moving into the complex was
drawing even closer but the closer it came the more I stayed away from it and stayed at
home with my son. I probably single-handedly post-poned our move for six months
because I avoided everybody save for my family. Then came the day I couldn’t
maneuver out of it any longer and I flew north for a week. At the end of seven days I
suddenly knew I needed to get home and get there fast. When I arrived, I found Maggie
crying in Jonathan’s room. She was just sitting there watching him. This time her tears
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 146

were not of happiness. I sat down beside her and held her. And she told me what I had
been thinking for the last year. She spoke aloud what I could not bear to.
“We would have to give up our son.
“We do not know why we had to let our son go, only that it was preordained. I
came to believe that Jonathan was the only thing I wanted selfishly in my life, a material
possession if you will, and because of that it was a test of my faith to let him go. Maggie
couldn’t stand the thought either but in her heart she knew he could not move up north
with us when we went. He must stay behind. It was not something we did lightly nor
something we have any tangible reason for. It was just supposed to be. We cried
together that night for hours wondering why we should have to do such a thing and, of
course, we came across no real reason except that some inner voice told us to do so.
And we did. We took him to an orphanage in Florida and left him there with Sister
Monahan and moved into this house where we all now sit. We felt terrible at first, but as
time went on and we kept track of Jonathan’s path in life we felt better and better. We
had thought at the time maybe we were supposed to give him up so he could become a
son to another family who could not have one. But over the years we saw how
Jonathan’s lot in life was to help many, many families have the children they believed
they might never have. We were so proud to learn of him. To know he was our son.
“And so I went back to my work, the work of making a little dream for all little
children come true and finally, this Christmas, accomplished what generations of families
have worked to achieve. Santa Claus made his first rounds. Next year, he will make
more and the year after even more. By ten years time, we hopefully will give the world’s
children a gift of the impossible.
“The gift of giving.
“I have heard many say that Christmas has become commercialized because of
Santa Claus. That you walk into a Wal-Mart at the end of September and see Christmas
decorations. That people don’t really appreciate what Christmas really means anymore.
I don’t buy any of it. What can it hurt to walk into a department store and see a carved
manger for sale? Won’t it make you think? What can it hurt to walk into a nursery and
see a Christmas tree? Won’t it make you ponder what your loved one might want or of
that wooden rocking chair that you better get started on for your child in order to be
done in time? What if by seeing a string of tinsel you just happen to be a little kinder to
a fellow shopper or driver on your way home because the spirit of Christmas is in your
thoughts? Can anything that reminds you of Christmas or what it all stands for, love,
giving, faith, really be bad at all? No. Not at all. If I had my way, it would be Christmas
year round, world-wide. We live that way in this place, and none of us here ever forget
what Christmas is all about. We live the teachings of Christmas year around. It’s what
makes this place so special. Just as it does in any home or community that leads the life
of the Christmas spirit at all times. Isn’t it probably true, that the very reason to
celebrate and remember Christmas at all is to remind us that that is how we should feel
every single day of the year?
“Yes, I believe it is so.
“And if it were true, then maybe the Edgar’s of this world would not exist. Maybe
they might have a better chance. Maybe they would love life on its own terms.
“Every day should be Christmas Day.
“Yet, for me, this particular Christmas has been an accumulation of a lifetime.
Lifetimes, to be more precise. I have my son back with me. I have seen a long-ago
dream come true. I have my friends with me and my wife is at my side. Right now, I am
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 147

more satisfied than I have ever been. And that is why it is with great happiness that I do
what I am going to do next.
“I told you all earlier this year that things were going to change. I told you to
prepare for courses of events that would be different than any you have known before.
You should be prepared anyway, life is like that, but I did warn you because I only
thought it fair. You have all been so very, very good to me. I love you all more than I
can say. More than I can possibly verbalize. You’re like my own children to me. I have
known your fathers and mothers and theirs before them. Not once in those years did
faith waiver in any of you. If anything, you cared too much. You gave more than you
should have.
“And I love you for that. Good God loves you for it.
“With that, I must tell you that Maggie and I are leaving you tonight. We venture
again to a place for reasons we do not know. We are just aware that, together, we are to
depart from this place. It came to both of us several months ago. We accept this. We
are ready.
“It is time to say good-bye.
“To you.
“And to this world.”
CARSON SEVEN DAYS IN DECEMBER Page 148

TEN-FIFTY-EIGHT P.M. (U.T.C.)

It was dead quiet as all eyes watched Nicholas and his wife hold each other on the
couch. The fire had burned down and the only real light in the room was the winking
colors from the Christmas tree. It was Jonathan who finally broke the silence as he
stepped forward.
“You can’t be serious.”
Nicholas stood up and Maggie joined him. “I am. We are leaving tonight.”
The room erupted with comments from everybody, telling Nicholas and Maggie to
stay. Nicholas finally held up his hands and everybody eventually quieted down.
When Nicholas finally spoke, his voice was gentle but firm. “What we are doing we
are at peace with. We know it’s right. But that doesn’t mean it makes it easy to leave
you all. Our lifetime friends. I ask you to make this easy on us. Let us make this short.
Let us say our good-byes quickly, with no love lost. Will you please give us that?”
There were no sounds from the people around him. Nicholas turned to face
Jonathan. Jonathan looked back at him awkwardly, his face filled with pain.
“I leave you everything, my son. Nicholas smiled. “All that I own is yours.”
“I don’t want it. I want you.”
Nicholas stepped closer to his son. “You have me. And you will always have me
now, in your mind and heart. But I must go. I don’t force you to take what I have
created, but I do will it to you. You are my son. You should have what a father and
mother has to leave their child.”
“I can’t do what you have done.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
Jonathan looked pleadingly at his father. “Then what?”
“Do what you have always done, my son.”
“And what is that?”
“Can you love the children?”
Jonathan gazed at his father. He slowly nodded. “I do love the children.”
“Then you are doing what I have done. All I ask, with everything I leave you, is to
love the children. And I know you will do that.”
“I will do that.”
Jonathan was suddenly in his father’s arms and they held each other for a good
minute. Maggie moved forward and wrapped her arms around her son and Jonathan
held her as Nicholas looked at Michelle.
“I knew your mother well. It was nice to know you, Michelle.”
“You too, sir.”
“Do you want to have children of your own someday?”
“Of course . . . ”
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Michelle suddenly turned red as she saw Nicholas pointing with his eyebrows at
Jonathan. She smiled and welcomed Nicholas’s bear hug. She stepped aside as her
father approached Nicholas.
“Nicholas, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“You know how I feel about you, Joe. What a wonderful daughter you have. You
must be so proud.”
“I am.”
“You know who she reminds me of.”
Joseph Larough smiled as he took his daughter by the hand. “I do. Michelle has
her mother’s eyes.”
“Take good care, Joe.”
Nicholas turned to Byron and Sheila.
“You are so dear to me, Sheila. Take care of yourself, and of this big man you’ve
found here.”
Sheila grinned and gave Nicholas a hug, then Nicholas faced Byron. Byron looked
at the floor as he spoke.
“Thank you for taking me in, Nicholas.”
“I didn’t. Isaiah did. He knew a good man when he saw one. I’ve been meaning
to tell you, I’ve read quite a bit of your writing.”
“It wasn’t really mine--”
“Stop that. It was your writing. Maybe the ideas weren’t yours, but the writing
was. You remind me a lot of Clement C. Moore and Washington Irving.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, you. Haven’t you figured it out, Byron? It wasn’t the story that kept you on
top. It was how you wrote the story. With such great narrative and feeling. You’ve
spent so long trying to be a great reporter you’ve overlooked what you were truly great
at. Writing. Go out and write. Write about me. Or this. Or anything that means
anything to you and watch and see. People will pay a great deal to read what you put on
paper. You are one of those rare individuals, Byron. You really can write.”
Byron wiped a tear from his cheek as Nicholas turned to Richard Langley.
“Richard, what a good friend you have been to my wife and I.”
“I will always be your friend.”
“And I you.” He gave the man a hug, then his wife, then knelt down to face little
Crystal. She hugged him then spoke softly.
“Are you going to die, Nicholas?”
“I might. Does that scare you?”
“A little.”
“Now, now. Don’t be scared. It’s my time to go. And grandma’s. We will go to a
better place. Do you know of the better place?”
“Is it Heaven?”
“Yes, Crystal. We’ll be there.”
“And I’ll see you there someday?”
“Someday. After you’ve lived a nice, long life. I want you to tell me about your
own children like I told you about mine. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Nicholas gave her another hug and stood to face Jeanette and Roland.
“I know something you two don’t.”
The couple looked at each other and hugged Nicholas with a question mark on
their lips. Nicholas finally laughed.
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“You’ll have to tell me someday what parenthood does for your careers.”
Jeanette and Roland gawked at each other open mouthed as Nicholas went to
Stephen Player and his wife and children. He gave them all hugs then finally went to
Isaiah Brown’s side. Isaiah said nothing, only gazed with open affection at the man in
front of him.
“Isaiah.”
“Nicholas.”
“You were the only one I told that we were leaving.”
“Yes, Nicholas.”
“And true as always, you told no one.”
“I gave you my word.”
“And now I’ll give you mine. Like Byron, you’ve been so busy running around
trying to find everything you want, you can’t see what’s been waiting for you all this time
right in front of your nose.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. Where is your personal love in life?”
Isaiah did a quick look at Sheila then faced Nicholas again.
“I guess I just haven’t met the right one yet.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You mean, there is no one who loves you? Cares for you? No one who has been
at your side in good times and bad, giving up their own life so they could make sure
yours was a little bit easier?”
Isaiah’s face suddenly underwent an unusual transformation. A dawning of
something lurking that was able to finally surface to comprehension.
“My secretary.”
“Who?”
Isaiah lowered his eyes as if this sudden realization shamed him.
“Jeannie.”
“Yes, Jeannie, Isaiah. She has always been there for you. But don’t be hard on
yourself. She knows. She has always known. She has just been waiting. Don’t you
think it’s time?”
Isaiah laughed and the two men hugged each other tight. They stayed that way
until Maggie had also hugged everybody and once again joined her husband. The two of
them walked together towards the wall the fireplace was on and Nicholas hit a button
that was hidden within the brick wall. A portion of the wall moved and revealed a room
behind where the wall had been. In the room, clearly in sight, was what looked to be a
several-seated coach sitting on a pair of tracks that led far into the darkness beyond.
Nicholas faced his companions again.
“You better get your coats. It’s cold where we are going.”
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ELEVEN-FORTY-TWO P.M. (U.T.C.)

As the tram made its way down the tracks the only light in the tunnel came from
the single headlight fixed on the front coach. Everybody was bundled up and silent as
the unfinished walls of the cavern zoomed by, passing occasionally dripping water that
had seeped down from the frozen wasteland above. They stopped twice as Nicholas
carried away debris that had fallen over the tracks, then they proceeded along their way.
Soon the trolley headed up at a forty-degree angle and stayed that way for some time.
Finally, the floor evened out and they pulled into a large, all metal room lit by two
fluorescent lamps. Everybody exited from the vehicle as Nicholas and Maggie, both
dressed in heavy red coats lined with white fur, made their way to a small lever
embedded into the wall. Nicholas pulled the lever and for a moment nothing happened.
Then a loud creaking filled the room and soon one wall seemed to break in two as it
slowly opened. Further and further out the walls moved and all there pulled their
jackets a little tighter as the cold air from outside made its way in. When the doors were
finally fully opened, they could all see the stormy weather of the surface of the North
Pole outside, its gaping mouth of icy teeth and chilling breath beckoning with death.
Nicholas and Maggie stepped to the opening of the door and stood looking out. Isaiah
made his way to the front of the little group of people.
“You think you two are going out there?”
“Yes, Isaiah. That is where we are supposed to go.”
‘You’ll freeze to death!”
“Maybe. Who knows? Such as it is meant to be.”
Joseph Larough opened his mouth. “We can’t let you do this, Nicholas.”
Nicholas looked at his wife then at all his friends. He waved his hands, as if it were
nothing.
“Don’t do this, people. Maggie and I both know that this is what we have to do.
We don’t know what awaits us out there, but whatever it is, it is for us. We are going to
go.”
Jonathan tried to pipe in. “But you have--”
“I don’t have. Look, we did it this way on purpose. We kept our good-byes short
because we could say good-bye to you for days. There isn’t one person in this room we
couldn’t go right on talking to forever. It is time to be quiet. It is time to let us go. I love
you all.”
Nicholas and Maggie stood and looked into the face of each individual there,
quietly, firmly. Then they turned and started out into the cold and wetness. Even in the
low light everyone could see how rough the weather was. But no one said a word now.
They just watched as the couple made their way further into the stormy night. Just as
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they were almost out of sight, hidden by the fury of white, Jonathan suddenly ran
forward and screamed.
“Father! Mother! We have only just met!”
The two dim people in the distance turned and everyone heard as Nicholas yelled
through the storm back at Jonathan.
“And wasn’t it grand! Wasn’t it just the greatest, son! To know you was the most
gloriest time of my life! United we will be again someday! I love you, son! We love
you!”
“I love you, too!”
And with that, Jonathan and the rest watched as Nicholas and his wife disappeared
into the wilds of the night, the spot where they had been only a second before leaving a
memory for those who witnessed their passing.
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NEW YEAR’S DAY


A New Millennium
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TWELVE-O-ONE A.M. (Universal Time, Coordinated)

Slowly, one by one and two by two, the crowd started seating themselves back
onto the trolley that would take them back. Only Jonathan stayed where he was, looking
at where his parents had only just been. Tears tried to run down his face and iced
halfway. His arm was still above his head in a frozen wave. His body sobbed. He finally
lowered his arm but he just stood there, his frame aching from head to toe. He closed
his eyes and hung his head on his chest, crying as he had never done.
Michelle got up from the tram and walked up to Jonathan, gently putting a hand on
his shoulder.
“You have to come back with us.”
“No.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. Nicholas wouldn’t want you to do this.”
Jonathan opened his eyes and looked at Michelle. With a rush, he grabbed her and
held her and she pulled him in tight. After a minute, he pushed her back at arm’s length
and gazed into her eyes.
“They would never have left me alone.”
‘No. They wouldn’t. They left you a whole family.”
“And you?”
Michelle smiled and watched Jonathan smile in return. She looked at how he
reminded her of Nicholas, the gentleness and kindness written all over him. Michelle
moved very close to Jonathan and whispered in his ear . . .
“I know I’ll never be alone again, either.”
And in the freezing wind and ice, Jonathan kissed Michelle.
They didn’t even notice the cheering coming from the tram.
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NEW YEAR’S DAY


One Year Later . . .
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EPILOGUE . . .

Michelle pulled the light robe around her a little tighter as she made her way down
the hallway towards the bedroom ahead of her. She quietly opened the door and smiled
as she stepped through. Her father was sitting next to a small crib, softly rubbing his
finger back and forth along the hairline of the small baby girl that lay there.
“Dad, it’s one in the morning.”
“Oh, hi Shelly. I can’t help it. I just like looking at her.”
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She looks so much like your mother.”
Michelle walked across the room and her father stood, hugging Michelle when she
arrived. He looked again at the baby.
“Your mother would have been so proud.”
“Of both of us.”
“Yes. Of both of us.”
“Good-night, dad.”
“Good-night, honey. I’ll just be a little longer.”
Michelle laughed quietly and exited back out into the hall and towards her own
bedroom. When she entered the room she gazed again at her sleeping husband before
she turned off the light and crawled in bed beside him. She wrapped her arms around
his already bulging belly. He was looking more and more like his father everyday. His
whiskers were even coming out white.
Michelle thought of this last Christmas and of how everything had gone so
smoothly. The world once again wondered who Santa Claus was and, once again, it
appeared as if they had gone another year undiscovered. Everyone involved knew they
would be caught one day, but that was okay. It was the children that mattered. It was
all about the children.
Michelle rolled over and by the dim night-lite coming from one wall she looked at
the letter on her night-stand. Edgar had been sober for almost a year now. He wrote
every month. He didn’t know where she was but he always addressed the envelopes to
Santa Claus and the North Pole. And she always got the letters. Tomorrow, she was
going to talk to Jonathan about Edgar visiting them. Edgar had worked hard over the last
year for a new life. He deserved one.
A map of the world covering the whole of one bedroom wall caught Michelle’s eye
and she looked at it more closely. As if she had never seen it before. A single country
was the focus of her attention, and she wondered for a second if it was remotely possible
that Nicholas could have had anything to do with its name. A name filled with
possibilities. A name full of hope. A name that signified everything that she and
everyone here worked for every day of their life.
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United States of America.


Surely, it couldn’t be possible.
Michelle draped her arms back over her husband and started to fall into a blissful,
peaceful sleep.
Perhaps one day everybody would be united.
As if it were Christmas everyday.
Everywhere.

THE END

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