Yuletide Justice by Benkei

A murmured echo drifts up in Lawrence’s mind, the words stammering out like a frightened whisper in the dark. "It's all wrong. Ma and Pa... they... they aren’t there no more." Little Larry’s eyes, wide with shock and trauma, reluctantly shift towards Nicholas, his gaze clouded by distress. Nicholas placed a comforting hand on Larry’s quivering shoulder, instilling a sense of security. “You’re safe now, son. Take a deep breath, in and out. That’s it, good job”, he encouraged. "I understand it's terrifying. But I'm here with you, Larry. Together, we'll face this," Nicholas reassured him.

Larry’s voice trembles, a primal fear underpinning every word he utters. "I-I found 'em by the Christmas tree between the boxes. Their eyes closed, but not like sleepin'. Blood on the floor and on their clothes. They’re gone. They’re not moving. Just... just gone."

Lawrence’s heart races, his breath hitching as he remembers. "I’m scared.”, Larry tells Nicholas, “But... but it’s also... like a weight liftin', like I can finally breathe, even though I don’t wanna." “I know, Larry. I know.”

Lawrence remembers the terror, a vivid memory threading through his thoughts. His limbic system provides the words raw and stripped of any sophistication, a primal scream from the depths of a tormented child. "It’s not right, but I hate them. Pa’s beatin’, Ma’s screamin’. And…” A door closes on the memory. Lawrence clenches his fists, suppressing these dark emotions and memories. Nick the neighbour was first to the scene and he would stay with Larry until he had to leave with Child Protective Services. Nick visited him daily until he was finally placed in a foster home. That, at least, is a fond memory. Lawrence always felt happy and safe around neighbour Nick.

The death of his parents never really let Lawrence go, inspiring him to become a detective and one day solve his parents’ murder. Years passed, and the connection with Nicholas deepened over time. Nick had become a surrogate father. Each year he would visit Lawrence on Christmas Day. Most years the conversation would turn to the murder of the night before because the death of Lawrence’s parents was one in a string of yearly murders.

One chilly December afternoon, while investigating a seemingly unrelated case, Larry found himself at an antique store that housed an impressive collection of Santa Claus figurines. As he perused the various displays, an assortment of Santas in different shapes, sizes, and eras caught his eye.

Lost in the nostalgic charm of the collection, Lawrence’s instincts suddenly stirred. Among the array of Santas, there was an uncanny resemblance to the tiny figurine Nick had once gifted him years ago. His mind, ever sharp, began drawing connections, stirring a flicker of suspicion that brought forth memories of the past.

Just as the wheels of suspicion began turning, a familiar voice disrupted Lawrence’s thoughts, "Fancy seeing you here, Lawrence." Lawrence turned to find Nicholas standing a few paces away, a warm smile lighting up his weathered face.

"Nick! I didn't expect to run into you here," Lawrence replied, momentarily caught off guard by the chance encounter. Nick chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with a familiar kindness. "I bought this antique store when I sold my business. You know, this place is a treasure trove for those who appreciate the magic of the holiday season."

Lawrence nodded, his gaze shifting back to the collection of Santas. His detective instincts lingered, questioning the coincidence. "Interesting collection you have here," Larry remarked casually, though a subtle undertone of curiosity underscored his words.

Nick followed Lawrence’s gaze and chuckled again. "Ah, my humble obsession. Can't resist the jolly old man and his entourage, can I?"

A momentary pause hung in the air, as Lawrence weighed his thoughts carefully, his mind tiptoeing between past memories and present suspicions. Yet, as he observed Nick's genuine enthusiasm and the unabashed fondness in his eyes, a wave of familiarity washed over him.

"I've always found something fascinating about Santas," Nick continued, unaware of the underlying gears turning in Lawrence’s mind. "Each one tells a story, don't you think?"

Lawrence nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips. The tension in the air slowly dissipated, replaced by a sense of ease and the comfort of a familiar presence. For a moment, Lawrence’s suspicions waned, overshadowed by the warmth of an unexpected reunion.

In that brief encounter amidst the twinkling lights and nostalgic charm of the antique store, Larry realized that sometimes appearances could deceive on many more levels than the superficial. And in that fleeting moment, the tendrils of trust and camaraderie between Nick and Lawrence broke, weaving an unspoken mistrust that lingered long after their chance encounter.

All this flits through Lawrence’s mind as he floats at the edge of that fading dream, his mind attached to elusive thoughts. The faint stirrings of reality seep into his mind like tendrils of awakening, muffled by the remnants of barely processed trauma. Abruptly, the harsh symphony of police radios, the staccato chatter of officers, and the blaring sirens slice through the haze, jerking him back to reality. His senses snap to attention, a rapid blink dissipating the lingering emotions of a helpless child, as he finds himself thrust back into yet another haunting crime scene, the investigation already unfolding around him.

The sun is still low in the east. Dust particles glint in its light. The scene sprawls before Lawrence like a grim tableau, awash in the rhythmic hues of flashing police lights. He stands in a living room, all the doors open letting the chill December air inside. His breath forms fleeting puffs of mist, a silent observer amidst the chaos. Past memories superimpose over the reality of this murder. The same but different. For one, Lawrence is no child anymore.

The faint aroma of pine intermingles with the metallic tang of tragedy. Lawrence’s trained eye takes in the scene—the eerie familiarity of this bloody theatre sends a shiver down his spine. Another Christmas, another murder. The daughter, trembling but resolute, sits in the kitchen away from the scene, eyes wide with shock. Lawrence notes her fear, the unshed tears, and the unspoken horror etched in her gaze - a silent testament to relief masked in the guise of terror.

Lawrence’s mind races, dissecting the environment with a seasoned precision born of countless investigations. From the alignment of the furniture to the placement of the crushed gifts, the awkward angle of the dead parents, the clutter of fallen items soaking in blood, the pungent stink of faeces; he could visualise the unfolding of the murder, each fragment holding a piece of the puzzle.

Counting the spent shells scattered around and determining their type (.22), he discerns there had been only one shooter. His gaze moves to the wall—the impact mark and bodies suggest three shots fired, but only two had hit the targets. The parents are lying against the tree, which fell under an angle against the wall. Presents crushed. Their eyes are closed. The killer closes them for reasons that continue to escape him. Everything echoes the pattern of previous murders— dead parents, a scared child, guns and … Lawrence searches for that last element tying it to the previous cases.

There it is. As the officers scour the scene for evidence, Lawrence’s attention fixates on a single, as of yet overlooked clue. A tiny figurine of Santa Claus left on the mantelpiece. He absentmindedly rubs his keychain, holding the same figurine he’s owned since he was six. Identical.

A smudge darkens Santa’s left leg. Lawrence whips out a plastic evidence bag, shakes it twice and with a tweezer drops Santa Claus into the bag. He zips it closed. He hands it off to one of the forensic investigators with instructions: “Check for prints and gunpowder residue”. “Will do, Detective”.

Satisfied he hasn’t missed anything, Lawrence leaves the scene and gets into his 1967 Lincoln Continental. His first and only car, which he bought with the money the insurance company paid out when his parents died. He puts the keys in the ignition and looks down at a damaged and worn Santa jangling beneath them; round belly, ruddy cheeks with a red hat and clothes. Lawrence grabs it, reading the embossed base: Kringle Toys. Clutching it, he returns to the past.

Nick extends a hand, offering the figurine to Larry, while the other is open, beckoning Larry to place what he’s holding in it. Larry hesitates before tentatively reaching out to the tiny Santa.

“I… I don’t want this any more”, little Larry stammers, his voice barely audible in the night. Nick nods in understanding that resonates through the murky atmosphere, accepting something else in exchange, something weightier. Larry feels safe. “That’s my boy”, Nick says, “You really helped.” Nick's gloved hand moves towards Larry, a finger wiping his cheek. As the shadow of his hand moves over Larry’s eyes, the memory lingers like an elusive spectre, a fragment of an enigmatic trade that Lawrence struggles to comprehend.

Lawrence feels the tendrils of that recurring clue drawing him back to Nicholas — who’s former business turned out to be Kringle Toys and who seems to hold the keys to the mystery he has been chasing for years. Lawrence starts the car and drives off. About half an hour later he knocks on Nick’s door. Lawrence questions himself again, not sure what he’s doing here. Nick is Lawrence’s main suspect and at the same time he’s Lawrence’s closest thing to family. The only one who ever helped him, when he was still helpless.

Nick is getting on in years, a kind-hearted, elderly man. To everyone else, he’s a local philanthropist and generous during the holiday season. Lawrence hears Nick shuffling behind the door, the locks turn and the bolt clicks. Nick greets him: “Larry! What a wonderful surprise. Come in, come in.”

Lawrence walks through the vestibule into the hallway, hangs his coat and upon entering the living room briefly stops at Nick’s weapon display. Twelve guns. Lawrence once again goes over them: Desert Eagle, Derringer, Pistol, Vector SMG, Colt Mustang ,CZ 52, Dan Wesson, Beretta, Remington, OTs, Browning and Colt Delta Elite. Nick pushes up his glasses, waiting for Lawrence. Lawrence looks at Nick. Hejust can’t imagine Nick with guns. He checks Nick’s hands but of course there’s nothing to see. It’s the same ritual every time Lawrence visits since that chance meeting in the antique store: Nick is always friendly and Lawrence hides his suspicions. Nick smiles affably. “Tea?” “Yes, that would be lovely.”

As Nick pours, he asks, “What brings you here today, Larry?”

“Another murder, I’m afraid.”

“Really? Is it that time of the year already?”

“It is. But this time he made a mistake.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes. I found gunpowder residue on his calling card.”

“Well, that’s excellent news, isn’t it? You can finally crack the case now.” Nick sips his tea, looking at Lawrence intently.

In the quiet, Lawrence senses a palpable tension, an undercurrent lurking beneath Nick’s friendly demeanour. As he sips his tea, the weight of suspicion reveals itself to Lawrence, amplified by the subtle but undeniable hints scattered over the years — and now the faint residue of gunpowder on the Santa figurine, that Lawrence is sure would be found on one of the guns in the display. And yet, Lawrence still hesitates.

The weapons mounted in the display seem innocuous at first glance, yet Lawrence can’t shake off the sense of something more to them. The atmosphere crackles with an inexplicable energy, a subtle blend of mysticism and the trappings of the holiday season. Lawrence’s gaze flits once more to the weapons.

Nick shuffles closer to them, his fingers grazing the guns with a reverential touch. "They've served me well, these dear companions," Nick murmurs cryptically, his words tinged with a mystical resonance that sends a shiver down Lawrence’s spine. Lawrence’s gaze shifts from the guns to Nick. There, in the depths of Nick's eyes, Lawrence discerns an understanding behind Nick’s benevolent gaze that Lawrence struggles to fathom.The weight of his revelation juxtaposes against the warmth and kindness Lawrence has received from Nick over the years, fostering an inner conflict that demands resolution.

"Nick," Lawrence’s voice quivers, the accusing tone laced with dread. "I've been to the crime scene. I've connected the dots, and it all points to you."

Nick's countenance remains stoic, a mask of inscrutable calm. "I understand why you'd think that, Lawrence," Nick replies, his words resonating in the quiet of his old-fashioned home. "But sometimes, the truth isn't what it appears to be."

A haunting silence envelopes them, punctuated only by the weight of Lawrence’s accusation and the unsettling realisation that the man he trusted might be responsible for the atrocities echoing Lawrence’s own suppressed past. The men sip their tea. As Lawrence’s gaze wanders across the room, it settles upon the innocuous Derringer pistol— which fires .22 mm rounds, mirroring the casings he had found at the crime scene. A flicker of recognition surges through him.

Memories, long suppressed, claw their way to the surface with a chilling clarity. Flashes of his childhood, the familiar echoes of gunfire, and the haunting scenes intermingled with the evidence. In a moment of disorientation, Lawrence gets up not sure what to do, clutching at the damning understanding that the Derringer pistol has become a catalyst.

Nick regards Lawrence with a serene composure, his eyes holding an empathetic understanding that transcends the dire circumstances. "The truth has a way of revealing itself, Lawrence. Sometimes, our past returns to claim us."

In a surreal moment of mania, Lawrence presses the Derringer to his nose, his hands quivering as he inhales deeply. A faint, smoky scent wafts from the barrel. The telltale odour of spent gunpowder lingering, which brings him right back. Right back to little Larry. A puff of smoke and his parents falling and right after that… that smell. That smell is showing him what he didn’t want to remember. Lawrence closes his eyes as a tear rolls down his cheek.

Larry’s wrists ache. His shoulder hurts as if a mule kicked him. Dad still mouths “why” but it doesn’t register after Larry’s ears ring like a cymbal. Nick bends over his dead parents, closing their eyes, while speaking reassuringly to Larry: “Well done, boy. You’re safe. You’re free. Here, you’ve earned this.” Nick holds out a small figurine of Santa Claus. Larry takes it. “That’s my boy. You’ve really helped.” Nick’s gloved hand moves towards Larry, a finger wiping his cheek.

As Lawrence opens his eyes, Nick stands in front of him. A finger wipes the tears away.