Nicole was stunned, so much so that she briefly stopped yelling at me. But the moment that Duma grabbed her children, I could tell she was about to scream. So I whispered in her ear, “If you make any noise, you’ll never see your kids again.”
She nodded that she understood. I then instructed, “Push my children in their strollers like they’re yours. Act naturally. That’s the only way you’ll get to see Peter and Janie again.”
When she didn’t move, I opened my jacket enough for her to get a good look at Alyson’s gun, which I was carrying in violation of numerous New York state gun laws, and my parole agreement.
Nicole didn’t respond, but Taylor did, “Dad! What are you doing with a gun!?”
I tried to shrug it off. “It’s America—haven’t they taught you about the Second Amendment in school?”
“We’re still on the First, which gives me the freedom of speech to say—have you lost your freaking mind?”
I had no time for this. “Everyone move—now!”
“What are you going to do if I don’t—shoot me?” Taylor was starting to remind me of her father, and it was annoying me. I grabbed her arm and pulled her ahead. Nicole begrudgingly pushed one of the strollers, while Alex manned the other.
We were able to slip out of the Santaland area with little interference. With the usual Christmas chaos and commotion going on, along with a runaway Santa careening down the escalator, we were hardly noticed. And since Nicole wasn’t screaming at the top of her lungs that someone had taken her children, nobody outside of Falcone knew that they’d been abducted. Hopefully we could keep it that way for the next few minutes.
I noticed that Jacqueline had removed herself from Wintry’s grasp and had begun retreating to safety. Part of me wanted to stop her, but right now was about self-preservation.
Just when I thought we might be home free, I realized that we were back on Boersch’s radar. We picked up the pace, but not fast enough. It was time to ditch the strollers. The twins protested. “Grandmother says Wainwrights were meant to be chauffeured,” Franny stated.
“Well, when the FBI is chasing you, it’s best to channel the Collins side of the family,” I provided some fatherly advice, and as a compromise I took Zooey in my arms. Alex followed my lead and picked up Franny. We began a fast jog toward the elevators. The Christmas shopping zombies barely took notice of us.
We hit the elevator at just the right time. I hurried everyone inside, looking back over my shoulder to see Boersch the Elf running toward us. The elevator was empty—I had visualized melding into a crowd, but this might be better.
“I thought we were going to see Santa,” Franny whined as I jammed the ‘close doors’ button.
“You promised,” said her echo.
“I promised you Santa, and you’ll get Santa,” I said, hitting the button harder as if that would help. Boersch was about ten feet away when the doors finally shut, and he was banging on them by the time we began to descend.
We didn’t get very far before the elevator stopped on the seventh floor. I had no idea what waited on the other side. So I moved to the side, out of view of the incoming, and trained my gun on the door.
It wasn’t the FBI, mall security, or Jacqueline Helada. It was a couple, probably in their early sixties, holding numerous shopping bags. They smiled at Nicole and “her children.”
“Well, aren’t you adorable,” the woman addressed the twins. “What are your names?”
“Franny and Zooey,” the girls answered in unison.
The woman looked to Nicole. “Sounds like their mother was a big JD Salinger fan.”
Nicole turned to me. “Actually their father was the one who chose the names.”
With the gun safely tucked back under my jacket, I reached out to shake their hands. “Holden Caulfield—nice to meet you.”
The couple got a chuckle out of that one. But Nicole wasn’t smiling. She shot me a look to kill, and said, “If I recall, Holden Caulfield turned out to be a certifiable nut job who ended up institutionalized.”
“I think he was just a confused teenager. You know how teenagers can be,” I defended.
“We get it from our parents … they can be really bad influences,” Taylor said, staring directly at me.
We could have continued with a full critical analysis of Catcher in the Rye, but the couple got off on the fifth floor. I held my breath, and gripped the gun, but no new passengers entered.
It seemed like it was taking days for the elevator to go, and then a noise rang out, almost sending me through the roof. It was a phone—Taylor’s phone.
“Don’t answer it!” I demanded.
“I have to—it’s Mom.”
Taylor looked to Nicole, who was staring at me in horror. “He’s actually been much better since prison,” she said, then answered cheerily. She went on to tell her mother that we were having the time of our lives—she didn’t get the lead in the Nativity play for nothing—before handing the phone to me.
“I tried to reach you on your phone, but I had no luck. It seems to be a trend,” Libby said.
“Sorry—I left it in the car. Good thing that Taylor brought hers.”
“She has become quite dependent on it. She tells me you’ve been enjoying your day, and it seems that everyone is in one piece.”
“It’s been great. Except for all the crowds—we still haven’t got to see Santa yet. The twins are getting a little impatient.”
“Well, you better hurry it along. My reason for calling is not to check up on you, but to remind you to have the children to their grandparents by six tonight for Christmas Eve dinner. I forgot to inform you in my haste this morning.”
“I’ll have them there. Is there anything else?” I said, needing to end the call ASAP, but trying not to raise suspicion.
“Yes, Kris, I just wanted to apologize for last night … and my tone this morning. I know that you’re a very responsible father, and I should display more trust in you. I know you would never purposely put our children in danger.”
I looked around the group. “You know me, father of the year,” I said, as the elevator started to go down once again.