Page 8 of The Santa Claus Con

“This could’ve been purchased on eBay, a flea market,” Barrel plows on. “Hell, they could’ve inherited it or made it themselves.”

Whatever Santa’s got up their cuff required time to scheme, but to make a pen?

“Unnecessary,” I say, sitting back down in my chair. “These riddles, they’re specific. This person spent time on the plan itself, not making pens.”

“We don’t have years, Payne,” Barrel says. “Let’s look at what makes sense. Scour footage, here and at every USPS in the area.” He shakes his head. “What kind of sick Santa blows up a Christmas tree?”

“One who wants to send a message,” I say. And Santa’s got my attention.

Now I’m stuck. Or given an opportunity.

I spin to face Barrel. “The fact this person sent an invite here, directly to us, to me, means they want this to be a spectacle,” I think out loud. “We’re officially in a cat-and-Night-Before-Christmas-mouse game. We need more information.”

Barrel goes quiet for a moment. “You have that look on your face, Payne. What are you proposing?” He sounds reluctant to even ask.

“I have a look?” I ask, appreciative that he noticed.

“It’s not one I like to see.”

“I compete.” I say it without a second thought. “If we want to figure out what’s going on, we need to RSVP. Metaphorically, of course, because Santa already assumes I’ll say yes, and there was no return address.”

“You want to play Santa’s game?” Barrel asks like there’s no way I could be serious.

“I don’t want to, but I have to in order to stop that bomb from going off, which is something I actually do very much want.”

He glances at my bandaged forehead. “You’re injured.”

“It’s a scrape and a few bruises.”

“You have a fractured rib.”

I immediately regret telling him what my X-rays showed.

“You’re cleared for desk duty, not fieldwork,” Barrel adds.

I gently press fingers to the sore spot on my right. “So I’ll buy an ice pack. Staying active is an important part of the healing process.”

“Whatever these games are, you’re not making it to the end in your condition,” Barrel says. “And don’t even get me started on last year’s injury.”

He’s not wrong. If I really do need to make it to the end of all the competitions, I’m in poor shape to do so at the moment. I need someone who’s as good as I am. Someone who I trust with my life.

That’s it.

“We send someone in undercover,” I propose. It’s a half-baked idea, but it’s not half bad.

Barrel just blinks. Then he turns and starts walking back to his office.

I follow him as my idea snowballs. This invite could be my ticket for getting out of desk prison. But more than that, this star bomb injured people and could’ve killed them. Could’ve killed me. By the sound of Santa’s invitation, the next one will be worse. We need to stop this person.

“I mean, I’ll still be there,” I say to Barrel’s back. “Just on the other side… running the operation.”

He stops abruptly in the middle of the hallway as a sharp hah comes out of his mouth. “He specifically wants you to play.”

“And yet, I’m too injured to compete. Especially when there are five games and we need to make it to the end. I’ll still be playing, but in my own way. It’s a risk—a calculated one—sending someone else in, but who knows? Maybe ‘you’ in the invite means the FBI, and it’s just addressed to me because I took the bait.”

Barrel doesn’t look convinced. “I know how you like to toe the line, but there’s such a thing as too much risk. This isn’t safe.”

I used to struggle with how risk-averse the FBI is, but after the year I’ve had, I wonder if I’ve just been too risky for the FBI. If choices I’ve made haven’t been calculated enough.