Kris stood. His long coat felt heavy on his shoulders. “I should go.”
Jack didn’t look at him, just nodded at the box of tea in his hands.
Kris walked and stepped over the discarded gun. Once he freed them from The Other Place, he would make sure it remained there, disappeared forever. He only stopped walking when he stood at Jack’s side.
No longer a little boy, Jack had grown tall. Not as tall as Kris, of course, but taller than the average man. Trim but muscular arms escaped the confines of his torn Polo.
Kris reached into his coat.
Jack stepped back suddenly as though expecting Kris to pull a weapon. Instead, Kris pulled out a slim gold chain bracelet and extended it to Jack.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s much easier than you carrying a snow globe around.”
“Huh?”
“You like bracelets,” Kris said.
“Oh.” Jack looked down at his wrist. “Yeah. I mean, the kids at the rehab center make friendship bracelets for me.”
“Wear this one, too. If Torres tries to hurt you again, snap the chain.”
“And you’ll swing in like a superhero?”
Kris still held the bracelet between them, but Jack didn’t move.
“Take it, please,” Kris said.
Slowly, Jack took the bracelet from Kris, careful to keep their fingers from touching. He slid it over his hand and over all the other bracelets on his wrist, but it hung loose. “It’s too—”
The bracelet shrank to fit Jack’s wrist. Kris’s gifts always fit.
Jack pressed his lips together and murmured words that stayed in his mouth; Kris assumed a string of shocked obscenities, considering Jack resembled a rabbit about to run.
“I’ll be there if you need me,” Kris said quietly.
Jack’s chin dipped as he stared at his new gift. “Okay.”
With that, Kris left. As he walked through the front door, he shook off The Other Place that kept them alone and protected—although he was loathe doing so.
Christmas Eve was coming; Kris felt it with every sunset and sunrise. The woman in black would be there soon.
He thought of Jack Benson. After fifteen years, it was strange that Kris remembered his name. So many things were foggy, and yet, he remembered “Jack Benson” and nose freckles and the way, as an adult, Jack’s jeans were a little too long, pooling over his boots when he sat.
Cheerful decorations began to appear in New York City as the weather turned cold. Strong winter winds reduced the efficacy of thick coats to that of tissue paper. Frigid, heavy clouds poured white fluff that eventually turned half-melted and black within a day’s time. The city was more crowded as tourists came to wonder over the twinkle lights and spend money on gifts they did not need.
He thought of ten-year-old Jack.
“Why would I break this? It’s the only thing I own.”
Jack owned other things now, but Kris wanted to give him more to make up for what his childhood had lacked. Kris was not in the business of gifting adults, however. Giving Jack another protection charm had been out of character. Kris tried to put the young man out of his mind, but then, he would see a glittering green tree, decorated in lights and baubles, and Jack’s bright eyes would enter his mind.
As it turned out, Kris saw those green eyes sooner than he expected, but it wasn’t a surprise. Kris knew Jack’s danger had not passed. Surely, that drug dealer—Torres—would want revenge, which was why Kris had given Jack the bracelet.
One dark night, the back of Kris’s neck tingled. An unearthly wind blew and tugged at his arms and legs. He whooshed through a timeless tunnel and landed in another dark place, far from glowing windows and shopping tourists. He landed in an alley.
Kris had but seconds to recognize Jack right in front of him with his back against a brick wall. His eyes, wide on a normal day, were saucer-sized, and he held his hands up in the universal sign of entreaty.
Kris realized why when a gun went off behind him, and this one didn’t have a silencer. The sound screamed in the otherwise silent night. Kris felt the impact of the bullet in his mid-back but no pain. Over the sound of Jack’s now panicked breathing—practically a wheeze—Kris turned and faced a man not unlike the villain from Jack’s apartment. The one who existed somewhere with broken wrists. This man’s wrists worked, though.
He held a gun and gawked up at Kris in disbelief before cussing and firing again, but Kris felt nothing, except Jack’s hands clinging to the back of his coat. He felt that.
The man’s eyes darted like an animal trying to evade prey, but before he could run, Kris broke his neck. As the man’s body fell limp, Kris shrouded the alley in The Other Place, where he would leave the corpse. No one would ever find it, and it would never rot away. Things didn’t change in The Other Place.
Kris slowly turned around and noticed the glimmer of gold at his feet: Jack’s bracelet, broken, and just in time.
Kris lurched backwards beneath the force of Jack’s embrace. Jack was not a large man. He was tall but lean. In the midst of an attack, Jack would have been like a kitten in Kris’s fist. In the midst of affection—a sensation so unfamiliar—Jack almost knocked him down.
With his face pressed to the side of Kris’s neck, Jack’s exhale trembled. “Holy fuck.” His inhale trembled more as though what surrounded them was water, not air. “Fuck, oh, my God.” He took another deep breath before pulling away—an easy maneuver since Kris had never returned his embrace. Jack ran both hands through his hair, hands that shook, although he didn’t cry. Kris wondered if he ever did. “Jesus, thank you. Holy shit.” He took one stumbling step farther into the alley, his back halfway to Kris, and bent forward with his hands on his knees.
Kris put his large hand in the center of Jack’s back. “Are you going to be sick?”
Jack stood up straight and rested his shoulder against the wall. He rubbed his eyes. “No. I’m fine.”
Kris glared at the body on the ground. With his head turned backwards on his spine, the wide-eyed corpse glared back. “Is this Torres?”
Jack folded his arms and buried them in the armpits of his coat: a thick, black coat decorated on the lapels with colorful patches of cartoon characters. On the back, Kris made out the words, “Yellow Submarine.”
The Beatles.
Kris had brought Jack a Beatles album one Christmas, many years ago.
“No, that’s not Torres,” he said. “Torres doesn’t get his hands dirty, Santa.” He smirked; all signs of earlier panic and fear had vanished.
“Where is he, then?” Kris asked.
Jack shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably at his house, coked out and waiting to hear if I’m dead.” He scratched his nose with the back of his arm before shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. He shivered in a biting winter wind.
“Where is his house?” Kris asked.
Jack’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”
Kris didn’t answer, thinking this a silly query.
Jack’s gaze narrowed further.
“You know where it is. Can you picture his house?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Kris wrapped his fingers around Jack’s wrist. “Do it.”