He Sees You When You're Sleeping Read online

  Kris followed him with slow steps, one after the other, and the man must have noticed because he whimpered, probably expecting his skull to be split.

  When they reached the foyer of the small apartment, Kris politely opened the front door. “I suggest you do not come back,” he said to the pathetic creature whose hands now resembled arthritic claws.

  “We’ll fucking get you, Benson!” he yelled from the hall, using his elbows and then knees to stand. “Torres will fucking—”

  Kris slammed the front door and took them to The Other Place where the man’s continued threats could not echo.

  Jack (it was Jack, wasn’t it?) gazed up at him from the floor.

  Kris lifted him with a hand under his armpit. “Your nose,” Kris said. He cracked it back into place with his fingers.

  Jack covered his bloody face with his hands and bent forward at the waist. “Ow! Fuck! Jesus Christ!”

  Five minutes later, Kris found himself sitting on a comfortable couch across from Jack in a cozy-looking chair by small windows that overlooked a brick wall. Despite the view, Kris knew they were in New York City just like he knew which gifts to give each child on Christmas Eve. He was very good at geography.

  Jack held a washcloth filled with ice to his face and blatantly stared. “Did you just get shot twice?”

  Kris looked down at his chest. He remembered the gun going off but no pain, and there was no evidence of injury now. Kris didn’t think he could be injured. “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Yeah, okay. And you’re real,” Jack said, voice nasal and muffled due to the unbroken broken nose and the washcloth that partially covered his mouth.

  “How do you mean?” Kris asked.

  Jack snorted—and winced. “Uh, well, I don’t know, I …” He glanced at the shattered snow globe amidst the mess on the floor. “I kind of thought you were just some homeless guy who broke into the house.”

  In a way, Kris was homeless. He certainly didn’t know where his home was, at least. All Kris had was Christmas Eve and the children he vowed to protect.

  “Say something,” Jack said.

  “How long has it been?” Kris asked.

  Jack lowered the ice before tossing the wet washcloth onto the floor in front of him. “Fifteen years.”

  Ten-year-old Jack had become twenty-five-year-old Jack.

  “I never saw you again,” Jack said. “After that one Christmas Eve. Why didn’t you come back?”

  Kris recalled the weak flickering light that had once surrounded a malnourished, bleeding child. “You must have stopped believing.”

  Jack crossed his arms. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t visit the houses of children who don’t believe.”

  “Yeah, well.” He fidgeted. “Not all of us have time for believing in shit. And like I said, I thought you were some homeless guy, all right?”

  Kris folded his hands in his lap. “Why was that man hurting you?”

  Jack chuckled, revealing straight, white teeth. He must have had them fixed since childhood. Kris remembered them being crooked. “I pissed off a drug dealer.”

  Kris’s folded hands curled into fists. Had Jack grown into a villain?

  Jack grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Based on that muscle hopping in your jaw, it’s not what you think. I work for a rehab center, getting kids clean. I had a brief relationship with meth myself, so now, I try to help other people. Apparently, I’m really good at my job if Torres is sending guys after me.”

  “Torres?”

  “Bart Torres.” Jack rubbed his eyes. “Bartholomew. He’s a dick, and he gets high schoolers …” Jack leaned forward with his hands on his knees. Now, his jaw was the one hopping. “He gets high school kids hooked on poisonous shit, and then, he owns them. The cops won’t touch him, so I do what I can.” He looked at Kris, and Kris noticed a dark mark beneath Jack’s left eye that would probably expand into a bruise.

  Even though his nose had stopped bleeding, Jack still had swatches of red like watercolor around his mouth. On his right wrist, he wore several bracelets, most of them simple and probably handmade, perhaps by the kids Jack saved in rehab. Even though Kris was proficient at forgetting—existing in a fog, awaiting the next December 24—he believed he would remember all these details. He believed he would even remember the small constellation of freckles on Jack’s nose.

  “So.” Jack clapped his hands once. “It was Kris, wasn’t it? I’m not fucking calling you Santa. Santa is supposed to be fat and jolly; you’re mildly terrifying.”

  Kris didn’t move. “You’re scared of me?”

  “No. I don’t know why, though. I should be. You just appeared in my apartment and cracked a dude’s wrists.”

  Kris shrugged.

  “You seem nervous.”

  Kris realized he was. An uncomfortable weight rested on the center of his chest, and his heart went thud-thud in a rapid beat. “I don’t talk to people much, especially not adults.”

  “Lonely in the North Pole, huh?”

  “I don’t live in the North Pole,” Kris replied.

  “You don’t need to be nervous around me.” Jack stood and passed on his way to the small but charming kitchen, with a bright rainbow backsplash and cabinets in a shade of light blue. He opened one such cabinet and pulled out a box of green tea. “I’m a lousy adult.”

  “You were an adult when you were ten years old.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed for but a moment. “Tea? Do you want tea? It always makes me feel better.”

  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 d
ecorations 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.”

  Jack looked down at Kris’s grip. “Okay.”

  They left The Other Place, and the whipping wind was different from when Kris was summoned to protect. This wind was, if possible, faster and howled with purpose.

  When they arrived, Jack fell off balance and would have stumbled to the floor if not for Kris grabbing hold of his Beatles coat.

  Then.

  Chaos.

  Kris and Jack did not land in front of Torres’s house but in the center of a smoke-filled room where quiet bass beats climbed the walls. Men and women in varying states of undress melted into several couches surrounded by ashtrays and needles.

  Kris had seconds to take this in before someone shouted, “What the hell?” followed by the click of a cocking gun. Kris shoved Jack roughly to the ground. Jack must have understood, because he curled into the smallest ball possible and covered his ears as gunfire replaced the music—gunfire and screams.

  Kris started swinging, and his massive fists made contact immediately and repeatedly. His punches broke faces and fractured skulls. After he disarmed a man in nothing but sweatpants, Kris had a gun and used it over and over. Bodies fell in limp piles on the floor. Screams of anger were quickly replaced by screams of fear as drugged out men and women first tried running, and then crawling for an exit. But Kris did not let them escape. These were bad people, and Kris felt it the way he sometimes felt evil radiating off small children. Yes, even they were capable, and Kris never had gifts for them beneath his coat.

  When Kris heard a gunshot and felt a pinch on the back of his left shoulder, he turned to find a tall, slim man in a tacky suit holding a handgun, so big it looked fake. When Kris didn’t fall—when the man noticed all the bloody corpses in his living room—he gawked and shot again. This bullet hit Kris in the chest, right above his heart, but had no effect.

  “You,” the man said as he kept his gun pointed at Kris but must have noticed the crouching body on the floor.

  Jack.

  The man Kris assumed was Bart Torres turned his gun on Jack, but Kris would not let Jack be hurt. He rushed forward, took hold of Torres’s skull, and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. His eyes exploded in a shower of red rain, and he was dead before he hit the floor. The only sound that remained was that of the continued waow-waow-waow of the background music’s beat.

  Jack slid up the wall, hands clutching the plaster behind him, while he took in the carnage. He studied body after body, ultimately landing on Torres. He took deliberate steps forward and put his hand on Kris’s chest as he passed before looming over Torres and spitting down on the mangled corpse. He turned around and stared at Kris. He didn’t smile exactly but Kris thought a light burned in his eyes. Something like admiration.

  They weren’t far from Jack’s apartment, and although Kris could have gotten them home much quicker, Jack said he wanted to walk. Outside, a light snow fell, so Jack buttoned his coat and hunched his shoulders around his ears. They didn’t speak. Kris strolled mutely at Jack’s side, studying Jack one moment and decorations on houses they passed the next. It was not a nice neighborhood, but even the destitute could have reason to be festive. At least they had their health or their families or even love. For some, that was enough.
r />   Outside Jack’s apartment building, he stopped walking and turned so they stood chest to chest. Well, the top of Jack’s head came up to about Kris’s chin, but they stood facing each other.

  Jack, with hands stuffed in his pockets, looked left and right. He didn’t lower his voice when he asked, “You killed Frank, didn’t you?”

  Frank: Jack’s abusive “foster asshole.”

  “Yes,” Kris said.

  Jack nodded as if he’d known this, maybe all along. Maybe since he was ten. He glanced over his shoulder. “Uh, did you want to come upstairs?” He bit his bottom lip and toed at what would soon be snow-covered pavement.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Right. Yeah.” He gave an agitated nod. “Of course.”

  Kris reached into his coat and felt the familiar magic. He removed a delicate silver necklace with an emerald at the end. The gem matched Jack’s eyes.

  Jack took the gift without needing an explanation. He leaned back on his heels and forward, back and … he gave the side of Kris’s mouth a quick kiss before he retreated through the door to his building.

  Kris watched through the glass until Jack’s dark hair disappeared. Despite the cold breeze, the small damp spot on Kris’s cheek burned.

  There was no question: Jack Benson needed to be watched. Torres had been grotesquely taken care of, but what if Jack had other enemies? Who else might try to hurt the man who’d been hurt so much in his life already?

  With Christmas so close, Jack did not seem concerned with the holiday. He did not acknowledge it at all. Kris would know. He spent several hours of each day in The Other Place inside Jack’s apartment. Jack didn’t know he was there. Jack couldn’t see him or hear him. Jack went about his daily business while Kris watched from behind the protection of his magic and learned things.

  For instance, Jack never got up when his alarm went off. Like a hyper bird, Jack’s cell phone chirped every nine minutes for approximately forty-five before Jack actually rolled out of bed in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, short brown hair askew. He made his bed with meticulous detail and then made tea. Jack did nothing but glare at the kettle on the stove until it screamed, and he drank his tea with honey. He did not eat breakfast. He usually chugged his tea and disappeared to the bathroom to prepare for his day.