40
Forty minutes later, Elena texted that the governor’s entourage was on its way. Their work connecting the generators was almost done, and only now did Dillon have time to regret his stained and sweaty state. He was tempted to go back and shower and change.
As in, return to the jail.
Where he was about to spend Christmas Eve.
Of course, some of his former investors would no doubt cheer the news.
Charlie Hurst stepped up beside him and demanded, “What’s got you taking a bite from a spoiled pickle?”
Dillon opted to stow away his mental baggage and reply, “I was thinking maybe I should run back and shower. ”
“Not a chance.”
“I’m filthy.”
“Join the club. The mayor’s got more important things to worry about than your smelly state. Now come help me change.”
The cottage that had once been Olivia’s home now possessed its own set of decorative lights. Two of their tallest candy canes flanked the front door. Dillon entered and stood between a pair of Christmas trees as Charlie pulled a red velvet Santa suit from a battered canvas satchel. Charlie lay the jacket on the high-backed chair now occupying the cottage’s front room and declared, “This thing keeps getting tighter every year.”
Charlie stripped off his boots and trousers, struggled into the pants, then stopped when the open zipper formed a six-inch V-shaped gap. “Uh-oh.”
“Not good,” Dillon agreed.
“Okay, that’s it.” Charlie shucked off the trousers and pulled his own back into place. “You try.”
“Me? No way.”
“Get your sorry Christmas carcass over here and strip.”
“Charlie, there’s no way I’m playing Santa.”
“Oh, really.” He held out the velvet trousers. “You think it’d be better for me to greet the kiddies and their parents with my pants open for business?”
“There’s got to be somebody else.”
“We don’t have time for this.” He shook the trousers. “Say, ho ho ho.”
“Ho ho ho.”
“Okay, that was pretty lame. Do it again, only this time add some salsa.”
“Ho ho ho.”
“Louder!”
“Ho ho ho!”
“Okay, you’re hired.” Charlie tossed him the pants. “Now get dressed.”
* * *
Porter drove the lead vehicle and took it slow up Ocean Avenue. The street was illuminated by a few feebly glowing streetlights. The procession’s solemn air was emphasized by how empty the town appeared. Not a soul walked the sidewalks, no cars, no lights in all the buildings they passed.
One of the governor’s security detail sat next to the police chief. Olivia shared the rear seat with Ransom Bates. The state auditor was both glum and cross, his expression saying exactly what he thought of spending his Christmas Eve in Miramar.
The security was a stocky woman with a voice almost as deep as Porter’s. “Looks like a ghost town.”
