Free 08 - December Dread by Jess Lourey

and one house had a giant balloon Santa tethered to its roof.
    I took a right, away from downtown, and made my way to Oak Street, which ran parallel to the town park. The houses here were more lavishly decorated, with elves frolicking in the snow, deer silhouettes in various stages of surprise and bristling with twinkle lights, walks lined with huge colored bulbs in red, green, and blue. The effort at good cheer relaxed me marginally, and I stayed that way until I reached the end of the block and spotted it: a white bungalow, its entire lawn thick with candy canes. There were red-and-white striped canes rimming the yard, a gingerbread playhouse covered in candy canes erected in the center, and candy cane lights trimming the roof, porch, and windows. It made my stomach cramp to look at them. Who lived there, and why hadn’t they taken down their decorations when the Candy Cane Killer struck their town?
    It was a crazy, unfairly judgmental thought, one I quickly dismissed. Maybe an elderly couple lived here and they had no way of removing the decorations without help. Why should they have to change something that obviously brought them happiness just because of one twisted human? It certainly wouldn’t bring anyone back. Still, I couldn’t flee this street fast enough and took the first right I could. I found myself in a sea of official-looking cars. Behind the row of sedans sat the house from last night’s news, Natalie Garcia’s sweet little black-shuttered home, one unassuming home in a block of many. Only this one was criss-crossed with yellow and black crime scene tape, a local news crew shuffling from foot to foot as they stood a respectful distance from the crime scene.
    I drove to the end of the street and parked. I suppose this is what I’d come for, to see her house, to feel a connection with her, to pay her back for the kindness she had shown me 15 years earlier. And maybe a part of me had even come for some reassurance that I or somebody I loved wouldn’t be next. It was a fool’s errand, for sure. In my rearview window, I saw men in too-thin dress coats standing in her yard, their red cheeks and breath plumes revealing their discomfort. A pair in head-to-toe white traveled from a van in the driveway to Natalie’s house, their face masks and full gowns rendering them genderless. This was the FBI, and they needed a small-town, aspiring PI around like they needed a toothpick in their eye.
    “Hello?”
    The voice was muffled, but still, I jumped. I’d been so intent on watching the scene play out in my rearview mirror that I hadn’t noticed the man walk up to my driver’s side door. I rolled down the window. “Hi.”
    He was about 5'10", and the way he carried himself suggested he was lean and rangy under his over-stuffed blue jacket. His eyes were a friendly brown, and he didn’t appear to be upset. “Hi. Sorry to startle you.” He glanced over at the cluster of FBI agents. “Did you know Natalie?”
    “Are you with the FBI?”
    His mouth curved into a smile. “Nope. They don’t get to wear the puffy jackets. They have an image to uphold, you know.” He yanked off his glove and offered me a handshake. He was a lefty with no
wedding ring. “Adam De Luca. I’m a reporter for the Chicago Daily News . Did you know her?”
    I immediately felt protective of my history with Natalie and avoided answering his question. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
    A pained look crossed his face. He pulled his glove back on and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, standing fully upright. I had to lean out to see him. “This is my beat, I’m afraid.”
    “Minnesota?”
    He shook his head. “Crime, generally, and right now, the Candy Cane Killer specifically. He started in Chicago. That’s where I started, too. Assigned to him almost since day one.”
    I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “That’s a pretty gruesome beat.”
    “I agree. It’s not all I do, but come December for the last