Chapter 1

It was three days before Christmas, and the 600 block of Lincoln Avenue, a tree-lined street in an affluent suburb of Chicago, looked as charming as a Christmas card. It was the kind of street that families drove down just to look at the lights. Snowy pine boughs swayed in a wind that carried the smell of baking gingerbread. Christmas magic was in the air.

All the homes were decorated tastefully with white lights and fat red bows. The McClane household looked especially nice. It was a large, three-story brick colonial with dark green shutters and white columns flanking the front door. A wreath hung on the door. Christmas lights twinkled around the many windows and the neat shrubs in the snowy front yard. The house looked so peaceful and quiet outside, you never would have guessed that inside 671 Lincoln Avenue, a bomb was about to go off.

– – –

In a dusty corner of the attic, John McClane was fighting for his life. He was stuck in a tangle of fishing line, trying to pull a teddy bear the size of a toddler out from under his tackle box. 

John had hidden the kids’ Christmas present up here in the attic a week ago, but yesterday Holly moved his fishing stuff out of the computer room’s closet to make space for Ellis, and she had unintentionally put John’s gear right on top of the box the bear was in. As he backed out of the snarl of fishing line, one of the rods fell over, and a fishhook snagged his arm.

“Shit.” John dabbed at the wound on his upper arm and licked the blood off his finger, checking to make sure none got on the bear. John wasn’t wearing any sleeves. He wasn’t wearing any shoes either, but the only fashion accessory he missed right now was the familiar weight of his Beretta on his hip. John was a cop, and the Christmas vacation—having to go a whole week without punching or shooting anybody—always drove him a little crazy.

He only had one mission now: Wrap this giant bear before he and his family (and Ellis, unfortunately) caught their flight in the morning. They were going to unwrap the rest of their gifts on Christmas, at Disney, but this one was so big that they’d have to buy the damn thing its own seat, so John was giving it to Lucy in the morning.

If he could figure out how to wrap it.

John plopped the fuzzy bear on his work bench next to a roll of red and green wrapping paper. He turned a clip lamp on overhead and rubbed the five-o-clock shadow on his jaw. The bear was almost as big as Lucy, and had a green satin ribbon around its neck; John knew his little girl would love it. He went to take a drink from his beer and found it empty.

“More where that came from,” he said, grabbing another cold Bud from the mini fridge under the table and popping the top with his trusty Zippo.

John lifted the beer in a toast. The teddy bear stared at him uncertainly with its marble eyes. 

“Cheers, big ears.”

Someone knocked on the attic door.

“Lucy, is that you?” John asked, “don’t come up here honey, Daddy is . . . ” he frantically looked for somewhere to hide the bear. “Uh, don’t . . .” beer bottles clinking, he tried to shove it in the fridge but it wouldn’t fit. Finally he hid it, (not very well, the thing was as big as a dead body) under a ratty blanket on the futon. Trying to sound innocent, he called out, “who is it?”

Holly opened the door and clacked up the attic stairs in her high heels, holding something behind her back. She looked classy, dressed in a belted red dress with gold earrings. John loved how she looked in red. She wrinkled her nose as she stepped around a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. “Ugh, it smells like gym socks. I wish you’d let Paulina tidy up in here.”

The attic was John’s refuge, and he refused to let anyone disturb it. “Speaking of socks,” he said, “where did you hide my shoes?”

“Speaking of hiding,” Holly countered, “I caught Jack looking for presents in the basement.”

“Naughty boy,” John grinned. John got Jack a bb gun for Christmas, and he realized now that he’d have to dig back under the fishing stuff to retrieve it too. 

“Jack didn’t find any presents, but he did find this,” Holly said, pulling out the bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon she’d been hiding behind her back and putting it right in the spotlight on John’s work bench. 

Boom.

Holly looked tired. “How many of these do you have hidden around the house, John?” she asked.

John resisted the urge to take a drink from the beer at his elbow. “What makes you think it’s mine? Maybe your party-boy brother put it there.”

“Ellis doesn’t hide his drinking. And I’m not married to him, so don’t try to compare your bad behavior to his. John . . .” she started to say something but stopped. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled herself together, but still, her eyes were shiny with unspilled tears as she asked John, “Are we really that hard to be around? You can’t stay at home with your family for one week without getting drunk?”

John didn’t want to tell her that he couldn’t spend one day without getting drunk, and it had nothing to do with whether he was at home or not. Holly just never noticed because he was usually at the precinct or working his beat.

Holly glared at him, waiting for an answer.

“Well, no, it’s not that, it’s just . . .” John pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Please don’t smoke in the house.”

“Right, sorry.” John put the pack down next to his beer. God, he wished that bottle wasn’t there. “I’m just . . . I’m nervous about this trip.” That was true. It was going to be John’s first time out to the West Coast, and he hated flying.

“The kids are so excited though,” Holly said, softening a little. 

“It’s a lot of money . . .”

Holly rubbed John’s knee, her long manicured nails raising goosebumps. “You know you don’t have to worry about that, honey. I’m paying for the whole thing.”

It was the exact wrong thing to say.

John was keenly aware that Holly was paying for the whole thing.

Just like she paid for everything else: This big fancy house, that dumb Rolex on her wrist, everything.

John pulled away, pretending to be interested in the wrapping paper, and Holly realized too late her mistake.

“I mean, you can pay for the trip if you want to,” she offered lamely, forcing a good-natured laugh.

“I can’t and you know it,” John said flatly, deciding he’d take that much needed drink from his beer now. John was a cop. He made a cop’s salary, and it was a fraction of what Holly made working at her big fancy finance job downtown. The dumb bear had cost half his holiday bonus.

Holly knew the conversation was over and left quietly with her head down. At the bottom of the stairs she paused and said gently, almost apologetically, “We’re leaving first thing in the morning. Seven a.m.. Don’t forget to pack your suitcase.”

John had pulled the bear out from under the blanket by its neck, and he reflexively squeezed it as his eyes filled with concern. 

“Pack . . . my suitcase?”

Chapter 2

John reluctantly left the sanctuary of his attic. With its pine board floor and ratty futon, it was the only part of the house that felt like him. The rest of the house was too big, too fancy, too soft. Every wall was covered in patterned wallpaper, the chairs were all overstuffed satin, and every table was clustered with gold or silver trinkets. 

John picked a gold angel off a side table and examined it like an alien artifact. “When did we get so many . . . baubles?” 

John passed the crystal chandelier that Holly bought herself last year. It hung above the double-height vestibule and probably cost a full year of his salary. He was embarrassed by their home’s excessive luxury—although he had to admit, he loved the wall-to-wall carpeting. It was why he always walked around the house barefoot. Padding down the upstairs hallway now, he made fists with his toes, enjoying the thick softness on his bare feet. 

Their housekeeper Paulina hurried out of the master bedroom with a stack of beach towels in her arms.

John stopped her. “Paulina, can you help me pack a suitcase?”

“No, Mr. McMclane,” she apologized, flicking her eyes down at the towels. “We have to catch flight first thing in the morning, and I am soooo busy.” She must’ve noticed John’s worried expression, because she added, “Don’t you worry. Mrs. McClane will pack your bag for you. You are what we call, in my country, incompetente.”

“What the hell does that mean?” John asked, but Paulina was already hurrying downstairs.

John eyed the computer room’s closed door like a kid eyeing a plate of broccoli. Ellis and his wife Ginny were staying with them too, and although John usually avoided Holly’s jerkweed brother at all costs, he knew that, whatever else Ellis might be, he traveled a lot. He’d know how to pack a bag. 

– – –

John knocked on the computer room door, and opened it to find Ellis hunched over the computer monitor, which he’d laid on its back so the glass front was facing up. He was sniffing frantically and wiping a suspicious white powder off the screen. 

“Hey, John-boy!” Ellis said too loudly. He was trying to act relaxed, but his jaw was clenched tight enough to break his expensive veneers. John would’ve liked nothing better than to bust him for possession. But he couldn’t. 

Because he needed his help.

“Ellis, can you help me pack my bag for the trip?”

Ellis flipped the blocky computer right side up with some difficulty. He sniffed and rubbed at his beard to make sure there wasn’t any coke in it. “What?” he sniffed again, then laughed randomly. “John, come on, you’re tellin me you don’t know how to pack a bag?” John hated how Ellis talked, shouting like a guy in an infomercial. Ellis spread his arms, palms up, in a grand gesture. “John-boy, you’re helpless!”

John resisted the urge to punch Ellis in the nose. “Can you help me pack or not?”

“John, bubby . . .” he gave John a con man’s smile. “I’m your white knight.” 

Just then something caught Ellis’s eye out the window. “Oh shit,” he whispered, excitedly waving John over to the frosty glass, “Check this out, it’s Old Man Powell!”

John joined Ellis at the window. In the chilly dark outside, a heavy African American man was shoveling snow off the sidewalk with the enthusiasm of a grave digger. He had a chubby face and a thick mustache that looked like a dead caterpillar. His rubber snow boots were unbuckled and his heavy frock coat wide open, but the hard expression on his face suggested that he didn’t feel the cold.

“That guy killed a kid,” Ellis said with ghoulish enthusiasm.

“What?”

“Ran him over with a snowplow.” John could tell Ellis was trying to scare him, but it wasn’t working. John shivered, but only because it was cold by the window. Ellis continued with the feigned indifference of the skilled ghost-story teller, “You never heard of the South Bend Snowplow Slayer? He was acquitted, but lost his driver’s license. So the city busted him down to shovel duty.”

“Yeah right. What’s with the trashcan?”

“I heard it’s full of . . .” Ellis paused dramatically, and John expected him to say something like the bones of his victims, so he was surprised when he finally said, in a hoarse whisper, “Twinkies!” 

John paused. “What? Twinkies? Why?”

But before Ellis could answer, Old Man Powell looked up at their window, looked John right in the eyes like he could hear him from across the street—hell, like he could hear his thoughts.

“Oh shit!” Ellis ducked and pulled John down with him.

Outside, Powell’s breath steamed in the night air as he stared at the window a moment longer, then shouldered his wide steel shovel and pulled the trash can and its mysterious contents further along the sidewalk, beyond the reach of the streetlights.

– – –

It wasn’t until John was out of the computer room and halfway downstairs that he realized he hadn’t even gotten Ellis to help him pack. Oh well. A pack of cigarettes, his trusty Zippo—what else did he need?

Probably shoes. He looked down at his bare feet and wiggled his toes. 

The kids skipped through the vestibule, towards the kitchen singing “Jingle bells, jingle bells.” It made John happy. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Holly met John at the bottom of the stairs. “Did you pack yet?” She frowned at his face, as though it was covered in the blood of a dozen terrorists or something. “And please, for once, shave before we go, okay?” Before he could tell her that he had just shaved a couple days ago, she handed him some kind of white, plastic square with a complicated dial on the front. “Also figure this out for me. It’s a timer for the lights.”

John turned the timer over in his hands as he wandered into the living room, where the Christmas tree dominated a corner near the window. Like everything else in their house, the tree was too big, a towering Douglas Fir so tall its star touched the ceiling. Holly had decorated the tree entirely with cut crystal ornaments that glittered like ice. John admitted they were pretty, but they looked cold too.

The doorbell rang.

“John, can you get that?” Holly called from upstairs.

The doorbell rang again.

Jack yelled from the kitchen. “Mom, Lucy won’t share the soda!”

John hurried to open the door—if it rang one more time he thought he might kill someone.

A well-groomed cop with a trim beard and excellent posture was waiting on the stoop, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a black police jacket with a blue shirt and black tie that fit him perfectly. John suddenly felt under-dressed in his sleeveless t-shirt and slacks. 

The policeman touched a finger to the shiny brim of his cop hat, and gave John a thin smile. He spoke stiffly, enunciating every syllable. “Hello, sir. Are you Mister McClane?”

 “I better be. Who are you?” John didn’t recognize this cat from any of the Police softball games, but of course Chicago was a big city.

Again that curling smile, phony as a three dollar bill. “I’m from the local precinct. We’re checking all the houses in the neighborhood because there have been a number of burglaries. May I come in?”

John waved the strangely formal cop into their fancy vestibule, and the poor guy was almost run over by Jack chasing Lucy around the house again, followed by Ellis’s pregnant wife Ginny and Ellis popping a bottle of champagne, and finally Paulina, who was urging the kids to “Slow down, slow down, sit back down at the table!”

John and the cop shared a look of surprise. “Welcome to the party, pal,” John said. 

Holly came back downstairs, and John saw she was wearing the big, gaudy Rolex her company had given her as an early Christmas present. He hated that watch. It was expensive and ugly.

“Hello,” Holly said to the cop. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he said, giving Holly a crisp bow and tapping the brim of his cap again. “Just a routine neighborhood check.”

John pointed at the Rolex. “You’re not gonna wear that to Disneyland, are you?”

Holly adjusted it on her wrist. “Why not?”

John shrugged. The real reason he disliked the watch was because it was ten times nicer than the gold-plated Timex he had planned on giving Holly for Christmas—but of course he couldn’t say that.

“What if it flies off while you’re on a roller coaster?” 

“Good point,” Holly said nervously. “I’ll put it in the safe upstairs after we eat.”

“Mom!” Lucy yelled from the kitchen. “C’mon, the pizza’s ready!”

Holly trotted off to the kitchen, and as soon as she was out of sight, John held the front door open with one foot and lit a much-needed cigarette; technically, he figured this qualified as ‘smoking outside.’ He tossed the cop the stupid lights timer while he blew smoke out the door.

“You know how to use a lights timer?” John asked. 

The cop examined the box. “I’ve seen them in the store . . .”

“Well, time for the real thing, detective . . .”  John squinted through the cigarette smoke, aware that the cop had avoided saying his name so far. “What did you say your name was again?” 

He handed the timer back to John. “Clay. Bill Clay. Are you folks traveling for the Christmas holiday?”

“Yeah, gonna head out to the Coast, have a few laughs. Flying to Disneyland with the family.” John smiled wearily.

Detective Clay, Bill Clay returned the smile. A real one this time, so wide that it revealed a gold front tooth that winked in the chandelier’s light. 

“Well don’t worry. Your house is in good hands.”

Chapter 3

Like the rest of their house, the kitchen was a little larger and fancier than John was comfortable with. It had black tile countertops and an island (an island, for Christ sakes!) in the center, with expensive pans they never used hanging from a rack above it. Pasta and rice were displayed in mason jars on the counter, next to a block of Japanese steak knives Holly claimed could cut through a shoe. (“That’ll come in handy the next time I eat a shoe for dinner,” John had thought.)

The kitchen was so loud that nobody noticed John walk in. Ginny was marveling at their new refrigerator, which had a little spigot that spit out sparkling water. “Oh my god!” she squealed to Ellis, “Honey, it makes bubbles!” 

The rest of his family was eating take-out pizza at the dinner table in the corner, a riot of pizza slices and Pepsi 2-liters.

John searched the half empty pizza boxes on the kitchen’s island for a slice of plain, and wasn’t surprised to only find weird toppings like broccoli and pineapple. More yuppie bullshit.

“Did anyone order me plain cheese?” John growled. Lucy and Jack flinched and John realized that he had spoken a little louder than he meant to. He was nervous about the flight and the kitchen was so damn loud.

“We did order plain cheese,” Ellis said, swaggering over and patting John on the back. “But if you want one someone’s gonna have to barf it up, because . . . it’s all gone.” Ginny snorted a laugh.

Holly was pouring the kids Pepsi. “I tried to save some,” she said, trying to diffuse the tension. “But everyone was hungry, and I could smell that you were busy.” She shot John a meaningful look. 

Busted again, John-boy. “I was outside,” John protested. “The door was open.”

“Hold on!” Ellis said, acting like he was about to get throw up, “John, get a plate . . .” He pretended to get sick, bending over and wretching, and it was so disgusting that John pushed him.

Either Ellis was weaker or John was stronger than he realized, because his coke-head brother-in-law went flying across the kitchen like he’d been shot out of a cannon, and crashed into the table where the family was eating, scattering plates of pizza and spilling cups of soda. Everyone jumped back and screamed, dripping in Pepsi and tomato sauce.

Ginny covered her pregnant stomach protectively, and she fixed John with a furious glare, like he had just shot her husband or something. “Look what you did, you little jerk!”

The kitchen was silent. Jack was wiping soda off his pants, Lucy starting to cry behind Holly, pizza sauce all over her new dress. Paulina helped Ellis stand up.

Tears were brimming in Holly’s eyes. John knew that she wasn’t crying about the mess that was the pizza. She was crying about the mess that was him. 

“John,” she whimpered, her voice quivering. “You’re such a disease.”

– – –

John stomped upstairs, but Holly flew after him like a SWAT helicopter, firing insults with the precision of a sniper. “What a great way to start our vacation,” she said.

“I don’t even want to go on this vacation,” John replied. He was about to head into their bedroom when Holly said, “You know what, why don’t you sleep on the couch up in the attic.”

John didn’t miss a beat. “You know what, I will.” He marched past their room, opened the attic door, and stomped up the stairs, Holly still right behind him—but halfway up to the attic he hesitated. 

A good cop knows when to listen to their gut. And right now John’s gut was telling him two things. One: it wanted a slice of plain pizza. Two: he and his wife were inches away from a divorce. 

John’s back was still to Holly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Holly was unmoved. “It’s too late. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.”

Now John did turn around. “I don’t want to see you for the rest of my life.”

Holly held a hand to her breast, like John had just shot an arrow into her heart. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

In truth John didn’t mean it, but he was trying to hurt her, so he said, “Yes I do.”

Holly’s face hardened. “Then say it again. Maybe it’ll happen.”

“I hope I never see any of you jerks again!” John yelled. He stormed back down the attic stairs, and slammed the door in Holly’s startled face. 

John threw himself onto the battered futon under the eave and stared angrily at the ceiling. He was so pissed off, his heart beating so fast, he thought he’d never be able to fall asleep. I’ll close my eyes for a second, he thought, just to calm down, then I’ll grab a beer and finish wrapping the bear. But a minute later John was snoring loudly, and outside the attic’s frosted windows a strange wind blew down their street, shaking tree branches, whipping the red ribbon off their front door, and bringing holiday magic in its wake. 

Chapter 4

When Holly woke up alone in their Queen-size bed the next morning, she made a decision. If John woke up on his own, she’d bring him along on the vacation. If he didn’t, she’d leave him here. Maybe for as long as the vacation . . . maybe for longer.

Ellis and the kids made enough noise to wake the dead as they lugged all their suitcases downstairs, but to Holly’s dismay, John still didn’t wake up. She wondered how many beers he’d had the night before. She stared hard at the closed attic door for a long time, trying to decide whether or not to knock, before finally giving up and walking downstairs. 

The limo honked out front but Holly had one last thing to do before they left. She grabbed a pen and paper and wrote John a letter on the kitchen island.

Dear John, 

I know you didn’t want to come on the vacation anyhow, so we left without you. I hope you don’t find this time home alone hard. When love dies, it dies hard. I don’t want our marriage to die hard too. God only knows if our relationship will live free or die hard, but I hope it will return with a vengeance. After all, it’s never a good day to die hard . . . for love.

Lost in New York, Holly

Holly knew John would get the “lost in New York” reference. How could he forget their honeymoon? She had written the letter rather strangely in some other parts, she noticed now, but there wasn’t time to rewrite. Everybody was already outside. Idling in the driveway, the limo honked its horn again. Ellis rolled down a tinted window and yelled “C’mon sis!”

Holly folded the letter, slid it into a red envelope, and placed it in a spot where John couldn’t miss it, leaned up against their family photo on the little table right beside the front door. She took one last look at the happy picture. They were all dressed up. They were all smiling. They were all together.

She wondered if she’d ever see her family like that again.

“Goodbye John,” she said to the man in the photo. 

Holly slammed the front door so hard that for a moment, the gold-framed photo wobbled on the table. Then it fell forward, onto its face, hiding the red envelope and her note beneath it.

– – –

Holly picked her way carefully down the icy front steps, to the limousine waiting for her in the driveway. Ellis opened the back door for her and raised a flute of champagne, polka music playing inside the limo. “Sis, I gotta hand it to you, calling a limo was a great idea. Way better than driving two cars to the airport.”

“Well I feel guilty enough leaving John home alone, I didn’t want to also leave him without a car,” Holly replied. She sat down between Jack and Lucy and gave them both a squeeze. “Besides, this is fun, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t Daddy coming with us?” Jack asked, concerned.

Holly didn’t want to ruin the kids’ vacation. She ruffled Jack’s hair. “He’ll meet us there, honey.”

The little window between the driver and the back slid down, and a fat, jolly man with a midwestern accent peeked through at the family. “Hello folks! I’m Gus Polinski, Polka King of the Midwest—but more importantly, your driver.” He noticed Ellis trying to pour his pregnant wife a flute of champagne. 

“Ellis, I can’t,” Ginny protested.

“C’mon, just one won’t hurt,” he said. “It’s got vitamin C!”

“That champagne isn’t part of the, um, standard package,” the limo driver said, “the mini bar was locked, actually, I’m not sure how you got it open—but if you don’t mind paying for the premium package . . .”

“No problem,” Holly said, pulling a gold credit card from her purse and handing it to Ellis, who was closer to the driver’s window. “Can you pass that to the driver?”

Ellis whistled when he saw the shiny credit card. “Woah sis, AmEx Gold? Where’d you get that?”

“It’s my company card. I used it to pay for the whole trip. I get points.”

Ellis peered closer at the card, and then gave his sister a sly look. “Holly Gennaro? Since when did you start using your maiden name?”

Holly leaned forward and snatched the card from his hand. “Since none of your business,” she whispered angrily. She looked back at the kids. “Please don’t tell John. He wouldn’t understand.” She handed the card to the driver. 

“Thank you so much ma’am, this will cover incidentals,” Gus said happily. He shifted the limo into drive and turned up the polka, a high clarinet playing the melody of Deck the Halls over the deep oompah oompah of a marching tuba. “And awaaaaaay we go!”

Everyone cheered as the limo pulled away from their home, excited to be heading to Disneyland. Upstairs in the attic, John slept soundly, unaware that his family was getting further and further away from him. He was dreaming of sugar plum fairies dancing through a snowy night. In the starry sky above, he heard the jingling of sleigh bells and the merry noodling of a clarinet.

Holly was already at the airport by the time she realized that she had left John the car, but not the keys.

Chapter 5

Four hours later, while his family was in the air en route to sunny California, John woke up in the chilly attic, fresh snow sticking to the dormer windows. He opened his eyes and saw the bikini poster taped on the slanted ceiling above the futon. 

“Mornin’, darling.” 

He had been dreading waking up early to catch their flight, but he felt surprisingly rested. Then he looked at the clock radio on the milkcrate next to him and realized why: it was almost noon. 

His eyes popped open. “Oh shit, we missed the flight!” John fell off the hard mattress and onto the floor. Holly was going to be so pissed. More importantly, John was pissed at himself. He’d let Holly down one more time, and now—

Wait a minute, where was Holly? Why hadn’t she waken him up?

There was no way she would sleep until noon. Or the kids, for that matter.

John padded barefoot down the attic steps and opened the door cautiously, his cop instincts warning him that something was not right here.

“Hello?” he called out, experimentally. “Anyone home?”

It was times like this that he wished Holly let him keep his service revolver in the house. Poised in the doorway with his hand on the knob, he could tell from the stillness in the air, that the house felt . . . wrong. 

John checked their bedroom (where he slept less and less, it seemed): It was empty.

Computer room: empty.

Kids’ bedrooms: empty and empty.

John checked every single room in the big house—even the creepy basement, with its groaning heater. They were all empty.

Had his family left for their vacation without him? No way. Holly wouldn’t do that. 

Or would she? John felt like he knew his wife less and less every day. Still, he was positive she wouldn’t leave without at least writing him a note or something.

He stepped outside, hopping through the freezing snow in his bare feet. Their station wagon and Ellis’s Beemer were still in the garage.

If they went to the airport, why are their cars still here? 

John shut the front door and tried to figure it all out. He smacked his forehead and commanded himself to, “Think John, think,” a method that always helped him gather his thoughts.

Pacing the vestibule, his forehead starting to hurt, he noticed that Holly had taken the family photo by the door and slammed it face down so she wouldn’t have to look at him. Well that was just fine. He didn’t want to look at her either. As he marched into the kitchen he passed a smiling photo of the two of them at the beach, and slammed that one face down too.

John picked the phone up off the kitchen wall and called the Disneyland resort. A chipper receptionist answered on the third ring. “Hello, Disneyland resorts. How may I help you?”

John was still half asleep, and didn’t know how to organize his thoughts. “Hi, uh, I’m looking for my family . . .”

The operator interrupted, a little snippy, “Sir, this line is for reservations only.”

John snapped. “No shit lady, does it sound like I’m ordering a pizza?” 

Silence on the other end of the line. 

Smooth John, real smooth.

John cleared his throat and continued in his most charming voice. “Sorry about that. I am calling to check on a reservation. To see if my family has arrived yet. The name is McClane, six guests.”

The operator didn’t get paid enough to deal with jerkweeds like this. She figured the guy was probably a crank caller. She scrolled through the Disney reservation database, but didn’t see any McClane. The only party of six checking in today were the Gennaros. 

 “I’m sorry sir,” she said, striving to sound extra super sweet, glad she couldn’t help this jerk, “but there’s no reservation under that name.”

John couldn’t believe it. Confused, he hung up with the operators tinny voice asking “Is there anything else I can help you with—”

Next John called the airport, and got the same story: No sir, no reservation for McClane.

More confused than ever, John stumbled over to the kitchen island, sat down on a stool, and tried to put the pieces together. An empty house. No note or message from Holly. Both cars still in the garage. His family wasn’t at Disneyland or the airport.

There was only one logical explanation John could think of.

“I made my family disappear,” he said in disbelief.

He remembered his final interactions with them, the night before: Holly comparing him to a disease. Ginny calling him a little jerk. Ellis laughing and saying he was helpless. Paulina calling him incompetente (he wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound like a compliment). 

John paused, the silence of the empty kitchen deafening.

“I made my family disappear!” he screamed in horror, the reality crashing over him like a wave. He couldn’t breathe. The kitchen stool tipped over as John stood on legs that felt like stilts. Was his family dead? Or did they just . . . no longer exist? 

Had it hurt? 

Holy shit! 

John scrambled upstairs to flee the horrible realization, and finding no escape, ran up and down the hallway, waving his arms over his head and screaming uncontrollably.

Chapter 6

By that night, John had mellowed out considerably, more from exhaustion than anything else. The handle of Wild Turkey he’d retrieved from the attic had helped. So had the twelve beers from the mini fridge, the bottle of Bacardi 151 Ellis had left in the guest room (dude had left a box of five bottles under the bed), and the cooking sherry he’d found above the stove.

John had been trying his hardest to black out, and somewhere in the middle there he’d succeeded. He vaguely remembered using Jack’s bb gun for target practice in the kitchen (the bb’s embedded in the wall seemed to verify this blurry memory) and riding a sled down the front staircase and out the door (verified as well, this time by the bleeding gash above his left eye).

Now he was sitting barefoot (he still couldn’t find his shoes, had he wished them away too?) in slacks and his increasingly dirty undershirt, watching some old, black-and-white gangster movie. He was gorging himself on a giant ice cream sundae he’d made in a punch bowl with marshmallows, gummy bears, chocolate syrup and bananas. And oh yes, he was also enjoying a Marlboro.

Why not? 

He took a long pull of his cigarette and blew the smoke towards the satin drapes. “I’m smoking in the house!” he yelled to the ceiling. “Somebody better stop me!” John thought it was unlikely that Holly could hear him in whatever shadow realm she’d been wished away to, but if she could, he figured that antagonizing Ghost Holly was the best way to make her re-materialize.

He ashed his cigarette right on the carpet. “I’m ashing on the carpet!” he added, raising a goopy spoonful of ice cream and accidentally dripping chocolate syrup on the easy chair arm.

The gangster movie John was watching wasn’t bad. In fact, it was pretty good. He usually didn’t watch this kind of garbage, but he had to admit it was taking his mind off nullifying his loved ones. 

The film was very noir looking; long shadows lit a dusty office as a tough old dude behind a desk menaced a fella in a trench coat—trying to get codes from him or something? John wasn’t following too closely. He was still drunk and was now also getting a wicked sugar high. He spooned a glob of marshmallow into his chocolate-rimmed mouth. 

The old guy rolled the silencer off his gun and deliberately placed it on the desk in front of him, looking rather put out. “That’s a very nice trench coat, Mister Takagi. It would be a shame to ruin it.”

Takagi was sweating bullets, striped by light of the venetian blinds. 

“I’m going to give you until the count of three,” the old guy continued with icy menace. “There will not be a four. One . . . two . . .” 

Takagi starting begging. “I’m telling you, I don’t have the codes . . .”

“Four.” With rattlesnake speed, the old guy picked the gun off his desk and shot Takagi right in the face. His brains and the back of his head splattered all over the glass door behind him.

John was so shocked, he spit out a mouthful of ice cream.

“Holy shit!” John choked.

The old guy stood to admire his work, looking down at Takagi with a little smile. “Yippee ki yay . . . ya filthy animal.”

John laughed so hard a gummy bear popped out of his nose. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Chapter 7

John’s laughter was so loud and deranged that his next door neighbors could’ve heard it—if they’d been home. But they were visiting family in Arizona. The Robinsons next to door them were out of town too, and so were the Tiernans next to them, the Rekulaks across the street—in fact, every house on the six hundred block of Lincoln Avenue (aside from old man Powell’s dark home, the only house on the block that didn’t have Christmas lights outside) was empty for the holidays.

As darkness fell, a green panel truck slowed to a stop at the top of the deserted block. Hans and his partner Karl were sitting inside the cab, where they had a view of every house on the block. It was a good thing the block was deserted, because neither man was what you’d call “inconspicuous.” Karl looked like one of those Nordic hunks on the cover of a romance novel, the kind with waving blonde hair and high cheekbones. But there was no love in his eyes, which were intense and angry like a wolf. 

Hans appeared more civilized than his partner in crime, but in truth he was just as cruel. He was slick as a snake in an Armani suit, and moved with the slow, deliberate coolness of a reptile. 

Hans put the truck in park and looked at the opulent, unguarded homes like they were a Christmas present he was dying to unwrap. “When Alexander saw the depth of his empire,” Hans recited with gravitas, “he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.” The fake American accent he’d used at the McClane’s—when he’d pretended to be Detective Clay—was gone, and he spoke with a clipped, clean, German accent, biting off every syllable like a Shakespearean stage actor. His gold tooth glinted as he uncurled a Grinchy smile. “It’s almost too perfect.”

Karl said nothing, but glared at the neighborhood with the eyes of a hound yearning to slip its master’s leash.

Hans shot the cuffs of his suit as he consulted his watch and explained that the Christmas lights on all the homes had been set with timers.

“Number 674 will turn on . . . now,” he said, and like magic, all the pretty white lights on the outside of the house blinked on. One by one, the rest of the houses on the block followed, until the whole snowy scene was glowing prettily, the picture of holiday cheer.

Hans pointed to the McClane house, 671 Lincoln Avenue, just as the Christmas lights turned on.

“And that’s the one, Karl. The silver ring. They’ve got $50,000 Rolex in a safe upstairs. A Yachtmaster Steel II. I saw it on the wife’s wrist. And if that’s the kind of candy they walk around with, imagine what else they keep hidden in the cookie jar. Gold? Bearer bonds?”

Karl slung an assault rifle over his shoulder. “Maybe also they have toys,” he suggested hopefully, but Hans was too absorbed in his own greedy fantasy to hear him.

Hans rubbed his hands. “By the time the McClanes get back from their vacation and figure out what went wrong, we’ll be sitting on a beach, earning twenty percent.”

“Crowbars up,” Hans said to Karl. The brothers raised two crowbars and clinked them together like they were making a toast, then quietly got out of the truck and crept towards the McClane household, hugging what few shadows the thousands of Christmas lights left on the street.

Chapter 8

John woke up disoriented in the easy chair, sticky with chocolate syrup and melted marshmallow. He could see, through the window, that their home’s Christmas lights had turned on. 

Guess Holly figured out how to use the timers after all. 

The television was playing Miracle on 34th Street, and John could hear the crunch of snow as Santa and a little girl walked through Manhattan. But the sound didn’t seem to sync up with their steps. And then John realized the TV was on mute. 

The crunch of snow was coming from outside his home, footsteps creeping right outside the window John was sitting under. Scared, John slowly turned his head and saw the shadows of two men prowling past his living room windows. 

Maybe it was the booze (John hadn’t been this drunk since he’d been in the Navy), or maybe it was being all alone in an empty house, haunted by the memories of his loved ones, but seeing those two silhouettes slink past the gauzy curtains stopped John’s heart.

The two shadows paused a few windows down, close enough that John could hear one say, with what sounded like a German accent, “Come Karl, we’ll go through the basement door.”

As they turned and crunched through the snow towards the back of the house, John saw the unmistakable silhouette of an assault rifle slung over one of their shoulders. 

John’s heart started again, this time galloping like a horse. He was slouched in a recliner, covered in ice cream, and most importantly, unarmed. Holly didn’t let him keep his gun in the house, but even if she had, he was in no shape right now to fight two burglars, one of them armed with what looked like a fucking assault rifle. He struggled out of the cushy loveseat and raced to the basement door, throwing it open and slapping on the back door light switch at the top of the stairs.

A different voice, also with a German accent, but deeper, spoke up from just outside the basement’s back door. “I thought you said no one was home?” 

There was a long silence. The two prowlers were so close that John could hear the shuffle of their shoes on the icy concrete.

“Maybe we should call for backup?” the deep voice suggested.

Then the one that John was starting to think of as the leader said grimly, “Nein. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

They left, and John, his heart still pounding, army-crawled over to a heating vent on the wall, popped it off, and hid inside the air duct. 

After a minute of hiding, as his heart rate returned to normal, John started to feel a little silly. “I can’t hide in here,” he said, his voice echoing off the walls of the aluminum duct. “I’m the man of the house.”

– – –

John stormed out the front door, down their walkway, and into the middle of the snowy sidewalk. He should’ve been cold since he was barefoot and sleeveless, but his face was hot with embarrassment and anger.

“Hey!” he shouted into the night. “I’m not afraid anymore!” he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled up towards the skeletal tree branches. “You hear me! I said I’m not . . .”

John heard the scrape of metal being dragged up the sidewalk behind him, and turned to find himself face to face with the Snowplow Slayer. The old man’s expression was as hard as a lump of coal. The sharp edge of his metal shovel gleamed in the streetlight. But most importantly, the lid of the trashcan he was dragging behind him was tipped halfway off, and John could see what was inside. 

The trash can was full of Twinkies. 

“What the fuck?” John whispered.

The Slayer didn’t say anything and John backed away, off balance. The Shovel Slayer followed him with his haunted eyes— never blinking, never saying a word—as John backed all the way up the stairs to his home, closed the front door behind him and threw his back against it, sliding down onto his butt.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe it. Ellis was right.”

Chapter 9

The next morning, John woke up to find that Santa had left him a Christmas present one day early: the worst, most brain-pounding hangover John had ever had. It felt like someone had tied his head to a block of C4 and dropped the whole thing down an elevator shaft. 

Stumbling into the bathroom more by instinct than sight, he looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw. His eyes were bleary, and the blood from the cut he’d gotten sledding had crusted over his eyebrow. He ran a hand over his five o’clock shadow, raspy as a porcupine’s ass.

Holly had always been on his case to shave properly. He “shaved,” with an old electric razor that cut his stubble about as effectively as a cheese grater.

He clucked his tongue at the battered cowboy in the mirror. “Time to make a change, pardner.”

– – –

John borrowed some money from Holly’s change jar to buy a new razor. He couldn’t find the car keys, and he still couldn’t find his fucking shoes, so he just walked downtown barefoot, which was mostly fine—honestly, the rock salt on the sidewalk hurt more than the cold.

John had thought that everyone on his block was away for the holidays, so he was surprised when he saw a green panel truck that said Pacific Courier, parked in the driveway of the Robinson’s home.

“Huh, I thought they were out of town.”

– – –

By the time John got to the drugstore, his feet were so numb that they didn’t really hurt anymore. John hadn’t bought a razor in so long that he was overwhelmed by the amount of choices he found in the drugstore. Some had moisturizing strips or other doo-dads, and all of them had more than one blade. “The first blade lifts, the second blade cuts,” John said dubiously, reading the package.

Did he need to buy replacement blades? He wasn’t sure. He got a 100-pack just to be safe.

He brought the razor and extra blades up to the front counter. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he asked the lady behind the counter. “Is this razor approved by the American Shaving Association?”

She examined the box for one second before handing it back to him. “It doesn’t say.”

“Can you find out?”

The lady gave him a crabby look over the top of her bifocals. A peppy stock boy must’ve noticed her about to lose her shit, because he bounced over and asked if she needed help. 

John held the razor and blades as the two talked back and forth, but John barely heard a word they said because the next moment a bloody, bandaged hand smacked itself down on the counter beside him and there standing next to John in the drugstore was the South Bend Shovel Slayer.

Now John was really freaked out, because there was no way this was a coincidence. He bumps into this dude two times in two days? No way.

The Slayer stared at John. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to; his intense, crazy eyes did all the talking for him. I’m going to kill you and everyone in this store, they said. He was wearing that same overcoat again, large enough to hide a bomb under, and with a shock John realized that’s just what was going on. The Slayer had a bomb under his coat.

John followed his officer training, and started to slowly back out of the store. He knew that any sudden moves could set a suicide bomber off.

“Sir, you can pay for that here,” the bifocals lady told him, but John kept backing away. He wanted to warn her that there was a suicide bomber standing two steps away from her, but he knew she’d panic, and that could set the Slayer off. The Slayer was still glaring at him.

“Sir, you can’t leave with that,” the cashier said urgently—too urgently. The Slayer seemed to sense that his cover had been blown, his eyes widening in alarm. John knew it was only seconds before he would press the detonator.

The Slayer reached into his pocket . . .

and John spun and sprinted for the door.

“Shoplifter!” someone yelled. Were they stupid? The Slayer wasn’t a shoplifter, he was a suicide bomber.

“Bomb!” John yelled as he ran out the door and through the festive town center. It was a soft target, casualty rich. People everywhere shopping, ice skating. “He’s got a bomb! Everyone get down!” John warned them, still running.

Ice skaters and holiday revelers broke into a panic as John slid across the skating rink on his bare feet, reached the other side, and kept running.

John didn’t stop running until he reached his neighborhood. He hadn’t heard a big boom, so he guessed someone had tackled the bomber. Thank god.

Panting, he stopped to catch his breath at the top of his block, and that’s when he noticed he still had the razor and blades in his hand. He laughed, his rapid breath fogging the chilly air. “I hope you were worth it, little guy.”

Chapter 10

Feeling festive when he returned home, John turned the radio to a station that played Christmas carols: Jingle Bells, Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, all that jazz. Cheating death always perked him up.

He took a hot shower to warm up after his barefoot walk downtown, then tried his new razor, which worked like a dream. John had never had such a close shave, and it felt damn good. His waist wrapped in a towel, the bathroom mirror steamy, he admired the face he’d kept hidden under that stubble for so many years.

“Not bad John, not bad.”

He slapped on some after shave and his sensitive skin—exposed for the first time in decades—was stung by the alcohol like lemon juice on a fresh cut.

Hands clapped to his cheeks, John screamed in pain, “AAAAHHHHHH!”

– – –

The sting of the aftershave was a baptism by fire. John felt like a new man. 

He gathered all his stinky laundry from the attic and washed it in the basement. (The heater scared him for a second, but only a second). He scrubbed all the dishes he’d used to make the sundae, then cleaned the rest of the kitchen too. He swept. He mopped.

The last thing he did was the most important. He gathered up all the bottles of booze he had secretly stashed around the house. It took a while, and when he lined them all up, they filled the kitchen island. There were bottles of wine, whiskey, vodka, beer. Seeing them all together like this, he finally appreciated the magnitude of his drinking problem. He poured every bottle of alcohol down the sink, and then threw the empties with a clatter into the recycling bin in the basement. They filled it to the top. John hoped Holly would be proud. “I guess I’ll never know,” he said, turning the basement light off.

Chapter 11

Whistling Wagner, his Viking hair billowing behind him, Karl carried the last of their loot, an Apple II computer, out the Robinson’s side door and put it into the back of the truck. He noticed that the truck was full. They’d have to drop their load off at the warehouse and have the crew sort through it.

Karl swung the back door shut and climbed into the truck’s cab next to Hans. Karl had the tiniest hint of a smile on his stern, handsome face. In fact, the smile was so subtle that most people would’ve thought he was frowning, or even glowering homicidally—but Hans could tell that his serious partner was smiling, and knew that always meant trouble.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” Hans said.

Karl didn’t reply, but now his mischievous smirk was clear for anyone to see.

“You did it again, you wired the roof with explosives, didn’t you?”

Karl shrugged and stuck the detonator box to the dashboard with a piece of gum. “All the great ones leave their mark. We’re the Wet Bandits.”

Hans shifted the van into drive, shaking his head. “That name doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s because of all the blood the explosions cause,” Karl said. “Blood is wet, so I figure—”

Hans cut him off, but not without affection. “You’re sick, you know that?” Hans admired his partner’s ruthlessness. “If you wanna blow the roof, fine. But wait until we’re done burgling all the houses on the block. Especially 671. That’s the one, Karl. That’s the one we came for.”

671 was not the one Karl came for. 

Karl didn’t come for one house. 

Karl came for all of them, and money had nothing to do with it. 

But he respected his boss’s level-headedness. “Okay,” he conceded. “I will wait until Christmas morning to open my presents. I will wait like a good boy.” Karl made a face that looked like a maniacal leer, but Hans knew that it was a smile.

– – –

Even though John had covered the whole damn house cleaning, he still couldn’t find his fucking shoes (although he tried unsuccessfully to cram his feet into a pair of Holly’s sneakers). He also still hadn’t found the car keys, so he resigned himself to walk back into town to hit the PayLess and get some Reeboks. 

He was strolling, barefoot down the sidewalk a few houses down from his own when a green panel truck shot out of the Robinson’s driveway, heading right for him. 

Brakes screeched as John shut his eyes, preparing for the impact.

Tires slid on the sidewalk salt, and the steel grill stopped barely an inch from John’s nose.

Adrenaline pulsed through John’s blood as he wobbled around the driver’s side of the truck, just beginning to realize how close he’d come to death. 

I wish they had hit me, he thought, maybe then I could be with Holly and my family. 

Preoccupied by morbid thoughts, John barely noticed the two men inside the cab—but his cop radar gave a small ping. There was something familiar about the driver. He had a snooty expression and a trim brown beard, and if he felt bad about almost hitting John, he didn’t show it. “You have to watch out for traffic,” he advised John calmly.

A stern man with long blonde hair leaned across to add, “Ja. Santy doesn’t visit the funeral homes, Kleiner Freund.”

“Okay, okay,” the driver relented, finally showing a sliver of compassion, or maybe just wanting to avoid more attention. “Merry Christmas.” He smiled, flashing a gold tooth at John.

And that’s when John’s radar lit up like a Christmas tree.

Clay. Bill Clay. The cop who’d come to his house.

Clearly this guy was no cop. And these two goons had German accents, just like the prowlers outside his house the night before.

John realized he was still standing beside their window, and that they were staring at him strangely now. Their own radar sending off warning signals, perhaps.

He forced himself to turn around, as calmly as he could, and walk back in the direction of his home. Walk, don’t run. If you walk, everything will be fine.

He heard the truck pull out of the driveway behind him, and slowly, at an unusually slow pace that just happened to match his walking perfectly, the van crept down the street behind him.

“Ah shit,” John groaned, and broke into a run, pebbles and rock salt biting painfully into his bare feet.

Behind him, the truck’s engine roared as Hans accelerated after him.

John could see his house, but he didn’t want to lead these guys, whoever they were, back there, so he cut down a small side street instead, heading for the next block over, hoping he’d think of a way to lose them in the five seconds it would take them to turn the corner.

– – –

“He’s turning left,” Karl said robotically as Hans overshot the small side street and screeched to a stop, rear tires fishtailing. He had to put the big truck into reverse, and then carefully turn down the small side street, tree branches scraping against the panel truck’s sides.

By the time the truck emerged on the other block, they’d lost the shoeless guy.

“Scheisse,” Hans cursed.

Hans turned right and cruised down the block slowly, Karl searching for their prey with a glare intense enough to pierce steel. He rolled his window down to better see through the snow that was just starting to fall, but all he saw was a big old Catholic church decorated for the holidays, with a nativity scene out front.

“Do you see him?” Hans asked Karl.

“Nein.” He opened the door while Hans was still driving, and jerked his chin towards the church. “Call Tony for backup. I’m going in.” 

Hans grabbed his upper arm and held him back. “Nein, nein, we are not going into a church, and we are not calling for backup. Look,” he parked the truck in front of the nativity scene. “I recognized that guy. He’s John McClane, from the McClane house.”

Karl furrowed his handsome brow in concentration. “You said they were on vacation. Why is he home?”

“I don’t know,” Hans admitted.

“And why did he run from us?”

“I don’t know!” Hans yelled. He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. All his plans were falling apart. 

“I don’t know why he’s home, and I don’t know why he ran, but I know we’re not walking away from $50,000 dollars—and who knows what else is in that safe! That house is the whole reason we came to this block.” Hans thought about it while he stared at the grey sky above the church spires. Snow was falling, slowly erasing the world. Hans felt bad for the baby Jesus laying in the straw manger without a blanket. It reminded him of his own childhood in Austria. The many nights he and his baby Bruder had huddled together for warmth. When he fled his country he had sworn he’d never be poor again. He would burn stacks of money to keep warm.

“We’ll go to the McClane house tonight,” Hans said definitively. “When it’s dark.”

Karl nodded. “Maybe he is afraid of the dark.”

Hans shifted the truck into drive. “Oh shut up. you’re afraid of the dark too, Karl.”

“Nein,” Karl considered the night outside his window. “The dark is afraid of me.”

The truck pulled away from the nativity scene. 

A moment later the Virgin Mary, kneeling beside baby Jesus in the manger, lifted her head, and John’s face peeked out from under her blue shawl.

He rubbed his usually stubbly jaw, now smooth as a virgin’s cheek. “I’ll be damned,” he marveled, “That new razor really does work.”

– – –

John crawled to the rear of the nativity and slid his chilly feet under a pile of hay. He leaned against a plastic donkey and petted its back while he thought. 

He had heard the burglar’s whole conversation, and didn’t know what to do next. 

Well, he knew what he should do next: he should call his buddies at the precinct and ask for help. Hell, he was a cop. So why was he acting like a scared little kid?

The answer was simple. Losing his family—not losing them, wishing them out of existence for God’s sake—was scary. He was afraid of himself and his cursed power to disappear people. He was afraid of this strange new world, where your loved ones could disappear while you were sleeping. Would he wake up Christmas morning to find the rest of his block gone? 

John realized that he was sort of looking forward to having the burglars come snooping around tonight. John didn’t like all this thinking and feeling. A good fight would take his mind off all this bullshit, and if he died doing it, that was fine too. Maybe he’d end up wherever his family was. 

Maybe.

John gave the plastic donkey a final pat on the back.

“You’re not the only ass here, buddy.”

John crawled out of the nativity scene and headed towards the church. He needed to warm up before he walked home, and he needed to ask for forgiveness.

Whether it was for what he’d done, or what he was about to do, he wasn’t sure yet.

Chapter 12

A Christmas Eve service was being held inside the church, and John was awed by the holy atmosphere, honey-warm with candlelight. Up front near the altar, a children’s choir sang in beautiful harmony, their angelic voices echoing down the long nave. The church’s architecture was impressive; the walls were lined with stained glass windows, and dark wood pillars rose to a vaulted ceiling high above. 

John sat near the back, in one of the many empty pews. He closed his weary eyes and soaked in the music. For a moment, he felt slightly less awful about making his family disappear. The music was so beautiful that John couldn’t figure out why the church was empty. He turned around to scan the pews behind him, and that’s when he saw Old Man Powell sitting across the aisle, three rows behind him.

The Snow Plow Slayer.

John turned back around, fast, but it was too late. Powell had seen him. Of course he’d seen him. He was following John.

The creak of footsteps creeping up behind John, and then Powell was there, standing in the aisle beside the pew—wearing the same unbuckled snow boots, dark frock coat and grim expression he always wore. He looked like an undertaker who’d just come in from the shoveling the sidewalk outside his parlor. 

But then his round, chubby face softened. A glint of candlelight shone off his brown eyes, and he smiled kindly. “Is this seat taken?” he asked in a voice that was deep and friendly, not at all the way John expected him to sound.

“No, it’s free,” John said, scooching over to make room for the heavy man, who sat down with a satisfied sigh.

“You live next to me, don’t you?” Powell asked.

“Yep.”

Powell looked down at John’s bare feet.

“You’re not wearing any shoes, are you?”

John wiggled his toes. “It’s better than being caught with your pants down.” 

Powell smiled, looking merry like only a fat dude can. “You know, there’s a lot of stuff going around about me, but none of its true.”

“You mean, you didn’t run over a kid with a snowplow?”

Powell flinched. “Oh well, that’s true,” he said, seemingly unprepared for the accusation. “I’ve still got the snowplow in my garage but I haven’t driven it since that awful day. Probably never will again.”

“Well then, wait, what else is ‘going around’ about you?”

Powell seemed eager to change the subject. He pointed at the choir, who were singing the first soaring notes of Oh Holy Night. “That’s my daughter up there,” Powell said. “The little red-headed girl. This is the only way I can see her because my wife won’t talk to me.”

“Because of the snowplow thing?”

“No, some other thing.”

“Did it involve Twinkies?”

Powell looked at John, shocked. “I guess some of the stuff going around about me is true,” he said quietly. 

Considering all the candles they had lit in here, John didn’t think The Man Upstairs would mind a little more smoke. He lit a cigarette, cupping the flame of his Zippo. “You should tell your wife that you’re sorry.”

Powell grimaced like he had heartburn. “I’m afraid she won’t talk to me.”

John squinted through his smoke. “Aren’t you a little old to be afraid?”

Powell examined John. “I think I’m younger than you, actually.”

“I rest my case,” John said, unsure what he meant by that, but figuring it sounded cool enough to serve as an exit line. 

Obviously Powell didn’t understand either, because he look confused as John stood up from the pew and offered his new friend a parting handshake. It was the first physical human contact John had since he nullified his loved ones, and it felt good. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt a little holiday spirit pass between them.

“Merry Christmas Al.”

– – –

It was full dark outside the church, the snow falling thick, big fat flakes that stuck to John’s hatless head. The burglars would be coming soon. As he ran home (partially because he was excited to welcome his guests, partially because the sidewalk was cold and he was barefoot) the Christmas lights on each of his neighbor’s empty houses blinked on as he passed.

John entered his own house and slammed the door behind him.

“This is my home. I have to defend it.”

– – –

John unfurled a map of the house he’d drawn using crayons, but it wasn’t a normal map. This floorplan had some additions on it—deadly tricks he’d learned in the military, Wile E. Coyote death traps.

“If there’s one thing I’m good at,” John observed, “it’s making people disappear.”

He iced the front steps and back steps, then hid a couple nasty presents in the bushes out front.

He sorted the little airline bottles of alcohol from the recycling bin and laid them on their sides on the floor in the vestibule, then soaked the rug with some of Ellis’s high proof Bacardi.

He rigged a blowtorch over the kitchen door.

He pulled the car batteries out of Ellis’s BMW and their station wagon, and did a little electrical work on the front and attic doors.

He took his new razor’s replacement blades and some fish hooks and used them to decorate the Christmas tree.

He balanced his mini fridge on the rim of the back attic window. It was lighter without all the beer bottles inside, but still heavy enough that he had to lift it with his legs.

He unplugged the lights timer that Holly had handed him what seemed like a lifetime ago, and hooked it to a strand of Christmas lights that he wrapped around the stove burner, then stripped the protective rubber coating off a section of wire.

He filled a bucket with kerosene he’d found in the basement, and put it near the stove, with a sign next to it that said WATER. He shrugged. The burglars probably weren’t stupid enough to fall for it, but who knew?

He pried open the refrigerator door, took out the CO2 cartridge that made the carbonated water, and attached it to the pressure tank of his son’s pump bb gun with duct tape.

He grabbed the bleach from under the kitchen sink and put it into a spring loaded Super Soaker in the upstairs hallway. 

He walked up into the attic and looked out one of the windows, at Jack Jr.’s treehouse in the backyard. He missed his son. He couldn’t believe he’d never get to see him again. 

John didn’t plan on surviving the night, but still, he wanted to put on a good show. If he had to fall back all the way to the attic it meant that his bacon was really in the fire, and he didn’t like the idea of dying so close to a futon. So he strung some high tension rope between the attic window and the tree house, and clipped a carabiner to it. It would be his emergency escape plan.

Finally finished with his gruesome preparations, the entire house a fucking death trap, John carefully threaded his way through the many tripwires and deadfalls to the kitchen, where he microwaved a frozen pizza. 

Plain pizza. 

At last.

Sitting on top of the kitchen island with his son’s upgraded bb gun laid across his legs, John held a slice in his hand and closed his eyes to pray. 

“Bless this highly nutritious microwavable pizza and the people who sold it on sale. Amen.”

He took a bite, the crust crunching loudly. The cheese gooey and delicious. “I hope Santa doesn’t come down the chimney,” John said, licking a drip of red tomato sauce off his finger. “This’ll be the last house he ever visits.”

Chapter 13

Hans and Karl parked their truck next to a telephone pole, in a dark spot under a tree that blocked the streetlights. While Karl climbed up the pole, Hans talked to Tony on the walkie talkie.

“No, we don’t need you. Your brother and I can handle it,” Hans said. “It’s just one man, and he’s home alone. I’ll call for Theo once we locate the safe.” 

Karl climbed back down the pole holding a pair of bolt cutters.

Hans put the walkie talkie into his coat pocket and turned to his silent partner as Karl reached into the truck and traded the bolt cutters for a long black duffel bag. “Your brother and the others are at the warehouse, sorting through our haul from yesterday,” Hans said.

“Zer gut. I cut the phone lines.” Karl jerked his chin at John’s house. “Now he cannot call for help.”

Hans narrowed his eyes as he considered the McClane residence, looking very cheery and festive, the front ringed with Christmas lights. “There’s something strange going on in that house. I almost have a feeling . . . that Mister McClane wouldn’t call anyone. Even if he could.”

Karl slung the heavy bag over his shoulder. “Why not?”

Hans shrugged. There was little point trying to figure out their mystery guest’s motivations, since he’d be dead in a minute anyhow. “Who knows. Maybe he saw too many movies as a child. Another orphan of a bankrupt culture who thinks he’s John Wayne.”

Karl gave Hans an impressed look as he shut the truck door. “You are so poetic sometimes.”

The compliment pleased Hans. He crossed the street feeling confident, angling towards their glowing prize. Karl followed him. “How do you want to go in?” he asked casually.

“We’ll go to the back door.” Hans smirked. “Maybe he’ll let us in, you never know.”

“Ja, he is an American.” Karl’s hair blew in the snowy breeze, looking more like a runway model than an Austrian terrorist who was at the top of Europol’s most wanted list. “Americans are stupid.”

– – –

In the living room of the McClane house, the old grandfather clock struck nine.

John looked up from his meal, alarmed. He hadn’t realized how late it was.

He hopped off the island and primed the lights timer trap, turning the gas burner on as low as he could and setting the timer for ten minutes after nine. Then he cocked the bb gun, and turned the stopcock that filled the gun’s barrel with compressed air. The little rifle hummed in his sweaty hands. “Okay,” he said, psyching himself up, “don’t get scared now.”

A sudden knock on the back door made John flinch, and he pulled the bb gun’s trigger. 

A puff of air burst from the muzzle as the rifle jerked in John’s hands, and a bb shout out so hard that it went through the ceiling, leaving a perfectly round hole.

John looked at the toy rifle with new respect. “Now I have a bb gun. Ho ho ho.”

Another knock. John threw his back against the wall beside the door frame as he cocked another shot of compressed air into the bb gun barrel.

Someone with a German accent spoke to him from the other side of the back door. John recognized the voice; it was the truck driver. “Merry Christmas, Mr. McClane,” he called sarcastically. “We know that you’re in there, and that you’re all alone.”

John knew he shouldn’t give away his position, but he called back through the closed door, “Sister Teresa called me Mr. McClane in the third grade. My friends call me John, and you’re neither, shit-head.”

“Open up,” a voice with a thicker accent commanded. “It’s Santa Claus.”

Silently, slowly, John got down onto his knees and poked the bb gun’s barrel out through the doggie door, and pulled the trigger.

– – –

Hans was about to knock a final time—there was no reason to do this the hard way, unless they absolutely had to—when he heard a high, quick burst of air and felt a searing pain in his crotch, like he’d just been stung on the dick by a giant wasp. 

He screamed and grabbed his crotch, stumbling backwards. The pain was so intense that he lost consciousness and fell in the snow to the side of the rear walk.

Karl saw the doggie door flap shut, and with swift, precise movements unshouldered his duffle bag and pulled out the silenced Steyr AUG inside. He stuck the barrel of the assault rifle through the doggie door and sprayed the inside of the kitchen in a controlled swipe from left to right. On the other side of the door he heard the satisfying cacophony of plates cracking, wood splintering, and the high tinkle of glass. A silencer made the fast rhythmic chug of the Austrian assault rifle almost as quiet as John’s bb gun.

When Karl had emptied the clip he waited and listened as a few more things fell or broke inside. Karl didn’t know whether or not he’d hit the guy on the other side, but he decided to press his advantage. He knocked the doorknob off with the butt of his gun and pushed the door open.

The moment Karl stepped inside, a flash of blistering heat ignited his head. His hair was on fire. It didn’t make any sense, Hans didn’t know where the fire had came from, but he immediately retreated, dropping his gun to slap at the flames on his hair. 

Karl thrust his flaming head into a pile of snow next to where Hans was still curled up. The cold snow put the flames out, but overwhelming pain still circled Karl’s head like a wreath. He pulled his smoking head out of the snowbank and gingerly touched the top of his head to assess the damage. His cooked skin sizzled as he touched it. His hair, his beautiful hair, had been burned off the top of his head, in a circle like a friar.

On his knees in the snow, nearly mad with pain, Karl looked at Hans, who had revived somewhat. Karl’s eyes danced with furious flame, but a reptilian calm had descended over Hans. With hooded eyes, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the walkie talkie, which crackled to life when he pressed its red button.

“Hello, Tony?” Hans said conversationally.

“Yeah?” Tony answered.

“671 Lincoln. Bring everyone. We’ll do it the hard way.”

Chapter 14

John limped into the living room and took cover behind the couch. He was bleeding pretty bad. Shards of plate had cut him on his forehead, arm and back. The kitchen was trashed, and a bullet had even punctured the CO2 cannister on his bb gun, making the little pea-shooter worthless now. John chucked it under the Christmas tree.

John was feeling pretty good. Hiding behind the island, covered in plaster and broken plates, he’d heard his blowtorch trap go off, and could only imagine how much that must’ve hurt. And he was pretty sure he’d shot the other dude in the dick. John laughed. He was almost disappointed that the siege was over so quickly. He’d set all those other traps for nothing. He’d have to disconnect the lights timer in the kitchen before it went off.

But then he heard someone pull into the driveway.

The sound of a van door sliding open, and multiple pairs of boots crunching on the driveway. Running. Fanning out in military precision. Some of them going around to the front, others to the back. How many were there? John couldn’t keep track of them all, but he counted at least ten guys moving to surround the house.

Suddenly he wasn’t having so much fun. The cut on his forehead dripped blood into his eye and he wiped it away. “All things being equal,” he said to himself, “I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”

– – –

Tony parked the van in the driveway and pushed up his large glasses. He wished he had changed before he came over. He was wearing tight grey sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt, and he knew Hans would give him shit about it. “You look like a kid who was dressed by his step-dad,” Hans had told him once. Tony liked to be comfortable.

He was decidedly uncomfortable now, however. There were eleven men in their crew, and Tony was surprised that Hans had asked all of them to descend on the quiet suburban home. Tony was even more surprised when he got out of the van and saw the vicious burn on his brother’s head that Uli was bandaging.

Tony covered his mouth in dismay. “Oh no, your beautiful hair . . .”

Karl glared at him, too furious to speak. 

Hans was commanding the operation from the driveway behind the house, communicating with his men on a walkie talkie as they spread out. “Two in the front, two in the back, one on the far side,” he said. “The other five of you, hang back. And be careful . . .” he watched Uli tending to Karl’s head wound. “He seems to have set traps.”

– – –

Heinrich and Marco ran, in a crouch, around the back of the house to the steep, narrow concrete staircase that lead down to the basement door. Heinrich put his foot on the first step and slipped, the staircase covered in slick ice. He grabbed at Marco, and both of them slid all the way down the steps, crashing into the door at the bottom and hitting the trip wire that John had attached to the mini fridge in the attic window. 

The fridge tipped off the sill and fell. 

On his back, tangled in a heap with Heinrich, Marco looked up at the fifty-pound steel cube plummeting towards them from three stories above. “No, no, no!” he screamed. He tried to climb back up the steps but they were slick with ice and there was no time, and the fridge crushed the two burglars with a sickening crunch and the squeal of bent metal.

– – –

James and Alexander tried to go in through the front door, and found the steps and walkway similarly iced. After slipping and almost losing their balance, James and Alexander stepped off the icy walkway, into the low shrubbery that lined it, just as John had known they would. 

John’s C.O. in the Marines was an old bird who had served in ‘Nam, and he had told John how to make punji traps: Dig a hole about ankle deep, put some bamboo stakes at the bottom, and cover the top with brush: Boom, instant foot shish-kabob.

John didn’t have any bamboo stakes, but he had plenty of fancy Japanese steak knives, and as James and Alexander picked their way through the shrubs they stepped into two punji traps at the same time, and those expensive knives went right up through the soles of their shoes and out the other side.

James fell backward and tumbled down onto the front sidewalk, but—unfortunately for him—Alexander limped, screaming, to the front door. He grabbed the door handle more for stability than because he was trying to open it, and the car battery hooked to the other side shocked him with enough voltage to jumpstart a Subaru. Unable to pry his spasmed hand off the doorknob, Alex jerked back and forth like a malfunctioning robot until finally his knees buckled, and the weight of his falling body mercifully pulled him free.

– – –

From his position on the side of the house, Fritz heard what sounded like screams of pain coming from out front. He whipped his head in that direction, his brown hair swaying, and called uncertainly into his walkie talkie, “James? Alexander?” They didn’t answer, and he was about to go check on them, when he spied a ground floor window that was wide open. There was a tall Christmas tree inside, twinkling with lights and crystal decorations.

“Hans, this is Fritz,” he said into the walkie talkie, “I’m going in.”

“Roger,” Hans replied.

Fritz hoisted himself up onto the window ledge, his feet dangling inside. It almost seemed too easy. If only he had thought more about the screams he’d heard, perhaps he would’ve noticed the thin strand of fishing wire that ran between the tree and wall. But he didn’t, he walked right into John’s tripwire, and the big tree—a good three feet taller than Fritz, its gold star touching the ceiling, fell onto him with a crash.

Fritz was smothered in the smell of pine, and as he struggled under the weight of the tree, the branches cut and clutched at him. His palms were burning and bleeding, and something sliced across his face. A razor blade? The branches were full of razor blades and fish hooks, and the more Fritz struggled the more they cut him. He was being killed by a fucking tree, he couldn’t believe it. He reached for his walkie talkie and a blade slid across his forearm as he pressed the talk button and screamed.

– – –

A scream of pain and fear crackled through the static of Hans’s walkie talkie. 

“Fritz, Fritz, come in,” Hans said.

No answer.

“James? Alexander?”

Still no answer.

– – –

In the living room, John approached the fallen Christmas tree, careful to step around the sharp crystal star ornaments covering that had fallen off when the tree toppled, and now covered the floor. He stooped down and picked up the walkie talkie that was in Fritz’s bloody hand, the only part of the dead burglar poking out from under the branches.

“Marco!” an angry voice barked from the receiver. “Heinrich! Somebody pick up!”

John pressed the talk button. “You guys give up? Or are you thirsty for more?”

– – –

Out in the driveway, next to the van, Hans paused with the walkie talkie in his hand. He didn’t know how to respond. Was it possible that all five of his men were really dead already?

Karl, the skin on his face burnt and peeling, bloody bandages wrapped around his head, grabbed the walkie talkie from Han’s hand. 

“Ja, we are thirsty.”

Karl grabbed his assault rifle and kicked the kitchen door in, John’s blowtorch trap breaking off the wall. Through the arch leading into the living room, he spotted John standing barefoot beside the fallen tree.

“Oh shit,” John moaned.

Karl planted his feet in a firing stance and unloaded at John on full automatic. Bullets smacked holes in the wall and cracked picture frames. John ducked behind the couch as bullets tore it open in rapid explosions of stuffing. He was pinned, and he couldn’t hold this position for long.

His only chance of escape was to run across the living room, to the vestibule and then upstairs, but the living room floor was covered in broken crystal ornaments, and more glass was littering the floor every second as Karl’s wild shooting broke picture frames. John was barefoot. It would tear him up. But there was no other choice.

John ran across the crystal ornaments, their sharp points stabbing into his feet as bullets whizzed around him.

He barely made it out of the living room, his soles so bloody that he slipped on the vestibule’s wood floor and almost slid into the litter of airline bottles he’d laid on the floor. He crawled up the stairs on his hands and knees just as he heard more men running inside through the kitchen door. 

Franco, Uli, and Kristoff had joined Karl in the kitchen.

“Wait, wait!” Hans yelled behind them, but they didn’t listen. They could smell blood. Kristoff hung back with Karl, who was reloading, but Franco and Uli ran around the living room’s corner, into the vestibule, and promptly slipped on the airline bottles, landing flat on their backs on the Bacardi-soaked rug at the base of the stairs.

At the top of the staircase, John flicked his Zippo lighter on. 

“Happy trails.” He grinned through the pain, and threw the lighter down the steps, igniting the pool of high proof booze and the two burglars laying in it. For good measure he also cut the cable to the chandelier, which fell from the vestibule ceiling in an ungodly crash of crystal.

– – –

The kitchen was hazy with gun smoke. Karl slapped a full clip in place and looked up at the loud sound. “What was that?”

Kristoff was examining something attached to the stove. It looked like a lights timer attached to a strand of Christmas lights that were wrapped around one of the stove burners. “What is this?” he asked. 

Karl sniffed. Mingling with the cordite smell of spent bullet casings was the distinctive whiff of gas. The grandfather clock chimed ten. Karl ducked down, behind the safety of the kitchen island, just as the stripped section of lights wire sparked beside the cloud of gas floating around the burner, and a fireball erupted from the stovetop, engulfing Kristoff’s face and shirt.

Kristoff slapped at the flames on his shirt. Karl saw the bucket with the sign that said WATER in front of it, and threw the kerosene inside onto his fellow burglar, instantly turning the small fire into a body-consuming blaze that wrapped Kristoff in a shrieking shroud of flame.

– – –

John heard Kristoff’s screams all the way in the hallway upstairs, as he limped to the attic door and closed it behind him, mercifully muffling the sounds of chaos. Indulging a quick sigh of relief, he connected the car battery to the door handle with copper wire; his last trap would only buy him a few seconds, but right now every second mattered. 

John dug deep for the last of his energy and crawled up the staircase on his hands and knees, careful not to put any weight on his lacerated feet. He collapsed onto his futon, and that’s when he realized just how hurt he really was—because the busted old backbreaker felt soft as a cloud. 

John knew he should escape on his treehouse zip line while the burglars were still disorganized, but he couldn’t run far in his sorry state. Hell, he probably couldn’t even walk to the window. 

He looked down at his feet, the sparkling points of Christmas ornaments poking out of the bloody soles, and winced. “Oh man, what a mess.” He leaned his head back and called up to the ceiling, “I’m dripping blood all over the floor, somebody better stop me!”

Nobody answered him, of course. His only company in the attic was the wrinkled, sun-faded bikini poster taped to the slanted ceiling over his head. John had looked at it a million times over the years, but this was the first time that he noticed the warm beach instead of the babe posing in the sand. He missed Holly. He missed his whole damn family. 

He closed his eyes. “Oh, John, what the fuck are you doing? How the fuck did you get into this shit?”

Chapter 15

Luckily for Hans, Tony went up the stairs first and tripped the snare in the hallway; his big glasses protected him somewhat from the bleach spray that would’ve blinded Hans. 

As Kristoff flushed Tony’s swollen eyes with bottled water, Hans entered the master bedroom, where he thought he was most likely to find the safe (he hoped it wasn’t in the attic, as Mr. Cowboy seemed to have barricaded himself up there). After only a few minutes of searching he found a large painting of Elvis with hinges hidden along one side of the frame. “Bingo,” he said, swinging the King aside to reveal the safe’s hiding spot. 

Theo walked into the bedroom, wearing nerdy glasses and a sweater with a button up shirt underneath. He was Hans’s safe cracker, and he wasn’t a European ex-terrorist like the other burglars, he was a computer and security expert from Cleveland. He was clearly rattled by the two dead men he’d passed in the foyer, the dead man under the Christmas tree, and Tony writhing in agony on the hallway floor. 

Hans ignored all these distractions as he considered the safe. It was polished steel, and looked sturdy enough to withstand a bazooka blast.

“You can open this, right?” Hans asked.

“You didn’t bring me along for my charming personality,” Theo answered with a bit of swagger. After examining the safe however—drill resistant hardplate, the door at least four inches thick—some of Theo’s confidence disappeared. “It’s gonna take a miracle to open this,” he said, knocking on the metal door.

Hans wasn’t worried; they had all night if need be, and the Rolex—and who knew what other riches— were so close he could practically smell them. He clapped Theo on the shoulder. “It’s Christmas, Theo. It’s the time of miracles.”

Hans heard someone thundering up the stairs and knew it must be Karl. Hans tackled him in the hallway just as he was about to kick the attic door open, brandishing his assault rifle. Strands of his scorched blonde hair had come loose from the bandages, his skin was cracked and blackened, his eyes wild. “Nein, nein!” Hans commanded, holding him back. 

“He dies now!” Karl snarled. 

“Nein!” Hans said. “He’s contained up there. Just leave him for now. We have to focus on the money. This isn’t about Mr. Cowboy. It’s about the money.”

A sawing sound attracted Karl’s attention, and he looked into the bedroom at Theo pulling out a large section of drywall to the right of the safe.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Hans cooed seductively, and the thought of all that cash seemed to calm Karl somewhat. Hans put his nose right up to Karl’s ear and continued quietly, “and once we have the money safely in our hands, then you can finish Mr. Cowboy.”

“How much longer?” Karl asked Theo.

Theo was wearing googles with a little flashlight clamped in the upper corner. “Ten minutes?” he smiled. “You wanted a Christmas miracle, I give you the F.B.I.”

“What?” Hans asked.

“F.B.I,” Theo repeated, pointing at the hole in the wall beside the safe. “Fire blocking insulation. Safe builders make the front steel, but they construct the sides from a mix of thinner steel plus insulation. It’s better protection against fire, but luckily for us, much worse protection against burglars like us.” He pulled a large drill from a black leather satchel and started to assemble it. “Ten minutes, I’ll be through this thing and we’ll be out of here.”

“Good,” Karl said. “In the meantime, I will decorate.” Karl flashed a wolfish smile, and Hans knew that Mr. Cowboy was in big trouble. 

Chapter 16

John finished the long, painful process of pulling the ornaments out of his feet, then cut Lucy’s big teddy bear into strips and used its soft hide to bind his wounds. Its marble eyes stared at him accusingly as he skinned it. “Sorry little fella,” he said, sucking his teeth through the pain as he tightened the furry strips around his feet.

John wished he could talk to his new pal Al Powell, aka the Shovel Slayer. He chuckled. He couldn’t believe he’d ever been scared of that old bird. He actually seemed like a decent guy. More importantly, he was the only person who was home on the whole block, as far as John knew. His house was right next door, on the driveway side of John’s house, but the attic didn’t have any windows facing in that direction. To see over there and maybe signal for help, John would have to climb out the window and then scale the slippery, sloped roof.

“No way,” John said. He got dizzy just thinking about it.

Downstairs, he heard the burglars working on something. Probably trying to break into Holly’s safe. Good luck with that. But he also heard someone else moving around, messing with the upstairs ceiling at different spots.

John didn’t know what his holiday guests were working on, but he knew it was nothing good. It was time to make his escape, while they were busy.

John stood unsteadily on his bound feet, which felt a lot better now that they were wrapped in the teddy bear’s soft fur. He hobbled over to the attic window where his zip line was strung across to Jack’s treehouse—and saw Huey Lewis looking back at him. What was Huey Lewis doing in Jack’s treehouse? And why was he holding a hunting knife up to the zip line?

Because it wasn’t the Power of Love singer; it was just another burglar that looked a lot like him, and with a swift slice of his knife John’s escape plan snapped and drifted limp to the snowy backyard four stories below.

– – –

“We’re done,” Theo announced triumphantly, opening the safe.

Hans felt like a kid again. The safe held everything he’d hoped it would and more. In addition to the watch, there was at least a million dollars in bearer bonds, plus assorted other loose jewelry and cash.

Theo helped Hans put all the loot into bulky burlap bank bags, and like a reverse Santa Claus they carried their loot out of the bedroom.

The upstairs hallway was strung with blue wires and grey blocks of C4 duct-taped to the ceiling. Karl checked the grey blocks to make sure each one had a detonator, then dragged a heavy armoire out of the bedroom and leaned it against the attic door at an angle, so John couldn’t escape.

Hans marveled at Karl’s handiwork. “Isn’t that kind of a lot?” he said. “You’ve got enough explosives here to blow Mr. Cowboy to the North Pole.”

“We’re the Wet Bandits,” Karl declared. “The world will know our name.” 

“Yes well, just make sure you wait until we’re outside before you set it off,” Hans said, dragging the bags downstairs, careful to avoid the mess in the foyer. Karl followed them outside to retrieve the detonator from the truck.

A moment after they left, the dome light in the hallway ceiling popped off. John peeked down through the small hole and saw the wires and blocks of C4. “Holy shit!” he said. 

He ran down the attic stairs (almost forgetting to disconnect the battery in his haste) and tried to push the door open, but it was stuck fast.

“Think John, think!” he said, smacking his head.

He looked around the attic frantically for something he could use.

And that’s when he saw the toboggan.

– – –

Karl grabbed the detonator from the truck dashboard where he’d stuck it with bubble gum that morning. Hans and Theo swung the bags of loot into the back. 

“Where is my brother?” Karl asked.

“Eddie is helping him,” Hans said. “He can barely see.”

“He will see this,” Karl promised, and walked back to the house to get a better view of the fireworks.

– – –

The night wind whipped at John’s pant legs as he looked down at the treetops. God, he wished he was wearing sleeves. He was balanced on the peak of the roof, one foot on either side of the roof’s triangle, the toboggan tucked under his arm. His feet slipped in the snow on the roof and he had to crouch to regain his balance, hooking the fingers of his one free hand under the shingles. 

John looked down the steep slope of the roof, at the ground of his backyard far, far below. He spied Eddie, aka Evil Huey Lewis, leading Tony by the elbow into the van, which looked as small as a Matchbox car from John’s dizzying perch. 

John moaned, “I always told Holly this house was too big.” 

– – –

Approaching the McClane house, Karl couldn’t believe what he saw. Mr. Cowboy, the cursed fucking American troublemaker who had burned his hair off and blinded his brother, was sitting on a toboggan on the peak of the roof?

“What?” Karl thundered. “No!”

He raised the detonator.

– – –

Sitting on the sled, gripping the ropes for dear life, John heard a yell from the street below him and knew it was now or never. He leaned forward and the toboggan tipped down with sickening slowness like a roller coaster at the top of its big drop. But then the front of the runners made contact with the snowy roof and things got real fast real quick. The sled slid down the steep, slope, basically a perfect sledding hill four stories off the ground, picking up speed at an alarming rate, the edge of the roof getting closer and closer. 

The toboggan’s steel runners hit the edge of the roof, which tilted up just enough that the sled shot straight out, rather than down, and John flew into the night air, weightless, just as the roof exploded behind him. 

John felt a blast of heat behind him, and a strong push like he’d been shoved by a giant hand.

If the roof hadn’t exploded, John probably would’ve landed in the yard fifty feet below and died, but the force of the explosion blew his sled out and he landed in the treehouse so hard that his feet—his poor battered feet, as if they hadn’t been abused enough already—busted through the boards on the opposite wall. 

Chapter 17

Gus Polinski had picked up the McClane family from Chicago O’Hare a few hours earlier. Holly, the kids, Ellis and Ginny were in the back of the limo having a grand old time, drinking hot cocoa and singing along to a polka version of Jingle Bells that Gus was blasting through the back speakers. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and danced in his seat to the swingin’ sounds of the Kenosha Kickers. 

The McClane’s were coming home two days early because Holly felt like such a creep abandoning John on Christmas Day. “We can go to Disneyland anytime,” Lucy had said sadly when she realized John wasn’t coming, “but we can only have Christmas with Daddy now.” 

That had clinched it. 

Holly booked a return flight that evening, and now they were only three blocks from home, when Gus saw an explosion light up the night sky over the snowy rooftops of their quiet neighborhood.

They all heard the boom, and Gus snapped off the music. “Geez Louise!” he said.

“What was that?” Holly asked.

“It looked like an explosion,” Gus answered. He could still see the evil flickering light of flames lighting the treetops.  “Up there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the McClane home.

Holly felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had worried that John might blow up the house, but she hadn’t thought he would literally blow up the house. 

She sat on the edge of her seat, trying to see out through the little window between the front and back. “Drive faster,” she urged Gus.

Chapter 18

John and Karl fought each other desperately, trading blows as they dodged around the flaming pieces of roof and shattered piles of brick that littered the snowy backyard. Both men were at the end of their rope, staggering, struggling just to stand up. Finally Karl snarled like a wild animal and lunged at John, knocking him down onto his back and strangling him.

John knew this was the end. He had no air left, he was blacking out—when he spied a foot-long icicle hanging from a tree limb just above him. With the last of his strength, he stretched, snapped the icy dagger off and plunged the point through Karl’s eye socket as far as he could.

John rested for a moment before pushing Karl’s body off him and staggering to his feet. He looked down at the dead burglar, the bloody icicle sticking out of one eye socket, the other eye still glaring at him furiously. “Yippee-ki-yay . . .” John spat, “ya filthy animal.”

John stumbled towards his home when he was stopped by a familiar voice barking, “That’s far enough, Mr. McClane.”

Hans stood in the driveway, using Holly like a shield, one arm wrapped around her neck, the other hand holding a gun to her head. The barrel of his nine-millimeter poked into her temple beside her wide, terrified eyes. John thought he must be hallucinating. Holly was gone, wasn’t she?

But then John understood: he was dead. Relief washed over him, and he wept tears of happiness. “Oh thank God, I’m finally dead.”

“Not yet,” Hans smiled, pulling his gun away from Holly’s head and leveling it at John with exquisite slowness, savoring the moment.

“John, run!” Holly screamed, and John realized that unfortunately he was still alive—at least for the next two seconds. Holly was in terrible danger, but there was nothing he could do, there was no time left—

—the fence behind Hans exploded into splinters as a snowplow barreled through it, headlights blazing. Hans loosened his grip on Holly enough that she was able to break away and sprint towards John just as the plow’s shovel hit the van behind Hans and flipped it over onto the screaming burglar, crushing him. 

Eddie was the only burglar left not wounded or dead, and when he heard the terrible crash of the van rolling over he ran up the driveway, slapped a clip into his assault rifle and leveled it at John and Holly. John tried to shield his wife, but before Eddie could open fire the snowplow backed up, tires screeching, and bore down on him.

“Aaaahh!” Eddie screamed as the big pickup, its tires wrapped in chains, went bump bumping over his body and then stalled to a stop.

John and Holly ran up to the snowplow in the driveway, just as the driver’s side door opened and Al Powell stumbled out, disoriented. He looked around at all the carnage with a shocked expression on his round face. “Oh nooo,” he moaned, “not again. Not again.”

He was about to run down the driveway and into the street when John grabbed the sleeve of his coat and stopped him. “Al! Buddy!” he grabbed his neighbor in a big bear hug as Al struggled to escape. “You saved the day! How did you know about the burglars?”

Al stopped fighting. He pushed John away, at arm’s length, so he could get a look at his face, and seemed surprised that John was happy. “Those guys were burglars?” a look of profound relief washed over Al. “Oh thank god!”

In the distance, the wail of police and ambulance sirens approached the house. Al spotted something glittering on the driveway beside the overturned van, and was surprised to pick up a gold tooth. “Did somebody drop this?” he asked.

John and Holly kissed each other passionately, and only stopped at the sound of a happy double honk, as Gus pulled the limo into the driveway behind Al’s snowplow. The jolly driver stuck his head out the window and whistled appreciatively. “If this is their idea of Christmas, I gotta be here for New Year’s!” 

The limo’s back doors opened and the kids rushed out to hug John and Holly. “Daddy!” they yelled happily, before stopping suddenly when they noticed that the top two floors of their house were gone. “Oh no!” Jack and Lucy started to cry, and John and Holly got down on their knees and wrapped their kids in a hug.

Lucy noticed the many, many bleeding cuts on John’s face, and touched one with concern. “Daddy, you’re hurt!”

John kissed Lucy on the head, leaving a little smear of blood between her blonde pigtails. Then he kissed Holly and looked deeply in her eyes. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay now.”

Holly looked back at John, then seemed to notice something that surprised her. She ran a hand over his cheek. “You shaved,” she said quietly.

“But where will we spend Christmas?” Jack asked, looking at the ruins of their home with dismay. “Our chimney blowed up. How will Santa visit us?”

“I’ve got a chimney,” Al offered jovially. “My wife and daughter are coming over in the morning, but there’s still plenty of room. You guys can stay with me while you . . .” he looked at the flaming heap that used to be their home. “Sort through the wreckage.”

“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” John said happily, hugging his family closer.

“How did you like being home alone?” Holly asked him.

“I gotta admit,” John said, “it was hard.”