Out of Sight, Out of Mind
Probably not enough to settle the score.
But he could never hope to settle the score.
I have to try.
Presents, presents everywhere. Toys of all kinds, all far more expensive than any of these children could ever hope to have. A negligible expenditure to him - the others had no idea what kind of assets he controlled. Far more than he could ever spend.
May as well use it to help someone.
It was only money, after all.
Money... money taken from criminals, from thieves who stole children's innocence, and all too often their lives.
Lives he could have... should have saved.
It was easy, too easy. Slip in and out of houses unseen, hide the children's presents, leave clever hints. They had taken to the 'Christmas Visitor' right away, and to them it was some sort of a game, their own unique Christmas tradition to include with stockings and mistletoe and all the others.
But to him it wasn't a game. To him, every gift he gave, every smile he brought to a child's face, was one tiptoe of a step toward redemption. Or so he hoped.
Maybe, he told himself, he might have children of his own someday. Maybe then, he might understand it all, and finally be healed.
If that were possible.
<a memory>
"It's rather disturbing, to be honest," Quantos explained as he buried his eyes in the test results, refusing to make eye contact.
"I've gotta know," Phil insisted.
"In all honesty," the doctor insisted, "I don't think you'll want to know this."
Phil looked down. "I may not have peace once I know, but I'm certain I won't have peace as long as I don't know."
Quantos sighed. "There's no natural explanation for it, but however your genetic structure was altered, the result is completely unimaginable to known science. I've done spectrometry, multi-frequency imaging, even radioisotope decay analysis, and I still can't shake this." He tossed the stack of papers down onto his desk and looked at Phil, his expression the look of a bewildered, disconcerted, and slightly fearful man. "Sometime in late 1945 or early 1946, your body's maintenance, repair, and growth systems stopped what they were doing and began acting very strangely. Somehow, you developed an almost limitless capability to repair damage - given adequate time - to your cells and tissues, and absolutely ceased to progress or develop in a manner that one would expect..."
Phil held up a hand. "You lost me with 1945."
Quantos nodded. "Yes. You were alive in the year 1945. And since either '45 or '46, you haven't aged a day. Because you can't. You can't age, and from the looks of it, dying of natural causes is quite simply not a possibility for you."
Phil couldn't even grasp what Quantos was saying for a long moment. He looked down at the floor. "So... what does that make me?"
Quantos sighed and looked away. "There's no scientific description at hand for it. I believe Webster's dictionary would call that... immortal."
<the present>
The parade was probably under way already. He might be missed if he didn't leave soon.
The Christmas Visitor carefully laid the neatly-wrapped gift on a makeshift table made from three banana crates and slipped out the door unnoticed.
Another house, another present, another stop on this train ride on a track that apparently had no definite end.
If you didn't pay taxes and couldn't be sure of death, what could you count on in life?
He slipped away from the barrio and allowed himself to become visible again as he started toward his car.
"Well," an unfamiliar voice said softly from behind him. "This is news. I came to catch the Christmas Visitor and found you instead."
A camera whirred and clicked as he turned around. "Who might you be?" he asked.
"Chris Stanfield, Weekly World Informant," the man replied. "You don't need to bother with telling me who you are."
"Well, if you decide you need names," another voice said from behind them, "I'm Detective Rick Patterson, New Orleans Police, and it'd be a good idea to step away from that man."
Stanfield looked indignant as he turned. "I'm a journalist trying to cover a story! I don't need out-of-jurisdiction lawmen telling me to back away from someone I want to interview!"
A fourth voice chimed in. "Well, Mister Stanfield, there's no limit to my jurisdiction."
"Who the hell are you?" Stanfield asked the newcomer as the subject of his 'interview' paled.
"I'm Special Agent Steve Fisher," the fourth man replied, "and it'd be in your best interests if you - and you, Detective - would step away so I can have a few words with Mister Smith here."
