Happy New Year

Civic Square. 12:00 a.m. Happy New Year.

Blood-red ink. No signature. Fingerprints wiped clean.

Officer Elsa Siward closes her eyes and sees the message etched behind them. She’s the only one taking the threat seriously. The rest think it’s a prank, a bluff, a waste of time. Or maybe they just don’t want to work on New Year’s Eve.

Siward has a feeling about it, though. And she’s been on the job long enough to know she should trust her feelings.

She takes a mental inventory of the town square. Women shivering in short dresses, crimson lipstick imprints on their champagne flutes. Young couples tangled up in each other, hips drawn together like magnets. Older couples joined at the forehead, swaying as the band stumbles through ABBA’s “Happy New Year.” Sugar-fueled kids with neon bracelets darting about like lightning bugs. Everywhere the clink of glasses, the scraping of shoes on icy ground, the coarse hum of human conversation.

Siward checks her watch. 11:44. She exhales hard, a puff of white mist.

She’s in plainclothes tonight: knee-length navy blue dress, thick jacket, leggings, flat black shoes. Practical enough to keep her warm and agile, but dressy enough to blend in with the celebrants. The jacket hides her pistol. She’s held the same glass of champagne for the past two hours. It’s probably lost its fizz.

She doesn’t mind the cold sobriety. It keeps her focused.

Everything glitters—the clothes, the garish “2020” glasses, the dusting of snow, the Christmas tree left over from the celebration a few days earlier. It’s irritating. The sparkles keep catching her eye, making it hard to pick out the glint of a knife or handgun.

Siward doesn’t do sparkles. She doesn’t do parties. She doesn’t even do crowds. This is the last place on Earth she’d be tonight if duty hadn’t called. Her nickname at the precinct is Ice Queen. It suits her.

11:47.

A sharp crash. She whirls around, but it’s only a shattered champagne glass. The girl who dropped it giggles hysterically; she’s cut herself but she’s too drunk to care. Broken shards twinkle in the Christmas tree lights.

Siward curses softly. The warning was so damned vague. Everyone’s dressed too skimpily to hide weapons. Some carry backpacks or handbags that might conceal a gun or bomb, but it’s impossible to tell without checking them all. The people at the security gates were supposed to do that, but Siward was able to slip her own pistol through with ease.

She meanders slowly, looking for people who know they don’t belong. People standing alone, watching the crowd, eyes darting restlessly. People whose smiles look a little too artificial, whose champagne is untouched.

People like her.

11:53.

If it’s an explosive, it could have been planted earlier. Siward scans the structures of the square for the hundredth time. The tree in the central plaza. City Hall to the north, the near-frozen fountain in front of it. To the east, the edge of the park, fenced off; to the west a row of shops; to the south Main Street, now protected by the so-called security gates. No obvious place to hide a bomb.

Siward takes a sip of flat champagne and lets herself relax, very slightly. It’s cold and she’s tired. Maybe it was a prank after all. She watches the partygoers, and for just a moment she imagines being one of them. Carefree. Lighthearted. The band’s been persisting with its ABBA covers. They’re not great, but there’s something in Siward that wishes she could sing along. They’re belting out “Angel Eyes.” The lead singer, a gorgeous blonde in a top hat who looks for all the world like the original Agnetha, gives Siward a coy look and winks. The hat is sparkly. Of course.

“I knew you’d be here.”

Siward jumps and whirls around. She glares at the man emerging from the crowd behind her. “Dyers?”

“Ken." He grins, his teeth flashing. "Don’t be so formal. We’ve worked together five years now.”

“Why are you here? You’re not worried about the message.”

“I’m worried about you, Elsa.”

“What?”

His grin stretches wider. “I’m worried you’re alone on New Year’s Eve.”

“I’m here to do my job, Dyers.”

“Hell, you’re uptight.” His eyes roam over her. “You look good. You’d look even better if you’d smile.”

The band has gone quiet. It's 11:59. Something colder than the night is settling in the pit of Siward’s stomach. “Keep your eyes open, Dyers.”

He suddenly pulls her close, gripping her upper arms, pressing his body against hers. His skin feels too warm. His breath smells of something stronger than champagne. “Loosen up for once, Ice Queen. Everyone at the precinct pities you. I’m doing you a favor. Let me show you how to relax.”

“Get the hell away from me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like men. Although that would explain a lot.”

She sees it over his shoulder: the pretty blonde singer has gone to the Christmas tree. She’s taken off her top hat and placed it among the decorations there. Now she’s running.

Siward shoves Dyers with all her strength. She ignores his protests and races for the tree.

The crowd has begun to chant. “Thirty… twenty-nine…”

She grabs the hat. It’s oddly heavy. She makes a snap decision and runs for the north end of the square, pushing past the oblivious partiers. “Get away from the fountain!” she screams as she throws the hat into the churning water.

The square empties as the crowd flees.

Screams have replaced the chanting, but Siward counts down in her head. Five… four… three…

Dyers seizes her arm. “What the hell is wrong with—”

The blast sends up jets of freezing water, shatters the windows of City Hall, breaks the pavement around the fountain. Dyers falls over. Now he’s soaked and shaking and staring up at her as if he’s never seen her before.

Bits of glass and debris fall into her hair like confetti and she’s sparkling. She smiles. “Happy New Year.”