Gingerbread Man

always gets his man. You know, my friend, this case might be easier on you if you'd ever once failed at anything in your entire life."
    "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
    "I know this. You're not infallible, Vince. And if this one goes bad, it's not gonna be because you fucked up."
    "It's
not
going to go bad," Vince said, meeting his partner's eyes. "And I
don't
fuck up."
    The telephone on his desk rang. Jerry grabbed it up before Vince could, probably just to piss him off a little and distract him from the case.
    "Detective Donovan," Jerry intoned automatically. Then he listened, and his gaze shot to Vince's, and his face went pale. "Shit. Okay, yeah. We're on it."
    Jerry put the phone down. "Maybe you'll want to sit this one out, buddy."
    Vince got to his feet, grabbed his coat, and tried to fight the dread building in his belly.
    * * *
    "THERE’S NOT GOING to be anything in here." Vince stood just outside the door of a dilapidated house on Syracuse's east side and said words he didn't really believe. Jerry was on the other side of the door. Their guns were raised, their backs to the outer wall. The light wasn't good. Overcast skies tinted everything in sepia. A stiff autumn wind rode herd on dried-out leaves, so they crackled over the sidewalk like rattling bones. "We checked this place out already."
    "The caller said there was a bad smell," Jerry said, keeping his voice low. "I don't smell anything, do you Vince?"
    Vince didn't really sniff the air. He couldn't make himself do it. He said, "No, I don't smell a damned thing. Probably the same neighbor who reported seeing that beat-up van near here the day the kids were taken. Probably just likes calling the cops. Makes her feel important."
    "We checked it out that day," Jerry said. "We didn't miss anything."
    Vince looked at his partner. "We didn't miss anything."
    Jerry nodded, and Vince turned and pushed the front door open, backed away, then entered cautiously. The place was falling down. Not a piece of glass remained in a single window, but plenty littered the splintered floors underneath thick layers of dust and plaster.
    There was a closed door on the far side of the room, its once-white paint peeling off it in great strips. Boards lay here and there, and the floor creaked under their feet Vince took another careful step. A floorboard broke and his foot went right through. He swore under his breath and yanked his foot free. Then he looked in the hole his foot had made, frowning. A child's storybook lay under the floor, its cardboard cover warped and bent, colors faded. It looked as if it had been lying there for years. Still, Vince carefully picked it up with two gloved fingers to take a closer look. A thick coat of dust covered the title.
The Gingerbread Man.
Odd place for a children's book. There were gaps in the floor all over the place. It must have fallen through one of them, who knew how long ago? Opening the cover carefully he saw a library card pocket. The words "Dilmun Public Library, Dilmun, NY" were stamped there, along with a series of dates. He yanked an evidence bag from his coat pocket—he always carried a handful of them—and dropped the book into it telling himself it was probably unnecessary, because this place had nothing to do with Bobby and Kara Prague. Nothing. He wasn't going to find a damn thing here.
    His instincts were disagreeing vehemently with his mind on that, but he refused to hear them. Still, he jotted a note about the book on his notepad.
    Stuffing the bagged book and the notepad into his coat pocket, he looked at the closed door, took a single step toward it. Then the pungent scent hit him and his entire soul recoiled.
    "Ah, shit," Jerry said, turning his nose into his collar. "Vince, the smell... it's coming from in there." Jerry nodded toward that same closed door at the far end of the place.
    Damn, he didn't want to do this. Everything in Vince was screaming at him not to go over there. Not to open that door. Just to turn around and leave. He stepped forward even as his partner reached for the broken door with a trembling hand.
    Vince put his own hand on Jerry's shoulder, stopping him. "Why don't you check the other rooms, partner?"
    Jerry frowned at him.
    "It's my case, Jerry."
    "It's
our
case."
    Vince lowered his hand. "You've got kids."
    "And I've got a partner. We'll go together."
    Finally, Vince nodded. Swallowing hard, Jerry pushed the door open. The odor sprung from the pitch darkness and hit