Gingerbread Man

decision once and for all. "No. No way. We can get all the information we need without—" He broke off there, cut off midsentence by the bleat of his cell phone. He took the call, called the chief by name, and spoke briefly. But before he hung up the fax had come to life, churning out documents, and then the cell phone rang again.
    Finally, he sighed. "We're not going to be able to talk in here."
    She shook her head distractedly. "It doesn't matter. I... I need to digest all of this."
    "Holly...
    "Just..." She bit her lip, and as the phone began shrilling again, turned, and left.
    * * *
    A HALF HOUR later, Doris Newman called Vince, asking if he had seen her daughter.
    Vince frowned at the phone. "She was here a while ago, but she left. She didn't come home?"
    "She came home—but only for a few minutes. Vince, I— She would be furious with me for telling you this, but I'm worried about her."
    "Why?"
    She didn't answer right away. He could almost see her mulling it over. Then she continued. "She said she would probably be gone all day. But she wouldn't say where she was going. She took the car. She seemed agitated, Vince, and ... well, my gun is missing."
    Vince damn near dropped the phone. "You have a gun, Mrs. Newman?"
    "It's legal. I have a license. I bought it for... protection."
    "In a town where you don't even bother locking your doors?"
    "Oh, God, no. I bought it before we ever moved down here. To tell you the truth, it's been packed away in my closet for so long I'd nearly forgotten I had it. But after Holly left, I noticed the closet door ajar, and when I looked it was obvious someone had gone through it. The box I kept the gun in was empty."
    "All right. Listen, I don't want you to worry. I'm gonna go find Holly for you," he told Doris.
    "Do you have any idea where she's gone, Vince? What's going on with her?"
    He did. He had a solid idea, and he hoped he was wrong. But he couldn't burden her mother with his gut feeling. "I'm not sure. I'll call you when I know, okay?"
    "All right. Thank you, Vince. I... thanks."
    "You're welcome." He hung up, pushed a hand through his hair, and took a breath. He was ninety-nine percent sure Holly Newman was on her way to see a convicted murderer, a confessed pedophile. Hubey Welles. Vince entertained the thought that someone should have blown the bastard's head off years ago, and then he shook it off and got his ass in gear. It didn't take long to gather up the papers scattered around, the faxes that had come through, his file on Holly Newman, and his laptop. He took all those things with him to his Jeep and locked up the cabin. Then he started driving, while unfolding a road map on the passenger seat and following his finger to the maximum security correctional facility at Auburn, New York.
    Why the hell would she drive out there? What earthly good did she think it would do? A woman like Holly shouldn't put herself within a hundred miles of scum like Welles. Shaking his head in frustration, he got an idea, yanked out his cell phone, and dialed Jerry's cell number. He needed another favor. He just hoped he wasn't pushing too far—but he didn't think so. Jerry was his partner, and Vince would do the same for him, if their situations were reversed. Or at least he thought he would.
    * * *
    HOLLY'S HANDS WERE trembling, her stomach rebelling at the thought of seeing the man who had murdered her little sister. Of looking into his eyes. It would be horrible. A nightmare.
    She drove, and she remembered. But this time she was determined to stay in control. The memory wouldn't suck her in like a whirlpool and drown her in emotions. She would simply pick through the dusty recesses of her mind, and find the facts she needed.
    The van had come around the corner so slowly that Holly hadn't even noticed it at first. Not until she caught sight of it from the corner of her eye, creeping along the road beside them at a snail's pace. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and tried to remember. Details had always eluded her. They came now, reluctantly, with great effort. The van had been primer gray. She almost saw it, and then the curtain of mist drew over her memory again.
    All right, she had a color if nothing else. She forced herself to remember more.
    The van had stopped, and the man got out. He wore a knit ski cap pulled over his face, with holes for the eyes. He was tall. He was not lean. He swung his arms like whips. One hand clutched tight around Holly's upper arm. The other held