Gingerbread Man

alone."
    "He'll be behind bars."
    "He'll screw you up anyway. I've seen his kind do it before."
    She frowned, searching his face a little more closely. Was he going all protective on her now, like everyone else in her life?
    He shrugged, looking away. "In the second place, you'll never get in to see him alone. There's a process to visiting murderers in prison, you know? You just don't show up and knock."
    She bit her lip in chagrin. "I guess I thought they might make an exception for the sister of one of his victims," she said softly.
    He reached out, clasping her upper arms. "Listen to me. This is a bad idea. Drop this. Come back to Dilmun with me.
    She looked into his eyes. A sensation washed over her, very briefly—that magnetic pull that had her body swaying closer to his. It was becoming familiar to her, this draw, this urgency to be just a little closer to him, to touch. But she caught herself in time, stopped herself, looked away. "I'm going to try to see him, with you or without you. I have to."
    "You don't need to put yourself through this."
    "You're the one who told me I hadn't dealt with it. That I was keeping it inside, letting it eat me alive. I'm trying to exorcize my demons, Vince. I have to do this."
    The wind was blowing dust from the roadside into eddies and swirls around their legs. He held her gaze with steady eyes and she felt him looking straight to her soul. Finally, he sighed, pulled his cell phone from his pocket, punched in a number. "Chief Mallory? It's Vince O'Mally. Do me a favor and drive one of the boys out here to pick up Holly Newman's car. You'll find it on the side of route thirty-four, about twenty miles north of town. Keys are in the ashtray. And do me a favor—tell Doris that Holly's fine, and spending the day with me." He paused. "Thanks, Chief."
    He tucked the phone back into his pocket when he was finished. "Now, there's the small matter of the gun."
    She turned her face away from him quickly. "Gun?"
    "Your mother's gun, Holly. What were you thinking? That you could smuggle it inside and blow Hubey Welles away? It might be a great way to vent your rage, Red, but he's not worth it. Trust me on this."
    She still didn't look at him. "I wasn't thinking anything like that. Even I'm not naive enough to think I could get into a prison with a gun. I just wanted to have it nearby. In case of trouble from whoever broke into your place, or maybe whoever killed those kids."
    "You ever shoot a gun in your life?"
    Finally meeting his eyes, she shook her head.
    "Do you mind if I hold on to the gun for you, then? It might be safer that way."
    "Fine."
    "Good. Go get it, and your purse. Drop the car keys in the ashtray. We'll take my car to Auburn."
    Holly nodded slowly. Part of her wanted to tell him he was overstepping. To mind his own business and to stop butting in. But most of her was relieved. She'd been terrified of facing that monster alone. Now she wouldn't have to. Vince would be beside her. And somehow that made it better.

NINE
----

    VINCE WATCHED HER. She was nervous, fidgeting, talking about anything that popped into her head. Superficial stuff. The weather, the scenery along the roadside. The drive took under an hour, and in that time he didn't think she'd said anything real, or-showed him anything true about herself. Not once. But he saw it all the same.
    She was scared. More so with every passing mile. He half expected her to change her mind. Tell him to pull over, turn the car around, take her back to Dilmun. The fact that she didn't spoke volumes. His initial guess had been right. The woman was stronger than she seemed.
    He phoned ahead to make the arrangements to visit Hubey Welles. No one gave him too much trouble about it, and that didn't surprise him. No one at the prison was overly concerned with protecting the rights of a convicted child killer.
    He had to leave all weapons outside, of course, and a guard checked his I.D. before they even passed through the metal detectors. Holly seemed to fade a little bit with every step through the dull, cold facility. Like a ghost losing its substance. She jumped at every electronic buzzer, every unexpected sound. But she never stopped. She kept moving forward—slowly, determinedly forward. Like Joan of Arc walking to the stake. He found himself closing his hand around hers, in spite of himself.
    Finally, they were escorted into the visiting area. A long line of straight-backed chairs sat one by one, facing unbreakable windows.