Gingerbread Man

sane."
    "Hell, she didn't think I was passably sane the day they hired me."
    "Your decision. Either way, you're off this case. I want everything you have on my desk in ten minutes. That goes for you, too, Jerry."
    "So you can turn it all over to the Feds?" Vince asked, disgusted by the thought.
    "Those are my orders. After that, I want you to go home. Take the rest of the day off, and let me know what you decide—the leave or the shrink."
    "But—"
    "I'm done talking," the chief said. "You can go now."
    "But, Chief, I—"
    "Go. Now." He lifted an arm, pointed at the door.
    Vince stormed out of the chief's office and headed for his desk. Jerry was right on his heels, but he ignored his partner as he pulled file folder after file folder off the sloping stacks on his desk and dropped them into the little wastebasket beside it. Papers flew like confetti. He could feel everyone in the place looking at him as if he'd lost it. He ignored them all, opened drawers, rummaging through them, gathering up every scribbled note and every paperclip that had any connection to the Prague case. Slamming one drawer closed he yanked open another, and then another, until at last, he opened the drawer with the pile of framed photos inside.
    He stopped, frozen, and stared down at the freckled faces. His shoulders quaked, but he caught himself, held himself in a hard, merciless grip.
    "Those … probably ought to be sent back to the mother," Jerry said, his voice hoarse.
    "Yeah."
    "I'll take care of it for you."
    Vince nodded, then reached in and picked up the most recent photo. He handed it to Jerry. "All but this one, okay?"
    "Vince?"
    "I want the Feds to have this one. Tell 'em to look at it every day. Tell 'em this is what that bastard killed, not that pile of paperwork. This."
    Jerry nodded and took the framed photo. "So ... you gonna take the time off, or the treatment?"
    "I don't know yet." He picked up the wastebasket, handed that to Jerry as well. "Give this to the chief for me." Reaching for the computer on his desk, he peeled off a half dozen yellow sticky notes, wadded them up and tossed them into the trash can as well. Lastly, Vince ejected a flash drive and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
    "What's that, Vince?"
    "What's what?"
    Jerry scowled. "What did you do? Did you keep a copy of your files on this case?"
    "Shit, pal, when did you ever see me organized enough to think of something like that?"
    "Vince. You gotta let this one go."
    Vince met his partner's eyes for one long moment, then looked away. "I'm going home. I'll see you later."
    Jerry sighed as Vince left the office.
    Halfway back to his apartment, three miles from the police station, Vince glanced down and noticed his coat lying on the passenger seat. It had been warm for this late in the fall. He hadn't worn the coat since ...
    The kids. The house. The book. His senses prickled. He'd turned the book in, and then forgot he had. But there had been something...
    Slamming on his brakes, he jerked the wheel and brought the Jeep Wrangler to a jerky stop on the shoulder. He grabbed his coat, searched the pockets and found his dog-eared notepad. Flipping it open, he read what he had written there:
The Gingerbread Man.
Dilmun Public Library, Dilmun, NY.

TWO
----

    IT TOOK FIFTEEN minutes to walk from the neat little house on Lakeview to the Dilmun Police Department on East Main. Holly knew this because she walked it every weekday—unless there was a blizzard or something. It was one of her favorite parts of the day, her walk to work. Mostly because of the little girl who walked beside her.
    She looked down at Bethany, seven going on fifteen, as the little girl waved to her mother standing by her front door. Her mother blew her a kiss, and Bethany blew one back, her blonde curls gleaming in the morning sun.
    God, she reminded Holly so much of Ivy.
    Holly glanced east toward the crooked finger shape of Cayuga Lake, partly to hide the rush of emotion from her favorite next-door neighbor. "Look at the way the sun gleams on the water," she said. "It's the most peaceful thing in the world, isn't it?"
    "Especially now that all the summer people are gone," Bethany said.
    Tourist season was over. There was no breeze as they walked along together, but the tangy scent of dead leaves and a crisp autumn bite flavored the air. It was good here. Nothing bad ever happened in Dilmun.
    She let her gaze travel farther along the lake's shore, past a half-dozen empty rental cabins that lined