Gingerbread Man

thought maybe the wind had razed all the skin from his nose and cheeks and had gone to work now on the bones.
    The fence turned to the right. The wind sliced him from the side now, and it had teeth. Even the leeward side of his face burned with cold. Anyone seeing him from a distance, he thought, slogging along on leaden stumps, carrying a lifeless-looking virgin toward the sagging Gothic mansion, would probably think Reginald D'Voe was filming his great comeback piece. He half expected to hear a wolf howling backup vocals to the storm.
    Finally, he made it to the gate.
    Closed. The fucking thing was closed, and apparently locked. Shit. Vince tipped his head back, aimed his fury beyond the gate, at the house's slab of a front door with its black iron knocker, and he let out a howl that belonged in one of Reggie D'Voe's death scenes. Swinging one of the cinderblocks he'd been using for feet, Vince kicked the gate so hard one of the gargoyle bats toppled and fell. Then he crouched, snagged the ugly little demon in one hand, and managed to hurl it at the house, all without dropping Holly. The impact made a satisfying thud, audible even in the chaos of the storm.
    A minute ticked past, then another. Finally, the front door opened. Yellow light filled the crevice, and shot out in a feeble effort to penetrate the gloom. "Who's there?" Reginald D'Voe called, using his most menacing silver screen villain tone.
    "I need help." Vince grunted the words. His foot was starting to register pain from the impact with the fence, and he was losing the feeling in his arms.
    The man vanished inside, the door banged shut. Vince fell to his knees, partly in abject disappointment, and partly because the cinderblock effect had moved up to include his lower legs, knees, and the better part of his thighs.
    But then the door opened again. That slit of yellow light, followed by a round white one. Flashlight, his mind told him. And behind it, a yellow rain slicker. And slicker and slicker, he thought, almost laughing aloud as the thing bobbed closer like some shiny, yellow, headlight-equipped ghost.
    One arm went numb, started to droop, and Holly with it. Gritting his teeth he lifted her again, grunting like a goddamn caveman with the effort it took. Yellow Slicker unlatched the gate, opened it. The flashlight beam took a shot at burning out Vince's retinas. He squinted back at it and said, "The monster fucking lives." Then he was gone.
    * * *
    VOICES BLURTED WORDS in clipped fragments. As if someone were turning the radio dial back and forth, just passing the station each time.
    "—but why here?"
    "—sn't look to me... had much choice, Reg. Hell, look... em."
    "—tective ... up to somethi... he... suspects—"
    "Quiet!"
    That one came through loud and clear. It was a bark that silenced the other man midsentence. No one had turned the dial that time. Vince struggled to focus, to listen.
    "He's coming around." A hand, an old hand, callused and dry, but warm, touched his face. "Detective O'Mally? Can you hear me?"
    His eyes were open. Vince didn't remember opening them, but now he saw they were by the hazy blur of a human being, leaning over him. He licked his parched lips, parted them. "Yeah."
    The blur smiled. A flash of white where the teeth should be. "Good. Good. I'm Ernie Graycloud. Remember? We met at the bonfire?"
    He came a little clearer. Long silver and black hair, copper skin, lined with age. "You're the doctor," he muttered. "But medical or witch?"
    "A little bit of both. My license to practice is from the State of New York. Most of what I know about healing, I learned from the Iroquois. You got any other smart-ass questions you want answered while I'm here?"
    He swallowed hard, knowing he'd insulted the man, wondering where the hell his brain was sleeping. "Yeah. What have you done with my redhead?"
    "She's over here, Detective," a female voice called.
    Vince turned his head toward it, saw Amanda D'Voe in a white, floor-length satin robe, sitting beside a big white bed. In the bed, dwarfed by pillows and comforters pulled clear to her chin, Holly lay still and pale. "Is she okay?"
    "Exposure, a mild concussion," Ernie Graycloud explained. "We can't tell much more until she comes around."
    Vince sat up, winced, fell back down on the pillows. "She needs to be in a hospital."
    "She's not in immediate danger, Detective. There's nothing wrong with her that can't wait for this storm to pass."
    "The doctor's right," Amanda said softly,