Gingerbread Man (26 page)

"And so are you."

She forced her eyes to meet his. "I already
am."

He sighed, but at least didn't argue the
point. Instead, he took her arm with his free hand, led her up the
steps, over the porch, then unlocked and opened the front door.

She looked around the cabin. It was no neater
than it had been the last time she'd been here. Messier, maybe.
Stacks of folders, with sheets of paper sticking from them. A pile
of slick-surfaced faxes laid on the floor in front of the fax
machine, their ends curling upward. Glitzy magazines were scattered
everywhere. Movie magazines. She wondered about that.

"Weren't you concerned about another possible
intruder?" she asked, looking at the mess.

"Anything vital, I took with me." As he said
it, he set the stuff he was carrying on the table. More file
folders, and a flash drive from his shirt pocket. He walked to the
fax, picked up the sheets, flipped through them. "Well, at least I
don't see any notification that I've been fired. Not yet,
anyway."

"I take it you finally told your chief what
you were doing down here?"

"Yeah. I didn't have a choice. He notified
the Feds, and passed along their orders."

"Which are?"

"That I"—he glanced at the papers in his
hands, read from one of them—" 'cease and desist any and all
unofficial investigation of this case until further notice.' Pretty
clear and to the point."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to make some popcorn and watch old
movies. Pop one into the DVD player will you?" He nodded toward the
floor in front of the TV set, where a stack of DVDs stood like a
tower. Then he walked into the kitchenette and opened
cupboards.

She went to the pile of movies, knelt, and
perused the titles, thinking he'd lost his mind. Then she got it.
"These are all Reginald D'Voe horror films."

"Well, you know, 'tis the season. I've
watched all the ones in the tall pile. Take one of those
others."

She opened a case, took out the DVD, and slid
it into the player. Then she flicked on the television and watched
as the opening credits of 1945's
Haunted
began to roll.
"These are so old they don't even have previews," she said.

"The newer editions do," he said. "They're
re-releasing these all the time. Remastered, digitized,
colorized... These were what they had at the rental place in town,
though."

"Thank God for small favors." She heard a
series of beeps as he pressed buttons on the microwave, then he was
standing beside her.

“They probably won't tell us much, but I'm
damned if I know who else to check out. I've been running
background checks on every male over thirty in this town, and so
far the only person who stands out is D'Voe."

"Why? What did you find on him?" The smell of
popcorn accompanied the sound of its popping.

"He was abused as a child."

"Oh, my God. I didn't know."

"I don't think many people do. I found an
article about it in some fan magazine's archives on the Net. Thing
was at least twenty years old. It said D'Voe ran away from his home
outside London when he was twelve years old, after his father beat
him bloody over a bad school report. The piece quotes D'Voe as
saying that he was sure his father would have killed him, had he
stayed. When he left, he said his face was purple with bruises, he
had a broken arm, and a few broken ribs as well. It was the worst
beating ever, though he claimed he'd had plenty."

Holly lowered her head, closed her eyes.
"Poor Reggie.”

Vince sighed.

Her head came up again. "What?"

He turned, walked into the kitchen, and took
the popcorn out of the microwave. Opening the hot bag with two
fingers, he poured it into a big bowl, brought it back with him,
and sat down beside her. "I don't have to tell you that survivors
of that kind of abuse often grow up to be abusers themselves."

"Not always, though. Surely not in Reggie's
case."

He shrugged. "I hope not. But I've checked
out practically everyone in town, and this is the first red flag to
go up. If it doesn't lead us to something, I don't know where else
to start digging."

Holly shook her head, but leaned back on the
sofa, took a handful of popcorn, and watched the film begin to
unfold. "What do you hope to find in the movies?"

"I don't know. A clue. A pattern. Maybe
something similar to one of the crimes. I don't know."

"How much time do you figure we have?"

"Ah, the Feds won't get around to coming out
here before nightfall."

"Well, that gives us time, then."

"Yeah."

***

VlNCE WATCHED HER watching the TV screen. He
couldn't have told anyone much about the plots of any of the movies
if he hadn't already seen most of them, but he would pick up on
anything interesting. He had that extra sense on alert. That cop
sense an officer developed over time. The ear that isn't listening,
but hears every word when it's important. The eye that can filter
all but vital images. The mind that can seem to zone out, but turns
razor sharp when it needs to. He trusted his cop senses. They
hadn't let him down yet.

At least, not until the Prague kids. He
thought again that if he'd only found the book the first time he'd
been in that house ...

He shook the thought away, focused again on
Holly. She pretended to watch the movies, and maybe she was, a
little bit. But mostly she was distracted. Worried for her mother,
wondering about her sister's last hours—thoughts on that subject
had to be nightmarish at best. And she was scared. She would be
foolish not to be.

But there was, overlying all of that,
something else. A mask. She was deliberately, stubbornly trying to
hide everything else behind it. And since he was the only other
person in sight, he could only deduce that she was trying to hide
it from him.

What he couldn't figure out was why.

As the ending credits rolled, she got to her
feet, rubbed her arms as if they were chilled. "This stuff still
holds up," she commented.

"They knew how to make movies back then. Now
all they seem able to come up with is gore. Pour a pail of blood on
a barely dressed actress and rev up a chainsaw. That's not
horror."

She sent him a smile of agreement. It was an
utterly false smile. "What's next?"

“I've watched all but a few of them now.
There was nothing there." He nodded at the much smaller pile of
DVDs yet to be viewed.

"So what do you want to do?"

He didn't want to have this conversation. He
wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a shake, make her
tell him what the hell was wrong with her. But he wasn't going to
do that because he wasn't supposed to care that much. And he'd best
remember that. "Damned if I know."

She went to the phone on the counter, picked
it up, and dialed. While she waited for an answer she put a hand
over the mouthpiece. "I'm calling the hospital."

He nodded. He'd expected to hear from either
Doc or Jim Mallory by now, but no calls had come in. He worried
about that for a minute. Then Holly was speaking to someone, asking
about her mother, nodding as if reassured. He was entirely too
jumpy over things, he realized. His objectivity was shot to
hell.

Then again, it had been shaky for a while.
Ever since those kids...

"So are you really going to go to Reggie's
Halloween party?"

She asked the question out of the blue,
without warning. He shot her a look, almost begged off, then kicked
himself. "He's my only suspect. I don't have much choice but to
go—if for no other reason than to keep an eye on all the kids he'll
have running around over there."

She paced away and popped the movie out,
sliding another into the machine, thumbing the play button. "You
know this party of his was an annual event years ago. This will be
the first one since they moved back home, but before he and Amanda
left town he held it every single year."

"Yeah, so you've told me."

"And so far as I know, nothing of note has
happened at any of them."

"You weren't here back then, were you?"

"No. But if there had been anything dramatic,
people would still be talking about it. It's a small town, Vince.
Stuff like that becomes local legend in a hurry."

He sighed. "It's not like I want it to be
Reggie, you know."

"I know." The film cued up, credits rolling.
She walked to the sofa and sat down. "You know, you can't get into
the party without a costume."

"Huh?" He glanced up at her, and his surprise
probably showed.

"Reg won't allow it. Costumes are the price
of admission. It's all over town."

"Can I go dressed as a cop from
Syracuse?"

She smiled, and for once it was genuine. He
could tell the difference without much effort. It reached her eyes
when it was real. And this one did.

"Only if you wear a uniform."

"I'm a detective. This
is
my uniform."
He looked her up and down. "What are you going as?"

"I have no idea."

She leaned back, grabbed popcorn, signaling
an end to the conversation. The nineteen-inch screen darkened, then
was filled by Reginald D'Voe's face, younger, less lined, more made
up, but otherwise just the same. Brows angled to a point, eyes
gleaming with evil intent. And that trademark maniacal laughter of
his rolled from the speaker.

They watched films all afternoon.

Midway through the fourth one, the only one
remaining that Vince hadn't already viewed, the phone rang. Vince
picked it up, and Jerry's voice came through. He said three words.
"They're not coming."

"What do you mean they're not... ?" It took
Vince a minute to process the statement. "They're not
coming?”

Jerry's frustration was clear. "The Fed in
charge of the Prague kids' case is an asshole, Vince. Name's
Selkirk—"

"Frank Selkirk?"

"You know him?"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, this Selkirk feels the book you
found at the crime scene isn't strong enough evidence to warrant
pulling his team all the way down there. Says they're following up
far stronger leads up here, and you're wasting your time."

Vince cursed. "It's not the evidence. It's me
he has a problem with."

"You've had run-ins with him before,
then?"

"We've butted heads. It wasn't friendly."

"Still, Vince, you think he'd rather louse up
a murder investigation than admit you might be a step or two ahead
of him on this?"

"I think he'd rather be right than
wrong."

Jerry sighed. "How sure are you that you're
right, Vince?"

"I've had a break-in and an attempt on my
life. How sure would that make you?"

"Pretty damn sure. Can you tell Selkirk any
of this?"

Vince swore again. "The problem is, there's
not much to tell. There was no physical sign of a break-in. No
footprints or anything. But Holly says—that is, I have an
eyewitness who saw someone moving around inside the cabin."

"Uh-huh. That's pretty flimsy evidence, pal.
How about this attempt on your life?"

"Well... all they really did was break a
lightbulb."

"And you ... what? Tripped in the dark and
bumped your head?"

"Got lost on a thirty-five-mile-long lake, in
the dark, in the fog, in a storm. We damn near drowned."

"I see," Jerry said. "We?"

"Holly and me."

"Holly again?"

"Don't even go there, Jare." Vince found
Holly's eyes on him. They locked with his and held.

"I'm coming down there," Jerry announced.

"Don't bother. There's no sense in your
coming down here and both of us getting written up or worse."

"I have leave time coming. I'm taking it.
E-mail me some directions, or I'll muddle through on my own. Either
way, I'll see you tomorrow morning, pal."

There was a click. Jerry knew better than to
give Vince time to argue. "Damn stubborn son of a—"

"Sounds like a good friend," Holly said.

Vince nodded. "The best."

"Then I'm glad he's coming. We need all the
help we can get on this."

He knew that, but he was worried. He didn't
want his partner getting hurt, and this thing was looking risky. At
least he'd have more help protecting Holly—he needed that, because
he didn't want her getting hurt, either.

She sighed, glanced at her watch, at the
movie, which she'd paused for the phone call. "It's getting late. I
should probably—"

"Don't say it," he said, glancing her
way.

"Don't say what?"

"You're staying here. Or I can go to your
place, it's up to you. But if you think you're staying alone
tonight, you're dead wrong."

She held his gaze for a long stretch—he
sensed she was thinking about arguing, but knowing better. Hell,
she didn't want to be alone with a killer on the loose any more
than he wanted her to be. And she knew that he knew it.

"My place," she said. "All my stuff's there."
Not just her stuff, but her routine. She needed it, and now wasn't
the time to try to shake the habit.

"Okay," he agreed. "Your place."

"You can have Mom's room. I mean, if you're
sure you don't want mine." Her eyes were intense, and he got her
meaning clearly.

“I'll take the couch. It's a better spot."
She cocked her head.

"Better spot for what?"

“It's right between the front and back doors.
I'll hear anyone who comes around." Her face went just a hint
paler.

"You really think—?"

"I don't know what to think at this point.
Might as well be ready for anything, though, right?"

"I... guess."

"Don't worry, Red. I'm good at this shit.
It's what I do, remember?" She nodded, but the fear still lingered
in her eyes. He didn't like seeing it there. He preferred the
flicker of heat he'd seen before, if the truth were known.