Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

cast by the midmorning sun obscured any view of the car’s interior, but whoever was inside responded to being noticed by pulling up next to him and stopping. The passenger side window rolled down, and a deep voice called out.

“Hey there, Dennis.” The rumbling of the car’s idling engine muffled the words, but there was no mistaking that Dennis’ name had been called. Confused, curious, and only marginally concerned, Dennis approached the vehicle and peered through the open window. The spacious interior was empty, save for the muscled, dark-skinned driver. Dennis felt his heart jump into his throat when he recognized the man as the so-called retired detective that he had seen exiting Harding’s office.

“Going somewhere?” the man asked. Dennis took an involuntary step back from the car, his mind and heart racing to see which could explode first. “Why don’t you hop in? I’ll give you a ride.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather walk.” Dennis’ dry mouth made the words come out as a rasping croak, and the man gave him a humorless smile.

“I’d be happier if you got in the car,” he said. His left hand tapped at a spot just beneath his right arm, and Dennis’ heart kicked itself into overdrive as he saw the telltale bulge of a gun beneath the man’s jacket. He considered running, but didn’t imagine he could get very far on foot. Even if he tried to jump over a fence or escape down an alleyway somewhere, he suspected he would be easily outrun. With trembling hands, he reached forward and tugged on the handle of the car door.

Several millennia passed, and the man in the car finally asked “Something wrong?” Dennis swallowed and pulled on the handle again.

“It’s locked,” he managed to say.

“Oh. Sorry.” There was a click from the door, and a third attempt at pulling the handle opened it. Dennis slid into the passenger seat, dimly aware that his panic had given way to a sense of resolute dread. The window next to him rolled back up, cutting off the sounds from outside. It left the car silent, save for the hum of the motor and the whisper of the heater. For several agonizing moments, nothing was said, and the car remained where it was.

“Seat belt,” the man said plainly. Dennis jumped at the sound, but quickly followed the implied request. As soon as the buckle had clicked into place, the man shifted the car into gear and started slowly driving down the street.

“My name’s Spinner,” the man said. “Malcolm Spinner.”

“I saw you outside the sandwich shop,” Dennis answered. Spinner gave no reply. “And at Samuel Harding’s office,” he tried again.

“What were you doing there, Dennis?” he asked. “Or is it Darvyn?” He looked over at Dennis, who kept staring straight ahead. “No? You’re not Darvyn September?” He pulled two photographs from a pocket and tossed them into Dennis’ lap. One showed Dennis staring out of a restaurant window, phone still in hand, while the other was a blurry but unmistakable picture of himself in costume. Dennis said nothing, which was not so much an act of defiance as the result of his mind being too occupied to think of a reply. “Well, whichever you are,” Spinner continued, “I think it would be a good idea for you to consider a career change.”

“Am I under arrest?” Dennis asked. Spinner snorted.

“No. This is just a friendly ride. Where are you going, by the way?”

“Gas station,” murmured Dennis. Despite having threatened him earlier, the man did not appear to be openly hostile. Dennis had seen enough daytime television to know what a “good cop” was, but somehow this situation didn’t seem to fit the profile.

“Car died on you?” Spinner asked. Dennis did not reply, hoping that his captor would draw his own conclusions. “That’s a nice bar your friend runs,” Spinner said. “I might stop by again sometime.”

“Look, what’s this about?” Dennis snapped. The temperature in the car seemed to drop several degrees as the congenial tone of Spinner’s voice disappeared and was replaced by something forceful and unrelenting.

“Don’t play dumb, kid,” he said. “You think that a small-timer like you has any tricks that haven’t been played a million times before?” He wrenched on the steering wheel, taking the car around a sharp corner that roughly pushed Dennis into the door. “You and your buddy aren’t anything special. Just another couple of crooks.” The car continued to wind through the neighborhood, following a path that was as seemingly aimless as the one being traced by Dennis’ thoughts. Several minutes passed as he tried to assemble a decent response, but the eloquence of his retort evaporated as Spinner slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt halt.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dennis coughed, straining against where the seat belt had cut into his neck.

“The hell you don’t,” growled Spinner. He turned in his seat and stared solidly at Dennis, who did his best to meet the man’s gaze unflinchingly. Surprisingly, it was Spinner who shifted first. He looked back through the windshield and tightly gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Then, just as quickly as the man’s friendly demeanor had disappeared before, it was back.

“Look,” Spinner sighed. “Maybe you got into this thinking you’d be helping someone out. I could buy that. You seem like a nice kid.” He turned back to Dennis and thrust a finger forward. “That’s why you’ve got no reason to keep at it. If you really want to help the lady, stay the hell away from her.” He nodded towards the windshield. “The gas station’s about a hundred yards up.”

Dennis hurriedly fumbled with the seat belt, releasing its hold on him. Then he reached for the door handle, and paused. “Um,” he stuttered, looking down.

“What is it, kid?” Spinner asked. His voice was gentle, and had an expectant quality to it.

“The door,” replied Dennis. “It’s locked again.”

“Oh, right,” Spinner said. He pressed an unseen button, and the latch popped open. “It does that