Chapter Fifteen
The sun was hanging low in the sky, casting harsh glares on everyone in the car. Spinner drove in angry silence, while Bobo sat in the back seat with his long legs splayed out as far as the space would allow.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay in there, September?” Dennis had lost track of the number of times that he had been asked the question. He stared out the window at the passing city.
“It’s not like I have much choice.”
Spinner growled. “I’m still not okay with this. It’s wrong.”
Dennis wasn’t sure that he agreed, but wasn’t going to directly contest the statement. “Remember what Elspeth said,” he tried.
“Leave her out of it.”
Dennis slouched sedately. The conversation hadn’t been much better throughout the course of the ride, or even back at the hospital. Spinner’s grudge had kept him from wanting to do anything that might let Harding follow through with his plans, while Dennis had been resolutely certain that their chosen course was the best one. Elspeth had finally settled the matter, in her own matriarchal way, asserting that the key should be turned over to the psychiatrist.
Spinner’s eyes stared straight ahead, his face locked in an obstinate glower. “I could have helped you out, kid. I still have some friends on the force. I’d have gone to bat for you.” It was a touching proclamation, considering what Dennis had subjected him to. Even so, Dennis wasn’t willing to gamble against Harding’s ability to manipulate the situation, especially not when there were other people at stake besides himself.
“How’s that thing feel, then, September?”
“It itches,” Dennis replied to Bobo. His shakes had been so bad back at the hospital that a kindly nurse had insisted on giving him a plain leather jacket from the Lost and Found box. It was a surprisingly good fit, and a decent replacement for the one he had lost, even if the worn material made a somewhat ridiculous match with the rest of his attire. At least he had been able to remove his tie.
The mutters continued from Spinner’s side of the car. “Eight years I spent chasing the bastard. Eight fucking years. Now we’re just going to let him get away.”
“Could be worse,” said Bobo.
“How?”
“Could have been ten years.”
Dennis tapped on the window. “There’s the office,” he said. The car slowed as they pulled into the parking lot at the building’s rear. Dennis stared up at the evenly-spaced windows, wondering if Harding was watching from one of them.
“Okay, kid, listen.” Spinner pulled the car’s parking brake and turned to face Dennis with a serious expression, his sullen behavior gone. “Have you ever fired a gun before?”
Dennis felt himself pale. “A few times. Why?” Spinner reached beneath his seat and pulled out a small black box. He thumbed a series of dials into a preset combination, and the latch clicked open. Dennis’ eyes went wide when he saw what was inside. “I thought you couldn’t own a gun?”
“I can’t carry a gun,” Spinner said. “Strictly speaking, neither can you, but I’m not going to send you in there without protection.” He pulled the stocky revolver from the case. “This is a Smith and Wesson 617. Twenty-two caliber, with a ten-round shot capacity. It’s double action, so you don’t need to cock the hammer.” He held it out to Dennis. “Show me how you hold it.”
Dennis kept steady as he took the weapon. He glanced out the windows to make certain that nobody was watching, and then held the gun in a two-handed grip. “Like this?”
Spinner nodded. “If you have to shoot, aim for the torso. Don’t try anything fancy.” He held out his hand. “I’ll load it for you.” Dennis passed the weapon back, handle first, and watched as Spinner popped open the cylinder.
“Here, this one’s loaded!” Bobo laughed. He dug out the water pistol and thrust it forward. Dennis eyed both men, wondering how they could be so calm.
“I’m really not sure about this. It’s been some time since I’ve fired a gun.”
There was a metallic click as Spinner snapped the gun’s cylinder back into place. “Take it anyway. If you need to, you can intimidate him.” Dennis slid the revolver into his jacket, thankful for the moderately deep pockets. Then, more as a pretense than anything else, he checked his watch.
“I’m going to head up.”
“Remember what we talked about,” Spinner said. “That goes for the gun, too.”
Bobo reached forward and cuffed Dennis’ shoulder. “Good luck, mate!”
Dennis nodded to both of them, and then climbed from the car. If the outside air was any indication, it was going to be a cold night.
Nearly Departed Page 38
