Three men stood at the urinals, and I strode nervously past them. If you get caught, this is prison, I thought, moving through the swarm of people back toward Hiram. The gun felt so heavy, like it might fall out of my pants onto the floor.

We reached the entrance of the airport, and Hiram led me outside to a black limousine. I let him load my bag into the trunk, and then he opened the door for me and I climbed inside, half-expecting to find someone waiting for me. But there was no one—just the immaculate gray interior of the limousine.

When Hiram had settled into the driver’s seat and started the car, he looked back and said, “There’s a minibar and a TV if you’re interested. Just let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Thomas.”

Hiram pulled out of the parking space and drove away from the airport. Staring out the deeply tinted windows, beyond the glare of the tarmac, I saw a brown throng of mountains in the western distance. I wanted to lose myself in them and escape whatever hell awaited me.

3

AN hour later, I stood watching Hiram’s black limousine roll down the exit ramp and speed away on the interstate, heading back toward Denver. Lifting my bag, I carried it into the shade of an aspen near the Motel 6 office. In the heat of the sun, it seemed impossible that snow glistened on the mountaintops. Across the interstate, thirty miles west, the front range of the Rocky Mountains swept up out of the plain without the warning of foothills, and though the sky shone blue directly above, thunderclouds clustered around the highest peaks. Lightning flickered farther back in the mountains, but I never heard the thunder that followed.

Sitting in the cool grass, I opened the envelope Hiram had left with me. The note inside, identical in form to its predecessor, put knots in my craw as I read the black type:

You should be reading this around two in the afternoon at the Motel 6 on 1-25 north of Denver. Get a room and pay cash for it so you can check in under the name Randy Snider. Be packed and ready to go at 6:00 A.M. tomorrow.

Room 112 was on the ground level. My nerves were frayed, so I checked the closet, the shower, even under the bed—anyplace large enough for a man to hide. When I felt confident I was alone, I closed the blinds and locked the door. Then I lay down on the bed with the gun and a book and read all afternoon.