“El Serpiente, amigo!” said the man, on the crest of the best laugh of his life. He leaned, and the tongue flicked out to lick Bob’s forehead, almost caress it. Bob felt the dagger point sink deeper into his flesh.

The face rearranged itself around the .355-inch crater that appeared without ceremony beneath the left eye, a pucker like a chancre that brought with it vibrations of terminal penetration. Black brain blood drooled from the new orifice, spreading randomly as it cascaded downward and outward in accordance with the laws of gravity. Another bullet, less acute in angle, hit and tore out the bridge of the nose, ripping a gaping wound that destroyed any semblance of the monster and replaced it with an image that conveyed merely the banal data of what damage flesh could sustain, including eye burst, temple eruption, facial deconstruction, and a cloud of gray matter thick as July bats in the night heat. Swagger didn’t even hear the second shot, much less the first.

The man toppled, hitting earth so hard, he seemed to dig his own grave.

Swagger lay flat, hungering for air. Rain pelted his face.

Then he heard his savior ask, “Is it dead?” and turned to confront someone lowering a Glock from a two-handed grip seven feet away. The rain fell like a shroud, billowing in the wind, turning reality all gray and smeared, but Swagger saw nevertheless that it was Mrs. McDowell.

55

Route 80, beyond Casper

They crested a hill but saw no relief.

A train of taillights choked the highway as it entered a valley, crossed it, and climbed the slope on the other side. There was nothing to do in the pouring rain except show patience, forbearance, and fortitude.

“Agh,” said Alberto.

“Easy, easy,” said Juba. At the end of their tunnel, they had found a small shed enclosing a Honda Civic, with all necessary documents, twenty-seven hundred dollars in cash, and a full tank of gas. Menendez had plotted well, knowing that if flight became necessary, a car and money were equally necessary.

Now they were on I-80, in traffic, in the rain, headed east. He was on the tail of an 18-wheeler whose trailer dwarfed him, while behind, pressing in, another 18-wheeler threatened to devour him. There was no passing, as the lane to the left was as jammed as his was. There was no exit. There was nothing to do but wait, as they crept along. Top speed: eight miles an hour.

“It must be an accident ahead,” said Alberto.

Juba said nothing. The situation was self-evident. The rain crushed downward, smearing the lights into fragments, while the old windshield wipers tried gamely to scrape it away, though to not much avail. The only reality was rain distorted, turned kaleidoscopic and fractured by diffusion. Whacka-whacka-whacka, went the blades. The old Honda coughed alarmingly now and then.