XXII

When you lay eyes on him, you see. The devil is just a man.

When Bardem came down the steps and out of the motel, he had the shotgun slung over his shoulder and the zippered bag in his hand. There were lights on in some of the rooms now, and a woman in the front office peeked through the door. He walked to the parking lot and went toward the black truck. This was blocks from the Madison County Sheriff’s Office—there would be lawmen soon.

When he got to the man who he’d shot from the balcony, Bardem stood over him, looking down. The top hat had blown off his head, and he was lying facedown in a pool of blood, still holding a pistol in his hand. He was shot in the neck and chest, and some parts were missing. Bardem squatted and rifled through the man’s clothes and came away with an UZI clip and several .300 Winchester Magnum cartridges. He dropped the clip in the snow and slipped the cartridges into the pocket of his coat. Then his eye moved to the truck.

He stepped to the truck’s side and jerked open the door and looked in. A boy sat huddled in the back of the cab, watching him. Maybe sixteen. A bandana around his neck. The boy looked away. A canvas army pack was on the seat. A can of Mountain Dew.

“Were you with this man?”

The boy nodded.

“Don’t nod. I want you to answer me.”

“Yes.”

Bardem glanced toward the street and heard the low cry of a police siren. A new day was waning all about. He looked at the boy.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll count. Jumping jacks. I’ll do five.”

The boy looked into his eyes, bewildered.

Bardem pulled a lever to fold the seat forward. “Well, it’s a chance. Isn’t it?”

The boy didn’t move.

“You need to run,” Bardem said. “I can’t wait for you.”

The boy got out from the truck. Bardem could see the dread in his eyes. He set the zippered bag on the front seat of the truck and stepped away and began jumping. Spreading his legs and touching his hands overhead. Landing gently with his arms at his sides. “One,” he said.

The boy started running.

The form of the jacks was poor, because the shotgun kept jostling. By the time Bardem got to five, the boy had crossed the parking lot and was almost at the street corner. Bardem unslung the shotgun and stood there, leveling the barrel. He fired as the boy rounded the corner. Bits of brick wall exploded, showering the snow.

He lowered the gun. “Well done,” he said. “Good running.”