The officer turned away. His nose ran, and he snorted. The sun was near gone. It pinked the clouds and lit the snow to gleaming, and overhead a lone hawk rode the wind above the white rutted ground. Bardem put the last strip of venison in his mouth and chewed. He wore no coat. It was bitterly cold, but he seemed not to notice.

“The kid talked about a briefcase,” the officer said.

“What color?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Where is the case?”

“Uh. I don’t know.”

Bardem crumpled the empty Ziploc bag in his hand and put it in his pocket. “What do you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you hear anything else?”

“Well, Dahl got irate. Slammed the kid’s face into a table. Then after, he said something real weird. Something like, you know the law.”

Bardem cocked his head and gazed at the officer. His blue eyes tranquil. Like lake water. In the deep glowing dusk, his skin was the color of candles and his face wore an odd smile.

“Interesting,” Bardem said.

“I followed the kid to the Stardust. Went inside, but he shook me. He’s quick.”

“Quick. Like you?”

“What?”

Bardem just stood there, watching him. “And now,” he said, “you want me to pay you for this information?”

The officer looked out across the darkening plain. The bare scrub oak and the riprap of dead branches humped in snow. Desolate country for miles. “I think Dahl told him. Where the briefcase is.”

“You do.”

“I can show you where he lives.”

“I know where he lives. Do you think I wouldn’t know where he lives?”

The officer looked away. He didn’t answer.

“You and I are the same kind of man,” Bardem said, “to a point. Our paths are not so different. But somewhere along the way, you decided to snitch on your employer. How did you get to this place? I’ll tell you. You are here because you allowed it. You see?”

The officer looked at his car, then inhaled and bowed his head.

“You made choices,” Bardem said. “I think you understand.”

“I can get you the briefcase.”

“If you could get me the briefcase, you would have it.”

“I can help you.” The officer licked his lip. “I can hurt you too.”

“What?”

“I can tell people.”

Bardem studied the officer. Very quiet. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, you can’t.”

Bardem pulled a pistol from the waist of his jeans and shot the man.

The correctional officer fell backward and lay breathing in the snow. Bardem jiggled him with his boot and looked down at him.

“You threatened me,” he said. “Why did you do that?”

He shoved the pistol into his belt and watched the officer jerk and shudder until he stopped moving. The dark blood spread. The blood was melting the snow all around him.