Bardem walked to the Land Rover and opened the door and got in. He started the engine. He turned the lights on and drove back toward town.

At the sporting goods store he bought a handheld police scanner and batteries. He picked up a police transmission just southwest of Saint Anthony, crossing over North Fork Bridge. He turned the dial, listening. They had not found the correctional officer yet.

He pulled up to the house shortly before dusk and switched off the headlights. There was a mailbox with the name DAHL written on it in black marker. A hedge of dead roses. At the end of the drive were a house and a barn. Everything veiled in the evening fog. Beyond the hedge, a field of dead bracken. He turned into the drive and approached slowly through the snow. Clapboards with scaling paint. No movement. When he got out, he carried a shotgun.

He climbed the plywood porch steps and tapped his knuckles on the door and waited. Nothing. He switched off the shotgun’s safety. Then he opened the door and went in.

In the living room, he stood and listened. The dark shapes and the quiet. Faint smell of rot. A rocking chair by the stove and a highboy with drawers ajar. Somewhere a clock ticked.

He walked upstairs and down the hall and looked in the bedroom and in the closet. A housecoat on a plastic hanger. It was cold in the room. There had been no fire for a while. He pushed open the bathroom door and then went down to the kitchen.

When he flipped the light switch, nothing happened. He switched on the shotgun’s safety and set it on the Formica table.

He walked to the sink and tipped up the faucet and ran a drizzle of water over his hands. The pipes were near frozen. He patted his hands on a towel hanging from the refrigerator handle. From the cupboard he took out a plastic tumbler and filled it with tap water and stood drinking. Dull winter moonlight. The shadows of tree branches moving on the linoleum floor.

He set the half-full tumbler on the counter. He opened all the cupboards. Baking soda. Pyrex dishes. In the pantry, a can of sugar.

He sat at the table and read the mail lying there. Next to the mail was a little toy car. A green Ferrari. He picked up the car and studied it in the frail glow of the moon. He rolled the tires over the Formica, watching the little wheels turn. He put the car in his shirt pocket.

He picked up the shotgun and crossed to the living room and opened the front door. He stood under the eave, inspecting the night. His pale breath rising.

Darkness. Trees rustling in the wind.