humming. Moss held the shotgun at his waist with the hammer cocked. There was nothing that
could happen that would have surprised him. He felt as if he weighed nothing. He felt as
if he were floating. The man didnt even look at him. He seemed oddly untroubled. As if
this were all part of his day.
Back up. Some more.
He did. Moss picked up the man's shotgun and threw it onto the bed. He switched on the
overhead light and shut the door. Look over here, he said.
The man turned his head and gazed at Moss. Blue eyes. Serene. Dark hair. Something about
him faintly exotic. Beyond Moss's experience.
What do you want?
He didnt answer.
Moss crossed the room and took hold of the footpost of the bed and swung the bed sideways
with one hand. The document case stood there in the dust. He picked it up. The man didnt
even seem to notice. His thoughts seemed elsewhere.
He took the nylon bag from the chair and slung it over his shoulder and he got the shotgun
with its huge canlike silencer off the bed and put it under his arm and picked up the case
again. Let's go, he said. The man lowered his hands and walked out into the hallway.
The small box that held the transponder receiver was standing in the floor just outside
the door. Moss left it there. He had the feeling he'd already taken more chances than he
had coming. He backed down the hallway with his shotgun trained on the man's belt, holding
it in one hand like a pistol. He started to tell him to put his hands back up but
something told him that it didnt really make any difference where the man's hands were.
The bedroom door was still open, the shower still running.
You show your face at the head of these stairs and I'll shoot you.
The man didnt answer. He could have been a mute for all that Moss knew.
Right there, Moss said. Dont you take another step.
He stopped. Moss backed to the stairs and took one last look at him standing there in the
dull yellow light from the wallsconce and then he turned and doubled down the stairwell
taking the steps two at a time. He didnt know where he was going. He hadnt thought that
far ahead.
In the lobby the nightclerk's feet were sticking out from behind the desk. Moss didnt
stop. He pushed out through the front door and down the steps. By the time he'd crossed
the street Chigurh was already on the balcony of the hotel above him. Moss felt something
tug at the bag on his shoulder. The pistolshot was just a muffled pop, flat and small in
the dark quiet of the town. He turned in time to see the muzzleflash of the second shot
faint but visible under the pink glow of the fifteen foot high neon hotel sign. He didnt
feel anything. The bullet snapped at his shirt and blood started running down his upper
arm and he was already at a dead run. With the next shot he felt a stinging pain in his
side. He fell down and got up again leaving Chigurh's shotgun lying in the street. Damn,
he said. What a shot.
He loped wincing down the sidewalk past the Aztec Theatre. As he passed the little round
ticket kiosk all the glass fell out of it. He never even heard that shot. He spun with the
shotgun and thumbed back the hammer and fired. The buckshot rattled off the second storey
balustrade and took the glass out of some of the windows. When he turned again a car
coming down Main Street picked him up in the lights and slowed and then speeded up again.
He turned up Adams Street and the car skidded sideways through the intersection in a cloud
of rubbersmoke and stopped. The engine had died and the driver was trying to start it.
Moss turned with his back to the brick wall of the building. Two men had come from the car
and were crossing the street on foot at a run. One of them opened fire with a small
caliber machinegun and he fired at them twice with the shotgun and then loped on with the
warm blood seeping into his crotch. In the street he heard the car start up
could happen that would have surprised him. He felt as if he weighed nothing. He felt as
if he were floating. The man didnt even look at him. He seemed oddly untroubled. As if
this were all part of his day.
Back up. Some more.
He did. Moss picked up the man's shotgun and threw it onto the bed. He switched on the
overhead light and shut the door. Look over here, he said.
The man turned his head and gazed at Moss. Blue eyes. Serene. Dark hair. Something about
him faintly exotic. Beyond Moss's experience.
What do you want?
He didnt answer.
Moss crossed the room and took hold of the footpost of the bed and swung the bed sideways
with one hand. The document case stood there in the dust. He picked it up. The man didnt
even seem to notice. His thoughts seemed elsewhere.
He took the nylon bag from the chair and slung it over his shoulder and he got the shotgun
with its huge canlike silencer off the bed and put it under his arm and picked up the case
again. Let's go, he said. The man lowered his hands and walked out into the hallway.
The small box that held the transponder receiver was standing in the floor just outside
the door. Moss left it there. He had the feeling he'd already taken more chances than he
had coming. He backed down the hallway with his shotgun trained on the man's belt, holding
it in one hand like a pistol. He started to tell him to put his hands back up but
something told him that it didnt really make any difference where the man's hands were.
The bedroom door was still open, the shower still running.
You show your face at the head of these stairs and I'll shoot you.
The man didnt answer. He could have been a mute for all that Moss knew.
Right there, Moss said. Dont you take another step.
He stopped. Moss backed to the stairs and took one last look at him standing there in the
dull yellow light from the wallsconce and then he turned and doubled down the stairwell
taking the steps two at a time. He didnt know where he was going. He hadnt thought that
far ahead.
In the lobby the nightclerk's feet were sticking out from behind the desk. Moss didnt
stop. He pushed out through the front door and down the steps. By the time he'd crossed
the street Chigurh was already on the balcony of the hotel above him. Moss felt something
tug at the bag on his shoulder. The pistolshot was just a muffled pop, flat and small in
the dark quiet of the town. He turned in time to see the muzzleflash of the second shot
faint but visible under the pink glow of the fifteen foot high neon hotel sign. He didnt
feel anything. The bullet snapped at his shirt and blood started running down his upper
arm and he was already at a dead run. With the next shot he felt a stinging pain in his
side. He fell down and got up again leaving Chigurh's shotgun lying in the street. Damn,
he said. What a shot.
He loped wincing down the sidewalk past the Aztec Theatre. As he passed the little round
ticket kiosk all the glass fell out of it. He never even heard that shot. He spun with the
shotgun and thumbed back the hammer and fired. The buckshot rattled off the second storey
balustrade and took the glass out of some of the windows. When he turned again a car
coming down Main Street picked him up in the lights and slowed and then speeded up again.
He turned up Adams Street and the car skidded sideways through the intersection in a cloud
of rubbersmoke and stopped. The engine had died and the driver was trying to start it.
Moss turned with his back to the brick wall of the building. Two men had come from the car
and were crossing the street on foot at a run. One of them opened fire with a small
caliber machinegun and he fired at them twice with the shotgun and then loped on with the
warm blood seeping into his crotch. In the street he heard the car start up
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