No Country for Old Men-第15章

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did　you　just　e　on？

yessir。　be　here　till　ten　in　the　mornin。

moss　laid　a　hundred　dollar　bill　on　the　counter。　the　clerk　put　down　the　magazine。

i　aint　askin　you　to　do　nothin　illegal；　moss　said。

im　just　waitin　to　hear　your　description　of　that；　the　clerk　said。

theres　somebody　lookin　for　me。　all　im　askin　you　to　do　is　to　call　me　if　anybody　checks　　in。　by　anybody　i　mean　any　swingin　dick。　can　you　do　that？

the　nightclerk　took　the　cigarette　out　of　his　mouth　and　held　it　over　a　small　glass　ashtray　　and　tipped　the　ash　from　the　end　of　it　with　his　little　finger　and　looked　at　moss。　yessir；　he　　said。　i　can　do　that。

moss　nodded　and　went　back　upstairs。

the　phone　never　rang。　something　woke　him。　he　sat　up　and　looked　at　the　clock　on　the　　table。　four　thirty…seven。　he　swung　his　legs　over　the　side　of　the　bed　and　reached　and　got　　his　boots　and　pulled　them　on　and　sat　listening。

he　went　over　and　stood　with　his　ear　to　the　door；　the　shotgun　in　one　hand。　he　went　in　the　　bathroom　and　pulled　back　the　plastic　showercurtain　where　it　hung　on　rings　over　the　tub　　and　turned　on　the　tap　and　pulled　the　plunger　to　start　the　shower。　then　he　pulled　the　　curtain　back　around　the　tub　and　went　out　and　closed　the　bathroom　door　behind　him。

he　stood　at　the　door　listening　again。　he　dragged　out　the　nylon　bag　from　where　hed　　pushed　it　under　the　bed　and　set　it　in　the　chair　in　the　corner。　he　went　over　and　switched　　on　the　light　at　the　bedside　table　and　stood　there　trying　to　think。　he　realized　that　the　　phone　might　ring　and　he　took　the　receiver　from　the　cradle　and　laid　it　on　the　table。　he　　pulled　back　the　covers　and　rumpled　the　pillows　on　the　bed。　he　looked　at　the　clock。　four　　forty…three。　he　looked　at　the　phone　lying　there　on　the　table。　he　picked　it　up　and　pulled　　the　cord　out　of　it　and　put　it　back　in　the　cradle。　then　he　went　over　and　stood　at　the　door；　　his　thumb　on　the　hammer　of　the　shotgun。　he　dropped　to　his　stomach　and　put　his　ear　to　　the　space　under　the　door。　a　cool　wind。　as　if　a　door　had　opened　somewhere。　what　have　　you　done。　what　have　you　failed　to　do。

he　went　to　the　far　side　of　the　bed　and　dropped　down　and　pushed　himself　underneath　it　　and　lay　there　on　his　stomach　with　the　shotgun　pointed　at　the　door。　just　space　enough　　beneath　the　wooden　slats。　heart　pumping　against　the　dusty　carpet。　he　waited。　two　　columns　of　dark　intersected　the　bar　of　light　beneath　the　door　and　stood　there。　the　next　　thing　he　heard　was　the　key　in　the　lock。　very　softly。　then　the　door　opened。　he　could　see　　out　into　the　hallway。　there　was　no　one　there。　he　waited。　he　tried　not　even　to　blink　but　　he　did。　then　there　was　an　expensive　pair　of　ostrichskin　boots　standing　in　the　doorway。

pressed　jeans。　the　man　stood　there。　then　he　came　in。　then　he　crossed　slowly　to　the　　bathroom。

at　that　moment　moss　realized　that　he　was　not　going　to　open　the　bathroom　door。　he　was　　going　to　turn　around。　and　when　he　did　it　would　be　too　late。　too　late　to　make　any　more　　mistakes　or　to　do　anything　at　all　and　that　he　was　going　to　die。　do　it；　he　said。　just　do　it。

dont　turn　around；　he　said。　you　turn　around　and　ill　blow　you　to　hell。

the　man　didnt　move。　moss　was　walking　forward　on　his　elbows　holding　the　shotgun。　he　　could　see　no　higher　than　the　mans　waist　and　he　didnt　know　what　kind　of　gun　he　was　　carrying。　drop　the　gun；　he　said。　do　it　now。

a　shotgun　clattered　to　the　floor。　moss　pulled　himself　up。　get　your　hands　up；　he　said。

step　back　from　the　door。

he　took　two　steps　back　and　stood；　his　hands　at　shoulder　level。　moss　came　around　the　　end　of　the　bed。　the　man　was　no　more　than　ten　feet　away。　the　whole　room　was　pulsing　　slowly。　there　was　an　odd　smell　in　the　air。　like　some　foreign　cologne。　a　medicinal　edge　　to　it。　everything　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　mans　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　mosss　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。　lets　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　hed　already　taken　more　chances　than　he　　had　ing。　he　backed　down　the　hallway　with　his　shotgun　trained　on　the　mans　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　mans　hands　were。

the　bedroom　door　was　still　open；　the　shower　still　running。

you　show　your　face　at　the　head　of　these　stairs　and　ill　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　nightclerks　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　hed　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　chigurhs　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　ing　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　e　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　again。

by　the　time　he　got　to　grande　street　a　pandemonium　of　gunfire　had　broken　out　behind　　him。　he　didnt　think　he　could　run　any　more。　he　saw　himself　limping　along　in　a　　storewindow　across　the　street；　holding　his　elbow　to　his　side；　the　bag　slung　over　his　　shoulder　and　carrying　the　shotgun　and　the　leather　document　case；　dark　in　the　glass　and　　wholly　unaccountable。　when　he　looked　again　he　was　sitting　on　the　sidewalk。　get　up　　you　son　of　a　bitch；　he　said。　dont　you　set　there　and　die。　you　get　the　hell　up。

he　crossed　ryan　street　with　blood　sloshing　in　his　boots。　he　pulled　the　bag　around　and　　unzipped　it　and　shoved　the　shotgun　in　and　zipped　it　shut　again。　he　stood　tottering。　then　　he　crossed　to　the　bridge。　he　was　cold　and　shivering　and　he　thought　he　was　going　to　　vomit。

there　was　a　changewindow　and　a　turnstile　on　the　american　side　of　the　bridge　and　he　　put　a　dime　in　the　slot　and　pushed　through　and　staggered　out　onto　the　span　and　eyed　the　　narrow　walk　ahead　of　him。　just　breaking　first　light。　dull　and　gray　above　the　floodplain　　along　the　east　shore　of　the　river。　gods　own　distance　to　the　far　side。

half　way　he　met　a　party　returning。　four　of　them；　young　boys；　maybe　eighteen；　partly　　drunk。　he　set　the　case　on　the　sidewalk　and　took　a　pack　of　the　hundreds　from　his　pocket。

the　money　was　slick　with　blood。　he　wiped　it　on　his　trouser…leg　and　peeled　off　five　of　　the　bills　and　put　the　rest　in　his　back　pocket。

excuse　me；　he　said。　leaning　against　the　chainlink　fence。　his　bloody　footprints　on　the　　walk　behind　him　like　clues　in　an　arcade。

excuse　me。

they　were　stepping　off　the　curb　into　the　roadway　to　go　around　him。