Newt Run

  Stevens

  Stevens pulls the car into the driveway and takes the key from the ignition. Lying on the seat next to him is the gun. He can't remember having put it there and it bothers him that he's forgotten. For a time he sits with his back to the seat, staring out at the blank stretch of pavement before the car and his apartment beyond that. He touches the marks on his neck where the taser prongs went in, but the pain is muted; aside from a kind of creeping embarrassment at how badly he handled things, he is numb. The loss of the shipment of powder is the worst of it, much more dangerous than having killed a man in front of witnesses. Stevens has rarely met the people he works for, but he knows that none of them are likely to be forgiving. He will make excuses, saying that the agents came out of nowhere, that he was outnumbered and he should never have been left alone. None of these will be enough. In the end, all that will matter is that the powder is lost and he was responsible.

  He reaches for the gun and shoves it behind his pants. The metal presses tightly on the small of his back, and a sharp bark escapes his mouth; he frowns, not having meant to laugh. Grimly, he realizes that he's reached the end of the line, but it doesn't matter. There's always another town, and another job. One thing Stevens has always been good at is moving on.

  He opens the door and gets out of the car. The air is sharp in his lungs, and a cold wind stirs the edge of his jacket. He crosses the lawn in front of the building, his boots sinking deeply into the snow, and climbs the stairs to his door. Inside, he switches on a light and enters the hallway. In the kitchen he takes a bottle of rice alcohol from the shelf above the sink. Drinking thinly, he stares out the window at the brick wall across the lane, and a moment later he sees the dull outline of the man reflected in the glass.

  "Hands," says a voice. Stevens sets the cup on the counter and spreads his arms, watching the reflection grow larger; in a moment a hand is groping at his back, and in short order his gun is taken away.

  "Turn around," the voice instructs him.

  Stevens turns.

  The man in front of him is not merely older, but very old, as if he'd spent the last five years in the grip of a debilitating illness. His eyes are watery and red-rimmed, and his back is stooped. His liver-spotted hand is trembling, either because of the weight of the gun or due to the effects of age. He looks like a man on the verge of death, and Stevens chokes down an urge to laugh.

  "Hello boss," he says.

  "Why'd you do it?" Lawrence asks him.

  "Fawkes wanted that egg. Thought it was worth something."

  "The egg," Lawrence breathes. "You did it for that?"

  "Maybe we got tired of babysitting that retard grandkid of yours."

  Light bursts in front his eyes; Stevens staggers back, stunned, but otherwise unhurt. Inwardly he smiles, knowing that if Lawrence had hit him with a gun five years ago he would not be standing now.

  "If you know where she is, now's your chance to tell me," Lawrence says.

  "Why would I know a thing like that?"

  The old man nods, and raises the gun to a point level with Stevens' brow.

  "Too bad," he says. Quickly, Stevens raises his hands again, massaging the air between them in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

  "Now just hold on boss. Of course I don't know where she is. Why should I? But maybe I know someone who does."

  Lawrence blinks, and peers at him. Stevens watches the gun totter in his hand.

  "Who?" Lawrence asks.

  "That faded bitch who ran off with her."

  Lawrence cocks his head to the side, struggling to remember.

  "Her?"

  "I know where she is."

  "You lying to me Stevens?" Lawrence's voice hardens, and Stevens begins to feel the first blush of fear.

  "Boss I'm lying you shoot me," he says. "Now come on, you're the one with the gun. You got a car? We can go right now."

  The old man wavers, but in the end the temptation is too much.

  "Alright," he says. "Let's go."

  "Smart choice boss," Stevens mutters, his hands still raised. "Very smart."

  He takes one step forward, and then he lunges, grabbing Lawrence's fist and shoving the butt of the gun in the air. A shot explodes into the ceiling, showering the two men in a flurry of plaster. They struggle in near silence, until at last Stevens is able to wrest the gun away. He pivots, wasting no time before shooting the old man point blank in the stomach. Lawrence gasps, weakly moving a hand to cover the wound before he sinks to the floor.

  There is shouting on the floor above; the people living in this building are not used to gunfire, and there is a good chance that someone has already called the police. Stevens takes a final glance at Lawrence's crumpled form, and then he turns and moves quickly down the short, straight hall. He is halfway to the door when the bullet takes him in the neck.

  He has just enough strength to turn; in the kitchen, Lawrence is lying on his side, Stevens' gun clutched in his hand. Stevens attempts to speak, but his mouth is full of blood. He sputters, choking, and falls face first into the carpet.

  When the police arrive twenty minutes later they pronounce both men dead on the scene.