The man stared at him, lips slightly parted. There was a crumb of something in his mustache and sweat on his forehead.

“Here’s the story, chief.” Bennett kept up the affable tone. “You’ve got a Taser, security issue—what is that, the C2?—so not even one of the bad boys the cops carry. And me, I’ve got a Colt Defender. There’s three ways this plays out. Number one, I shoot first. A .45 hollow-point is designed to expand on impact and shred internal organs like a blender. Not so good for you. Option two, maybe we both shoot at the same time. This distance, you can’t miss, but neither can I. So I get shocked for thirty seconds, no fun, but you get shot, so again, worse for you.” He paused, working the theater. “Option three, and this one’s the real doozy, maybe you’re faster than you look. You get me before I can pull the trigger. Thing is, you know what happens then? All that electricity slams through my system, and wham, my muscles start contracting—including my index finger, which means, yep, you guessed it. You get shot.”

The guard hesitated, ran a tongue along his lips. Bennett could see a vein jumping just above the fat man’s eye. “Basically, you’re outgunned, friend. Bad luck, but that’s life.”

“Put your weapon down and step over to the desk.” The guy’s voice squeaky.

“I’ve got a better idea. I don’t really want to shoot you. So here’s what I propose. You lower that thing. I’ll lower mine. Then we each go out the way we came. Five minutes after I’m gone, you can come in here, find the broken window, maybe you get to be a hero after all.”

A long pause, the guy thinking over everything he’d said. “How do I know—how do I know you won’t shoot me?”

“Why would I shoot you? Get homicide detectives looking for me? No thank you. I just want to walk out.” He held the moment, then said, “Look, it’s up to you. Be a hero or a corpse. But if you lower your toy there, I promise, I won’t hurt you.”

The air in the room was cool, the broken window letting in a November breeze. Bennett held his aim steady, the gun at waist level but square at the man’s fat chest. He could see the man thinking it over, could practically read his thoughts: the twelve dollars an hour he made, the dinner waiting at his desk, the way he desperately needed to take a piss. Saw the decision come over his face, a simple weighing of options, and then the guard lowered his weapon.

Bennett cracked him in the face with the butt of the Colt.

The man made a squealing sound, the Taser falling from his fingers as reflex brought his hands to his face. Blood rushed between his knuckles, and his eyes went wobbly. He staggered backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell.

Bennett picked up the Taser, tossed it aside. The guard was panting and keening.

“Funny thing,” Bennett said. “I’ve never understood it. Promise something, people tend to believe it. Even if the guy saying it has a gun pointed at them.” He reached for his whiskey, knocked it back. With the heightened senses that came of action, every taste bud glowed.

The guard scrabbled at the floor, pulling himself on his elbows. Bennett wiped the rim of the whiskey glass clean, then set it down and went behind the desk. Found the rock he’d thrown through earlier.

Fatso had a name tag, read Wayne Reynolds. Bennett sighed, then dropped down to straddle the man, pinning the guy’s arms down.

“No,” Wayne said, the sounds coming out boh through his broken nose. His eyes were wild. “Don’t.”

“Sorry. No choice.”

“Wait. No. I don’t know who you are. You don’t have to—”

“Unfortunately, once I’m gone, you’ll get brave again. You’ll call the cops, and they’ll look through the security tapes, and you, wanting to be a hero, you’ll point me out. And then they’ll see that I wasn’t wearing gloves when I came in earlier, and they might pull a print. And that, my friend, I cannot have.”

“I bohn’t. I won’t tell them anything.”

“Can’t risk it.”

“Please—”

“I am sorry about having to do it this way. Nothing personal. But this has to look amateurish.” Bennett raised his arm.

Wayne screamed, “Marta!” as Bennett brought the rock down.

The guy stopped yelling right away. But it took more hits than Bennett expected before he stopped breathing.

5

INT. HALL OF JUDGMENT—AFTERNOON

A square room made of heavy blocks of stone. Torches flicker on the walls, smoke rises to the ceiling.

There is a faint, solemn sound like waves in the distance.

DANIEL HAYES sits in a chair, elbows on knees. There’s something dark on his hands. He starts to touch one with the other, hesitates.

JUDGE 1 (O.S.)

Blood.

Daniel looks up, startled.

There is a table in front of him. Behind it sit three hooded figures. The JUDGES are tall and skeletally thin, and he cannot make out their features.

DANIEL Where am I?

JUDGES 2 & 3 (in sync)

Guilty.

JUDGE 1

Blood on your hands.

The judge’s speech is deep, sonorous, a voice from the bottom of a well.

Daniel looks down, sees that dark liquid now covers his fingers. He jerks, holds them out. A drop falls to the floor, and then another.

DANIEL

I didn’t do anything!

JUDGES 2 & 3

Guilty.

JUDGE 1

If you didn’t do anything, why are you here?

DANIEL

I . . . I don’t know.

JUDGES 1

Then how do you know you don’t belong here?

DANIEL

I’m dreaming. This is a dream. JUDGE 1

The rest was a dream. This is real. DANIEL

No. No, that can’t be—

JUDGES 2 & 3

Guilty. JUDGE 1

Blood on your hands. Blood on your soul. DANIEL

I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this. (clenches his fists)

I’m not a monster.

JUDGES 2 & 3

Guilty.

DANIEL

No!

He lurches up from the chair. The judges sit still as buildings, the hollow of their cowled hoods perfect black.

Daniel turns, starts to run. Trips over the chair, pulls himself up.

There is a heavy wooden door on the wall behind him. He grabs the handle, pulls, the door grinding an inch at a time.

JUDGES 2 & 3 (O.S.)

Guilty!

INT. DANIEL & LANEY’S MALIBU HOUSE—CONTINUOUS