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sooner or later, God'll cut you down
Oct. 31st, 2013 09:29 pmShe knows he's there when he sets foot through the doorway. He isn't in her line of sight yet, he doesn't make a sound, but she can feel it anyway, the air thick with tension and something more than that, a sense of foreboding stronger than any of the fear she's felt over the past few months. It's been hell, Carla Jean will readily admit to that, never knowing when she'll spot a familiar figure in her peripheral vision or hear the click of a gun's safety in the dark, an echo of that goddamn sinister voice in her head. Up until now, it's all been taunts. She's learned how to deal with it, to balance potential danger with the visions that she knows people have been having. She's learned properly how to shoot a gun, keeps it on her at all times, while having the sense not to draw it just because she's spooked (which is good, because she's that more often than not). All her life, she's been a sensible girl, pragmatic. Just having that turned on its head, no longer knowing if or when she can trust her own senses, would be enough to drive her crazy, but these circumstances make it that much worse. This son of a bitch took everything from her once before, including her own life. Even if he's just been biding his time, she's had no intention of letting him do the same again.
If only she had a head for these things like Llewelyn did, she thinks now, standing just inside the door frame, taking a moment to try to catch her breath. Her husband, God rest his soul, might have been dumb enough to get himself into all that trouble in the first place, but he would have had more of a sense for what to expect from this, how best to handle herself. She could go in shooting, but she's not sure that would do any good. If he is here, if her gut is right about this, then waiting to kill her on sight wouldn't be his style. The sick bastard would never leave it that simple.
Besides, though she has no way of knowing what he might have seen here, the last time they encountered each other, she was a mess, newly widowed, having just buried her grandmother, still wearing the dress from the funeral, shaken and emotional and barely able to make sense of what had happened at all. She knows more now. Though she's had just as much to worry about, this time, it's hardened her, left her sure of what she has to do and how. It means she'll have the element of surprise on her side. The girl he saw in her childhood bedroom that day wouldn't have been carrying a loaded pistol, and wouldn't have used it, either. Now, she won't have to hesitate.
When she pushes open the bedroom door and walks inside, he's sitting there, just like she predicted, just like before. The sight of him, half-hidden in shadow, still makes her breath catch in her chest, but she keeps her expression even, not reaching for the gun that's obscured by her sweater, though she's distinctly aware of its presence now, mentally going over everything Sean taught her about it. He's armed, too, a shotgun pointed at her just like before, but she keeps her gaze on his face rather than the barrel. If he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, he won't without warning, and she'll have him gone before then.
"Hello, Mrs. Moss," he says, voice quiet.
"Hello, Mr. Chigurh," she returns. There's little inflection in her voice, but he smiles, the look of it chilling. In spite of that, she finds it almost satisfying. Terrified or not, she has the upper hand here, and even the simplest way she can surprise him goes a long damn way.
"You've learned a few things since I saw you last."
She shrugs. "Dyin'll do that to a girl."
"Yes," he agrees, though it's not something he's had any experience with. All this time, he's seemed immortal, left a trail of bodies in his wake that she's sure is even longer than she knows about. All of that, and now he's about to die at the hands of a nineteen year old girl. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"
"To finish what you started, I reckon," she replies. Sure of herself as she might be, there's a flicker of fear in her wide eyes at that. Standing in a room with someone who wishes her dead isn't exactly comforting.
"Yes," he says again. If she didn't know better, she'd think he sounded almost sorry. "You understand."
"I do," she confirms. Now, she thinks. She doesn't want to put it off any longer. She doesn't want to take any chances, either. "I understand that you're the reason my husband died, and a whole lot of others besides. I understand that it's not about the money anymore, since I never had that in the first place. I understand that, somehow, you think you're right in doin' all this."
Chigurh blinks once, twice, clearly confused, but with a trace of amusement alongside it. He's humoring her, she thinks, letting her say her piece, because he thinks he knows how this is going to end: like it did before, with her dead on her bedroom floor. He doesn't have a clue what's coming for him.
"You know, I thought about havin' a coin on hand when you finally found me," she continues, exhaling what might be a laugh under any other circumstances. "Tryin' to get you to call it, see how you like it. But then I realized that, no matter how it went, I was gonna do the same thing."
Quickly, she pulls the gun out of the waist of her jeans, leveling it at him, then adds without a pause, not giving him time to react, "This is for Llewelyn."
The first shot hits him square in the chest. He groans with it, letting go of his shotgun to press his palm over the wound, and stares up at her in clear confusion. She doesn't smile. She just fires again — the next shot goes through the hand in question — and then again and again, with increasingly less precision, until the trigger clicks, the gun's chamber empty, and Chigurh's body slumps to the floor.
Or, at least, to what should be the floor. It isn't wood under her feet when she looks down, though, but sand, a cool breeze off the ocean blowing through her hair, and she doesn't know what in God's name happened to the hut, but she feels crazier now than she ever did catching glimpses of Chigurh in the shadows. He was clearly real after all. This seems far more improbable, only the hot metal of the gun she's still holding coming as any kind of a relief. The stretch of beach doesn't even look familiar, she thinks, though at least it's quiet, no one reacting to the body in front of her. Hands dropping to her sides, she draws in a deep breath. Where she is and whatever's happened, they can wait. She needs a minute to take in what's happened, to deal with the sight in front of her. It's not until she blinks that she realizes there are tears in her eyes, and she's still not sure what they're from — the belated panic that her chest is tight with, the grief she's never shaken, or just pure relief.
If only she had a head for these things like Llewelyn did, she thinks now, standing just inside the door frame, taking a moment to try to catch her breath. Her husband, God rest his soul, might have been dumb enough to get himself into all that trouble in the first place, but he would have had more of a sense for what to expect from this, how best to handle herself. She could go in shooting, but she's not sure that would do any good. If he is here, if her gut is right about this, then waiting to kill her on sight wouldn't be his style. The sick bastard would never leave it that simple.
Besides, though she has no way of knowing what he might have seen here, the last time they encountered each other, she was a mess, newly widowed, having just buried her grandmother, still wearing the dress from the funeral, shaken and emotional and barely able to make sense of what had happened at all. She knows more now. Though she's had just as much to worry about, this time, it's hardened her, left her sure of what she has to do and how. It means she'll have the element of surprise on her side. The girl he saw in her childhood bedroom that day wouldn't have been carrying a loaded pistol, and wouldn't have used it, either. Now, she won't have to hesitate.
When she pushes open the bedroom door and walks inside, he's sitting there, just like she predicted, just like before. The sight of him, half-hidden in shadow, still makes her breath catch in her chest, but she keeps her expression even, not reaching for the gun that's obscured by her sweater, though she's distinctly aware of its presence now, mentally going over everything Sean taught her about it. He's armed, too, a shotgun pointed at her just like before, but she keeps her gaze on his face rather than the barrel. If he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, he won't without warning, and she'll have him gone before then.
"Hello, Mrs. Moss," he says, voice quiet.
"Hello, Mr. Chigurh," she returns. There's little inflection in her voice, but he smiles, the look of it chilling. In spite of that, she finds it almost satisfying. Terrified or not, she has the upper hand here, and even the simplest way she can surprise him goes a long damn way.
"You've learned a few things since I saw you last."
She shrugs. "Dyin'll do that to a girl."
"Yes," he agrees, though it's not something he's had any experience with. All this time, he's seemed immortal, left a trail of bodies in his wake that she's sure is even longer than she knows about. All of that, and now he's about to die at the hands of a nineteen year old girl. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"
"To finish what you started, I reckon," she replies. Sure of herself as she might be, there's a flicker of fear in her wide eyes at that. Standing in a room with someone who wishes her dead isn't exactly comforting.
"Yes," he says again. If she didn't know better, she'd think he sounded almost sorry. "You understand."
"I do," she confirms. Now, she thinks. She doesn't want to put it off any longer. She doesn't want to take any chances, either. "I understand that you're the reason my husband died, and a whole lot of others besides. I understand that it's not about the money anymore, since I never had that in the first place. I understand that, somehow, you think you're right in doin' all this."
Chigurh blinks once, twice, clearly confused, but with a trace of amusement alongside it. He's humoring her, she thinks, letting her say her piece, because he thinks he knows how this is going to end: like it did before, with her dead on her bedroom floor. He doesn't have a clue what's coming for him.
"You know, I thought about havin' a coin on hand when you finally found me," she continues, exhaling what might be a laugh under any other circumstances. "Tryin' to get you to call it, see how you like it. But then I realized that, no matter how it went, I was gonna do the same thing."
Quickly, she pulls the gun out of the waist of her jeans, leveling it at him, then adds without a pause, not giving him time to react, "This is for Llewelyn."
The first shot hits him square in the chest. He groans with it, letting go of his shotgun to press his palm over the wound, and stares up at her in clear confusion. She doesn't smile. She just fires again — the next shot goes through the hand in question — and then again and again, with increasingly less precision, until the trigger clicks, the gun's chamber empty, and Chigurh's body slumps to the floor.
Or, at least, to what should be the floor. It isn't wood under her feet when she looks down, though, but sand, a cool breeze off the ocean blowing through her hair, and she doesn't know what in God's name happened to the hut, but she feels crazier now than she ever did catching glimpses of Chigurh in the shadows. He was clearly real after all. This seems far more improbable, only the hot metal of the gun she's still holding coming as any kind of a relief. The stretch of beach doesn't even look familiar, she thinks, though at least it's quiet, no one reacting to the body in front of her. Hands dropping to her sides, she draws in a deep breath. Where she is and whatever's happened, they can wait. She needs a minute to take in what's happened, to deal with the sight in front of her. It's not until she blinks that she realizes there are tears in her eyes, and she's still not sure what they're from — the belated panic that her chest is tight with, the grief she's never shaken, or just pure relief.
