Lexicon

had been seconds away from spreading Wil across the snow. Cecilia was dead.
Just yell
, he thought.
What’s the worst that could happen?
He knew the answer. But it was tempting, looking at the hot dogs.
    “Go on,” Tom said. “Get whatever you want.” He gestured at the confectionery aisle. Wil walked toward a great pyramid of Hot & Spicy Pringles. When he glanced back, Tom had wandered over to the magazine rack, where a man in a red-checked snow hat was staring suspiciously at shrink-wrapped women. “Hi there,” said Tom. “That your truck?”
    Wil looked back at the Pringles. He closed a hand around one. It was firm and familiar and did not do anything unexpected, for which he felt grateful. He looked back at Tom. Tom seemed to be paying him no attention. So he kept going, and then there was a shelf between them and he was out of sight. He felt overwhelmed by the desire to sit down. Cover himself with snacks, maybe. Make a little fort. He kept walking. He took a bag of chocolate eggs. Then a woman’s functional ponytail bobbed along in front of him, above the green and red foil snack bags.
    He closed his eyes. Tom was going to take him to a lonely farmhouse and kill him. It was obvious. They would find him eight years later, buried beneath the roses, one skeleton among many in WASHINGTON’S HOUSE OF NIGHTMARES . Because Tom was a psychopath. Or possibly not: Possibly Tom was part of some kind of politically motivated group, something a little more professional and terroristic, but the point was Tom killed people. Tom had shot a girl in a blue cotton dress, and reloaded and shot her again, and Cecilia had died, and although that possibly wasn’t Tom’s fault, not directly, the takeaway message here was that around Tom people died. Wil would either get away or he would die, too. He felt calm. It was good to establish facts. It permitted the making of decisions. He was going to talk to this woman. He was sorry, but he was going to bring her into this. He would whisper a message and if things went bad, he would defend her. That was the best he could offer.
    He opened his eyes. He felt sure Tom was watching him somehow, and sure enough, when he looked around there was a corner ceiling mirror and Tom was in it. Tom was nodding at the man in the snow hat, who was showing him a cell phone, for some reason. Wil pretended to inspect potato chips.
    The woman’s ponytail bobbed toward the end of the aisle, where a cardboard cutout lion offered free Cokes with every purchase over four dollars. This lion could screen him, if he timed it right. He could pass the woman at this spot and for one perfect second speak to her unseen. He began to move. Halfway there, the woman’s ponytail stopped, and Wil had to stop and eye batteries to kill time. He glanced at the mirror. Tom was still chatting to the man. Why Tom had so much to say to this guy, Wil had no idea. The ponytail moved. Wil moved. He spotted a second security mirror and maybe this lion wasn’t going to screen him as completely as he’d thought, but it would only take a second to mutter,
I’m kidnapped help gun call 911
, and he was committed now
.
He had made a decision not to end up beneath roses. He rounded the corner.
    A girl stood there, five or six years old. She was looking at the cardboard lion. Wil stopped. The woman came around the corner. “Caitlin. Come here.” The girl ran to her mother. Wil did not move. They passed him and headed up the next aisle.
    The girl said, “Mommy, why was that man sad?”
    “Shh,” said the woman.
    • • •
    He walked to the van. He was going to let this motherfucker take him somewhere and kill him, apparently. That was where he was at. He felt furious, at something.
    “Not the van,” said Tom. “We’re changing cars.” He nodded at the pickup.
    “Oh,” Wil said.
    Tom jangled keys. “You saved their lives.” He unlocked the pickup and pulled open the door. “You made the right decision.”
    The truck’s interior smelled of cigarettes. The dash had a bobblehead doll of someone Wil didn’t recognize. Some politician. Tom pulled at the door and the thump of its closure was like the sealing of a tomb.
    The engine turned. Air blew from vents. “Ah!” Tom said. “We have heat.”
    “You bought that guy’s truck,” Wil said.
    “We swapped.” Tom revved tentatively. He seemed to approve of the sound and they began to roll past pumps, leaving behind the airport maintenance van.
    “Swapped,” Wil