That afternoon, Edmund stared in the mirror in his motel room in Charlotte, North Carolina. He’d gotten used to applying his usual false faces, and didn’t have to think much about it. His disguise for tonight was a little more elaborate, as he wanted to look Hispanic. Convincingly changing his skin tone took significantly more care.
Of course, this was also complicated by the pain in his right side. It wasn’t horrible, but he did use that arm quite gingerly.
After half an hour, he was satisfied that this would do. Fortunately for him, the environment should help with his deception. He put on his dark grey hoodie, wincing once more as he twisted into it. He had taken his painkillers last night, but they’d worn off, and a clear mind was far too important right now, so he paused partway through doffing the jacket, took a deep breath, and tried to practice stoic endurance.
He felt for and found the little paper envelope in his pocket, and mentally reviewed what he should have out in the trunk of his rental: zip ties, a folding chair, a battery powered lantern, two burner phones, and, of course, the Ruger 9 mm. He’d double check all of that before driving off tonight.
He looked around the dingy room. This one mostly in shades of green, rather than brown, interrupted by a bright red bedspread. This life was almost over. After tomorrow, he could go back to being just a normal guy, or as close as he’d ever get to that now. He had plans for that life, but he still found it tough to visualize them. They were on the far side of a chasm, and though he could see the bloody bridge, he couldn’t yet see the land on the other end.
Edmund took a deep breath, catching a faint smell of cigarette smoke that shouldn’t be there, and checked his watch. Yes, it was time to go. He turned back to the mirror, smiled at his alien reflection, then headed out to the rental car.
The Mayor of Christ Mountain 
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