welles, clean shaven, picks a clipboard with a file folder and his legal pad on it, thumbs pages. he drums his fingers, opens the glove compartment, pulls out the car's registration, other papers and "jiffy-lube" service reports, uses them to pad the file.
welles drives, tears welling up in his eyes. he has to pull over and park, wiping his tears, fighting for composure.
welles takes the thick thomas guide map book off the dash.
welles leans forward to look up at an old sign of broken neon and peeled paint: "big bear motor lodge."
through the windshield: headlights reveal what's left of the abandoned motor lodge, a registration office at the center with attached wings of rooms on both sides.
welles opens the passenger door and sits, shaken, at his wit's end. he opens the glove compartment, finds cigarettes, digs one out and lights it.
welles climbs in the driver's side, shoves his bloody gun into his holster, tries to wipe blood from his hand onto his shirt, revolted. he starts the car.
welles turns off the engine. he's watching a house on the other side of the street. the house is brick on the bottom, aluminum siding on top, quaint, with brick staircase from the front door down to a garage underneath, plastic pink flamingos on the small lawn.
welles lowers the binoculars, still watching.
welles sees this, keeps low, watching.  the big car backs out into the street. the old woman's behind the wheel, wearing a hat, driving away, alone.
amy sits forward, seeing welles' car in the driveway. cindy's in a child safety seat in back.