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4EXT -- PLYMOUTH -- NIGHT (1946)

His wingtip shoes crunch on gravel. Loose bullets scatter to the ground. The bourbon bottle drops and shatters.

He starts up the path, unsteady on his feet. The closer he gets, the louder the lovemaking becomes. Louder and more frenzied. The lovers are reaching a climax, their sounds of passion degenerating into rhythmic gasps and grunts.

WOMAN (O.S.)

Oh god...oh god...oh god... Andy

lurches to a stop, listening. The

woman cries out in

orgasm. The sound slams into Andy's brain like an icepick. He shuts his eyes tightly, wishing the sound would stop. It finally does, dying away like a siren until all that's left is the shallow gasping and panting of post-coitus. We hear languorous laughter, moans of satisfaction.

WOMAN (O.S.) (CONT'D)

Oh god...that's sooo good...you're

the best...the best I ever had...

Andy just stands and listens, devastated. He doesn't look like much of a killer now; he's just a sad little man on a dirt path in the woods, tears streaming down his face, a loaded gun held loosely at his side. A pathetic figure, really.

FADE TO BLACK:

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