John Grisham

It starts at seven, and just to be safe we drive by the softball field. PFX Freight is indeed on the field. I speed away. I’ve never done anything like this before, and I’m quite nervous. In fact, we’re both scared. We don’t say much. The closer we get to the apartment, the faster I drive. I have a .38 under my seat, and I plan to keep it close by.

Assuming he hasn’t changed the locks, Kelly thinks we can be in and out in less than ten minutes. She wants to grab most of her clothes and a few other items. Ten minutes is the max, I tell her, because there might be neighbors watching. And these neighbors might be inclined to call Cliff, and, well, who knows.

Her wounds were inflicted five nights ago, and most of the soreness is gone. She can walk without pain. She says she’s strong enough to grab clothing and move about quickly. It’ll take both of us.

The apartment complex is fifteen minutes from the softball field. It consists of a half-dozen three-story buildings scattered around a pool and two tennis courts. Sixty-eight units, the sign says. Thankfully, her former apartment is on the ground floor. I can’t park anywhere near her door, so I decide that we’ll first enter the apartment, quietly gather the things we want, then I’ll pull onto the grass, throw everything into the backseat, and we’ll fly away.

I park the car, and take a deep breath.

"Are you scared?" she asks.

"Yes." I reach under the seat and get the gun.

"Relax, he’s at the ball field. He wouldn’t miss it for the world."

"If you say so. Let’s do it."

We sneak through the darkness to her unit without seeing another person. Her key fits, the door is open, we’re inside. A light in the kitchen and one in the hallway are on and provide sufficient lighting. Clothing is strewn across two chairs in the den. Empty beer cans and corn chip bags litter the end tables and the floor under them. Cliff the bachelor has been quite a slob. She stops for a second, looks around in disgust, says, "I’m sorry."

"Hurry, Kelly," I say. I place the gun on a narrow snack bar separating the den from the kitchen. We go to the bedroom, where I turn on a small lamp. The bed hasn’t been made in days. More beer cans and a pizza box. A Playboy. She points to the drawers in a small cheap dresser. "That’s my stuff," she says. We’re whispering.

I remove the pillowcases and begin stuffing them with lingerie, socks and pajamas. Kelly is pulling clothes from the closet. I take a load of dresses and blouses to the den and drape them across a chair, then go back to the bedroom. "You can’t take everything," I say, looking at the packed closet. She says nothing, hands me another load, and I take it to the den. We work quickly, silently.

I feel like a thief. Every movement makes too much noise. My heart is pounding as I race back and forth to the den with each load.

"That’s enough," I finally say. She carries a stuffed pillowcase and I carry several dresses on hangers, and I follow her to the den. "Let’s get out of here," I say, nervous as hell.

There’s a slight noise at the door. Someone’s trying to get in. We freeze and look at each other. She takes a step toward the door, when it suddenly bursts open, striking

her and knocking her into the wall. Cliff Riker crashes into the room. "Kelly! I’m home!" he yells as he sees her falling over a chair. I am standing directly in front of him, less than ten feet away, and he’s moving quickly, a blur, all I can see is his yellow PFX Freight jersey, his red eyes and his weapon of choice. I freeze in absolute terror as he coils the aluminum softball bat and whirls it around mightily at my head. "You sonofabitch!" he screams as he unloads a massive swing. Frozen though I am, I’m able to duck just milliseconds before the bat blows by above me. I hear it whistle by. I feel its force. His home run stroke connects with a hapless little wooden column on the edge of the snack bar, shattering it into a million pieces and knocking over a pile of dirty dishes. Kelly screams. The swing was designed to crush my skull, and when it missed, his body kept whirling so that his back is to me. I charge like a madman, and knock him over the chair filled with hangers and clothes. Kelly screams again somewhere behind us. "Get the gun!" I yell.

He’s quick and strong and on his feet before I can regain my balance. "I’ll kill you!" he yells, swinging again, missing again as I barely dodge another hit. The second stroke gets nothing but air. "You sonofabitch!" he growls as he jerks the bat around.

He will not get a third chance, I decide quickly. Before he can cock the bat, I lunge at his face with a right hook. It lands on his jaw and stuns him just long enough for me to lack him in the crotch. My foot lands perfectly. I can hear and feel his testicles pop as he explodes in an agonized cry. He lowers the bat, I grab it and twist it away.

I swing hard and catch him directly across his left ear, and the noise is almost sickening. Bones crunch and break. He falls to all fours, his head dangling for a second, then he turns and looks at me. He raises his head and starts to get up. My second swing starts at the ceiling and

falls with all the force I can muster. I drive the bat down with all the hatred and fear imaginable, and it lands solidly across the top of his head.

I start to swing again, when Kelly grabs me. "Stop it, Rudy!"

I stop, glare at her, then look at Cliff. He’s flat on his stomach, shaking and moaning. We watch in horror as he grows still. An occasional twitch, then he tries to say something. A nauseating guttural sound comes out. He tries to move his head, which is bleeding like crazy.

"I’m going to kill the bastard, Kelly," I say, breathing heavily, still scared, still in a rage.

"No."

"Yes. He would’ve killed us."

"Give me the bat," she says.

"What?"

"Give me the bat, and leave."

I’m amazed at how calm she is at this moment. She knows precisely what has to be done.

"What . . . ?" I try to ask, looking at her, looking at him.

She takes the bat from my hands. "I’ve been here before. Leave. Go hide. You were not here tonight. I’ll call you later."

I can do nothing but stand still and look at the struggling, dying man on the floor.

"Please go, Rudy," she says, gently pushing me toward the door. "I’ll call you later."

"Okay, okay." I step into the kitchen, pick up the .38 and walk back to the den. We look at each other, then our eyes fall to the floor. I step outside. I close the door quietly behind me, and look around for nosy neighbors. I see no one. I hesitate for a moment and hear nothing from inside the apartment.

I feel nauseated. I sneak away in the darkness, my skin suddenly covered with perspiration.

IT TAKES TEN MINUTES for the first police car to arrive. A second quickly follows. Then an ambulance. I sit low in the Volvo in a crowded parking lot, watching it all. The paramedics scramble into the apartment. Another police car. Red and blue lights illuminate the night and attract a large crowd. Minutes pass, and there’s no sign of Cliff. A paramedic appears in the doorway and takes his time retrieving something from the ambulance. He’s in no hurry.

Kelly’s in there alone and scared and answering a hundred questions about how it happened, and here I sit, suddenly Mr. Chickenshit, ducking low behind my steering wheel and hoping no one sees me. Why did I leave her in there? Should I go save her? My head spins wildly and my vision is blurred, and the frantic flashing of the red and blue lights blinds me.

He can’t be dead. Maimed maybe. But not dead.

I think I’ll go back in there.

The shock wears off and the fear hits hard. I want them to bring Cliff out on a stretcher and race away with him, take him to the hospital, patch him up. I -suddenly want him to live. I can deal with him as a living person, though a crazy one. Come on, Cliff. Come on, big boy. Get up and walk out of there.