Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

Drew ran up the stairs, and as Kiera opened the door, he cried, “She’s dead, Kiera, Mom’s dead. Stu’s killed her. She’s on the kitchen floor and she’s dead.”

Kiera recoiled and shrieked and grabbed her brother. Both were in tears as they went down the stairs and to the kitchen where they cradled their mother’s head. Kiera was weeping and whispering, “Wake up, Mom! Please wake up!”

Drew delicately grabbed his mother’s left wrist and tried to check her pulse, though he wasn’t sure he was doing it properly. He felt nothing.

He said, “We gotta call 911.”

“Where is he?” she asked, glancing around.

“In the bed, asleep. I think he passed out.”

“I’m holding Mom. You go call.”

Drew went to the den, turned on a light, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. After many rings the dispatcher finally said, “911. What’s your emergency?”

“My mother has been killed by Stuart Kofer. She’s dead.”

“Son, who is this?”

“I’m Drew Gamble. My mother is Josie. She’s dead.”

“And where do you live?”

“Stuart Kofer’s house, out on Bart Road. Fourteen-fourteen Bart Road. Please send someone to help us.”

“I will, I will. They’re on the way. And you say she’s dead. How do you know she’s dead?”

“ ’Cause she ain’t breathing. ’Cause Stuart beat her again, same as always.”

“Is Stuart Kofer in the house?”

“Yep, it’s his house and we just live here. He came in drunk again and beat my mother. He killed her. We heard him do it.”

“Where is he?”

“On his bed. Passed out. Please hurry.”

“You stay on the line, okay?”

“No. I’m checkin’ on my mom.”

He hung up and grabbed a quilt from the sofa. Kiera had Josie’s face cradled in her lap, gently rubbing her hair as she wept and kept saying, “Come on, Mom, please wake up. Please wake up. Don’t leave us, Mom.” Drew covered his mother with the quilt, then sat by her feet. He closed his eyes and pinched his nose and tried to pray. The house was still, silent; the only sounds were Kiera’s whimpering as she begged her mother. Minutes passed and Drew willed himself to stop crying and do something to protect them. Stuart might be asleep back there but he might wake up, too, and if he caught them downstairs he would fly into a rage and beat them.

He had done that before: get drunk, rage, threaten, slap, pass out, then wake up ready for another round of fun.

Then he snorted and made a drunken noise, and Drew was afraid he might wake himself from his drunkenness. Drew said, “Kiera, be quiet,” but she did not hear him. She was in a trance, pawing at her mother as tears dripped from her cheeks.

Slowly, Drew crawled away and left the kitchen. In the hall he crouched and tiptoed back to the bedroom where Stuart hadn’t moved. His boots still hung off the bed. His stocky body was spread across the covers. His mouth was open wide enough to catch flies. Drew stared at him with a hatred that almost blinded him. The brute had finally killed their mother, after months of trying, and he would certainly kill them next. And no one would bother Stuart for it because he had connections and knew important people, something he often bragged about. They were nothing but white trash, castaways from the trailer parks, but Stuart had clout because he owned land and carried a badge.

Drew took a step back and looked down the hall where he saw his mother lying on the floor and his sister holding her head and moaning in a low pained hum, completely detached, and he walked to a corner of the bedroom, to a small table on Stuart’s side of the bed where he kept his pistol and his thick black belt and holster and his badge in the shape of a star. He took the gun out of the holster and remembered how heavy it was. The pistol, a Glock nine-millimeter, was used by all deputies on the force. It was against the rules for a civilian to handle it. Stu cared little for silly rules, and one day not long ago when he was sober and in a rare good mood he walked Drew to the back pasture and showed him how to handle and fire the weapon. Stu had been raised with guns; Drew had not, and Stu poked fun at the kid for his ignorance. He boasted of killing his first deer when he was eight years old.

Drew had fired the gun three times, badly missing an archery target, and was frightened by the kick and noise of the gun. Stu had laughed at him for his timidity, then fired six quick rounds into the bull’s-eye.

Drew held the gun with his right hand and examined it. He knew it was loaded because Stu’s guns were always at the ready. There was a cabinet in the closet packed with rifles and shotguns, all loaded.

In the distance Kiera was moaning and crying, and before him Stu was snoring, and soon the police would come barging in and they would eventually do as little as they had done before. Nothing. Nothing to protect Drew and Kiera, not even now with their mother lying dead on the kitchen floor. Stuart Kofer had killed her, and he would tell lies and the police would believe him. Then Drew and his sister would face an even darker future without their mother.

He left the room holding the Glock and slowly walked to the kitchen, where nothing had changed. He asked Kiera if their mother was breathing and she did not respond, did not interrupt her noises. He walked to the den and looked out the window into the darkness. If he had a father he didn’t know him, and once again he asked himself where was the man of the family? Where was the leader, the wise one who gave advice and protection? He and Kiera had never known the security of two stable parents. They had met other fathers in foster care, and they had met youth court advocates who had tried to help, but they had never known the warm embrace of a man they could trust.

The responsibilities were left to him, the oldest. With their mother gone, he had no choice but to step up and become a man. He and he alone had to save them from a prolonged nightmare.

A noise startled him. There was a groan or a snort or some such noise from the bedroom and the box spring and mattress rattled and heaved, as if Stu was moving and coming back to life.

Drew and Kiera could not take any more. The moment had come, their only chance to survive was at hand, and Drew had to act. He returned to the bedroom and stared at Stu, still on his back and dead to the world, but oddly one boot was off and on the floor. Dead was what he deserved. Drew slowly closed the door, as if to protect Kiera from any involvement. How easy would it be? Drew clasped the pistol with both hands. He held his breath and lowered the gun until the tip of the barrel was an inch from Stu’s left temple.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

2

Kiera never looked up. She stroked her mother’s hair and asked, “What did you do?”

“I shot him,” Drew said matter-of-factly. His voice had no expression, no fear or regret. “I shot him.”

She nodded and said nothing else. He went to the den and looked out the front window again. Where were the red and blue lights? Where were the responders? You call and report your mother has been killed by a brute and no one shows up. He turned on a lamp and glanced at the clock. 2:47. He would always remember the exact moment he shot Stuart Kofer. His hands were shaking and numb, his ears were ringing, but at 2:47 a.m. he had no regrets for killing the man who’d killed his mother. He walked back to the bedroom and turned on the ceiling light. The gun was beside Stu’s head, which had a small, ugly hole in the left side. Stu was still looking at the ceiling, now with his eyes open. A circle of bright red blood was spreading in an arc through the sheets.

Drew walked back to the kitchen, where nothing had changed. He went to the den, turned on another light, opened the front door, and took a seat in Stu’s recliner. Stu would have a fit if he caught anyone else sitting on his throne. It smelled like him—stale cigarettes, dried sweat, old leather, whiskey and beer. After a few minutes, Drew decided he hated the recliner, so he pulled a small chair to the window to wait for the lights.