John Grisham: The Client

Ricky heard the car first. There was a low, rushing sound coming from the dirt road. Then Mark heard it, and they stopped smoking. “Just sit still,” Mark said softly. They did not move.

A long black, shiny Lincoln appeared over the slight hill and eased toward them. The weeds in the road were as high as the front bumper. Mark dropped his cigarette to the ground and covered it with his shoe. Ricky did the same.

The car slowed almost to a stop as it neared the clearing, then circled around, touching the tree limbs as it moved slowly. It stopped and faced the road. The boys were directly behind it and hidden from view. Mark slid off the log and crawled through the weeds to a row of brush at the edge of the clearing. Ricky followed. The rear of the Lincoln was thirty feet away. They watched it carefully. It had Louisiana license plates.

“What’s he doing?” Ricky whispered.

Mark peeked through the weeds. “Shhhhh!” He had heard stories around the trailer park of teenagers using these woods to meet girls and smoke pot, but this car did not belong to a teenager. The engine quit, and the car just sat there in the weeds for a minute. Then the door opened, and the driver stepped into the weeds and looked around. He was a chubby man in a black suit. His head was fat and round and without hair except for neat rows above the ears and a black-and-gray beard. He stumbled to the rear of the car, fumbled with the keys, and finally opened the trunk. He removed a water hose, stuck one end into the exhaust pipe, and ran the other end through a crack in the left rear window. He closed the trunk, looked around again as if he were expecting to be watched, then disappeared into the car.

The engine started.

“Wow,” Mark said softly, staring blankly at the car.

“What’s he doing?” Ricky asked.

“He’s trying to kill himself.”

Ricky raised his head a few inches for a better view. “I don’t understand, Mark.”

“Keep down. You see the hose, right? The fumes from the tail pipe go into the car, and it kills him.”

“You mean suicide?”

“Right. I saw a guy do it like this in a movie once.”

They leaned closer to the weeds and stared at the hose running from the pipe to the window. The engine idled smoothly.

“Why does he want to kill himself?” Ricky asked.

“How am I supposed to know? But we gotta do something.”

“Yeah, let’s get the hell outta here.”

“No. Just be still a minute.”

“I’m leaving, Mark. You can watch him die if you want to, but I’m gone.”

Mark grabbed his brother’s shoulder and forced him lower. Ricky’s breathing was heavy and they were both sweating. The sun hid behind a cloud.

“How long does it take?” Ricky asked, his voice quivering.

“Not very long.” Mark released his brother and eased onto all fours. “You stay here, okay. If you move, I’ll kick your tail.”

“What’re you doing, Mark?”

“Just stay here. I mean it.” Mark lowered his thin body almost to the ground and crawled on elbows and knees through the weeds toward the car. The grass was dry and at least two feet tall. He knew the man couldn’t hear him, but he worried about the movement of the weeds. He stayed directly behind the car and slid snakelike on his belly until he was in the shadow of the trunk. He reached and carefully eased the hose from the tail pipe, and dropped it to the ground. He retraced his trail with a bit more speed, and seconds later was crouched next to Ricky, watching and waiting in the heavier grass and brush under the outermost limbs of the tree. He knew that if they were spotted, they could dart past the tree and down their trail and be gone before the chubby man could catch them.

They waited. Five minutes passed, though it seemed like an hour.

“You think he’s dead?” Ricky whispered, his voice dry and weak.

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly, the door opened, and the man stepped out. He was crying and mumbling, and he staggered to the rear of the car, where he saw the hose in the grass, and cursed it as he shoved it back into the tail pipe. He held a bottle of whiskey and looked around wildly at the trees, then stumbled back into the car. He mumbled to himself as he slammed the door.

The boys watched in horror.

“He’s crazy as hell,” Mark said faintly.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ricky said.

“We can’t! If he kills himself, and we saw it or knew about it, then we could get in all kinds of trouble.”

Ricky raised his head as if to retreat. “Then we won’t tell anybody. Come on, Mark!”

Mark grabbed his shoulder again and forced him to the ground. “Just stay down! We’re not leaving until I say we’re leaving!”

Ricky closed his eyes tightly and started crying. Mark shook his head in disgust but didn’t take his eyes off the car. Little brothers were more trouble than they were worth. “Stop it,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“I’m scared.”

“Fine. Just don’t move, okay. Do you hear me? Don’t move. And stop the crying.” Mark was back on his elbows, deep in the weeds and preparing to ease through the tall grass once more.

“Just let him die, Mark,” Ricky whispered between sobs.

Mark glared at him over his shoulder and eased toward the car, which was still running. He crawled along his same trail of lightly trampled grass so slowly and carefully that even Ricky, with dry eyes now, could barely see him. Ricky watched the driver’s door, waiting for it to fly open and the crazy man to lunge out and kill Mark. He perched on his toes in a sprinter’s stance for a quick getaway through the woods. He saw Mark emerge under the rear bumper, place a hand for balance on the taillight, and slowly ease the hose from the tail pipe. The grass crackled softly and the weeds shook a little and Mark was next to him again, panting and sweating and, oddly, smiling to himself.

They sat on their legs like two insects under the brush, and watched the car.

“What if he comes out again?” Ricky asked. “What if he sees us?”

“He can’t see us. But if he starts this way, just follow me. We’ll be gone before he can take a step.”

“Why don’t we go now?”

Mark stared at him fiercely. “I’m trying to save his life, okay? Maybe, just maybe, he’ll see that this is not working, and maybe he’ll decide he should wait or something. Why is that so hard to understand?”

“Because he’s crazy. If he’ll kill himself, then he’ll kill us. Why is that so hard to understand?”

Mark shook his head in frustration, and suddenly the door opened again. The man rolled out of the car growling and talking to himself, and stomped through the grass to the rear. He grabbed the end of the hose, stared at it as if it just wouldn’t behave, and looked slowly around the small clearing. He was breathing heavily and perspiring. He looked at the trees, and the boys eased to the ground. He looked down, and froze as if he suddenly understood. The grass was slightly trampled around the rear of the car and he knelt as if to inspect it, but then crammed the hose back into the tail pipe instead and hurried back to his door. If someone was watching from the trees, he seemed not to care. He just wanted to hurry up and die.

The two heads rose together above the brush, but just a few inches. They peeked through the weeds for a minute. Ricky was ready to run, but Mark was thinking.

“Mark, please, let’s go,” Ricky pleaded. “He almost saw us. What if he’s got a gun or something?”

“If he had a gun, he’d use it on himself.”

Ricky bit his lip and his eyes watered again. He had never won an argument with his brother, and he would not win this one.

Another minute passed, and Mark began to fidget. “I’ll try one more time, okay. And if he doesn’t give up, then we’ll get outta here. I promise, okay?”