John Grisham - The Client

And oddly, at that moment, she knew they couldn’t run. The three grave robbers were now between them and their car. There was no escape.

The shotgun blast brought the neighborhood to life. Floodlights filled backyards as men and women in bathrobes walked onto patios and looked in the direction of the Ballantines’. Voices shouted inquiries across fences. Dogs came to life. Mark and Reggie withdrew deeper into the brush.

Mr. Ballantine and one of the cops walked along the rear fence, searching perhaps for more felonious rocks. It was hopeless. Reggie and Mark could hear voices, but they could not understand what was being said. Mr. Ballantine yelled a lot.

The cops settled him down, then helped him tape clear plastic over the window. The red and blue lights were turned off, and after twenty minutes, the cops left.

Reggie and Mark waited, trembling and holding hands. Bugs crawled over their skin. The mosquitoes were brutal. The weeds and burrs stuck to their dark sweatshirts. The lights in the Ballantine house finally went off, and they waited some more.

A few minutes after one, the clouds broke and the half-moon lightened Romey’s backyard and garage for a moment. Reggie glanced at her watch. Her legs were numb from squatting. Her back ached from sitting on her tail. Oddly, though, she had become accustomed to her little spot in the jungle, and after surviving the thugs, the cops, and the idiot with the shotgun, she was feeling remarkably safe. Her breathing and pulse were normal. She was not sweating, though her jeans and shirt were still wet from exertion and humidity. Mark swatted and slapped mosquitoes, and said little. He was eerily calm. He chewed on a weed, watched the fence row, and acted as if he and he alone knew precisely when to make the next move.

“Let’s go for a little walk,” he said, rising from his knees.

“Where to? The car?”

“No. Just down the trail. My leg is about to cramp.”

Her right leg was numb below the knee. Her left leg was dead below the hip, and she stood with great difficulty. She followed him through the brush until they were on the small trail parallel to the creek. He moved deftly through the darkness without the benefit of the flashlight, swatting mosquitoes and stretching his legs.

They stopped deep in the woods, out of sight of the fence rows of Romey’s neighbors.

“I really think we should leave now,” she said, a bit louder since the houses were no longer in view. “I have this fear of snakes, you see, and I don’t want to step on one.”

He did not look at her, but stared in the direction of the ditch. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave now,” he whispered.

She knew he had a reason for saying this. She’d not won an argument in the past six hours. “Why?”

“Because those men could still be around here. In fact, they could be close by waiting for things to settle down so they can return. If we head for the car, we might meet them.”

“Mark, I can’t take any more of this, okay? This may be fun and games for you, but I’m fifty-two years old and I’ve had it. I can’t believe I’m hiding in this jungle at one o’clock in the morning.”

He put his forefinger over his lips. “Shhhhhh. You’re talking too loud. And this isn’t a game.”

“Dammit, I know it’s not a game! Don’t lecture me.”

“Keep your cool, Reggie. We’re safe now.”

“Safe my ass! I won’t feel safe until I lock the door at the motel.”

“Then leave. Go on. Find your way back to the car, and leave.”

“Sure, and let me guess. You’ll stay here, right?”

The moonlight disappeared, and suddenly the woods were darker. He turned his back to her and began walking toward their hiding place. She instinctively followed him, and this irritated her because at that moment she was depending on an eleven-year-old. But she followed him anyway, along a trail invisible to her, through the dense woods to the undergrowth, to about the same point where they’d waited before. The garage was barely visible.

The blood had returned to her legs, though they were very stiff. Her lower back throbbed. She could rub her hand across her forearm and feel the bumps from the mosquito bites. There was a thin sliver of blood on the back of her left hand, probably from a sticker in the brush or perhaps a weed. If she ever made it back to Memphis, she vowed to join a health club and get in shape. Not that she planned any more ventures like this, but she was tired of aching and gasping for breath.

Mark lowered onto one knee, stuck another weed in his mouth to chew on, and watched the garage.

They waited, almost in silence, for an hour. When she’d reached the point of leaving him and running wildly through the woods, Reggie said, “Okay, Mark, I’m leaving. Do what you’ve got to do, because I’m leaving now.” But she didn’t move.

They crouched together, and he pointed at the garage as if she didn’t know where it was. “I’m crawling up there, okay, with the flashlight, and I’m looking at the body, or the grave, or whatever they were digging at, okay?”

“No.”

“It won’t take but a second, maybe. If I’m lucky, I’ll be right back.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“No. I want you to stay here. I’m worried that those guys are watching too, somewhere along the tree line. If they come after me, I want you to start yelling and run like crazy.”

“No. No way, sweetheart. If you’re looking at the body, then I’m looking at the body, and I’m not arguing about it. That’s final.”

He looked at her eyes, four or five inches away, and decided not to argue. Her head was shaking and her jaw was tight. She looked cute under the cap.

“Then follow me, Reggie. Stay low, and listen. Always listen, okay.”

“All right, all right. I’m not totally helpless. In fact, I’m getting pretty good at crawling.”

They attacked from the brush on all fours again, two figures sliding in the still darkness. The grass was wet and cool. The gate, still open from the hasty retreat of the grave robbers, squeaked slightly when Reggie hooked it with a foot. Mark glared at her. They stopped behind the first tree, then eased to the next. Not a sound from anywhere. It was 2 A.M., and the neighborhood was silent. Mark, however, was worried about the nut next door with the gun. He doubted the man would sleep well with a thin sheet of plastic over the window, and he could envision him sitting in the kitchen watching the patio and waiting for the snap of a twig before he began blasting away again. They stopped at the next tree, then crawled to the junk pile.

She nodded once, taking small, quick breaths. They crouched and darted to the rear door of the garage, which was slightly open. Mark stuck his head inside. He turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the floor. Reggie eased in behind him.

The odor was thick and pungent, like a dead animal rotting in the sun. Reggie instinctively covered her nose and mouth. Mark breathed deeply, then held his breath.

The only open space in the cluttered room was in the center, where the boat had been parked. They crouched over the concrete slab. “I’m getting sick,” Reggie said, barely opening her mouth.

Another ten minutes, and the body would have been out. They had started in the center, somewhere around the torso, and chipped away at each side. The black garbage bags, partially decomposed by the cement, had been ripped away. A ragged little trench had been cut away toward the feet and knees.

Mark had seen enough. He picked up a chisel, one that had been left behind, and jabbed it into black plastic.

“Don’t!” Reggie whispered loudly, backing away but still seeing it all.

He ripped through the garbage bag with the chisel, and followed it closely with the light. He made a slow turn, then pulled the plastic with his hand. He bolted upright in horror, then slowly placed the light squarely into the decaying face of the late Senator Boyd Boyette.