Rough Justice by Andrew Klavan Read Free Book Online Page A

Under the chin. Try to knock him out, knock him back, just knock him away long enough for me to get out of there.
    Instead, I caught his throat. I felt my knuckles strike against the yielding flesh and cartilage. I heard a damp crack. I felt something buckle under the blow.
    Then I was staggering after my follow-through. The cord slipped off my shoulder. The other man was reeling back, his arms pinwheeling. Just as I steadied myself, he went over. He hit a lampstand. It tumbled to the floor, lamp and all, and he went down with it.
    I looked around me. I still couldn’t breathe. I hardly knew where I was. My neck burned. My head throbbed. I couldn’t think. I remembered the pinetops of Maine.
    Then I heard the man on the floor. I heard him making noises, terrible noises. I lumbered over to him.
    He was rolling, tangled in the lamp’s wire. Rolling this way and that, trapped between the toppled lampstand and the leg of a table. One of his hands flailed up in the air. With the other, he clutched his throat just like I’d clutched mine. He was making a steady gurgling noise. Other than that, he was eerily quiet.
    â€œWhat …?” I said hoarsely, still gasping for air.
    He kicked his legs helplessly. He thrashed back and forth. He reached up toward me. He made that noise.
    Dread clenched in me like a fist. I stumbled back to the wall. I hit the light switch. Now I could see him. He was a kid. A boy with short sandy hair. I’d never seen him before.
    His body rolled wildly over the floor. His face was purple. His eyes were bulging. Spit dribbled down the side of his throat. His legs kept kicking. His hand clawed the air.
    â€œOh Jesus, Jesus,” I heard myself say. My voice seemed to come from a great distance.
    I tried to rush to him. But the atmosphere had turned to water. I could only swim in slow motion against the tide. I watched myself swim. Through the familiar apartment. Past the rickety wooden chairs from the thrift shop on Lexington. I wanted to scream my frustration and panic. The man was strangling while I struggled to him step after slow step.
    I was still coughing as I knelt down next to him. I grabbed him. Pried his hand away from his throat. His mouth was open. His tongue was wagging. There was a weird depression where his Adam’s apple should have been. I touched it desperately, tried to mold it back into shape.
    â€œOh Jesus, Jesus,” I said.
    The kid kept choking. The purple of his face deepened. He grabbed at me, grabbed my shoulder. His eyes were bright. They were staring at me. They were pleading.
    â€œOh Christ, oh wait!”
    I pulled free of him, clawed my way to my feet. I went for the phone on the table by the window. Swam to it in slow, slow motion. Tripped over the lampstand as I swam. Fell past it. Got hold of the table’s edge.
    The man thrashed. The gurgling noise became a high steady whine.
    I picked up the receiver, knocking the phone to the floor.
    â€œGod damn, damn it!” I screamed.
    I went to my knees. My fingers found the phone. They were shaking. I forced them in the dial. I dialed 911. I heard the ringing of the other line.
    â€œPlease, please,” I said. I wiped sweat from my face. I sat on the floor, the phone clutched to my ear. I stared at the man in front of me.
    His thrashing slowed. The phone rang. He rolled onto his back. His hand clutched his throat again. I still could hear that high whine. I still couldn’t think.
    Then a woman’s voice on the phone: “Emergency.”
    â€œPlease …” I said. A hoarse whisper. The words slurred. “Please help me.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem, sir? Can you tell me the problem?”
    â€œI hit him. I … Please. I’m hurt. I can’t …”
    â€œYou’ll have to calm down, sir. Where are you? Can you tell me your location?”
    â€œLocation?” I put my hand to my forehead. My head kept throbbing. My pulse kept