Rough Trade

the pipe into the waistband of his pants as he eased his other hand down her blouse, running his tongue across his lips greedily. Chrissy’s face was a frozen mask of revulsion.
    “Stop it!” I shouted helplessly. “The police are on their way. If you don’t touch her it will be easier for you.”
    For a moment I was heartened as he stopped his groping, but it was only long enough to reach his hand back under his tunic. But instead of the pipe he pulled out a gun, a pitiful little snub-nosed thing, the kind that you can pick up anywhere for fifty bucks, but deadly at close range. He jammed it into Chrissy’s neck.
    “Please don’t hurt me,” Chrissy pleaded. It was practically a whisper.
    “Shut up,” he snapped. “I guess if we can’t get your spineless husband to pay for his crimes, we’ll have to make do with you! Come on. We’re going for a ride.”
    “Where are you taking her?” I managed to croak.
    “Don’t you worry, honey, we’re going to have a good time,” he whispered into Chrissy’s ear. The look on her face was desperate, pleading. “I bet you have a real fancy car, too,” he continued almost to himself. He reached down, grabbed the bottom of her shirt, and pulled it up over her head as he dragged her blindly kicking through the door.
    I struggled to my feet, still gasping for oxygen like a beached fish and trying desperately to fight back the dark edge of unconsciousness that threatened to overtake me. My fear for Chrissy overrode everything else. As soon as the Jester had her out of the house, he could take her anywhere, do anything to her. I remembered the terror on her face and I thought of all the bodies of dead women that turn up in ditches every day. I was determined that Chrissy was not going to be one of them.
    I practically clawed my way to the library and reached for the telephone to call the police, praying to hear the message that they were on their way. The line was dead. Suddenly, I remembered Jeff taking it off the hook in the kitchen earlier that morning and sobbed in frustration and disbelief as all hope of being rescued by the police evaporated. From the garage I heard the rumble of Chrissy’s Suburban as the engine sprang to life. Desperately forcing down waves of panic, I realized that I still had one chance to stop them.
    I raced to the front hall where I’d left my briefcase and my purse and scrabbled frantically for my car keys. Then I peeled out the front door, my heart pounding in my chest, terrified that I was already too late.
    The garage was at the back of the house, at the end of the driveway, accessible only by passing under the porte cochere that was set just beyond the circular drive at the front of the house where my ancient Volvo was now parked. I leapt behind the wheel, knowing that if I could somehow block their passage up the driveway, I could at least prevent him from hitting the open road with Chrissy.
    I turned on the ignition and debated waiting until the car phone flickered on, flipped over to roam, and located its signal, but decided against it. I didn’t have enough time. Instead, I waited just long enough to hear the approaching engine of Chrissy’s Suburban. Then I slammed my foot on the gas.
    I bought my Volvo station wagon while I was a third-year law student, shortly after Russell and I became engaged. We chose it because, in the days before air bags, it was considered one of the safest cars on the road. Now, of course, it was on its way to becoming a rusted-out junker. On the other hand, Chrissy’s Suburban was the largest and most modern sports utility vehicle on the market. Equipped with antilock brakes and dual air bags, it also weighed close to six tons, a fact that I was strangely cognizant of as I slammed my foot on the brake, bringing my car to a stop sideways directly in front of hers.
    I braced myself for impact as Chrissy T-boned me with her Suburban. I heard the crumpling of metal and felt the Volvo shudder and give way under the impact. The windshield cracked and disintegrated into a cascade of pebbly glass. My chest hit the steering wheel and my horn sounded in protest. I heard the pop of Chrissy’s air bags, and I was out the door in an instant, propelled by adrenaline and thoughts of the gun.
    I pulled open the passenger door of the Suburban as the Jester cursed and struggled against the air bag. I grabbed him by the leg, the first appendage I was able to get hold of, and pulled him out of the car. I wrestled