A Time to Kill

"The Klan."

"Mickey Mouse?"

"Yeah. He called yesterday and said something was up. He called back two hours ago and said you’re the lucky man. Today is the big day. Time for some excitement. They bury Stump Sisson this morning in Loydsville, and it’s time for the eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth routine."

"Why me? Why don’t they kill Buckley or Noose or someone more deserving?"

"We didn’t get a chance to talk about that."

"What method of execution?" Jake asked, suddenly feeling awkward sitting there in his nightshirt.

"He didn’t say."

"Does he know?"

"He ain’t much on details. He just said they’d try to do it sometime today."

"So what am I supposed to do? Surrender?"

"What time you goin’ to the office?"

"What time is it?"

"Almost five."

"As soon as I can shower and dress."

"We’ll wait."

At five-thirty, they rushed him into his office and locked the door. At eight, a platoon of soldiers gathered on the sidewalk under the balcony and waited for the target. Harry Rex and Ellen watched from the second floor of the courthouse. Jake squeezed between Ozzie and Nesbit, and the three of them crouched in the center tight formation. Off they went across Washington Street in the direction of the courthouse. The vultures sniffed something and surrounded the entourage.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The abandoned feed mill sat near the abandoned railroad tracks halfway down the tallest hill in Clanton, two blocks north and east of the square. Beside it was a neglected asphalt and gravel street that ran downhill and intersected Cedar Street, after which it became much smoother and wider and continued downward until finally it terminated and merged into Quincy Street, the eastern boundary of the Clanton square.

From his position inside an abandoned silo, the marksman had a clear but distant view of the rear of the courthouse. He crouched in the darkness and aimed through a small opening, confident no one in the world could see him. The whiskey helped the confidence, and the aim, which he practiced a thousand times from seven-thirty until eight, when he noticed activity around the nigger’s lawyer’s office.

A comrade waited in a pickup hidden in a run-down warehouse next to the silo. The engine was running and the driver chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, waiting anxiously to hear the clapping sounds from the deer rifle.

As the armored mass stepped its way across Washington, the marksman panicked. Through the scope he could barely see the head of the nigger’s lawyer as it bobbed and weaved awkwardly among the sea of green, which was surrounded and chased by a dozen reporters. Go ahead, the whiskey said, create some excitement. He timed the bobbing and weaving as best he could, and pulled the trigger as the target approached the rear door of the courthouse.

The rifle shot was clear and unmistakable.

Half the soldiers hit the ground rolling and the other half grabbed Jake and threw him violently under the veranda/A guardsman screamed in anguish. The reporters and

TV people crouched and stumbled to the ground, but valiantly kept the cameras rolling to record the carnage. The soldier clutched his throat and screamed again. Another shot. Then another.

"He’s hit!" someone yelled. The soldiers scrambled on all fours across the driveway to the fallen one. Jake escaped through the doors to the safety of the courthouse. He fell onto the floor of the rear entrance and buried his head in his hands. Ozzie stood next to him, watching the soldiers through the door.

The gunman dropped from the silo, threw his gun behind the back seat, and disappeared with his comrade into the countryside. They had a funeral to attend in south Mississippi.

"He’s hit in the throat!" someone screamed as his buddies waded around the reporters. They lifted him and dragged him to a jeep.

"Who got hit?" Jake asked without removing his palms from his eyes.

"One of the guardsmen," Ozzie said. "You okay?"

"I guess," he answered as he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the floor. "Where’s my briefcase?"

"It’s out there on the driveway. We’ll get it in a min-* ute." Ozzie removed his radio from his belt and barked orders to the dispatcher, something about all men to the courthouse.

When it was apparent the shooting was over, Ozzie joined the mass of soldiers outside. Nesbit stood next to Jake. "You okay?" he asked.

The colonel rounded the corner, yelling and swearing. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "I heard some shots."

"Mackenvale got hit."

"Where is he?" the colonel said. –

"Off to the hospital," a sergeant replied, pointing at a jeep flying away in the distance.

"How bad is he?"

"Looked pretty bad. Got him in the throat."

"Throat! Why did they move him?"

No one answered.

"Did anybody see anything?" the colonel demanded.

Sounded like it came from up, Ozzie said the looking up past Cedar Street. "Why don’t you send a jeep up there to look around."

"Good idea." The colonel addressed his eager men with a string of terse commands, punctuated liberally with obscenities. The soldiers scattered in all directions, guns drawn and ready for combat, in search of an assassin they could not identify, who was, in fact, in the next county when the foot patrol began exploring the abandoned feed mill.

Ozzie laid the briefcase on the floor next to Jake. "Is Jake okay?" he whispered to Nesbit. Harry Rex and Ellen stood on the stairs where Cobb and Willard had fallen.

"I don’t know. He ain’t moved in ten minutes," Nesbit said.

"Jake, are you all right?" the sheriff asked.

"Yes," he said slowly without opening his eyes. The soldier had been on Jake’s left shoulder. "This is kinda silly, ain’t it?" he had just said to Jake when a bullet ripped through his throat. He fell into Jake, grabbing at his neck, gurgling blood and screaming. Jake fell, and was tossed to safety.

"He’s dead, isn’t he?" Jake asked softly.

"We don’t know yet," replied Ozzie. "He’s at the hospital."

"He’s dead. I know he’s dead. I heard his neck pop."

Ozzie looked at Nesbit, then at Harry Rex. Four or five coin-sized drops of blood were splattered on Jake’s light gray suit. He hadn’t noticed them yet, but they were apparent to everyone else.

"Jake, you’ve got blood on your suit," Ozzie finally said. "Let’s go back to your office so you can change clothes."

"Why is that important?" Jake mumbled to the floor. They stared at each other.

Dell and the others from the Coffee Shop stood on the sidewalk and watched as they led Jake from the courthouse, across the street, and into his office, ignoring the absurdities thrown by the reporters. Harry Rex locked the front door, leaving the bodyguards on the sidewalk. Jake went upstairs and removed his coat.

"Row Ark, why don’t you make some margaritas," Harry Rex said. "I’ll go upstairs and stay with him."

"Judge, we’ve had some excitement," Ozzie explained as Noose unpacked his briefcase and removed his coat.

"What is it?" Buckley asked.

"They tried to kill Jake this mornin’."

"What!"

"When?" asked Buckley.

" ‘Bout an hour ago, somebody shot at Jake as he was comin’ into the courthouse. It was a rifle at long range. We have no idea who did it. They missed Jake and hit a guardsman. He’s in surgery now."