A time to kill

"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.

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.