porch. Ozzie and Nesbit, it was finally determined.
"Can I help you?" he asked as he opened the door. They followed him into the den.
"They're gonna kill you today," Ozzie said.
Jake sat on the couch and massaged his temples. "Maybe they'll succeed."
"Jake, this is serious. They plan to kill you."
"Who?"
"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.