Chiefs (37 page)

“Have to get a hundred and twenty-five for that one. You picked the best one in the store, right off.”

“Throw in a couple of boxes of shells and done,” she said.

“Fair enough, I reckon.”

She began writing him a check. “Let me have a box of number-nine bird shot and one of double-aught buckshot.”

He plunked the boxes down onto the counter. “Double-aught, huh? You must have some pretty big birds out there on your place.”

“The biggest,” she said, crooking the shotgun under her arm and scooping up the shells, “white-sheeted yellowbellies.”

“Huh?”

She paused at the back door. “And Mac, if you tell Billy I bought this, I’ll come back and use it on you.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Mum’s the word, Patricia. Mum’s the word.”

It was just past eleven o’clock before she heard the cars. She hadn’t really believed they would come, but she was glad they had. She was mad as hell.

She slipped out of and behind the darkened trailer, as the cars turned into the drive and stopped, dousing their lights. They didn’t need the headlights, because she had turned on every light in the new house, including the outdoor flood lamps that illuminated the drive.

She knelt behind the trailer and set both boxes of shells on an upturned cement block. She loaded with the number-nine bird shot and snapped the gun shut, slipping off the safety. She stretched out prone. The double-aught buckshot stood open and ready, just in case they came at her.

She could see the men now, lighting torches. My God, they were really wearing bed sheets, she thought. How absurd. The men, eight of them, spread out and walked abreast up the newly planted lawn. They stopped short of the driveway, and one of them stepped forward of the others. “Billy Lee,” he shouted, “come out and answer the justice of the Klan.”

Patricial judged that about sixty yards separated them from her. She cradled the shotgun in her left hand, her forearm vertical, her elbow well planted. She aimed low at the speaker and squeezed off a round. The shot scattered, as she had thought it would, and the leader and one other man caught some pellets. There was a roar of cursing and yelling. She shifted her aim to the right a bit and fired again, peppering another man. They were running now, one of them clutching at his backside. She stood up and quickly reloaded.

She stood at the comer of the trailer and fired both barrels into the air. The noise was tremendous. She managed to reload and fire two more rounds before they were able to reach the cars and tear out of the drive.

She sat down on the steps of the trailer. She was trembling, she noticed, but she had never in her life felt more jubilant. She did not notice another car drive past, driven by Ralph McKibbon of McKibbon’s Hardware, who was laughing so hard he was crying. On the front seat beside him was an unplugged pump shotgun, loaded with buckshot, which he was glad not to have had to use. He could not wait to tell his wife about this.

After a few minutes Patricia went into the trailer, cleaned the shotgun, and hid it and the shells. When Billy came home she was in bed reading.

“Hello, how did it go?”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Pretty good, I guess. Sorry to be so late. The meeting after the dinner dragged on a little.”

“Did you get any questions about the police thing?”

“One. All I could say was that it would go to the grand jury, and we’d see what happened there. As a lawyer, I can hardly let myself get in a position where I’m seeming to go outside the legal process.”

“I suppose not.”

“Did the
Messenger
come? I want to see Bob Blankenship’s editorial.”

“It’s on the kitchen table. I haven’t had a chance to look at it myself.”

Billy retrieved the newspaper and searched the front page. There was a short article in the bottom right-hand corner laying out the bare facts of the case. There was no mention of Marshall’s statement to Tom Mudter. Confused, Billy looked for an editorial inside, but found nothing. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “Bob took all these notes and promised to run a big editorial. He was mad as hell when the council didn’t suspend Butts and Ward. I’m going to call him.”

“It’s a little late, isn’t it? Why don’t you talk to him in the morning?”

“Dammit,” he said, “I was counting on Blankenship to help get opinion stirred up. There’s no chance of that now. Bert Hill says the way his calendar is moving, it’s going to be Tuesday before this reaches the grand jury, and the paper doesn’t come out again until next Thursday.”

“And Tuesday is election day.”

“Yeah.”

Chapter 21.

FOXY FUNDERBURKE hated to go to town on Saturdays. The streets were crowded, it was difficult to find a parking place, and it was hard to get waited on in the stores. But this Saturday he had a broken toilet, and he had to have a part from town. After circling the block twice, he found a parking spot in front of McKibbon’s Hardware.

He was right, the store was crowded. Rather than wait for help, he began rummaging about, looking for the plumbing he needed.

“Lord, Harry, you should have seen it.” It was Ralph McKibbon’s voice, coming from behind a row of shelves. “Earl Timmons’s sister-in-law is a nurse over at LaGrange hospital, and she said four fellows showed up there at one o’clock Friday morning, said they’d been in somebody’s watermelon patch, all of ‘em had a butt full of bird shot, more or less. They didn’t give their right names, but she recognized one of ‘em—it was Emmett Spence!” He dissolved into laughter, then recovered himself. “Lord, if Hoss ever hears about it, he’ll kill that boy!” He was overcome again. Foxy moved on down the shelves until he found what he wanted.

Another ten minutes passed before he could get somebody to charge his purchase, and Foxy was getting more fidgety by the minute. He had been hunting for some weeks now, without suecess. Every time he spotted a likely quarry there was something wrong—somebody nearby or something. He had actually picked up two boys, but they had revealed in their conversation that they were expected shortly somewhere, and he had reluctantly let them out of his truck. The pressure was building unbearably now, and he was afraid he’d rush into something and make a mistake. He couldn’t let that happen.

He was out of town and over the mountain before he saw the boy. Foxy’s heart leapt. He slowed down and coasted, taking a long look at him before stopping.

“Hey, there, son. Where you headed.”

“Florida, sir,” the boy answered, smiling. “You going that way?”

“Well, that depends on how much of a hurry you’re in.”

“Oh, I’m not in that much of a hurry. I’m kind of enjoying the trip.”

“Nobody’s looking for you to be down in Florida, then?”

“No, sir, I reckon they’re not.”

Foxy smiled. “Well, if you don’t mind waiting just a little bit while I run by the house, I might give you a ride all the way to Daytona Beach. That do you?”

“Yes, sir! That sure would!”

“Get in, then.”

The boy got in, and Foxy drove away. He had not seen Sonny Butts coming up the mountain, driving toward Delano in his own car.

Sonny’s mind was on his own problems, and he paid little heed to Foxy. It would be some time before he remembered.

At church on Sunday morning Brooks Peters preached on the subject of justice, and no one in attendance could have doubted his purpose.

Brooks stood at the Church door and shook hands with the members of his congregation as they left. Some, Billy noticed, had words of encouragement for the preacher, others muttered a brief greeting and hurried out. Billy noticed that Patricia seemed to be drawing a lot of attention, too, and not a few broad winks. “What’s all that about?” he asked her.

She seemed momentarily flustered, then said, “Oh, word’s getting around that I’m pregnant.”

“I thought the whole world already knew about that. Lord knows, I’ve been telling everybody.”

They had Sunday dinner with the Fowlers; then Billy joined Brooks Peters and the other veterans at Tom Mudter’s. Billy opened the discussion.

“I’ve talked at length with Bert Hill about the grand jury. He says he thinks there’s a good chance for an indictment. There certainly wouldn’t be any question about it if Marshall Parker had been white, but there are some crusty old rednecks on the grand jury, and Bert won’t make any firm predictions.”

He paused and looked around the room. “I don’t see Bob Blankenship here. Anybody know what’s happened to him?”

Brooks Peters spoke up. “Something funny going on there. First, Bob backs out on running an editorial about Marshall in Thursday’s paper, then he goes to his in-laws’ in Brunswick today. Looks like he’s not with us any more.”

“I can’t believe he’d change sides,” said Billy, shaking his head. “I think somebody’s been bringing pressure to bear on Bob. I couldn’t get him on the phone all day Friday, and when I went by the newspaper office, he had already left for Brunswick. Strange. Anybody else having problems?”

There was a general negative muttering. “I’m surprised that nobody has said anything to me,” said Brooks Peters. “I guess having the ministerial association behind me has helped, but folks have long memories. Those who are against what I’ve been saying from the pulpit will get around to letting me know about it sooner or later.”

Billy leafed through some notes. “Okay, status on the races. From what I can gather we’re in pretty good shape for the city council. James Montgomery in Greenville is neck and neck with Skeeter Willis for sheriff.”

Tom Mudter spoke up. “Skeeter has been mending fences and keeping his head down. He went to a lot of trouble to seem to be doing the right thing in the Parker incident, but he’s backing Sonny all the way.”

“Right,” said Billy. “About what we would have expected. Skeeter’s no fool. Well, in my race, Mr. Holmes thinks we’re down a little. We’ll be lucky to pull it off.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Billy,” said Brooks Peters. “From what I hear, things are looking up for you.” He was smiling slightly, and so were some of the others.

Billy was puzzled. “You know something I don’t?”

Brooks sat back, looking smug. “Oh, it’s just what I hear. You’re going to the fair tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

The Tri-County Fair opened its week’s run the following day. “Sure, we’ll be there. I guess every other candidate in the area will be, too. Can’t pass up an opportunity to shake that many hands.”

“How did your meeting go?” Patricia asked. They were driving home late Sunday afternoon, “Well enough, I guess. Brooks and some of the others seem more optimistic. Seems he’s been hearing something, but he wouldn’t say what.”

Patricia blushed. “Ah, Billy—”

He turned and looked at her. “Yep?”

“There’s something … oh, damnit, I’d better tell you about it before you hear it from somebody else!”

“Tell me about what?” He felt vaguely alarmed.

“Well, Thursday night, while you were in Warm Springs, we had some visitors at the house.”

“Visitors?”

“The kind in bed sheets.”

“Are you talking about Klan, Patricia? Are you kidding me?”

“No, they dropped by, all right.”

“Well, what happened? What did they do?”

“They … ran, mostly.”

He stared at her for so long he nearly ran off the road. “Trish, come on, tell me what the hell happened.”

“Well, I had this telephone call—anonymous—Thursday afternoon. A woman, somebody’s wife, I think. She said somebody was planning to burn the place.”

Billy whipped the car to the side of the road and stopped in a spray of gravel and dust. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You had your speech, and I thought you needed to go.”

“All right, all right, so what happened?”

“Well, they arrived, all right, all in their ridiculous bed sheets, with torches, and marched up to the house. I waited behind the trailer.”

“You waited behind the trailer,” he repeated tonelessly. “Then what happened?”

“I, ah, dispersed them.”

“Yeah? How did you do that?”

“With a shotgun.”

“What?”

“Well, it was only bird shot,” she said defensively. “I didn’t fire any buckshot. I was saving that for if they came at me. They never did. They ran.”

“Where did you get a shotgun?”

“I bought it. At McKibbon’s.”

“Ralph McKibbon sold you a shotgun?”

She whirled to face him. “And why the bloody hell not? I’m damned good with a shotgun; I grew up shooting on my father’s land.”

“But Trish, you can’t go shooting shotguns at people. Was anybody hurt?”

“Of course, they were hurt! You think I’d miss with a shotgun at that distance?”

“Jesus Christ, did you kill anybody?”

“No, just wounded some pride, I think. I heard this morning that somebody answering the description of Emmett Spence turned up at La Grange Hospital with three other men and some story about stealing watermelons. They had an amount of birdshot tweezed out of their arses, I believe.”