MURDER BY COMMITTEE
by Joyleen Seymour

It was hot. Wasn't that what they said about hell? It was supposed to be hot. It did smell of sulfur. But it was green, way too green. Shouldn't it be dry, burning? He was running, sort of, moving as fast as he could. There was something wrong with his leg. He could hear AKs and artillery pounding in the distance. But he couldn't go any faster, they were going to catch him. He felt a burning pain in his chest, figured he had been hit, figured this was it.

When Kevin opened his eyes, he was puzzled. If he was dead, which he assumed he was, somebody had made a serious mistake. This place was way too bright and soft to be hell. Then again, he considered, that woman wouldn't be an angel, not by any stretch of the imagination.

“How y'all feeling?” she asked, in an obvious southern accent. Her face was all angles, a sharp beak of a nose, jutting chin, cheekbones that stuck out, and watery blue eyes that sunk in. She had to be old, at least by the gray hair and wrinkles. She was dressed all in white, which threw him. He couldn't tell if she had wings growing out of her back or not. What the hell was he thinking? She had glasses on a chain around her neck, and she lifted them to her eyes to look at an IV bag hanging by the bed.

He figured it out then. It was a hospital. “Where the hell am I?”

She glared at him.

“What?” he said, confused.

“That language is really not appropriate. You are in Mercy Hospital , in Redbird.”

“Okay. Can I go now?”

“I don't think so. You're in pretty rough shape. You were in a car accident.”

“I was?” He thought about it for a moment, and remembered the impact. “Oh yeah.”

“You have several cracked ribs, a concussion, and a broken leg.”

“Oh sh… uh, crap.”

She looked like she was going to smack him this time. He actually shrank back in anticipation of a whack on the hand. She just frowned and walked away.

“Hey, wait a minute. What, I mean, how long am I going to have to be here? Can I use a phone?” She kept going. “Damn,” he muttered, under his breath, relieved she hadn't heard him. Probably a bit deaf.

He wasn't in a lot of pain, they were apparently keeping him doped up. He recognized the fuzzy brain that came with narcotics. His eyes wandered around the room. It wasn't like any hospital he'd ever seen. The walls were painted white, that was normal, but the beds were old, with cranks. There was a TV, but no remote. There wasn't much to see outside, a few white clapboard buildings, one large brick building with a dome on top, a few cars. Pickup trucks with gun racks, most with shotguns in them. He shuddered. Lots of really big trees. God, this was a nightmare. Maybe it was just a dream, maybe he would wake up in a minute, be back home in the city. He tried moving, just to see if he was awake, and his lower left leg screamed in protest. He could actually see the pain, just behind his eyeballs, burning white hot. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

“Hello Mr. Mason.”

The voice floated into his head from somewhere far away. Like at the end of a subway tunnel. Good, he had to be home. He opened his eyes. No subway. Just a man standing by the bed. Middle aged, just a little gray around the temples. Deeply tanned, with wrinkles around the eyes, probably from too much sun. He looked like an outdoor type, with a handsome chiseled face, a baseball player maybe.

“How are you feeling?” Similar accent to the nurse, but with a hint of something else in the background.

“Stoned,” Mason admitted. “Way too good.”

The doctor smiled weakly. “I'm Doctor Wood. You've been through a pretty bad time.”

“What day is this?”

“Wednesday.”

Whoa, that was bad. He had gotten lost on Monday.

“Listen, would you like us to get in touch with your family?”

“Family?” How did this guy know he had a family?

The doctor held out a wallet. “There were pictures of kids in here.”

Kevin squinted at the pictures. Hadn't they come with the wallet?

“Do you want me to call your wife?”

“Uh … we're separated.”

“I have something else to ask you about.” The doctor walked over to a table and pulled a semiautomatic pistol out of a plastic garbage bag. “Can you explain this?”

Mason was thinking as fast as he could. Why would this doctor be asking about the gun? Why didn't they just call the cops?

“It's a gun.” That's stating the obvious.

“Found in your car.”

“Found by who? Or is it whom?”

“It was found by the man who reported the accident, the truck driver.”

“Do the police know about it?”

“Does that worry you, that the police might know about it?”

“Well …” His brain was foggy, but he still knew this was a bad thing.

The doctor turned his head. “Hold on a minute, okay?” He walked out of the room.

Kevin's brain was attempting to go into overdrive. Maybe he could just get out of bed, grab his clothes, go out the window. He tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. His left leg just wasn't with the program. He couldn't even force himself to do it.

The doctor walked back into the room, with the old nurse, and two other people. The first was a heavyset red-faced man, about five feet tall, dark curly hair, and almost friendly eyes. Next to him, and a full head taller than he was, stood another woman, mid forties, with obviously bleached blond hair. Her deeply tanned face was smoother than it should have been. She had probably had a face lift, maybe more than one. Wearing some sort of flowing flowered outfit, the kind of thing fat women wear, although she wasn't fat.

This wasn't good. Could be some sort of weird vigilante group. Maybe they didn't like people driving through their town with guns. Wait a minute, in this kind of town everybody had guns. Just as the doctor was about to shut the door another woman walked in. She was on the young side of middle age, tall and elegant. Her brown hair, cut short, framed a soft face, with high cheekbones and a full mouth. She was wearing a severe man-tailored shirt, chino pants and a pair of walking shoes. She handed the doctor a poster. The others craned their necks and gathered around to see what it was.

Mason waited, having nothing better to do. They were all talking quietly now. He couldn't quite hear them, but the glances in his direction told him they were talking about him.

“You folks gonna let me in on the little secret?” he finally asked.

The tall lady held up the paper so he could see it.

“Oh crap.”

It was a wanted poster of course, US Marshals Service. With a picture of him on it, an old picture, but recognizable just the same. Longer hair, more blond, less gray. Peculiar icy blue-gray eyes. A mustache, which was gone, but the same broken nose. Thinner then as well, way too thin, jutting cheekbones, sharp chin. Made him look like a starvation case. There was a list of aliases, including the one he was using. A pretty good description, including the tattoos. And a list of crimes, along with the usual armed and dangerous warning.

“So, Mr. Markinson.” Wood walked towards the bed. “Says here you're wanted in New York for murder and escape. Maybe that explains the gun.”

“I didn't do it.” It seemed like the logical thing to say.

“What does he mean he didn't do it?” The woman with the dark roots looked at the short guy. “If he isn't a murderer he's no good to us.”

That didn't sound good to Markinson at all. What were they going to do, sacrifice him at the full moon?

“He's lying Sylvia. All these people lie. You think he's going to admit to us what he's done?” Shorty replied. “He'd have to be stupid not to deny it.”

Markinson tried again, sitting up a little. “No, really, I didn't kill that cop. I was set up.” He looked from face to face. “Oh hell.” He lay back.

The old nurse gave him a hard stare. “Your language, young man, leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Leave him alone Janice, that's the way these criminals talk.” Shorty again.

Markinson looked at him.

Wood approached the bed. “We have a problem, Mr. Markinson. We think you might be able to help us out.”

“Yeah, we've all got problems don't we? Right now, I'm thinking you guys have probably already called the FBI or the US Marshals or whatever.”

“Actually, Mr. Markinson, we haven't called anybody.”

“We want to hire you,” Sylvia interrupted.

Kevin blinked. “What?”

“You are a murderer. We need somebody murdered. We want to hire you.” She smiled, as though it was all perfectly logical.

“Look, whoever you guys are working for, you know this is entrapment. You'll never make it stick.” This was definitely too weird. Maybe it was the drugs. He closed his eyes, willed them to go away, but when he opened them again they were still there. Maybe they were for real. “You guys are like, with some task force on organized crime, right?”

“No,” said Shorty. “I'm Richard Sweeny. I'm the mayor. When I heard about what Tiny had found in your car, I thought, this could be a good thing.”

“I think he was sent by God,” gushed Sylvia. “Absolutely heaven sent. The answer to our prayers.”

Sweeny sighed, and gave his wife a strange look.

Markinson smiled slightly. “Well, nobody's ever accused me of that before.”

“We're having a problem with a local businessman. He's got half the town paying protection money to him and the other half working for him.” Wood looked around as he talked. “We got together to do something about Rodney McCall. It's been hard though, none of us actually wanted to do anything ourselves, and there's nobody around here we could turn to. Until you showed up.”

“Why don't you just call the police?”

“Unfortunately, the police are in his pocket.”

“And what did you people have in mind for me?” Although he already knew what they had in mind.

“We want you to kill him, of course,” said Ms. Berber in a silky voice that absolutely matched her looks.

“You folks got the wrong man. I don't kill people.”

“What's the gun for then?” asked Wood.

“Protection, intimidation, defense. I am, after all, an escaped convict.” He was hoping to scare them a little, back them off, get them to let him go. He started to take a deep breath, to sigh, but it hurt way too much.

“There used to be this nice young woman with a little shop, Peggy Winston, a single lady, moved down here from Baltimore . Rodney decided that he wanted her. Despite his being a married man. He hit on her constantly for about six months, and she got fed up with it. She called the State Police and told them he was stalking her. They pulled her body out of the river two days later.” Wood looked at the floor. “There's a lot of people here that are afraid the same thing will happen to them.”

“He's tried hitting on me as well,” said Ms. Berber.

“So you want me to kill this guy?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor.

“Doesn't that go against your hypochondriac oath or whatever it's called?”

“Hippocratic oath.” The doctor sighed. “I figure, if Rodney wants a war, he's got to expect to get killed.”

Markinson closed his eyes for a second. “You're all sure about this?” He opened his eyes and looked straight at the mayor's wife.

She nodded vigorously. “He has the nerve to demand that the church give him five percent of our income. When we tried to stand up to him, our building was set on fire.” She shrugged. “The way I look at it, you're the lesser of two evils.”

“Yeah, well, this evil doesn't need you to have an attack of conscience six months from now.”

“Oh don't worry, I give you my word. I'm behind this 100 percent.”

“What's my incentive?”

“If you do this for us, we let you walk. If you won't do it, we drop a dime to the Feds, and you go back up the river.” Shorty had apparently watched a lot of old movies.

“And suppose I call the Feds, drop a dime on you? Right now.”

“Do you really want to go back to prison Mr. Markinson?” Wood responded.

Kevin considered that. He pictured a really small cell. 23 hours a day. For the rest of his life. He tried to take a deep breath again and closed his eyes against the pain.

“I think we need to give the man a break,” said the doctor. “Think it over. You've got 24 hours.”

The whole gang trooped out. He opened his eyes and watched them go, took particular notice of the fact that the doctor took the gun. Then he tried to sit up again. He realized that his arms were tied down. Damn, these people were serious. He closed his eyes again, steeled himself for the pictures. It wasn't as bad as it had been. At least he didn't wake up screaming any more.

Doctor Wood came in again after a while.

“So, what do you want for the pain? I assume you're familiar with the available drugs, from the looks of your x-rays.”

“How about just some Ibuprofen?”

“You're in pretty rough shape.”

“I can deal with it.”

The doctor pulled over a chair. “We need to talk.”

“Has it been 24 hours?”

“No. But I think this whole plan is a bit absurd. I don't think it should even be considered.” The man took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I just feel like we're up against the wall here.” He shifted in the chair. “This is a weird little town. I've only been here for ten years, so I'm not really accepted. But I provide a service that these people really need. The major problem is the distrust of outsiders. These folks are afraid to call the State Police or the FBI because they figure those people aren't going to care about them. And to a certain extent they're right. I told you about what happened to Peggy.” He stared at the floor.

“You're taking this personal aren't you?” Markinson recognized the symptoms. “You bought into this absurd plan for revenge.”

“Where does someone like you get that kind of insight?”

“I work with people.” Markinson smiled half-heartedly.

The doctor sighed again. “I've done a little research into who you are. You're a difficult man to put a finger on. But, a couple of phone calls to the right people go a long way.”

“You called someone from here?” This could be a very bad thing.

“No, I knew if I called from here there would be some curiosity, and they'd trace the call back here. I have a friend in law enforcement, in Virginia . I called him, and he did the investigating for me. He knows how to keep his mouth shut. He let me know that you were not someone to mess with. He compared it to poking a rattlesnake with a stick.”

Markinson closed his eyes. “You going to tell me about myself?”

“Kevin Michael Markinson. Decorated Vietnam veteran. Hotshot sniper. Had a hard time fitting in when you came home, did some work for someone my friend knows, on the shady side of government. He used the word professional. You've probably done some work for the mob. You've denied the murder you pled guilty to from the beginning. You think you were set up. He also said his friend was very distressed by your conviction, because it meant he couldn't use you any more.”

Markinson snorted. “Didn't bother him enough to do anything about it.”

The doctor continued. “You've broken out of prison four times. You have a family, you've been married for 24 years, two kids, but you don't get to spend a lot of time with them. My friend told me that he didn't think you represented a threat to anybody, unless you were threatened.”

“Like being held hostage.” Markinson said, coldly. He shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. “You know your friend can't prove any of this.”

Wood shrugged. “I just wanted to know who we were dealing with. I found out a lot more than I wanted to. I think you're a very dangerous man.”

“Only if you poke me with a stick.”

“I need to talk to the rest of the group. I don't think it will make any difference to them though. They're all a little nuts. For some reason, hiring an assassin doesn't seem to bother them.”

“It bothers you. But you're willing to consider it. This McCall must be really bad.” He paused. “What makes you think that I'm going to take you guys up on this anyway?”

“Well, my friend mentioned that you have a real aversion to prison. And a weakness for causes.”

Markinson tried to sigh without taking a deep breath, but it didn't come out quite right. “Come back after you've talked to the others. But before you go, take off the restraints. I think we have enough of an understanding that you know I'm not going anywhere.”

The doctor nodded in agreement, and removed the straps.

The next day the whole gang trooped into his room again.

Shorty started the conversation. “Tom told us what he found out. We've decided to go ahead with the plan anyway. I think you're even better for the job than we originally thought.” He produced a sort of oily smile, like the crocodile in that children's song, the one who came back from the ride with the lady inside.

“We've got it all figured out,” said Ms. Berber.

“Oh really,” Markinson interjected. “You don't know that I've agreed to this at all. You people do know that murder for hire is a felony. Right? That what you're doing is against the law?” He looked from face to face, sizing up the group. He let them wait. “I'll do it. But on my terms, my way. And I'm going to need a few things.”

“Like what?” asked Berber.

“There was a case in the trunk of my car. What happened to it?”

Janice walked over to the closet and took out a long metal box. “It doesn't seem to have been damaged.”

Kevin worked the dials and opened the case. The group gathered around his bed to see what it was. It was a rifle. A bolt action Remington 700 with a variable scope, his favorite, a true sniper's weapon.

“Can't you just like, walk up to him and shoot him?” asked Shorty.

“With this leg?” responded Kevin. “Besides, that's not the way I work. I don't want to see him, don't want to know him.” He stopped there. No need to let them know any more. No reason to tell them that there was no way he could just walk up to someone and shoot them. At least not sober. And he wasn't going to get drunk. So that left target shooting. Like they taught him to do in the Marines. Take out a target. Not the same as shooting a person. How the hell did he get himself into this? He glanced at the doctor, who had a curious look on his face.

“So you want to be like, up in a tower or something?” Shorty continued to be the spokesperson for the group.

“I haven't worked out the details yet. I'm not exactly mobile.” He turned his gaze towards Wood again.

“I'm going to have a therapist come in this afternoon. He'll get you on your feet, teach you to move around. After that, you can get out of here. We'll have to find a place for you to stay,” the doctor said.

“I'll be happy to stay with Ms. Berber,” Kevin responded.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams,” she replied.

“It's either me or Janice,” said Wood.

“I can't stay with her, she's going to kill me the next time I open my mouth.”

“Looks like that's settled then,” said Shorty.

“So how are you going to do it?” asked Sylvia.

God this group was morbid. Why did they care? “I'm going to have to work that out.”

“How long do you expect that to take?” asked Sandy .

“It depends what kind of logistical support I get. I need someone to show me around town, tell me about McCall's schedule, his security, the police element. There's a lot to think about.”

“I never realized murder was so complicated,” said Sylvia.

“It's only complicated if you don't want to get caught,” replied Kevin.

Tom Wood drove him to his house, and they ate dinner together, mostly silent. Kevin parked in a chair in the living room while his host cleaned up the dishes.

“So who's the woman in the pictures?” he asked.

“My wife.”

“Where is she?”

“She's been dead ten years.”

“What, she die from boredom when you moved here?” Kevin regretted saying it almost as soon as it came out.

“Nope. She killed herself. Before I moved down here.”

“How does a doctor's wife manage to kill herself?”

“Pills.”

“That wasn't what I meant. Didn't you recognize the symptoms?”

“I was too busy. I ran a big practice in Manhattan . Drove a fancy car. She had everything, furs, jewelry, everything except me.” He came to the doorway. “I didn't have the time she needed. And she never told me she needed it. She had multiple miscarriages, and she was depressed. I buried myself in my work because I was depressed. I guess I should have seen it coming, but I didn't.” He sighed.

“I'm sorry.”

“I came down here after it happened to get back to the roots of medicine. To help people who needed it.” The doctor paused. “Peggy was the first woman I really loved after my wife. I knew she was being harassed, and there was nothing I could do.” He looked at the floor. “I wasn't brave enough to stand up to McCall. I recommended she call the police. She took my advice, finally. And McCall killed her. He bragged about it.”

“So this really is a revenge thing with you, isn't it? That's why you're willing to make a deal with the devil.”

Tom shrugged. “I'm trying not to think about it.”

“Well, I have been thinking about it. I think your problem isn't going to go away just because you kill this guy. That will leave a power vacuum. Somebody will take his place.”

“I don't know about that. I think that if people realize he was killed they'll be shocked out of their stupidity and start standing up for themselves.”

“It's been done before. Countless times, in little countries all over the world. It just creates more bloodshed. Unless there is already someone waiting to step in and take power. You guys need a figurehead to take over. Or a transfer of power to someone who's already here. I'm thinking Dick Sweeney.”

“Don't call him Dick to his face, he hates it.” The doctor paused for a moment. “You may be onto something there. You've done this before, haven't you?”

Kevin shrugged. “Can't tell you that.”

“It's okay. I got the gist of it from my friend anyway.”

“Your friend probably said a lot more than he should have. Immediately following the killing, Sweeney should step in and take over the investigation. He should expose McCall, go after the corruption in the police department, reassure people. Clean the town out. Make sure there's no vacuum. Do whatever it takes.” He thought for a moment. “I'm going to need a car. An automatic, obviously.” And some good directions. He looked up at a calendar on the wall. “What's today's date?”

“June 29th.”

“This town do a fourth of July celebration, parade maybe? Something that everybody attends, local businessmen might march in?”

“You really are a clever man, aren't you?” the doctor replied.

“I've stayed alive this long, haven't I?”

Kevin didn't sleep well that night. It was hot, and he was in serious pain. Every breath brought fire to his chest. He lay flat on his back, feeling very vulnerable. Helicopters pounded in his brain. Bright lights, explosions, stay down, keep your head down. Don't fall asleep, can't fall asleep, stay down. He did his best to drive the pictures out of his head, but they taunted him all night. It was the heat, the noises, the jungle noises for God's sake, and the pain.

“Rough night?” Tom asked at the breakfast table.

Kevin nodded, barely keeping his eyes open. He ate part of a fried egg, and a little bit of grits.

“You sure you don't want anything stronger for the pain?”

“Maybe tonight.”

“I've got to get to work, but I've got Sylvia coming over to keep you company and go over the parade. She's in charge of it this year.” Tom got up from the table.

Sylvia. He could walk away from Sylvia and she wouldn't know he was gone until next week. Piece of cake. He watched the doctor head towards the door, leaned his head in his hands and fell asleep sitting at the table.

Kevin almost had a heart attack when she tapped him on the shoulder. He tried to jump out of the chair, but couldn't. He settled for grabbing her arm, which caused her to scream. That brought him quickly back to reality. He shook his head. “Don't ever, ever do that again. Do you understand? Don't touch me.”

She backed away, with a look in her eyes that he read as fear. That was what he wanted.

She whispered, “I'm sorry.”

He started to take a deep breath, and caught himself. “I'm sorry. You startled me, that's all.” He settled his nerves. “Tom said you might be able to help me with the parade.”

She sat down at the table. “I've brought you a map of the town, with the parade route marked on it. Rodney is going to be riding in a convertible, an open car.”

“A convertible. You don't have a book depository overlooking the route do you?”

She didn't get the joke. She gave him a strange look. He shrugged his shoulders, which hurt. He hugged his ribs.

“What kind of buildings overlook the route of the parade?”

“Do you want me to take you for a drive? I can show you the route.”

“Okay.”

He was disappointed. Mostly one story buildings, private homes, a couple of stores. The only building that impressed him was the church. It had a massive front, with a tall bell tower. That was too ironic for him. But he didn't see any alternative. He talked to her. “What's the church like on the inside? Any other way out? What's in back? Stairs in the bell tower or a ladder?”

“Why?” She frowned.

She was too clueless. He almost laughed, but didn't. “That's the only spot I see that I can use.”

Now she raised her eyebrows. “You can't do that. It's a church.”

“You think God sent me to you. You really think He's going to mind if I use His house?” Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?

She wrinkled her nose, then pulled the car over to the side. He looked around, nervous. She then pulled a U-turn and headed back down towards the church. She pulled into a narrow driveway that led to a parking lot in the back. There was a back entrance to the lot, which relieved him considerably.

“There's a back door to the church.” She pointed it out. “There are stairs going up the bell tower. Steep, but stairs. Do you want me to take you in the building?”

“Not today. I'm worn out, and I've still got physical therapy this afternoon. Maybe tomorrow.” As they pulled out onto the street again, he motioned towards a small general store. “Pull over here.”

She stopped the car. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah.” He fished in his pocket and got out his wallet. He pulled out a twenty and handed it to her. “Get me a pack of Camels.”

“I can't do that. I don't smoke. If I buy cigarettes somebody will suspect something.”

God she had a suspicious mind. “What am I supposed to do? I need a cigarette.”

“Sorry.” She put the car back in gear.

“Wait. Get me a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. And some chocolate.”

“Okay.” She went into the store. She was talking to someone on the way out, and he slouched in the seat, not wanting to be seen. She walked towards the car, and her chatty friend followed her. Kevin brought his hand up to his face. He didn't understand how she could be so quick to think of the cigarette problem and so slow to understand that he didn't want his face in everybody's mind. He rolled the window up, which didn't help, but at least she couldn't expect him to talk with the window closed. God, she was coming closer. He looked the other way, heard a tap on the window, ignored her. He could hear her talking through the other open windows of the car.

“This is a friend of ours from out of town, visiting for a couple of days,” Sylvia was saying. “He's a little shy.”

Amateurs. He shook his head. She came around the front of the car and got in.

“I thought I'd never get rid of her. She came up to me and wanted to know who the handsome man in my car was.” She laughed. “Oh, here's your stuff. I got the cigarettes, what with her asking about you anyway. What a busybody. I'm telling you.”

“You didn't tell her who I was, right?”

“Of course not. I'm not stupid.” She looked hurt, and he was sorry he had asked.

He pulled the hat and glasses out of the bag and put them on. No sense in spreading his face around town any more than he already had.

“I told her you were a friend of the family. Visiting for a few days. Of course I was careful, didn't even use a name. I don't want to get into trouble later on if I forget the name I used. You know I've read lots of mystery stories. I know all about murder, and how to cover it up, that sort of thing.”

Babble, babble. Why couldn't she just shut up? He took out a cigarette, lit it and rolled down the car window. How could Shorty live with this? Selective hearing perhaps. Women. He rolled his eyes. The cigarette tasted good, and he lost himself in it.

Saturday morning he went back to the church, with Sylvia, Tom and Richard. He was silent as Sylvia took him to the bell tower stairs. He left the crutches at the bottom and worked his way up with his hands and good foot. There was a louvered vent about halfway up, probably 20 feet off the ground. He looked out over the street, watching the crowds doing their Saturday errands. Couple of trees, but several spots with a clear shot. This would do nicely. He almost caught himself smiling as he backed down the stairs, slowly, painfully. The three were waiting for him at the bottom.

“The only problem I can see is this, right here. I can't get down these stairs any quicker than this. And there'll be people beating down the door to get to the shooter. I am not going to get caught at this, so you are going to have come up with a solution.” He looked around, from face to face.

“We need a distraction. It will take some time for them to figure out where the shot came from, right?” Tom looked at Kevin.

Kevin nodded.

“We need to keep people from coming this way, keep them from getting to the back door until we can get you out.” He looked at Sylvia and then at Richard.

“How about something blocking this front driveway? A large truck or something?” suggested Sylvia.

Kevin turned his head sharply as he heard a door close at the far end of the building. He pulled his hat down on his head firmly, backed towards the shadows near the stairs. The others looked towards the door, and Tom said softly, “It's only Sandy .”

Kevin stepped forward again. He allowed himself a half smile.

Sandy shook her head as she approached. “Playing the part, I see.”

He removed his sunglasses and raised his eyebrows. “Who's playing?”

“Are you really going to do this?” she asked.

“It's what you guys want, the price of my freedom, right? I think it's appropriate that it's going down on Independence Day.” He produced his best leering smile.

Sandy looked from face to face. “This is really what ya'll want?”

“Isn't it what you want too?” asked Sylvia. “You've been in this from the beginning.”

“I guess it's just never been this real before.” Sandy sighed. “I've never committed murder before.”

“That's the beauty of it,” said Richard. “We're not committing murder.”

“Oh yes we are.” She looked at Kevin, who nodded in agreement. “We're as guilty as he is, as guilty as McCall.” She lowered her eyes. “I don't know if I can do this.”

“Anybody else have any doubts before I get into this any deeper?” Kevin asked.

“Maybe what we need to do is have a meeting with everybody on the committee and decide if this is what we really want to do,” said Tom. “6:00 tonight. My house. I'll call Janice.”

Kevin followed them out of the building. “You folks have the death penalty in this state?”

That afternoon Kevin had Tom drive him out to some land that he owned on the edge of town. It would serve as a place to set targets. Kevin needed to practice, not so much because he needed the practice, but more because he wanted to make sure his clients knew how sharp he was. Sylvia and Richard came along. He was pleased with that. The more the merrier.

He had Tom walk out to a stand of young trees and hang some paper targets he had made. They were roughly the size and shape of a head. He wanted them to think about it. Tom paced off 400 yards for him, not much for distance, but enough, and Kevin fiddled with the scope. He then turned his hat backwards, got himself awkwardly on the ground in a prone position, wrapped his arm tightly in the sling, rested the barrel on a sandbag, sighted the targets, let out a breath and fired. As soon as one shot left the gun he worked the bolt and sighted again, firing three shots in that manner. Each shot hit dead in the center of its respective target. He knew they had without even bothering to check, but he sent Tom out to collect the targets anyway.

Richard let out a low whistle. “You're really good at this aren't you?”

“It's the one thing I am good at.” He allowed himself a half-smile. “The bullets I'll use on Tuesday will be hollow points. It'll blow his head right off his shoulders.” He said it calmly, matter-of-factly.

He put the rifle away, then handed the case to Tom. He hobbled back to the car, pretending not to notice the frantic conversation taking place behind him.

The drive back to the house was quiet. Kevin slept the rest of the afternoon, nibbled at a little food, and made himself comfortable in the living room to await the arrival of the group.

Sandy arrived first, came into the room and looked at Kevin, then sat as far away as possible. He let the corners of his mouth drift upward slightly, amused that she was so obvious. Richard and Sylvia sat together on the couch, Tom beside them. Janice sat in a hard wooden chair.

“Well?” said Richard. “Anybody have anything to say?”

“I think this is nuts. I think we should call it off.” This came from Tom.

That surprised Kevin. Tom was set on his revenge, and Kevin had expected him to stick with it longer.

“Are you afraid we won't get away with it?” asked Richard.

“No, I don't think it's right, that's all,” Tom replied. He looked over at Kevin. “I have no doubts that we can get away with it.”

“I agree with Tom,” Sandy said softly.

Kevin rubbed his chin. He wanted a cigarette. He stifled a yawn and shifted in his chair.

“I've been against this from the start. Ya'll know that,” Janice said. “We should've just called the State Police. McCall can't kill all of us.”

“So it looks like two in favor of the plan, and three opposed. I guess that means we call off the hit.” Richard looked towards Kevin, smiling. “Maybe we can get our deposit back.”

Kevin didn't think that was funny. “And what are you going to do about your problem?”

“I guess we're back to square one,” said Tom.

“I'd like to offer a solution.” Kevin said quietly, almost whispering.

They all looked at him.

“Doesn't involve anybody getting hurt, if it goes right. And I guarantee McCall will leave you alone.”

“Nobody gets hurt?” asked Sandy .

“Right. 99 percent guaranteed. There's always a chance something could go wrong, but I don't think it will.” He leaned back in his chair and outlined the plan. The group agreed to go along with it.

Sunday at church, Sylvia corralled her friend the town gossip.

“You won't believe what I heard. I heard that some big New York mobster is coming down here to kill Rodney McCall. Heard he was angry over Peggy Winston's drowning. He's like a relative of hers or something. You know that friend of mine who is visiting us? Well he knows this creep and he says we all better watch out, cause there's gonna be bloodshed.” By now there was a small crowd of ladies gathered around her.

“How does your friend know this guy?” asked Janice.

“Well, I'm telling you, this here New York mobster, he's famous.” Sylvia noted with satisfaction that one of the women listening was Mrs. McCall.

The next day, Tom took some time off. He drove out of town for the morning. Noon was set aside to visit Rodney McCall in his office, to discuss the parade. McCall seemed jumpy, and Wood spent some time trying to calm him down.

Suddenly a tall man burst into the office. Dark glasses, a black cap, black shirt and blazer, black pants, cut up the seam to fit over the blue cast on his left leg, and one black sneaker.

“Where the hell is this mother McCall?” the man shouted, in a strong New York accent.

Tom backpedaled, raising his hands over his head. “Don't shoot!”

The man in black fired several rounds over the head of the balding paunchy guy behind the desk. McCall trembled as the plaster rained down on him, and reached towards his desk drawer. Tom saw it coming and pushed him away.

“Get down!” he shouted, trying to shove the guy to the ground.

The man in black slipped the pistol into his pocket and pulled out a smaller gun which he fired at the doctor. Tom hit the floor hard, a dark stain spreading over his back. McCall's eyes widened, and he scrambled towards the back door of his office. Typical bully, Kevin thought as he switched guns and fired again, deliberately wide. Get in, get out, quick and dirty, but nobody gets hurt. The man crawled out the door and hightailed it towards the parking lot. Kevin crossed the room and held out a hand to Tom, who got to his feet.

“Get that flack jacket off, give it to me, I've got to get going before the cops get here.” He shook the man's hand. “Thanks for everything, Doc.”

“You take care of yourself. That cast needs to come off in about eight weeks.”

“I really have to go Tom.” Kevin hobbled out the back door to the parking lot. He climbed into the rental car, started it up, and pulled out just as the police were pulling in. He buckled up the seat belt as he pointed the car north, headed for home.