A Time for Dying Read Online Free Page A

camera lens, but as I stared at the hands of the clock and contemplated the end of my existence as an organism on the planet, I suddenly realized that the last word, the one furthest aft, was jive .
    We’re there for you and that’s no jive, Monday through Saturday nine to five .
    The docks were deserted, the water glassy and calm. It was February, after all. Not a lot of fishing or skiing going on. All that would change in a couple of months, but right now the marina was as quiet as the dark side of Mars.
    I edged closer, the gentle tide lapping icily onto my sneakers, the letters coming into focus as I approached a graveled embankment that led to the ramp.
    AND THAT’S NO JIVE
    It was a funny name for a boat, but there was no doubt about who owned the craft.
    Rutherford.
    I scrambled up the embankment and crossed the treaded concrete ramp to the docks.
    I looked around.
    Nobody in sight.
    I knew that Rutherford wouldn’t welcome me aboard his boat, that if I shouted his name he wouldn’t come portside and lower the gangplank for me. In fact, if I shouted his name, he would probably call security and have me escorted out of the park.
    That being the case, I figured the best way for me to board the yacht—the only way—was to leap from the dock and grab the bow rail and climb onto the foredeck like some kind of pirate.
    So that’s what I did.
    There was no way to do it quietly. I grunted my way over the rail and rolled onto the deck with a heavy thud, stood and hurried toward the hatch and the ladder that led below.
    It was dark and quiet down there, which didn’t make much sense at five o’clock in the afternoon, especially considering the racket I’d made stomping around on the upper deck. I had my hand on my knife, ready to draw it out of its sheath if I needed to, expecting Rutherford to greet me with a weapon of his own. Handguns and assault rifles had been banned back in ’36, but rich people could still get whatever they wanted. He could have had a bazooka on board for all I knew.
    Silence.
    As I stood there at the bottom of the ladder and listened, I started thinking that maybe he wasn’t even on the boat. Maybe he was over at the clubhouse having a cocktail. Or maybe he’d gone somewhere else for the evening. A hotel or something. He could have been anywhere.
    I edged forward, feeling my way through the galley and into the forepeak, two small portholes dimly lighting the way.
    And there the scumbag was, resting peacefully in bed.
    I figured he must have been wearing earplugs. Otherwise, he would have heard me boarding the vessel. I pulled my knife out with my right hand and reached over to shake him awake with my left, and then something that felt an awful lot like a tree trunk slammed into the back of my head and put me on the floor.

6
    I woke up with the worst headache of my life. I rolled to my left and started coughing, every exhalation another dagger in my skull. I tried to reach up and wipe the spittle from the side of my mouth, but my hands were tied behind my back.
    “Sorry I had to hit you,” a female voice said.
    “Who are you? Where am I?”
    Then I remembered. I was aboard the good ship AND THAT’S NO JIVE , and I was going to die at eleven-thirty p.m.
    Which, according to the little clock on the shelf beside the bed, was only fifteen minutes away.
    “My name is Barbara,” the woman said. “I’m Mr. Rutherford’s wife.”
    “Then you probably already know who I am.”
    “Yes. I checked your wallet while you were unconscious. We’ve already given you your money, Mr. Lockhart. I double checked the transfer, and it’s all there. You had no reason to come here and bother us.”
    “Your husband hoodwinked me,” I said. “He bought an hour of my life, knowing that Chairman L’s announcement would come later that night, knowing that he would get to live another twenty-five years while—”
    “You’re a big boy,” Barbara Rutherford said. “You signed the contract, and the