Chapter 33

   The hills began between Jackson and Memphis, and the coast seemed time zones away. He had often wondered at how a state so small could be so diverse: the Delta region along the river with the wealth of its cotton and rice farms and the poverty that still astonished outsiders; the coast with its blend of immigrants and laid-back, New Orleans casualness; and the hills where most counties were still dry and most folks still went to church on Sundays. A person from the hills would never understand the coast and never be accepted in the Delta. Ray was just happy he lived in Virginia.
   Patton French was a dream, he kept telling himself. A cartoonish character from another world. A pompous jerk being eaten alive by his own ego. A liar, a briber, a shameless crook.
   Then he would glance over at the passenger’s seat and see the sinister face of Gordie Priest. One glance and there was no doubt this brute and his brothers would do anything for the money Ray was still hauling around the country.
   An hour from Clanton, and again within range of a tower, his cell phone rang. It was Fog Newton and he was quite agitated. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
   “You wouldn’t believe me.”
   “I’ve been calling all morning.”
   “What is it, Fog?”
   “We’ve had a little excitement around here. Last night, after general aviation closed, somebody sneaked onto the ramp and put an incendiary device on the left wing of the Bonanza. Boom. A janitor in the main terminal just happened to see the blaze, and they got the fire truck out pretty fast.”
   Ray had pulled onto the shoulder of Interstate 55 and stopped. He grunted something into the phone and Fog kept going. “Severe damage though. No doubt it was an act of arson. You there?”
   “Just listening,” Ray said. “How much damage?”
   “Left wing, the engine, and most of the fuselage, probably a total loss for insurance purposes. The arson investigator is already here. Insurance guy’s here too. If the tanks had been full it would’ve been a bomb.”
   “The other owners know about it?”
   “Yes, everyone’s been out. Of course they’re first on the suspect list. Lucky you were out of town. When are you coming back?”
   “Soon.”
   He made it to an exit and pulled into the gravel lot of a truck stop, where he sat in the heat for a long time and occasionally glanced down at Gordie. The Priest gang moved fast—Biloxi yesterday morning, Charlottesville last night. Where are they now?
   Inside, he drank coffee and listened to the chatter of the truckers. To change the subject, he called Alcorn Village to check on For-rest. He was in his room, sleeping the sleep of the righteous, as he described it. It was always amazing, he said, how much he slept in rehab. He’d complained about the food, and things had improved slightly. Either that or he had developed a taste for pink Jell-O. He asked how long he could stay, like a kid at Disney World. Ray said he wasn’t sure. The money that had once seemed endless was now very much in jeopardy.
   “Don’t let me out, Bro,” he pleaded. “I want to stay in rehab for the remainder of my life.”
   The Atkins boys had finished the roof at Maple Run without incident. The place was deserted when Ray arrived. He called Harry Rex and checked in. “Let’s drink some beer on the porch tonight,” Ray suggested.
   Harry Rex had never said no to such an invitation.

   There was a level spot of thick grass just beyond the front sidewalk, directly in front of the house, and after careful deliberation Ray decided it was the place for a washing. He parked the little Audi there, facing the street, its rear and its trunk just a step from the porch. He found an old tin bucket in the basement and a leaky water hose in the back shed. Shirtless and shoeless, he sloshed around for two hours in the hot afternoon sun, scrubbing the roadster. Then he waxed and polished it for an hour. At 5 P.M., he opened a cold bottle of beer and sat on the steps, admiring his work.
   He called the private cell phone number given to him by Pat-ton French, but of course the great man was too busy. Ray wanted to thank him for his hospitality, but what he really wanted was to see if they had made any progress down there icing the Priest gang. He would never ask that question directly, but a blowhard like French would happily deliver the news if he had it.
   French had probably forgotten about him. He didn’t really care if the Priest boys nailed Ray or the next guy. He needed to make a half a billion or so in mass tort schemes, and that took all his energies. Indict a guy like French, for payoffs or contract killings, and he’d hire fifty lawyers and buy every clerk, judge, prosecutor, and juror.
   He called Corey Crawford and got the news that the landlord had once again repaired the doors. The police had promised to keep an eye on the place for the next few days, until he returned.
   The van pulled into the driveway shortly after 6 P.M. A smiling face jumped out with a thin overnight envelope, which Ray stared at long after it had been delivered. The airbill was a preprinted form from the University of Virginia School of Law, hand-addressed to Mr. Ray Atlee, Maple Run, 816 Fourth Street, Clariton, MS, dated June 2, the day before. Everything about it was suspicious.
   No one at the law school had been given the address in Clan-ton. Nothing from there would be so urgent as to require an overnight delivery. And he could think of no reason whatsoever that the school would be sending him anything. He opened another beer and returned to the front steps, where he grabbed the damned thing and ripped it open.
   Plain white legal-size envelope, with the word “Ray” hand-scrawled on the outside. And on the inside, another of the now familiar color photos of Chaney’s Self-Storage, this time the front of unit 18R. At the bottom, in a wacky font of mismatched letters, was the message: “You don’t need an airplane. Stop spending the money.”
   These guys were very, very good. It was tough enough to track down the three units at Chaney’s and take pictures of them. It was gutsy and also stupid to burn up the Bonanza. Oddly, though, what was most impressive at the moment was their ability to swipe an airbill from the business office at the law school.
   After a prolonged moment of shock, he realized something that should have been immediately obvious. Since they’d found 18R, then they knew the money wasn’t there. It wasn’t at Chaney’s, nor at his apartment. They’d followed him from Virginia to Clan-ton, and if he’d stopped somewhere along the way to hide the money, they would know it. They’d probably rummaged through Maple Run again, while he was on the coast.
   Their net was tightening by the hour. All clues were being linked, all dots connected. The money had to be with him, and Ray had no place to run.
   He had a very comfortable salary as a professor of law, with benefits. His lifestyle was not expensive, and he decided right there on the porch, still shirtless and shoeless, sipping a beer in the early evening humidity of a long hot June day, that he preferred to continue that lifestyle. Leave the violence for the likes of Gordie Priest and hit men hired by Patton French. Ray was out of his element.
   The cash was dirty anyway.

   “Whe’d you park in the front yard?” Harry Rex grumbled as he lumbered up the steps.
   “I washed it and left it there,” Ray said. He had showered and was wearing shorts and a tee shirt.
   “You just can’t get the redneck outta some people. Gimme a beer.”
   Harry Rex had been brawling in court all day, a nasty divorce where the weighty issues were which spouse had smoked the most dope ten years ago and which one had slept with the most people. The custody of four children was at stake, and neither parent was fit
   “I’m too old for this,” he said, very tired. By the second beer he was nodding off.
   Harry Rex controlled the divorce docket in Ford County and had for twenty-five years. Feuding couples often raced to hire him first. One farmer over at Karraway kept him on retainer so he would be available for the next split. He was very bright, but could also be vile and vicious. This had wide appeal in the heat of divorce wars.
   But the work was taking its toll. Like all small-town lawyers, Harry Rex longed for the big kill. The big damage suit with a forty percent contingency fee, something to retire on.
   The night before, Ray had been sipping expensive wines on a twenty-million-dollar yacht built by a Saudi prince and owned by a member of the Mississippi bar who was plotting billion-dollar schemes against multinationals. Now he was sipping Bud in a rusted swing with a member of the Mississippi bar who’d spent the day bickering over custody and alimony.
   “The Realtor showed the house this morning,” Harry Rex said. “He called me during lunch, woke me up.”
   “Who’s the prospect?”
   “Remember those Kapshaw boys up near Rail Springs?”
   “No.”
   “Good boys. They started buildin’ chairs in an old barn ten years ago, maybe twelve. One thang led to another, and they sold out to some big furniture outfit up in the Carolinas. Each of ‘em walked away with a million bucks. Junkie and his wife are lookin’ for houses.”
   “Junkie Kapshaw?”
   “Yeah, but he’s tight as Dick’s hatband and he ain’t payin’ four hundred thousand for this place.”
   “I don’t blame him.”
   “His wife’s crazy as hell and thinks she wants an old house. The Realtor is pretty sure they’ll make an offer, but it’ll be low, probably about a hundred seventy-five thousand.” Harry Rex was yawning.
   They talked about Forrest for a spell, then things were silent. “Guess I’d better go,” he said. After three beers, Harry Rex began his exit.
   “When are you going back to Virginia?” he asked, struggling to his feet and stretching his back.
   “Maybe tomorrow.”
   “Gimme a call,” he said, yawning again, and walked down the steps.
   Ray watched the lights of his car disappear down the street, and he was suddenly and completely alone again. The first noise was a rustling in the shrubbery near the property line, probably an old dog or cat on the prowl, but regardless of how harmless it was it spooked Ray and he ran inside.

Chapter 34

   The attack began shortly after 2 A.M., at the darkest hour of the night, when sleep is heaviest and reactions slowest. Ray was dead to the world, though the world had weighed heavily on his weary mind. He was on a mattress in the foyer, pistol by his side, the three garbage bags of cash next to his makeshift bed.
   It began with a brick through the window, a blast that rattled the old house and rained glass and debris across the dining room table and the newly polished wooden floors. It was a well-placed and well-timed throw from someone who meant business and had probably done it before. Ray clawed his way upright like a wounded alley cat and was lucky not to shoot himself as he groped for his gun. He darted low across the foyer, hit a light switch, and saw the brick resting ominously next to a baseboard near the china cabinet.
   Using a quilt, he swept away the debris and carefully picked up the brick, a new red one with sharp edges. Attached was a note held in place by two thick rubber bands. He removed them while looking at the remains of the window. His hands were shaking to the point of not being able to read the note. He swallowed hard, tried to breathe, tried to focus on the handwritten warning. It read simply:


   “Put the money back where you found it, then leave the house immediately.”


   His hand was bleeding, a small nick from a piece of glass. It was his shooting hand, if in fact he had such a thing, and in the horror of the moment he wondered how he could protect himself. He crouched in the shadows of the dining room, telling himself to breathe, to think clearly.
   Suddenly, the phone rang, and he jumped out of his skin again. A second ring, and he scrambled into the kitchen where a dim light above the stove helped him grapple for the phone. “Hello!” he barked into the receiver.
   “Put the money back, and leave the house,” said a calm but rigid voice, one he’d never heard, one he thought, in the blur of the moment, carried a slight trace of a coast accent. “Now! Before you get hurt.”
   He wanted to scream, “No,” or “Stop it,” or “Who are you?” But his indecision caused him to hesitate, and the line went dead. He sat on the floor, and with his back to the refrigerator he quickly ran through his options, slim as they were.
   He could call the police—hustle and hide the money, stuff the bags under a bed, move the mattress, conceal the note but not the brick, and carry on as if some delinquents were vandalizing an old house just for the hell of it. The cop would walk around with a flashlight and linger for an hour or two, but he would leave at some point.
   The Priest boys were not leaving. They had stuck to him like glue. They might duck for a moment, but they were not leaving. And they were far more nimble than the Clanton night watchman. And far more inspired.
   He could call Harry Rex—wake him up, tell him it was urgent, get him back over to the house and unload the entire story. Ray yearned for someone to talk to. How many times had he wanted to come clean with Harry Rex? They could split the money, or include it in the estate, or take it to Tunica and roll dice for a year.
   But why endanger him too? Three million was enough to provoke more than one killing.
   Ray had a gun. Why couldn’t he protect himself? He could fend off the attackers. When they came through the door, he’d light the place up. The gunfire would alert the neighbors, the whole town would be there.
   It just took one bullet, though, one well-aimed, pointed little missile that he would never see and probably feel only for a moment, or two. And he was outnumbered by some fellas who’d fired a helluva lot more of them than Professor Ray Atlee. He had already decided that he was not willing to die. Life back home was too good.
   Just as his heart rate peaked and he felt his pulse start to decline, another brick came crashing through the small window above the kitchen sink. He jerked and yelled and dropped his gun, then kicked it as he scrambled toward the foyer. On hands and knees he dragged the three bags of cash into the Judge’s study. He yanked the sofa away from the bookshelves and began throwing the stacks of bills back into the cabinet where he’d found the wretched loot in the first place. He was sweating and cursing and expecting another brick or maybe the first round of ammo. When all of it had been crammed back into its hiding place, he picked up the pistol and unlocked the front door. He darted to his car, cranked it, spun ruts down the front lawn, and finished his escape.
   He was unharmed, and at the moment that was his only concern.

   North of Clanton, the land dipped in the backwaters of Lake Chatoula, and for a two-mile stretch the road was straight and flat. Known simply as The Bottoms, it had long been the turf of late-night drag racers, boozers, ruffians, and hell-raisers in general. His nearest brush with death, prior to that moment, had been in high school when he found himself in the backseat of a packed Pontiac Firebird driven by a drunken Bobby Lee West and drag racing a Camaro driven by an even drunker Doug Terring, both cars flying at a hundred miles an hour through The Bottoms. He had walked away from it, but Bobby Lee had been killed a year later when his Firebird left the road and met a tree.
   When he hit the flat stretch of The Bottoms, he pressed the accelerator of his TT and let it unwind. It was two-thirty in the morning, surely everyone else was asleep.
   Elmer Conway had indeed been asleep, but a fat mosquito had taken blood from his forehead and awakened him in the process. He saw lights, a car was approaching rapidly, he turned on his radar. It took almost four miles to get the funny little foreign job pulled over, and by then Elmer was angry.
   Ray made the mistake of opening his door and getting out, and that was not what Elmer had in mind.
   “Freeze, asshole!” Elmer shouted, over the barrel of his service revolver, which, as Ray quickly realized, was aimed at his head.
   “Relax, relax,” he said, throwing up his hands in complete surrender.
   “Get away from the car,” Elmer growled, and with the gun pointed to a spot somewhere around the center line.
   “No problem, sir, just relax,” Ray said, shuffling sideways.
   “What’s your name?”
   “Ray Atlee, Judge Atlee’s son. Could you put that gun down, please?”
   Elmer lowered the gun a few inches, enough so that a discharge would hit Ray in the stomach, but not the head. “You got Virginia plates,” Elmer said.
   “That’s because I live in Virginia.”
   “Is that where you’re headed?”
   “Yes sir.”
   “What’s the big hurry?”
   “I don’t know, I just—”
   “I clocked you doing ninety-eight.”
   “I’m very sorry.”
   “Sony’s ass. That’s reckless driving.” Elmer took a step closer. Ray had forgotten about the cut on his hand and he was not aware of the one on his knee. Elmer removed a flashlight and did a body scan from ten feet away. “Why are you bleedin’?”
   It was a very good question, and, at that moment, standing in the middle of the dark highway with a light flashed in his face, Ray could not think of an adequate response. The truth would take an hour and fall on unbelieving ears. A lie would only make matters worse. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.
   “What’s in the car?” Elmer asked.
   “Nothing.”
   “Sure.”
   He handcuffed Ray and put him in the backseat of his Ford County patrol car, a brown Impala with dust on the fenders, no hubcaps, a collection of antennae mounted on the rear bumper. Ray watched as he walked around the TT and looked inside. When Elmer was finished he crawled into the front seat, and without turning around said, “What’s the gun for?”
   Ray had tried to slide the pistol under the passenger’s seat. Evidently it was visible from the outside.
   “Protection.”
   “You got a permit?”
   “No.”
   Elmer called the dispatcher and made a lengthy report of his latest stop. He concluded with, “I’m bringin’ him in,” as if he had just collared one of the ten most wanted.
   “What about my car?” Ray asked, as they turned around.
   “I’ll send a wrecker out.”
   Elmer turned on the red and blue lights and pushed the speedometer to eighty.
   “Can I call my lawyer?” Ray asked.
   “No.”
   “Come on. It’s just a traffic offense. My lawyer can meet me at the jail, post bond, and in an hour I’m back on the road.”
   “Who’s your lawyer?”
   “Harry Rex Vonner.”
   Elmer grunted and his neck grew thicker. “Sumbitch cleaned me out in my divorce.”
   And with that Ray sat back and closed his eyes.

   Ray had actually seen the inside of the Ford County jail on two occasions, he recalled as Elmer led him up the front sidewalk. Both times he had taken papers to deadbeat fathers who’d been years behind in child support, and Judge Atlee had locked them up. Haney Moak, the slightly retarded jailer in an oversized uniform, was still there at the front desk, reading detective magazines. He also served as the dispatcher for the graveyard shift, so he knew of Ray’s transgressions.
   “Judge Atlee’s boy, huh?” Haney said with a crooked grin. His head was lopsided and his eyes were uneven, and whenever Haney spoke it was a challenge to maintain a visual.
   “Yes sir,” Ray said politely, looking for friends.
   “He was a fine man,” he said as he moved behind Ray and unlocked the cuffs.
   Ray rubbed his wrists and looked at Deputy Conway who was busy filling in forms and being very officious. “Reckless, and no gun permit.”
   “You ain’t lockin’ him up, are you?” Haney said to Elmer, quite rudely as if Haney were in charge of the case now, and not the deputy.
   “Damned right,” Elmer shot back, and the situation was immediately tense.
   “Can I call Harry Rex Vonner?” Ray pleaded.
   Haney nodded toward a wall-mounted phone as if he could not care less. He was glaring at Elmer. The two obviously had a history that was not pretty. “My jail’s full now,” Haney said.
   “That’s what you always say.”
   Ray quickly punched Harry Rex’s home number. It was after 3 A.M., and he knew the interruption would not be appreciated. The current Mrs. Vonner answered after the third ring. Ray apologized for the call and asked for Harry Rex.
   “He’s not here,” she said.
   He’s not out of town, Ray thought. He was on the front porch six hours ago. “May I ask where he is?”
   Haney and Elmer were practically yelling at each other in the background.
   “He’s over at the Atlee place,” she said slowly.
   “No, he left there hours ago. I was with him.”
   “No, they just called. The house is burning.”
   With Haney in the backseat, they flew around the square, lights and sirens fully engaged. From two blocks away, they could see the blaze. “Lord have mercy,” Haney said from the back.
   Few events excited Clanton like a good fire. The town’s two pumpers were there. Dozens of volunteers were darting about, all seemed to be yelling. The neighbors were gathering on the sidewalks across the street.
   Flames were already shooting through the roof. As Ray stepped over a water line and eased onto the front lawn, he breathed the unmistakable odor of gasoline.

Chapter 35

   The love nest wasn’t a bad place for a nap after all. It was a long narrow room with dust and spiderwebs and one light hanging in the center of the vaulted ceiling. The lone window had been painted sometime in the last century and overlooked the square. The bed was an iron antique with no sheets or blankets, and he tried not to think about Harry Rex and his misadventures on that very mattress. Instead, he thought of the old house at Maple Run and the glorious way it went into history. By the time the roof collapsed, half of Clanton was there. Ray had sat alone, on the low limb of a sycamore across the street, hidden from all, trying in vain to pull cherished memories from a wonderful childhood that simply had not happened. When the flames were shooting from every window, he had not thought of the cash or the Judge’s desk or his mother’s dining room table, but only of old General Forrest glaring down with those fierce eyes.
   Three hours of sleep, and he was awake by eight. The temperature was rising rapidly in the den of iniquity, and heavy steps were coming his way.
   Harry Rex swung the door open and turned on the light. “Wake up, felon,” he growled. “They want you down at the jail.”
   Ray swung his feet to the floor. “My escape was fair and square.” He had lost Elmer and Haney in the crowd and simply left with Harry Rex.
   “Did you tell them they could search your car?”
   “I did.”
   “That was a dumb-ass thing to do. What kinda lawyer are you?” He pulled a wooden folding chair from the wall and sat down near the bed.
   “There was nothing to hide.”
   “You’re stupid, you know that? They searched the car and found nothing.”
   “That’s what I expected.”
   “No clothes, no overnight bag, no luggage, no toothbrush, no evidence whatsoever that you were simply leaving town and going home, per your official story.”
   “I did not burn the house down, Harry Rex.”
   “Well, you’re an excellent suspect. You flee in the middle of the night, no clothes, no nothing, you drive away like a bat outta hell. Old lady Larrimore down the street sees you in your funny little car go flyin’ by, then about ten minutes later here come the fire trucks. You’re caught by the dumbest deputy in the state doin’ ninety-eight, drivin’ like hell to get away from here. Defend yourself.”
   “I didn’t torch it.”
   “Why did you leave at two-thirty?”
   “Someone threw a rock through the dining room window. I got scared.”
   “You had a gun.”
   “I didn’t want to use it. I’d rather run away than shoot somebody.”
   “You’ve been up North too long.”
   “I don’t live up North.”
   “How’d you get cut up like that?”
   “The brick broke the window, you see, and when I checked it out, I got cut.”
   “Why didn’t you call the police?”
   “I panicked. I wanted to go home, so I left.”
   “And ten minutes later somebody soaks the place with gasoline and throws a match.”
   “I don’t know what they did.”
   “I’d convict you.”
   “No, you’re my lawyer.”
   “No, I’m the lawyer for the estate, which by the way just lost its only asset.”
   “There’s fire insurance.”
   “Yeah, but you can’t get it.”
   “Why not?”
   “Because if you file a claim, then they’ll investigate you for arson. If you say you didn’t do it, then I believe you. But I’m not sure anybody else will. If you go after the insurance, then those boys will come after you with a vengeance.”
   “I didn’t torch it.”
   “Great, then who did?”
   “Whoever threw the brick.”
   “And who might that be?”
   “I have no idea. Maybe some guy who got the bad end of a divorce.”
   “Brilliant. And he waits nine years to get revenge on the Judge, who, by the way, is dead. I will not be in the courtroom when you offer that to the jury.”
   “I don’t know, Harry Rex. I swear I didn’t do it. Forget the insurance money.”
   “It’s not that easy. Only half is yours, the other half belongs to Forrest. He can file a claim for the insurance coverage.”
   Ray breathed deeply and scratched his stubble. “Help me here, okay?”
   “The sheriff’s downstairs, with one of his investigators. They’ll ask some questions. Answer slowly, tell the truth, blah, blah. I’ll be there, so let’s go slow.”
   “He’s here?”
   “In my conference room. I asked him to come over so we can do this now. I really think you need to get out of town.”
   “I was trying.”
   “The reckless driving and the gun charge will be put off for a few months. Give me some time to work the docket. You got bigger problems right now.”
   “I did not torch the house, Harry Rex.”
   “Of course you didn’t.”
   They left the room and started down the unsteady steps to the second floor. “Who’s the sheriff?” Ray asked, over his shoulder.
   “Guy named Sawyer.”
   “Good guy?”
   “It doesn’t matter.”
   “You close to him?”
   “I did his son’s divorce.”
   The conference room was a wonderful mess of thick law books thrown about on shelves and credenzas and the long table itself. The impression was given that Harry Rex spent hours in tedious research. He did not.
   Sawyer was not the least bit polite, nor was his assistant, a nervous little Italian named Sandroni. Italians were rare in northeast Mississippi, and during the tense introductions Ray detected a Delta accent. The two were all business, with Sandroni taking careful notes while Sawyer sipped steaming coffee from a paper cup and watched every move Ray made.
   The fire call was made by Mrs. Larrimore at two thirty-four, approximately ten to fifteen minutes after she’d seen Ray’s car leave Fourth Street in a hurry. Elmer Conway radioed at two thirty-six that he was in pursuit of some idiot doing a hundred miles an hour down in The Bottoms. Since it was established that Ray was driving very fast, Sandroni spent a long time nailing down his route, his estimated speeds, traffic lights, anything to slow him down at that hour of the morning.
   Once Ray’s exit route was determined, Sawyer radioed a deputy, who was sitting in front of the rubble at Maple Run, and told him to drive the exact course at the same estimated speeds and to stop out in The Bottoms where Elmer was once again waiting.
   Twelve minutes later, the deputy called back and said he was with Elmer.
   So in less than twelve minutes, Sandroni said as he began his recap, “Someone—and we’re assuming this someone was not already in the house, aren’t we, Mr. Atlee?—entered with what evidently was a large supply of gasoline and soaked the place thoroughly, so thoroughly that the fire captain said he’d never smelled such a strong odor of gas, then threw a match or maybe two, because the fire captain was almost certain the fire had more than one point of origin, and once the matches were thrown this unknown arsonist fled into the night. Right, Mr. Atlee?”
   “I don’t know what the arsonist did,” Ray said.
   “But the times are accurate?”
   “If you say so.”
   “I say so.”
   “Move along,” Harry Rex growled from the end of the table.
   Motive was next. The house was insured for $380,000, including contents. According to the Realtor, who’d already been consulted, he’d been writing up an offer to purchase it for $175,000.
   “That’s a nice gap, isn’t it, Mr. Atlee?” Sandroni inquired.
   “It is.”
   “Have you notified your insurance company?” Sandroni asked.
   “No, I thought I’d wait until their offices open,” Ray responded. “Believe it or not, some folks don’t work on Saturday.”
   “Hell, the fire truck’s still there,” Harry Rex added helpfully. “We got six months to file a claim.”
   Sandroni’s cheeks turned crimson but he held his tongue. Moving right along, he studied his notes and said, “Let’s talk about other suspects.”
   Ray didn’t like the use of the word “other.” He told the story about the brick through the window, or at least most of the story. And the phone call, warning him to leave immediately. “Check the phone records,” he challenged them. And for good measure, he threw in the earlier adventures with some demented soul rattling windows the night the Judge died.
   “Y’all had enough,” Harry Rex said after thirty minutes. In other words, my client will answer no more questions.
   “When are you leaving town?” asked Sawyer.
   “I’ve been trying to leave for the past six hours,” Ray replied.
   “Real soon,” said Harry Rex.
   “We may have some more questions.”
   “I’ll come back whenever I’m needed,” Ray said.
   Harry Rex shoved them out the front door, and when he returned to the conference room he said, “I think you’re a lyin’ son-ofabitch.”

Chapter 36

   The old fire truck was gone, the same one Ray and his friends had followed when they were teenagers and bored on summer nights. A lone volunteer in a dirty tee shirt was folding fire hoses. The street was a mess with mud strewn everywhere.
   Maple Run was deserted by midmorning. The chimney on the east end was still standing, as was a short section of charred wall beside it. Everything else had collapsed into a pile of debris. Ray and Harry Rex walked around the rubble and went to the backyard, where a row of ancient pecan trees protected the rear boundary of the property. They sat in the shade, in metal lawn chairs that Ray had once painted red, and ate tamales.
   “I didn’t burn this place,” Ray finally said.
   “Do you know who did?” Harry Rex asked.
   “I have a suspect.”
   “Tell me, dammit.”
   “His name is Gordie Priest.”
   “Oh him!”
   “It’s a long story.”
   Ray began with the Judge, dead on the sofa, and the accidental discovery of the money, or was it an accident after all? He gave as many facts and details as he could remember, and he , raised all the questions that had been dogging him for weeks. Both stopped eating. They stared at the smoldering debris but were too mesmerized to see it. Harry Rex was stunned by the narrative. Ray was relieved to be telling it. From Clanton to Charlottesville and back. From the casinos in Tunica to Atlantic City, then back to Tunica. To the coast and Patton French and his quest for a billion dollars, all to be credited to Judge Reuben Atlee, humble servant of the law.
   Ray held back nothing, and he tried to remember everything. The ransacking of his apartment in Charlottesville, for intimidation only, he thought. The ill-advised purchase of a share in a Bonanza. On and on he went, while Harry Rex said nothing.
   When he finished, his appetite was gone and he was sweating. Harry Rex had a million questions, but he began with, “Why would he burn the house?”
   “Cover his tracks, maybe, I don’t know.”
   “This guy didn’t leave tracks.”
   “Maybe it was the final act of intimidation.”
   They mulled this over. Harry Rex finished a tamale and said, “You should’ve told me.”
   “I wanted to keep the money, okay? I had three million bucks in cash in my sticky little hands, and it felt wonderful. It was better than sex, better than anything I’d ever felt. Three million bucks, Harry Rex, all mine. I was rich. I was greedy. I was corrupt. I didn’t want you or Forrest or the government or anyone in the world to know that I had the money.”
   “What were you gonna do with it?”
   “Ease it into banks, a dozen of them, nine thousand dollars at a time, no paperwork that would alert the government, let it pile up over eighteen months, then invest it with a pro. I’m forty-three; in two years the money would be laundered and hard at work. It would double every five years. At the age of fifty, it would be six million. Fifty-five, twelve million. At the age of sixty, Td have twenty-four million bucks. I had it all planned, Harry Rex. I could see the future.”
   “Don’t beat yourself up. What you did was normal.”
   “It doesn’t feel normal.”
   “You’re a lousy crook.”
   “I felt lousy, and I was already changing. I could see myself in an airplane and a fancier sports car and a nicer place to live. There’s a lot of money around Charlottesville, and I was thinking about making a splash. Country clubs, fox hunting—“
   “Fox hunting?”
   “Yep.”
   “With those little britches and the hat?”
   “Flying over fences on a wild horse, chasing a pack of hounds that are in hot pursuit of a thirty-pound fox that you’ll never see.”
   “Why would you wanna do that?”
   “Why would anyone?”
   “I’ll stick to huntin’ birds.”
   “Anyway, it was a burden, literally. I mean, I’ve been hauling the cash around for weeks.”
   “You could’ve left some at my office.”
   Ray finished a tamale and sipped a cola. “You think I’m stupid?”
   “No, lucky. This guy plays for keeps.”
   “Every time I closed my eyes, I could see a bullet coming at my forehead.”
   “Look, Ray, you’ve done nothing wrong. The Judge didn’t want the money included in his estate. You took it because you thought you were protectin’ it, and also guardin’ his reputation. You had a crazy man who wanted it more than you. Lookin’ back, you’re lucky you didn’t get hurt in the whole episode. Forget it.”
   “Thanks, Harry Rex.” Ray leaned forward and watched the volunteer fireman walk away. “What about the arson?”
   “We’ll work it out. I’ll file a claim, and the insurance company will investigate. They’ll suspect arson and thangs’ll get ugly. Let a few months pass. If they don’t pay, then we’ll sue, in Ford County. They won’t risk a jury trial against the estate of Reuben Atlee right here in his own courthouse. I think they’ll settle before trial. We may have to compromise some, but we’ll get a nice settlement.”
   Ray was on his feet. “I really want to go home,” he said.
   The air was thick with heat and smoke as they walked around the house. “I’ve had enough,” Ray said, and headed for the street.

   He drove a perfect fifty-five through The Bottoms. Elmer Conway was nowhere to be seen. The Audi seemed lighter with the trunk empty. Indeed, life itself was shedding burdens. Ray longed for the normalcy of home.
   He dreaded the meeting with Forrest. Their father’s estate had just been wiped out, and the arson issue would be difficult to explain. Perhaps he should wait. Rehab was going so smoothly, and Ray knew from experience that the slightest complication could derail Forrest. Let a month go by. Then another.
   Forrest would not be going back to Clanton, and in his murky world he might never hear of the fire. It might be best if Harry Rex broke the news to him.
   The receptionist at Alcorn Village gave him a curious look when he signed in. He read magazines for a long time in the dark lounge where the visitors waited. When Oscar Meave eased in with a gloomy look, Ray knew exactly what had happened.
   “He walked away late yesterday afternoon,” Meave began as he crouched on the coffee table in front of Ray. “I’ve tried to reach you all morning.”
   “I lost my cell phone last night,” Ray said. Of all the things he’d left behind when the rocks were falling, he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten his cell phone.
   “He signed in for the ridge walk, a five-mile nature trail he’s been doing every day. It’s around the back of the property, no fencing, but then Forrest was not a security risk. We didn’t think so, anyway. I can’t believe this.”
   Ray certainly could. His brother had been walking away from detox units for almost twenty years.
   “This is not really a lockdown facility,” Meave continued. “Our patients want to stay here, or it doesn’t work.”
   “I understand,” Ray said softly.
   “He was doing so well,” Meave went on, obviously more troubled than Ray. “Completely clean and very proud of it. He had sort of adopted two teenagers, both in rehab for the first time. Forrest worked with them every morning. I just don’t understand this one.”
   “I thought you are an ex-addict.”
   Meave was shaking his head. “I know, I know. The addict quits when the addict wants to, and not before.”
   “Have you ever seen one who just couldn’t quit?” Ray asked.
   “We can’t admit that.”
   “I know you can’t. But, off the record, you and I both know that there are addicts who will never kick it.”
   Meave shrugged, with reluctance.
   “Forrest is one of those, Oscar. We’ve lived this for twenty years.”
   “I take it as a personal failure.”
   “Don’t.”
   They walked outside and talked for a moment under a veranda. Meave could not stop apologizing. For Ray, it was nothing unexpected.
   Along the winding road back to the main highway, Ray wondered how his brother could simply walk away from a facility eight miles from the nearest town. But then, he had fled more secluded places.
   He would go back to Memphis, back to his room in Ellie’s basement, back to the streets where pushers were waiting for him. The next phone call might be the last, but then Ray had been half-expecting it for many years. As sick as he was, Forrest had shown an amazing ability to survive.
   Ray was in Tennessee now. Virginia was next, seven hours away. With a clear sky and no wind, he thought of how nice it would be at five thousand feet, buzzing around in his favorite rented Cessna.

Chapter 37

   Both doors were new, unpainted, and much heavier than the old ones. Ray silently thanked his landlord for the extra expense, though he knew that there would be no more break-ins. The pursuit had ended. No more quick looks over the shoulder. No more sneaking to Chaney’s to play hide-and-seek. No more hushed conversations with Corey Crawford. And no more illicit money to fret over, and dream about, and haul around, literally. The lifting of that burden made him smile and walk a bit faster.
   Life would become normal again. Long runs in the heat. Long solo flights over the Piedmont. He even looked forward to his neglected research for the monopolies treatise he’d promised to deliver by either this Christmas or the one after. He had softened on the Kaley issue and was ready for one last attempt at dinner. She was legal now, a graduate, and she simply looked too fine to write off without a decent effort.
   His apartment was the same, its usual condition since no one else lived there. Other than the door, there was no evidence of a forced entry. He now knew that his burglar had not really been a thief after all, just a tormentor, an intimidator. Either Gordie or one of his brothers. He wasn’t sure how they had divided their labors, nor did he care.
   It was almost 11 A.M. He made some strong coffee and began shuffling through the mail. No more anonymous letters. Nothing now but the usual bills and solicitations.
   There were two faxes in the tray. The first was a note from a former student. The second was from Patton French. He’d been trying to call, but Ray’s cell phone wasn’t working. It was handwritten on the stationery from the King of Torts, no doubt faxed from the gray waters of the Gulf where French was still hiding his boat from his wife’s divorce lawyer.
   Good news on the security front! Not long after Ray had left the coast, Gordie Priest had been “located,” along with both of his brothers. Could Ray please give him a call? His assistant would find him.
   Ray worked the phone for two hours, until French called from a hotel in Fort Worth, where he was meeting with some Ryax and Kobril lawyers. “I’ll probably get a thousand cases up here,” he said, unable to control himself.
   “Wonderful,” said Ray. He was determined not to listen to any more crowing about mass torts and zillion-dollar settlements.
   “Is your phone secure?” French asked.
   “Yes.”
   “Okay, listen. Priest is no longer a threat. We found him shortly after you left, laid up drunk with an old gal he’s been seeing for a long time. Found both brothers too. Your money is safe.”
   “Exactly when did you find them?” Ray asked. He was hovering over the kitchen table with a large calendar spread before him. Time was crucial here. He’d made notes in the margins as he’d waited for the call.
   French thought for a second. “Uh, let’s see. What’s today?”
   “Monday, June the fifth.”
   “Monday. When did you leave the coast?”
   “Ten o’clock Friday morning.”
   “Then it was just after lunch on Friday.”
   “You’re sure?”
   “Of course I’m sure. Why do you ask?”
   “And once you found him, there was no way they left the coast?”
   “Trust me, Ray, they’ll never leave the coast again. They’ve, uh, found a permanent home there.”
   “I don’t want those details.” Ray sat at the table and stared at the calendar.
   “What’s the matter?” French asked. “Something wrong?”
   “Yeah, you could say that.”
   “What is it?”
   “Somebody burned the house down.”
   ‘Judge Atlee’s?”
   “Yes.”
   “When?”
   “After midnight, Saturday morning.”
   A pause as French absorbed this, then, “Well, it wasn’t the Priest boys, I can promise you that.”
   When Ray said nothing, French asked, “Where’s the money?”
   “I don’t know,” he mumbled.
   A five-mile run did nothing to ease his tension. Though, as always, he was able to plot things, to rearrange his thoughts. The temperature was above ninety, and he was soaked with sweat when he returned to his apartment.
   Now that Harry Rex had been told everything, it was comforting to have someone with whom to share the latest. He called his office in Clanton and was informed that he was in court over in Tupelo and wouldn’t be back until late. He called Ellie’s house in Memphis and no one bothered to answer. He called Oscar Meave at Alcorn Village, and, expecting to hear no news of his brother’s whereabouts, got exactly what he expected.
   So much for the normal life.

   After a tense morning of back-and-forth negotiations in the hallways of the Lee County Courthouse, bickering over such issues as who’d get the ski boat and who’d get the cabin on the lake, and how much he would pay in a lump-sum cash settlement, the divorce was settled an hour after lunch. Harry Rex had the husband, an overheated cowboy on wife number three who thought he knew more divorce law than his lawyer. Wife number three was an aging bimbo in her late twenties who’d caught him with her best friend. It was the typical, sordid tale, and Harry Rex was sick of the whole mess when he walked to the bench and presented a hard-fought property settlement agreement.
   The chancellor was a veteran who’d divorced thousands. “Very sorry about Judge Atlee,” he said softly as he began to review the papers. Harry Rex just nodded. He was tired and thirsty and already contemplating a cold one as he drove the backroad to Clanton. His favorite beer store in the Tupelo area was at the county line.
   “We served together for twenty-two years,” the chancellor was saying.
   ‘A fine man,” Harry Rex said.
   “Are you doing the estate?”
   “Yes sir.”
   “Give my regards to Judge Farr over there.”
   “I will.”
   The paperwork was signed, the marriage mercifully terminated, the warring spouses sent to their neutral homes. Harry Rex was out of the courthouse and halfway to his car when a lawyer chased him down and stopped him on the sidewalk. He introduced himself as Jacob Spain, Attorney-at-Law, one of a thousand in Tupelo. He’d been in the courtroom and overheard the chancellor mention Judge Atlee.
   “He has a son, right, Forrest?” Spain asked.
   “Two sons, Ray and Forrest.” Harry Rex took a breath and settled in for a quick visit.
   “I played high school football against Forrest; in fact he broke my collarbone with a late hit.”
   “That sounds like Forrest.”
   “I played at New Albany. Forrest was a junior when I was a senior. Did you see him play?”
   “Yes, many times.”
   “You remember the game over there against us when he threw for three hundred yards in the first half? Four or five touchdowns, I think.”
   “I do,” Harry Rex said, and started to fidget. How long was this going to take?
   “I was playing safety that night, and he was firing passes all over the place. I picked one off right before half-time, ran it out of bounds, and he speared me while I was on the ground.”
   “That was one of his favorite plays.” Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em late had been Forrest’s motto, especially those defensive backs unlucky enough to intercept one of his passes.
   “I think he was arrested the next week,” Spain was saying. “What a waste. Anyway, I saw him just a few weeks ago, here in Tupelo, with Judge Atlee.”
   The fidgeting stopped. Harry Rex forgot about a cold one, at least for the moment. “When was this?” he asked. :
   “Right before the Judge died. It was a strange scene.”
   They took a few steps and found shade under a tree. “I’m listening,” Harry Rex said, loosening his tie. His wrinkled navy blazer was already off.
   “My wife’s mother is being treated for breast cancer at the Taft Clinic. One Monday afternoon back in the spring I drove her over there for another round of chemo.”
   “Judge Atlee went to Taft,” Harry Rex said. “I’ve seen the bills.”
   “Yes, that’s where I saw him. I checked her in, there was a wait, so I went to my car to make a bunch of calls. While I was sitting there, I watched as Judge Atlee pulled up in a long black Lincoln driven by someone I didn’t recognize. They got the thing parked, just two cars down, and they got out. His driver then looked familiar—big guy, big frame, long hair, kind of a cocky swagger that I’ve seen before. It hit me that it was Forrest. I could tell by the way he walked and moved. He was wearing sunglasses and a cap pulled low. They went inside, and within seconds Forrest came back out.”
   “What kinda cap?”
   “Faded blue, Cubs, I think.”
   “I’ve seen that one.”
   “He was real nervous, like he didn’t want anyone to see him. He disappeared into some trees next to the clinic, except I could barely see his outline. He just hid there. I thought at first he might be relieving himself, but no, he was just hiding. After an hour or so, I went in, waited, finally got my mother-in-law, and left. He was still out in the trees.”
   Harry Rex had pulled out his pocket planner. “What day was this?” Spain removed his, and as all busy lawyers do, they compared their recent movements. “Monday, May the first,” Spain decided.
   “That was six days before the Judge died,” Harry Rex said.
   “I’m sure that’s the date. It was just a strange scene.”
   “Well, he’s a pretty strange guy.”
   “He’s not running from the law or anything, is he?”
   “Not at the present,” Harry Rex said, and they both managed a nervous laugh.
   Spain suddenly needed to go. “Anyway, when you see him again, tell him I’m still mad about the late hit.”
   “I’ll do that,” Harry Rex said, then watched him walk away.

Chapter 38

   Mr. and Mrs. Vonner left Clanton on a cloudy June morning in a new sports utility four-wheel drive that promised twelve miles to the gallon and was loaded with enough luggage for a month in Europe. The District of Columbia was the destination, however, since Mrs. Vonner had a sister there whom Harry Rex had never met. They spent the first night in Gatlinburg and the second night at White Sulphur Springs in West Virginia. They arrived in Charlottesville around noon, did the obligatory tour of Jefferson’s Monticello, walked the grounds at the university, and had an unusual dinner at a college dive called the White Spot, the house specialty being a fried egg on a hamburger. It was Harry Rex’s kind of food.
   The next morning, while she slept, he went for a stroll on the downtown mall. He found the address and waited.

   A few minutes after 8 A.M., Ray double-tied the laces of his rather expensive running shoes, stretched in the den, and walked downstairs for the daily five-miler. Outside, the air was warm. July was not far away and summer had already arrived.
   He turned a corner and heard a familiar voice call, “Hey, boy.”
   Harry Rex was sitting on a bench, a cup of coffee in hand, an unread newspaper next to him. Ray froze and took a few seconds to collect himself. Things were out of place here.
   When he could move, he walked over and said, “What, exactly, are you doing here?”
   “Cute outfit,” Harry Rex said, taking in the shorts, old tee shirt, red runner’s cap, the latest in athletic eye glasses. “Me and the wife are passing through, headed for D.C. She has a sister up there she thinks I want to meet. Sit down.”
   “Why didn’t you call?”
   “Didn’t want to bother you.”
   “But you should’ve called, Harry Rex. We could do dinner, I’ll show you around.”
   “It’s not that kind of trip. Sit down.”
   Smelling trouble, Ray sat next to Harry Rex. “I can’t believe this,” he mumbled.
   “Shut up and listen.”
   Ray removed his running glasses and looked at Harry Rex. “Is it bad?”
   “Let’s say it’s curious.” He told Jacob Spain’s story about For-rest hiding in the trees at the oncology clinic, six days before the Judge passed away. Ray listened in disbelief and slid lower on the bench. He finally leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his head hung low.
   “According to the medical records,” Harry Rex was saying, “he got a morphine pack that day, May the first. Don’t know if it was the first pack or a refill, the records are not that clear. Looks like Forrest took him to get the good stuff.”
   A long pause as a pretty young woman walked by, obviously in a hurry, her tight skirt swaying wonderfully as she sped along. A sip of coffee, then, “I’ve always been suspicious of that will you found in his study. The Judge and I talked about his will for the last six months of his life. I don’t think he simply cranked out one more right before he died. I’ve studied the signatures at length, and it’s my untrained opinion that the last one is a forgery.”
   Ray cleared his voice and said, “If Forrest drove him to Tupelo, then it’s safe to assume Forrest was in the house.”
   “All over the house.”
   Harry Rex had hired an investigator in Memphis to find Forrest, but there was no trail, no trace. From somewhere within the newspaper, he pulled out an envelope. “Then, this came three days ago.”
   Ray pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was from Oscar Meave at Alcorn Village, and it read: “Dear Mr. Vonner: I have been unable to reach Ray Atlee. I know the whereabouts of Forrest, if by chance the family does not. Gall if you would like to talk. Everything is confidential. Best wishes, Oscar Meave.”
   “So I called him right away,” Harry Rex said, eyeing another young woman. “He has a former patient who’s now a counselor at a rehab ranch out West. Forrest checked in there a week ago, and was adamant about his privacy, said he did not want his family to know where he was. Evidently this happens from time to time, and the clinics are always caught in a bind. They have to respect the wishes of their patient, but on the other hand, the family is crucial to the overall rehabilitation. So these counselors whisper among themselves. Meave made the decision to pass along the information to you.”
   “Where out West?”
   “Montana. A place called Morningstar Ranch. Meave said it’s what the boy needs—very nice, very remote, a lockdown facility for the hard cases, said he’ll be there for a year.”
   Ray sat up and began rubbing his forehead as if he’d finally been shot there.
   “And of course the place is pricey,” Harry Rex added.
   “Of course,” Ray mumbled.
   There was no more talk, not about Forrest anyway. After a few minutes, Harry Rex said he was leaving. He had delivered his message, he had nothing more to say, not then. His wife was anxious to see her sister. Perhaps next time they could stay longer, have dinner, whatever. He patted Ray on the shoulder, and left him there. “See you in Clanton” were his last words.
   Too weak and too winded for a run, Ray sat on the bench in the middle of the downtown mall, his apartment above him, lost in a world of rapidly moving pieces. The foot traffic picked up as the merchants and bankers and lawyers hustled to work, but Ray did not see them.

   Carl Mirk taught two sections of insurance law each semester, and he was a member of the Virginia bar, as was Ray. They discussed the interview over lunch, and both came to the conclusion that it was just part of a routine inquiry, nothing to worry about. Mirk would tag along and pretend to be Ray’s lawyer.
   The insurance investigator’s name was Ratterfield. They welcomed him into the conference room at the law school. He removed his jacket as if they might be there for hours. Ray was wearing jeans and a golf shirt. Mirk was just as casual.
   “I usually record these,” Ratterfield said, all business as he pulled out a tape recorder and placed it between him and Ray. ‘Any objections?” he asked, once the recorder was in place.
   “I guess not,” Ray said.
   He punched a button, looked at his notes, then began an introduction, for the benefit of the tape. He was an independent insurance examiner, hired by Aviation Underwriters, to investigate a claim filed by Ray Atlee and three other owners for damages to a 1994 Beech Bonanza on June 2. According to the state arson examiner, the airplane was deliberately burned.
   Initially, he needed Ray’s flying history. Ray had his logbook and Ratterfield pored through it, finding nothing remotely interesting. “No instrument rating,” he said at one point.
   “I’m working on it,” Ray replied.
   “Fourteen hours in the Bonanza?”
   “Yep.”
   He then moved to the consortium of owners, and asked questions about the deal that brought it together. He’d already interviewed the other owners, and they had produced the contracts and documentation. Ray acknowledged the paperwork.
   Changing gears, Ratterfield asked, “Where were you on June the first?” :
   “Biloxi, Mississippi,” Ray answered, certain that Ratterfield had no idea where that was.
   “How long had you been there?”
   “A few days.”
   “May I ask why you were there?”
   “Sure,” Ray said, then launched into an abbreviated version of his recent visits home. His official reason for going to the coast was to visit friends, old buddies from his days at Tulane.
   “I’m sure there are people who can verify that you were there on June the first,” Ratterfield said.
   “Several people. Plus I have hotel receipts.”
   He seemed convinced that Ray had been in Mississippi. “The other owners were all at home when the plane burned,” he said, flipping a page to a list of typed notes. “All have alibis. If we’re assuming it’s arson, then we have to first find a motive, then whoever torched it. Any ideas?”
   “I have no idea who did this,” Ray said quickly, and with conviction.
   “How about motive?”
   “We had just bought the plane. Why would any of us want to destroy it?”
   “To collect the insurance, maybe. Happens occasionally. Perhaps one partner decided he was in over his head. The note is not small—almost two hundred grand over six years, close to nine hundred bucks a month per partner.”
   “We knew that two weeks earlier when we signed on,” Ray said.
   They shadowboxed for a while around the delicate issue of Ray’s personal finances—salary, expenses, obligations. When Ratterfield seemed convinced that Ray could swing his end of the deal, he changed subjects. “This fire in Mississippi,” he said, scanning a report of some type. “Tell me about it.”
   “What do you want to know?”
   “Are you under investigation for arson down there?”
   “No.”
   “Are you sure?”
   “Yes, I’m sure. You can call my attorney if you’d like.”
   “I already have. And your apartment has been burglarized twice in the past six weeks?”
   “Nothing was taken. Both were just break-ins.”
   “You’re having an exciting summer.”
   “Is that a question?”
   “Sounds like someone’s after you.”
   “Again, is that a question?”
   It was the only flare-up of the interview, and both Ray and Ratterfield took a breath.
   “Any other arson investigations in your past?”
   Ray smiled and said, “No.”
   When Ratterfield flipped another page, and there was nothing typed on it, he lost interest in a hurry and went through the motions of wrapping things up. “I’m sure our attorneys will be in touch,” he said as he turned off the recorder.
   “I can’t wait,” Ray said.
   Ratterfield collected his jacket and his briefcase and made his exit.
   After he left, Carl said, “I think you know more than you’re telling.”
   “Maybe,” Ray said. “But I had nothing to do with the arson here, or the arson there.”
   “I’ve heard enough.”

Chapter 39

   For almost a week, a string of turbulent summer fronts kept the ceilings low and the winds too dangerous for small planes. When the extended forecasts showed nothing but calm dry air for everywhere but South Texas, Ray left Charlottesville in a Cessna and began the longest cross-country of his brief flying career. Avoiding busy airspace and looking for easy landmarks below, he flew west across the Shenandoah Valley into West Virginia and into Kentucky, where he picked up fuel at a four-thousand-foot strip not far from Lexington. The Cessna could stay aloft for about three and a half hours before the indicator dipped below a quarter of a tank. He landed again in Terre Haute, crossed the Mississippi River at Hannibal, and stopped for the evening in Kirksville, Missouri, where he checked into a motel.
   It was his first motel since the odyssey with the cash, and it was precisely because of the cash that he was back in a motel. He was also in Missouri, and as he flipped through muted channels in his room, he remembered Patton French’s story of stumbling upon Ryax at a tort seminar in St. Louis. An old lawyer from a small town in the Ozarks had a son who taught at the university in Columbia, and the son knew the drug was bad. And because of Patton French and his insatiable greed and corruption, he, Ray Atlee, was now in another motel in a town where he knew absolutely no one.
   A front was developing over Utah. Ray lifted off just after sunrise and climbed to above five thousand feet. He trimmed his controls and opened a large cup of steaming black coffee. He flew more north than west for the first leg and was soon over the cornfields of Iowa.
   Alone a mile above the earth, in the cool quiet air of the early morning, and with not a single pilot chattering on the airwaves, Ray tried to focus on the task before him. It was easier though, to loaf, to enjoy the solitude and the views, and the coffee, and the solitary act of leaving the world down there. And it was quite pleasant to put off thoughts of his brother.
   After a stop in Sioux Falls, he turned west again and followed Interstate 90 across the entire state of South Dakota before skirting the restricted space around Mount Rushmore. He landed in Rapid City, rented a car, and took a long drive through Badlands National Park.
   Morningstar Ranch was somewhere in the hills south of Kalispell, though its Web site was purposefully vague. Oscar Meave had tried but had been unsuccessful in pinpointing its exact location. At the end of the third day of his journey, Ray landed after dark in Kalispell. He rented a car, found dinner then a motel, and spent hours with aerial and road maps.
   It took another day of low-altitude flying around Kalispell and the towns of Woods Bay, Polison, Bigfork, and Elmo. He crossed Flathead Lake a half-dozen times and was ready to surrender the air war and send in the ground troops when he caught a glimpse of a compound of some sort near the town of Somers on the north side of the lake. From fifteen hundred feet, he circled the place until he saw a substantial fence of green chain link almost hidden in the woods and practically invisible from the air. There were small buildings that appeared to be housing units, a larger one for administration perhaps, a pool, tennis courts, a barn with horses grazing nearby. He circled long enough for a few folks within the complex to stop whatever they were doing and look up with shielded eyes.
   Finding it on the ground was as challenging as from the air, but by noon the next day Ray was parked outside the unmarked gate, glaring at an armed guard who was glaring back at him. After a few tense questions, the guard finally admitted that, yes, he had in fact found the place he was looking for. “We don’t allow visitors,” he said smugly.
   Ray created a tale of a family in crisis and stressed the urgency of finding his brother. The procedure, as the guard grudgingly laid out, was to leave a name and a phone number, and there was a slight chance someone from within would contact him. The next day, he was trout fishing on the Flathead River when his cell phone rang. An unfriendly voice belonging to an Allison with Morningstar asked for Ray Atlee.
   Who was she expecting?
   He confessed to being Ray Atlee, and she proceeded to ask what was it he wanted from their facility. “I have a brother there,” he said as politely as possible. “His name is Forrest Atlee, and I’d like to see him.”
   “What makes you think he’s here?” she demanded.
   “Here’s there, You know he’s there. I know he’s there, so can we please stop the games?”
   “I’ll look into it, but don’t expect a return call.” She hung up before he could say anything. The next unfriendly voice belonged to Darrel, an administrator of something or other. It came late in the afternoon while Ray was hiking a trail in the Swan Range near the Hungry Horse Reservoir. Darrel was as abrupt as Allison. “Half an hour only. Thirty minutes,” he informed Ray. “At ten in the morning.”
   A maximum security prison would have been more agreeable. The same guard frisked him at the gate and inspected his car. “Follow him,” the guard said. Another guard in a gold cart was waiting on the narrow drive, and
   Ray followed him to a small parking lot near the front building. When he got out of his car Allison was waiting, unarmed. She was tall and rather masculine, and when she offered the obligatory handshake Ray had never felt so physically overmatched. She marched him inside, where cameras monitored every move with no effort at concealment. She led him to a windowless room and passed him off to a snarling officer of an unknown variety who, with the deft touch of an baggage handler, poked and prodded every bend and crevice except the groin, where, for one awful moment, Ray thought he might just take a jab there too.
   “I’m just seeing my brother,” Ray finally protested, and in doing so came close to getting backhanded.
   When he was thoroughly searched and sanitized, Allison gathered him up again and led him down a short hallway to a stark square room that felt as though it should have had padded walls. The only door to it had the only window, and, pointing to it, Allison said gravely, “We will be watching.”
   “Watching what?” Ray asked.
   She scowled at him and seemed ready to knock him to the floor.
   There was a square table in the center of the room, with two chairs on opposite sides. “Sit here,” she demanded, and Ray took his designated seat. For ten minutes he looked at the walls, his back to the door. ; . ‘:
   Finally, it opened, and Forrest entered alone, unchained, no handcuffs, no burly guards prodding him along. Without a word he sat across from Ray and folded his hands together on the table as if it was time to meditate. The hair was gone. A buzz cut had removed everything but a thin stand of no more than an eighth of an inch, and above the ears the shearing had gone to the scalp. He was clean-shaven and looked twenty pounds lighter. His baggy shirt was a dark olive button-down with a small collar and two large pockets, almost military-like. It prompted Ray to offer the first words: “This place is a boot camp.”
   “It’s tough,” Forrest replied very slowly and softly.
   “Do they brainwash you?”
   “That’s exactly what they do.”
   Ray was there because of money, and he decided to confront it head-on. “So what do you get for seven hundred bucks a day?” he began.
   “A new life.”
   Ray nodded his approval at the answer. Forrest was staring at him, no blinking, no expression, just gazing almost forlornly at his brother as if he were a stranger.
   ‘And you’re here for twelve months?”
   “At least.”
   “That’s a quarter of a million dollars.”
   He gave a little shrug, as if money was not a problem, as if he just might stay for three years, or five.
   “Are you sedated?” Ray asked, trying to provoke him.
   “No.”
   “You act as if you’re sedated.”
   “I’m not. They don’t use drugs here. Can’t imagine why not, can you?” His voice picked up a little steam.
   Ray was mindful of the ticking clock. Allison would be back at precisely the thirtieth minute to break up things and escort Ray out of the building and out of the compound forever. He needed much more time to cover their issues, but efficiency was required here. Get to the point, he told himself. See how much he’s going to admit.
   “I took the old man’s last will,” Ray said. ‘And I took the summons he sent, the one calling us home on May the seventh, and I studied his signatures on both. I think they’re forgeries.”
   “Good for you.” •
   “Don’t know who did the forging, but I suspect it was you.”
   “Sue me.”
   “No denial?”
   “What difference does it make?”
   Ray repeated those words, half-aloud and in disgust as if repeating them made him angry. A long pause while the clock ticked. “I received my summons on a Thursday. It was postmarked in Clan-ton on Monday, the same day you drove him to the Taft Clinic in Tupelo to get a morphine pack. Question—how did you manage to type the summons on his old Underwood manual?”
   “I don’t have to answer your questions.”
   “Sure you do. You put together this fraud, Forrest. The least you can do is tell me how it happened. You’ve won. The old man’s dead. The house is gone. You have the money. No one’s chasing you but me, and I’ll be gone soon. Tell me how it happened.”
   “He already had a morphine pack.”
   “Okay, so you took him to get another one, or a refill, whatever. That’s not the question.”
   “But it’s important.”
   “Why?”
   “Because he was stoned.” There was a slight break in the brainwashed facade as he took his hands off the table and glanced away.
   “So he was suffering,” Ray said, trying to provoke some emotions here.
   “Yes,” Forrest said without a trace of emotion.
   “And if you kept the morphine cranked up, then you had the house to yourself?”
   “Something like that.”
   “When did you first go back there?”
   “I’m not too good with dates. Never have been.”
   “Don’t play stupid with me, Forrest. He died on a Sunday.”
   “I went there on a Saturday.”
   “So eight days before he died?”
   “Yes, I guess.”
   “And why did you go back?”
   He folded his arms across his chest and lowered his chin and his eyes. And his voice. “He called me,” he began, “and asked me to come see him. I went the next day. I couldn’t believe how old and sick he was, and how lonely.” A deep breath, a glance up at his brother. “The pain was terrible. Even with the painkillers, he was in bad shape. We sat on the porch and talked about the war and how things would’ve been different if Jackson hadn’t been killed at Chancellorsville, the same old battles he’s been refighting forever. He shifted constantly, trying to fight off the pain. At times it took his breath away. But he just wanted to talk. We never buried the hatchet or tried to make things right. We didn’t feel the need to. The fact that I was there was all he wanted. I slept on the sofa in his study, and during the night I woke up to hear him screaming. He was on the floor of his room, his knees up to his chin, shivering from the pain. I got him back in his bed, helped him hit the morphine, finally got him still. It was about three in the morning. I was wild-eyed. I started roaming.”
   The narrative fizzled, but the clock didn’t.
   “And that’s when you found the money,” Ray said.
   “What money?”
   “The money that’s paying seven hundred dollars a day here.”
   “Oh, that money.”
   “That money”
   “Yeah, that’s when I found it, same place as you. Twenty-seven boxes. The first one had a hundred thousand bucks in it, so I did some calculations. I had no idea what to do. I just sat there for hours, staring at the boxes all stacked innocently in the cabinets. I thought he might get out of bed, walk down the hall, and catch me looking at all his little boxes, and I was hoping he would. Then he could explain things.” He put his hands back on the table and stared at Ray again. “By sunrise, though, I thought I had a plan. I decided I’d let you handle the money. You’re the firstborn, the favorite son, the big brother, the golden boy, the honor student, the law professor, the executor, the one he trusted the most. I’ll just watch Ray, I said to myself, see what he does with the money, because whatever he does must be right. So I closed the cabinets, slid the sofa over, and tried to act as though I’d never found it. I came close to asking the old man about it, but I figured that if he wanted me to know, then he would tell me.”
   “When did you type my summons?”
   “Later that day. He was passed out under the pecan trees in the backyard, in his hammock. He was feeling a lot better, but by then he was addicted to the morphine. He didn’t remember much of that last week.”
   “And Monday you took him to Tupelo?”
   “Yes. He’d been driving himself, but since I was around he asked me to take him over.”
   “And you hid in the trees outside the clinic so no one would see you.”
   “That’s pretty good. What else do you know?”
   “Nothing. All I have is questions. You called me the night I got the summons in the mail, said you had received one too. You asked me if I was going to call the old man. I said no. What would’ve happened if I had called him?”
   “Phones weren’t working.”
   “Why not?”
   “The phone line runs into the basement. There’s a loose connecting switch down there.”
   Ray nodded as another little mystery was solved.
   “Plus, he didn’t answer it half the time,” Forrest added.
   “When did you redo his will?”
   “The day before he died. I found the old one, didn’t like it much, so I thought I’d do the right thing and equally divide his estate between the two of us. What a ridiculous idea—an equal split. What a fool I was. I just didn’t understand the law in these situations. I thought that since we are the only heirs, that we should divide everything equally. I wasn’t aware that lawyers are trained to keep whatever they find, to steal from their brothers, to hide assets that they are sworn to protect, to ignore their oaths. No one told me this. I was trying to be fair. How stupid.”
   “When did he die?”
   “Two hours before you got there.”
   “Did you kill him?”
   A snort, a sneer. No response.
   “Did you kill him?” Ray asked again.
   “No, cancer did.”
   “Let me get this straight,” Ray said, leaning forward, the cross-examiner moving in for a strike. “You hung around for eight days, and the entire time he was stoned. Then he conveniently dies two hours before I get there.”
   “That’s right.”
   “You’re lying.”
   “I assisted him with the morphine, okay? Feel better? He was crying because of the pain. He couldn’t walk, eat, drink, sleep, urinate, defecate, or sit up in a chair. You were not there, okay? I was. He got all dressed up for you. I shaved his face. I helped him to the sofa. He was too weak to press the button on the morphine pack. I pressed it for him. He went to sleep. I left the house. You came home, you found him, you found the money, then you began your lying.”
   “Do you know where it came from?”
   “No. Somewhere on the coast, I presume. I don’t really care.”
   “Who burned my airplane?”
   “That’s a criminal act, so I know nothing.”
   “Is it the same person who followed me for a month?”
   “Yes, two of them, guys I know from prison, old friends. They’re very good, and you were very easy. They put a bug under the fender of your cute little car. They tracked you with a GPS. Every move. Piece of cake.”
   “Why did you burn the house?”
   “I deny any wrongdoing.”
   “For the insurance? Or perhaps to completely shut me out of the estate?”
   Forrest was shaking his head, denying everything. The door opened and Allison stuck her long, angular face in. “Everything okay in here?” she demanded.
   Fine, yes, we’re swell.
   “Seven more minutes,” she said, then closed it. They sat there forever, both staring blankly at different spots on the floor. Not a sound from the outside.
   “I only wanted half, Ray,” Forrest finally said.
   “Take half now.”
   “Now’s too late. Now I know what I’m supposed to do with the money. You showed me.”
   “I was afraid to give you the money, Forrest.”
   “Afraid of what?”
   “Afraid you’d kill yourself with it.”
   “Well, here I am,” Forrest said, waving his right arm at the room, at the ranch, at the entire state of Montana. “This is what I’m doing with the money. Not exactly killing myself. Not quite as crazy as everybody thought.”
   “I was wrong.”
   “Oh, that means so much. Wrong because you got caught? Wrong because I’m not such an idiot after all? Or wrong because you want half of the money?”
   “All of the above.”
   “I’m afraid to share it, Ray, same as you were. Afraid the money will go to your head. Afraid you’ll blow it all on airplanes and casinos. Afraid you’ll become an even bigger asshole than you are. I have to protect you here, Ray.”
   Ray kept his cool. He couldn’t win a fistfight with his brother, and even if he could, what would he gain by it? He’d love to take a bat and beat him around the head, but why bother? If he shot him he wouldn’t find the money.
   “So what’s next for you?” he asked with as much unconcern as he could show.
   “Oh, I don’t know. Nothing definite. When you’re in rehab, you dream a lot, then when you get out all the dreams seem silly. I’ll never go back to Memphis, though, too many old friends. And I’ll never go back to Clanton. I’ll find a new home somewhere. What about you? What will you do now that you’ve blown your big chance?”
   “I had a life, Forrest, and I still do.”
   “That’s right. You make a hundred and sixty thousand bucks a year, I checked it online, and I doubt if you work real hard. No family, not much overhead, plenty of money to do whatever you want. You got it made. Greed is a strange animal, isn’t it, Ray? You found three million bucks and decided you needed all of it. Not one dime for your screwed-up little brother. Not one red cent for me. You took the money, and you tried to run away with it.”
   “I wasn’t sure what to do with the money. Same as you.”
   “But you took it, all of it. And you lied to me about it.”
   “That’s not true. I was holding the money.”
   “And you were spending it—casinos, airplanes.”
   “No, dammit! I don’t gamble and I’ve been renting airplanes for three years. I was holding the money, Forrest, trying to figure it out. Hell, it was barely five weeks ago.”
   The words were louder and bouncing off the walls. Allison took a look in, ready to break up the meeting if her patient was getting stressed.
   “Give me a break here,” Ray said. “You didn’t know what to do with the money, neither did I. As soon as I found it, someone, and I guess that someone was either you or your buddies, started scaring the hell out of me. You can’t blame me for running with the money.”
   “You lied to me.”
   “And you lied to me. You said you hadn’t talked to the old man, that you hadn’t set foot in the house in nine years. All lies, Forrest. All part of a hoax. Why did you do it? Why didn’t you just tell me about the money?”
   “Why didn’t you tell me?”
   “Maybe I was going to, okay? I’m not sure what I had planned. It’s kinda hard to think clearly when you find your father dead, then you find three million bucks in cash, then you realize somebody else knows about the money and will gladly kill you for it. These things don’t happen every day, so forgive me if I’m a little inexperienced.”
   The room went silent. Forrest tapped his fingertips together and watched the ceiling. Ray had said all he planned to say. Allison rattled the doorknob, but did not enter.
   Forrest leaned forward and said, “Those two fires—the house and the airplane—you got any new suspects?”
   Ray shook his head no. “I won’t tell a soul,” he said.
   Another pause as time expired. Forrest slowly stood and looked down at Ray. “Give me a year. When I get out of here, then we’ll talk.”
   The door opened, and as Forrest walked by, he let his hand graze Ray’s shoulder, just a light touch, not an affectionate pat by any means, but a touch nonetheless.
   “See you in a year, Bro,” he said, then he was gone.