Chapter 3

   The law school was next to the business school, and both were at the northern edge of a campus that had expanded greatly from the quaint academic village Thomas Jefferson designed and built.
   To a university that so revered the architecture of its founder, the law school was just another modern campus building, square and flat, brick and glass, as bland and unimaginative as many others built in the seventies. But recent money had renovated and landscaped things nicely. It was ranked in the Top Ten, as everybody who worked and studied there knew so well. A few of the Ivys were ranked above it, but no other public school. It attracted a thousand top students and a very bright faculty.
   Ray had been content teaching securities law at Northeastern in Boston. Some of his writings caught the attention of a search committee, one thing led to another, and the chance to move South to a better school became attractive. Vicki was from Florida, and though she thrived in the city life of Boston, she could never adjust to the winters. They quickly adapted to the slower pace of Charlottesville. He was awarded tenure, she earned a doctorate in romance languages. They were discussing children when the Liquidator wormed his way into the picture.
   Another man gets your wife pregnant, then takes her, and you’d like to ask him some questions. And perhaps have a few for her. In the days right after her exit he couldn’t sleep for all the questions, but as time passed he realized he would never confront her. The questions faded, but seeing her at the airport brought them back. Ray was cross-examining her again as he parked in the law school lot and returned to his office.
   He kept office hours late in the afternoon, no appointment was necessary. His door was open and any student was welcome. It was early May, though, and the days were warm. Student visits had become rare. He reread the directive from his father, and again became irked at the usual heavy-handedness.
   At five o’clock he locked his office, left the law school, and walked down the street to an intramural sports complex where the third-year students were playing the faculty in the second of a three-game softball series. The professors had lost the first game in a slaughter. Games two and three were not really necessary to determine the better team.
   Smelling blood, first– and second-year students filled the small bleachers and hung on the fence along the first-base line, where the faculty team was huddled for a useless pre-game pep talk. Out in left field some first-years of dubious reputation were bunched around two large coolers, the beer already flowing.
   There’s no better place to be in the springtime than on a college campus, Ray thought to himself as he approached the field and looked for a pleasant spot to watch the game. Girls in shorts, a cooler always close by, festive moods, impromptu parties, summer approaching. He was forty-three years old, single, and he wanted to be a student again. Teaching keeps you young, they all said, perhaps energetic and mentally sharp, but what Ray wanted was to sit on a cooler out there with the hell-raisers and hit on the girls.
   A small group of his colleagues loitered behind the backstop, smiling gamely as the faculty took the field with a most unimpressive lineup. Several were limping. Half wore some manner of knee brace. He spotted Carl Mirk, an associate dean and his closest friend, leaning on a fence, tie undone, jacket slung over his shoulder.
   “Sad-looking crew out there,” Ray said.
   “Wait till you see them play” Mirk said. Carl was from a small town in Ohio where his father was a local judge, a local saint, everybody’s grandfather. Carl, too, had fled and vowed never to return.
   “I missed the first game,” Ray said.
   “It was a hoot. Seventeen to nothing after two innings.”
   The leadoff hitter for the students ripped the first pitch into the left-field gap, a routine double, but by the time the left fielder and center fielder hobbled over, corralled the ball, kicked it a couple of times, fought over it, then flung it toward the infield, the runner walked home and the shutout was blown. The rowdies in left field were hysterical. The students in the bleachers yelled for more errors.
   “It’ll get worse,” Mirk said.
   Indeed it did. After a few more fielding disasters, Ray had seen enough. “I’ll be out of town early next week,” he said between batters. “I’ve been called home.”
   “I can tell you’re excited,” Mirk said. “Another funeral?”
   “Not yet. My father is convening a family summit to discuss his estate.”
   “I’m sorry”
   “Don’t be. There’s not much to discuss, nothing to fight over, so it’ll probably be ugly “
   “Your brother?”
   “I don’t know who’ll cause more trouble, brother or father.”
   “I’ll be thinking of you.”
   “Thanks. I’ll notify my students and give them assignments. Everything should be covered.”
   “Leaving when?”
   “Saturday, should be back Tuesday or Wednesday, but who knows.”
   “We’ll be here,” Mirk said. “And hopefully this series will be over.”
   A soft ground ball rolled untouched between the legs of the pitcher.
   “I think it’s over now,” Ray said.
   Nothing soured Ray’s mood like thoughts of going home. He hadn’t been there in over a year, and if he never went back it would still be too soon.
   He bought a burrito from a Mexican takeout and ate at a sidewalk cafe near the ice rink where the usual gang of black-haired Goths gathered and spooked the normal folks. The old Main Street was a pedestrian mall—a very nice one with cafes and antique stores and book dealers—and if the weather was pleasant, as it usually was, the restaurants spread outdoors for long evening meals.
   When he’d suddenly become single again, Ray unloaded the quaint townhouse and moved downtown, where most of the old buildings had been renovated for more urban-style housing. His six-room apartment was above a Persian rug dealer. It had a small balcony over the mall, and at least once a month Ray had his students over for wine and lasagne.
   It was almost dark when he unlocked the door on the sidewalk and trudged up the noisy steps to his place. He was very much alone—no mate, no dog, no cat, no goldfish. In the past few years he’d met two women he’d found attractive and had dated neither. He was much too frightened for romance. A saucy third-year student named Kaley was making advances, but his defenses were in place. His sex drive was so dormant he had considered counseling, or perhaps wonder drugs. He flipped on lights and checked the phone.
   Forrest had called, a rare event indeed, but not completely unexpected. Typical of Forrest, he had simply checked in, without leaving a number. Ray fixed tea with no caffeine and put on some jazz, trying to stall as he prepped himself for the call. Odd that a phone chat with his only sibling should take so much effort, but chatting with Forrest was always depressing. They had no wives, no children, nothing in common but a name and a father.
   Ray punched in the number to Ellie’s house in Memphis. It rang for a long time before she answered. “Hello, Ellie, this is Ray Atlee,” he said pleasantly.
   “Oh,” she grunted, as if he’d called eight times already. “He’s not here.”
   Doing swell, Ellie, and you? Fine, thanks for asking. Great to hear your voice. How’s the weather down there?
   “I’m returning his call,” Ray said.
   “Like I said, he’s not here.”
   “I heard you. Is there a different number?”
   “For what?”
   “For Forrest. Is this still the best number to reach him?”
   “I guess. He stays here most of the time.”
   “Please tell him I called.”
   They met in detox, she for booze, Forrest for an entire menu of banned substances. At the time she weighed ninety-eight pounds and claimed she’d lived on nothing but vodka for most of her adult life. She kicked it, walked away clean, tripled her body weight, and somehow got Forrest in the deal too. More mother than girlfriend, she now had him a room in the basement of her ancestral home, an eerie old Victorian in midtown Memphis.
   Ray was still holding the phone when it rang. “Hey, Bro,” Forrest called out. “You rang?”
   “Returning yours. How’s it going?”
   “Well, I was doing fairly well until I got a letter from the old man. You get one too?”
   “It arrived today.”
   “He thinks he’s still a judge and we’re a couple of delinquent fathers, don’t you think?”
   “He’ll always be the Judge, Forrest. Have you talked to him?”
   A snort, then a pause. “I haven’t talked to him on the phone in two years, and I haven’t set foot in the house in more years than I can remember. And I’m not sure I’ll be there Sunday.”
   “You’ll be there.”
   “Have you talked to him?”
   “Three weeks ago. I called, he didn’t. He sounded very sick, Forrest, I don’t think he’ll be around much longer. I think you should seriously consider—“
   “Don’t start, Ray. I’m not listening to a lecture.”
   There was a gap, a heavy stillness in which both of them took a breath. Being an addict from a prominent family, Forrest had been lectured to and preached at and burdened with unsolicited advice for as long as he could remember.
   “Sorry,” Ray said. “I’ll be there. What about you?”
   “I suppose so.”
   “Are you clean?” It was such a personal question, but one that was as routine as How’s the weather? With Forrest the answer was always straight and true.
   “A hundred and thirty-nine days, Bro.”
   “That’s great.”
   It was, and it wasn’t. Every sober day was a relief, but to still be counting after twenty years was disheartening.
   “And I’m working too,” he said proudly.
   “Wonderful. What kind of work?”
   “I’m running cases for some local ambulance chasers, a bunch of sleazy bastards who advertise on cable and hang around hospitals. I sign ‘em up and get a cut.”
   It was difficult to appreciate such a seedy job, but with Forrest any employment was good news. He’d been a bail bondsman, process server, collection agent, security guard, investigator, and at one time or another had tried virtually every job at the lesser levels of the legal profession.
   “Not bad,” Ray said.
   Forrest started a tale, this one involving a shoving match in a hospital emergency room, and Ray began to drift. His brother had also worked as a bouncer in a strip bar, a calling that was short-lived when he was beaten up twice in one night. He’d spent one full year touring Mexico on a new Harley-Davidson; the trip’s funding had never been clear. He had tried leg-breaking for a Memphis loan shark, but again proved deficient when it came to violence.
   Honest employment had never appealed to Forrest, though, in all fairness, interviewers were generally turned off by his criminal record. Two felonies, drug-related, both before he turned twenty but permanent blotches nonetheless.
   “Are you gonna talk to the old man?” he was asking.
   “No, I’ll see him Sunday,” Ray answered.
   “What time will you get to Clanton?”
   “I don’t know. Sometime around five, I guess. You?”
   “God said five o’clock, didn’t he?”
   “Yes, he did.”
   “Then I’ll be there sometime after five. See you, Bro.”
   Ray circled the phone for the next hour, deciding yes, he would call his father and just say hello, then deciding no, that anything to be said now could be said later, and in person. The Judge detested phones, especially those that rang at night and disrupted his solitude. More often than not he would simply refuse to answer. And if he picked up he was usually so rude and gruff that the caller was sorry for the effort.
   He would be wearing black trousers and a white shirt, one with tiny cinder holes from the pipe ashes, and the shirt would be heavily starched because the Judge had always worn them that way. For him a white cotton dress shirt lasted a decade, regardless of the number of stains and cinder holes, and it got laundered and starched every week at Mabe’s Cleaners on the square. His tie would be as old as his shirt and the design would be some drab print with little color. Navy blue suspenders, always.
   And he would be busy at his desk in his study, under the portrait of General Forrest, not sitting on the porch waiting for his sons to come home. He would want them to think he had work to do, even on a Sunday afternoon, and that their arrivals were not that important.

Chapter 4

   The drive to Clanton took fifteen hours, more or less, if you went with the truckers on the busy four-lanes and fought the bottlenecks around the cities, and it could be done in one day if you were in a hurry. Ray was not.
   He packed a few things in the trunk of his Audi TT roadster, a two-seat convertible he’d owned for less than a week, and said farewell to no one because no one really cared when he came or went, and left Charlottesville. He would not exceed the speed limits and he would not drive on a four-lane, if he could possibly avoid it. That was his challenge—a trip without sprawl. On the leather seat next to him he had maps, a thermos of strong coffee, three Cuban cigars, and a bottle of water.
   A few minutes west of town he turned left on the Blue Ridge Parkway and began snaking his way south on the tops of the foothills. The TT was a 2000 model, just a year or two off the drawing board. Ray had read Audi’s announcement of a brand-new sports car about eighteen months earlier, and he’d rushed to order the first one in town. He had yet to see another one, though the dealer assured him they would become popular.
   At an overlook, he put the top down, lit a Cuban, and sipped coffee, then took off again at the maximum speed of forty-five. Even at that pace Clanton was looming.
   Four hours later, in search of gas, Ray found himself sitting at a stoplight on Main Street in a small town in North Carolina. Three lawyers walked in front of him, all talking at once, all carrying old briefcases that were scuffed and worn almost as badly as their shoes. He looked to his left and noticed a courthouse. He looked to his right and watched as they disappeared into a diner. He was suddenly hungry, both for food and for sounds of people.
   They were in a booth near the front window, still talking as they stirred their coffee. Ray sat at a table not too far away and ordered a club sandwich from a elderly waitress who’d been serving them for decades. One glass of ice tea, one sandwich, and she wrote it all down in great detail. Chef’s probably older, he thought.
   The lawyers had been in court all morning haggling over a piece of land up in the mountains. The land was sold, a lawsuit followed, etc., etc., and now they were having the trial. They had called witnesses, quoted precedents to the judge, disputed everything the others had said, and in general had gotten themselves heated up to the point of needing a break.
   And this is what my father wanted me to do, Ray almost said aloud. He was hiding behind the local paper, pretending to read but listening to the lawyers.
   Judge Reuben Atlee’s dream had been for his sons to finish law school and return to Clanton. He would retire from the bench, and together they would open an office on the square. There, they would follow an honorable calling and he would teach them how to be lawyers—gentleman lawyers, country lawyers.
   Broke lawyers was the way Ray had figured things. Like all small towns in the South, Clanton was brimming with lawyers. They were packed in the office buildings opposite the courthouse square. They ran the politics and banks and civic clubs and school boards, even the churches and Little Leagues. Where, exactly, around the square was he supposed to fit in?
   During summer breaks from college and law school, Ray had clerked for his father. For no salary, of course. He knew all the lawyers in Clanton. As a whole, they were not bad people. There were just too many of them.
   Forrest’s turn for the worse came early in life and put even more pressure on Ray to follow the old man into a life of genteel poverty. The pressure was resisted, though, and by the time Ray had finished one year of law school he had promised himself he would not remain in Clanton. It took another year to find the courage to tell his father, who went eight months without speaking to him. When Ray graduated from law school, Forrest was in prison. Judge Adee arrived late for the commencement, sat in the back row, left early, and said nothing to Ray. It took the first heart attack to reunite them.
   But money wasn’t the primary reason Ray fled Clanton. Atlee & Atlee never got off the ground because the junior partner wanted to escape the shadow of the senior.
   Judge Atlee was a huge man in a small town.
   Ray found gas at the edge of town, and was soon back in the hills, on the parkway, driving forty-five miles an hour. Sometimes forty. He stopped at the overlooks and admired the scenery. He avoided the cities and studied his maps. All roads led, sooner or later, to Mississippi.
   Near the North Carolina state line, he found an old motel that advertised air conditioning, cable TV, and clean rooms for $29.99, though the sign was crooked and rusted around the edges. Inflation had arrived with the cable because the room was now $40. Next door was an all-night cafe where Ray choked down dumplings, the nightly special. After dinner he sat on a bench in front of the motel, smoked another cigar, and watched the occasional car go by.
   Across the road and down a hundred yards was an abandoned drive-in movie theater. The marquee had fallen and was covered with vines and weeds. The big screen and the fences around the perimeter had been crumbling for many years.
   Clanton had once had such a drive-in, just off the main highway entering town. It was owned by a chain from up North and provided the locals with the typical lineup of beach romps, horror flicks, kung-fu action, movies that attracted the younger set and gave the preachers something to whine about. In 1970, the powers up North decided to pollute the South once again by sending down dirty movies.
   Like most things good and bad, pornography arrived late in Mississippi. When the marquee listed The Cheerleaders it went unnoticed by the passing traffic. When XXX was added the next day, traffic stopped and tempers rose in the coffee shops around the square. It opened on a Monday night to a small, curious, and somewhat enthusiastic crowd. The reviews at school were favorable, and by Tuesday packs of young teenagers were hiding in the woods, many with binoculars, watching in disbelief. After Wednesday night prayer meeting, the preachers got things organized and launched a counterattack, one that relied more on bullying than on shrewd tactics.
   Taking a lesson from the civil rights protestors, a group they had had absolutely no sympathy for, they led their flocks to the highway in front of the drive-in, where they carried posters and prayed and sang hymns and hurriedly scribbled down the license plate numbers of those cars trying to enter.
   Business was cut off like a faucet. The corporate guys up North filed a quick lawsuit, seeking injunctive relief. The preachers put together one of their own, and it was no surprise that all of this landed in the courtroom of the Honorable Reuben V Atlee, a lifelong member of the First Presbyterian Church, a descendant of the Atlees who’d built the original sanctuary, and for the past thirty years the teacher of a Sunday School class of old goats who met in the church’s basement kitchen.
   The hearings lasted for three days. Since no Clanton lawyer would defend The Cheerleaders, the owners were represented by a big firm from Jackson. A dozen locals argued against the movie and on behalf of the preachers.
   Ten years later, when he was in law school at Tulane, Ray studied his father’s opinion in the case. Following the most current federal cases, Judge Atlee’s ruling protected the rights of the protestors, with certain restrictions. And, citing a recent obscenity case ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court, he allowed the show to go on.
   Judicially, the opinion could not have been more perfect. Politically, it could not have been uglier. No one was pleased. The phone rang at night with anonymous threats. The preachers denounced Reuben Atlee as a traitor. Wait till the next election, they promised from their pulpits.
   Letters flooded the Clanton Chronicle and The Ford County Times, all castigating Judge Atlee for allowing such filth in their unblemished community. When the Judge was finally fed up with the criticism, he decided to speak. He chose a Sunday at the First Presbyterian Church as his time and place, and word spread quickly, as it always did in Clanton. Before a packed house, Judge Atlee strode confidently down the aisle, up the carpeted steps and to the pulpit. He was over six feet tall and thick, and his black suit gave him an aura of dominance. “A Judge who counts votes before the trial should burn his robe and run for the county line,” he began sternly.
   Ray and Forrest were sitting as far away as possible, in a corner of the balcony, both near tears. They had begged their father to allow them to skip the service, but missing church was not permissible under any circumstances.
   He explained to the less informed that legal precedents have to be followed, regardless of personal views or opinions, and that good judges follow the law. Weak judges follow the crowd. Weak judges play for the votes and then cry foul when their cowardly rulings are appealed to higher courts.
   “Call me what you want,” he said to a silent crowd, “but I am no coward.”
   Ray could still hear the words, still see his father down there in the distance, standing alone like a giant.
   After a week or so the protestors grew weary, and the porno ran its course. Kung-fu returned with a vengeance and everybody was happy. Two years later, Judge Atlee received his usual eighty percent of the vote in Ford County.
   Ray flipped the cigar into a shrub and walked to his room. The night was cool so he opened a window and listened to the cars as they left town and faded over the hills.

Chapter 5

   Every street had a story, every building a memory. Those blessed with wonderful childhoods can drive the streets of their hometowns and happily roll back the years. The rest are pulled home by duty and leave as soon as possible. After Ray had been in Clanton for fifteen minutes he was anxious to get out.
   The town had changed, but then it hadn’t. On the highways leading in, the cheap metal buildings and mobile homes were gathering as tightly as possible next to the roads for maximum visibility. Ford County had no zoning whatsoever. A landowner could build anything with no permit, no inspection, no code, no notice to adjoining landowners, nothing. Only hog farms and nuclear reactors required approvals and paperwork. The result was a slash-and-build clutter that got uglier by the year.
   But in the older sections, nearer the square, the town had not changed at all. The long shaded streets were as clean and neat as when Ray had roamed them on his bike. Most of the houses were still owned by people he knew, or if those folks had passed on the new owners kept the lawns clipped and the shutters painted. Only a few were being neglected. A handful had been abandoned.
   This deep in Bible country, it was still an unwritten rule that little was done on Sundays except go to church, sit on porches, visit neighbors, rest and relax the way God intended.
   It was cloudy, quite cool for May, and as he toured his old turf, killing time until the appointed hour, he tried to dwell on the good memories from Clanton. There was Dizzy Dean Park where he had played Little League for the Pirates, and there was the public pool he’d swum in every summer except 1969 when the city closed it rather than admit black children. There were the churches—Baptist, Methodist, and Presbyterian—facing each other at the intersection of Second and Elm like wary sentries, their steeples competing for height. They were empty now, but in an hour or so the more faithful would gather for evening services.
   The square was as lifeless as the streets leading to it. With eight thousand people, Clanton was just large enough to have attracted die discount stores that had wiped out so many small towns. But here the people had been faithful to their downtown merchants, and there wasn’t a single empty or boarded-up building around the square—no small miracle. The retail shops were mixed in with the banks and law offices and cafes, all closed for the Sabbath.
   He inched through the cemetery and surveyed the Atlee section in the old part, where the tombstones were grander. Some of his ancestors had built monuments for their dead. Ray had always assumed that the family money he’d never seen must have been buried in those graves. He parked and walked to his mother’s grave, something he hadn’t done in years. She was buried among the Atlees, at the far edge of the family plot because she had barely belonged.
   Soon, in less than an hour, he would be sitting in the Judge’s study, sipping bad instant tea and receiving instructions on exactly how his father would be laid to rest. Many orders were about to be given, many decrees and directions, because the Judge was a great man and cared deeply about how he was to be remembered.
   Moving again, Ray passed the water tower he’d climbed twice, the second time with the police waiting below. He grimaced at his old high school, a place he’d never visited since he’d left it. Behind it was the football field where Forrest Atlee had romped over opponents and almost became famous before getting bounced off the team.
   It was twenty minutes before five, Sunday, May 7. Time for the family meeting.

   There was no sign of life at Maple Run. The front lawn had been cut within the past few days, and the Judge’s old black Lincoln was parked in the rear, but other than those two pieces of evidence there was no sign that anyone had lived there for many years.
   The front of the house was dominated by four large round columns under a portico, and when Ray had lived there these columns were painted white. Now they were green with vines and ivy. The wisteria was running wildly along the tops of the columns and onto the roof. Weeds choked everything—flower beds, shrubs, walkways.
   Memories hit hard, as they always did when he pulled slowly into the drive and shook his head at the condition of a once fine home. And there was always the same wave of guilt. He should’ve stayed, should’ve gone in with the old man and founded the house of Atlee & Atlee, should’ve married a local girl and sired a half-dozen descendants who would live at Maple Run, where they would adore the Judge and make him happy in his old age.
   He slammed his door as loudly as possible, hoping to alert anyone who might need to be alerted, but the noise fell softly on Maple Run. The house next door to the east was another relic occupied by a family of spinsters who’d been dying off for decades. It was also an antebellum but without the vines and weeds, and it was completely shadowed by five of the largest oak trees in Clanton
   The front steps and the front porch had been swept recently. A broom was leaning near the door, which was open slightly. The Judge refused to lock the house, and since he also refused to use air conditioning he left windows and doors open around the clock.
   Ray took a deep breath and pushed the door open until it hit the doorstop and made noise. He stepped inside and waited for the odor to hit, whatever it might be this time. For years the Judge kept an old cat, one with bad habits, and the house bore the results. But the cat was gone now, and the smell was not unpleasant at all. The air was warm and dusty and filled with the heavy scent of pipe tobacco.
   “Anybody home?” he said, but not too loudly. No answer.
   The foyer, like the rest of the house, was being used to store the boxes of ancient files and papers the Judge clung to as if they were important. They had been there since the county evicted him from the courthouse. Ray glanced to his right, to the dining room where nothing had changed in forty years, and he stepped around the corner to the hallway that was also cluttered with boxes. A few soft steps and he peeked into his father’s study.
   The Judge was napping on the sofa.
   Ray backed away quickly and walked to the kitchen, where, surprisingly, there were no dirty dishes in the sink and the counters were clean. The kitchen was usually a mess, but not today. He found a diet soda in the refrigerator and sat at the table trying to decide whether to wake his father or to postpone the inevitable. The old man was ill and needed his rest, so Ray sipped his drink and watched the clock above the stove move slowly toward 5 P.M.
   Forrest would show up, he was certain. The meeting was too important to blow off. He’d never been on time in his life. He refused to wear a watch and claimed he never knew what day it was, and most folks believed him.
   At exactly five, Ray decided he was tired of waiting. He had traveled a long way for this moment, and he wanted to take care of business. He walked into the study, noticed his father hadn’t moved, and for a long minute or two was frozen there, not wanting to wake him, but at the same time feeling like a trespasser.
   The Judge wore the same black pants and the same white starched shirt he’d worn as long as Ray could remember. Navy suspenders, no tie, black socks, and black wing tips. He’d lost weight and his clothes swallowed him. His face was gaunt and pale, his hair thin and slicked back. His hands were crossed at his waist and were almost as white as the shirt.
   Next to his hands, attached to his belt on the right side, was a small white plastic container. Ray took a step closer, a silent step, for a better look. It was a morphine pack.
   Ray closed his eyes, then opened them and glanced around the room. The rolltop desk under General Forrest had not changed in his lifetime. The ancient Underwood typewriter still sat there, a pile of papers beside it. A few feet away was the large mahogany desk left behind by the Atlee who’d fought with Forrest.
   Under the stern gaze of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, and standing there in the center of a room that was timeless, Ray began to realize that his father was not breathing. He comprehended this slowly. He coughed, and there was not the slightest response. Then he leaned down and touched the Judge’s left wrist. There was no pulse.
   Judge Reuben V Atlee was dead.

Chapter 6

   There was an antique wicker chair with a torn cushion and a frayed quilt over the back. No one had ever used it but the cat. Ray backed into it because it was the nearest place to sit, and for a long time he sat there across from the sofa, waiting for his father to start breathing, to wake up, sit up, take charge of matters, and say, “Where is Forrest?”
   But the Judge was motionless. The only breathing at Maple Run was Ray’s rather labored efforts to get control of himself. The house was silent, the still air even heavier. He stared at the pallid hands resting peacefully, and waited for them to rise just slightly. Up and down, very slowly as the blood began pumping again and the lungs filled and emptied. But nothing happened. His father was straight as a board, with hands and feet together, chin on chest, as if he knew when he lay down that this last nap would be eternal. His lips were together with a hint of a smile. The powerful drug had stopped the pain.
   As the shock began to fade, the questions took over. How long had he been dead? Did the cancer get him or did the old man just crank up the morphine? What was the difference? Was this staged for his sons? Where the hell was Forrest? Not that he would be of any help.
   Alone with his father for the last time, Ray fought back tears and fought back all the usual tormenting questions of why didn’t I come earlier, and more often, and why didn’t I write and call and the list could go on if he allowed it.
   Instead, he finally moved. He knelt quietly beside the sofa, put his head on the Judge’s chest, whispered, “I love you, Dad,” then said a short prayer. When he stood he had tears in his eyes, and that was not what he wanted. Younger brother would arrive in a moment, and Ray was determined to handle the situation with no emotion.
   On the mahogany desk he found the ashtray with two pipes. One was empty. The bowl of the other was full of tobacco that had recently been smoked. It was slightly warm, at least Ray thought so, though he was not certain. He could see the Judge having a smoke while he tidied up the papers on his desk, didn’t want the boys to see too much of a mess, then when the pain hit he stretched out on the sofa, a touch of morphine for a little relief, then he drifted away.
   Next to the Underwood was one of the Judge’s official envelopes, and across the front he had typed, “Last Will and Testament of Reuben V Atlee.” Under it was yesterday’s date, May 6, 2000. Ray took it and left the room. He found another diet soda in the refrigerator and walked to the front porch, where he sat on the swing and waited for Forrest.
   Should he call the funeral home and have his father moved before Forrest arrived? He debated this with a fury for a while, then he read the will. It was a simple, one-page document with no surprises.
   He decided he would wait until precisely 6 P.M., and if Forrest hadn’t arrived he would call the funeral home.
   The Judge was still dead when Ray returned to his study, and that was not a complete surprise. He replaced the envelope next to the typewriter, shuffled through some more papers, and at first felt odd doing so. But he would be executor of his father’s estate, and would soon be in charge of all the paperwork. He would inventory the assets, pay the bills, help lead the last remnants of the Atlee family money through probate, and finally put it to rest. The will split everything between the two sons, so the estate would be clean and relatively simple.
   As he watched the time and waited for his brother, Ray poked around the study, each step watched carefully by General Forrest. Ray was quiet, still not wanting to disturb his father. The drawers to the rolltop were filled with stationery. There was a pile of current mail on the mahogany desk.
   Behind the sofa was a wall of bookshelves crammed with law treatises that appeared to have been neglected for decades. The shelves were made of walnut and had been built as a gift by a murderer freed from prison by the Judge’s grandfather late in the last century, according to family lore, which as a rule went unquestioned, until Forrest came along. The shelves rested on a long walnut cabinet that was no more than three feet high. The cabinet had six small doors and was used for storage. Ray had never looked inside. The sofa was in front of the cabinet, almost entirely blocking it from view.
   One of the cabinet doors was open. Inside, Ray could see an orderly stack of dark green Blake & Son stationer’s boxes, the same ones he’d seen as long as he could remember. Blake & Son was an ancient printing company in Memphis. Virtually every lawyer and judge in the state bought letterheads and envelopes from Blake & Son, and had been doing so forever. He crouched low and moved behind the sofa for a better look. The storage spaces were tight and dark.
   A box of envelopes without a top had been left sitting in the open door, just a few inches above the floor. There were no envelopes, however. The box was filled with cash—one-hundred-dollar bills. Hundreds of them packed neatly in a box that was twelve inches across, eighteen inches long, and maybe five inches deep. He lifted the box, and it was heavy. There were dozens more tucked away in the depths of the cabinet.
   Ray pulled another one from the collection. It too was filled with one-hundred-dollar bills. Same for the third. In the fourth box, the bills were wrapped with yellow paper bands with “$2,000” printed on them. He quickly counted fifty-three bands.
   One hundred and six thousand dollars.
   Crawling on all fours along the back of the sofa, and careful not to touch it and disturb anybody, Ray opened the other five doors of the cabinet. There were at least twenty dark green Blake & Son boxes.
   He stood and walked to the door of the study, then through the foyer onto the front porch for fresh air. He was dizzy, and when he sat on the top step a large drop of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose and fell onto his pants.

   Though clear thinking was not entirely possible, Ray was able to do some quick math. Assuming there were twenty boxes and that each held at least a hundred thousand dollars, then the stash greatly exceeded whatever the Judge had grossed in thirty-two years on the bench. His office of chancellor had been full time, nothing on the side, and not much since his defeat nine years earlier.
   He didn’t gamble, and to Ray’s knowledge, had never bought a single share of stock.
   A car approached from down the street. Ray froze, instantly fearful that it was Forrest. The car passed, and Ray jumped to his feet and ran to the study. He lifted one end of the sofa and moved it six inches away from the bookshelves, then the same for the other end. He dropped to his knees and began withdrawing the Blake & Son boxes. When he had a stack of five, he carried them through the kitchen to a small room behind the pantry where Irene the maid had always kept her brooms and mops. The same brooms and mops were still there, evidently untouched since Irene’s death. Ray swatted away spiderwebs, then set the boxes on the floor.
   The broom closet had no window and could not be seen from the kitchen.
   From the dining room, he surveyed the front driveway, saw nothing, then raced back to the study where he balanced seven Blake & Son boxes in one stack and took them to the broom closet. Back to the dining room window, nobody out there, back to the study where the Judge was growing colder by the moment. Two more trips to the broom closet and the job was finished. Twenty-seven boxes in total, all safely stored where no one would find them.
   It was almost 6 P.M. when Ray went to his car and removed his overnight bag. He needed a dry shirt and clean pants. The house was filled with dust and dirt and everything he touched left a smudge. He washed and dried himself with a towel in the only downstairs bathroom. Then he tidied up the study, moved the sofa back in place, and went from room to room looking for more cabinets.
   He was on the second floor, in the Judge’s bedroom with the \\indows up, going through his closets, when he heard a car in the street. He ran downstairs and managed to slip into the swing on the porch just as Forrest parked behind his Audi. Ray took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.
   The shock of a dead father was enough for one day. The shock of the money had left him shaking.
   Forrest crept up the steps, as slowly as possible, hands stuck deep in his white painter’s pants. Shiny black combat boots with bright green laces. Always different.
   “Forrest,” Ray said softly, and his brother turned to see him.
   “Hey, Bro.”
   “He’s dead.”
   Forrest stopped and for a moment studied him, then he gazed at the street. He was wearing an old brown blazer over a red tee shirt, an ensemble no one but Forrest would attempt to pull off. And no one but Forrest could get by with it. As Clanton’s first self-proclaimed free spirit, he had always worked to be cool, offbeat, avant-garde, hip.
   He was a little heavier and was carrying the weight well. His long sandy hair was turning gray much quicker than Ray’s. He wore a battered Cubs baseball cap.
   “Where is he?” Forrest asked.
   “In there.”
   Forrest pulled open the screen and Ray followed him inside. He stopped in the door of the study and seemed uncertain as to what to do next. As Forrest stared at his father his head fell slightly to one side, and Ray thought for a second he might collapse. As tough as he tried to act, Forrest’s emotions were always just under the surface. He mumbled, “Oh my God,” then moved awkwardly to the wicker chair where he sat and looked in disbelief at the Judge.
   “Is he really dead?” he managed to say with his jaws clenched.
   “Yes, Forrest.”
   He swallowed hard and fought back tears and finally said, “When did you get here?”
   Ray sat on a stool and turned it to face his brother. “About five, I guess. I walked in, thought he was napping, then realized he was dead.”
   “I’m sorry you had to find him,” Forrest said, wiping the corners of his eyes.
   “Somebody had to.”
   “What do we do now?”
   “Call the funeral home.”
   Forrest nodded as if he knew that was exactly what you’re supposed to do. He stood slowly and unsteadily and walked to the sofa. He touched his father’s hands. “How long has he been dead?” he mumbled. His voice was hoarse and strained.
   “I don’t know. Couple of hours.”
   “What’s that?”
   “A morphine pack.”
   “You think he cranked it up a little too much?”
   “I hope so,” Ray said.
   “I guess we should’ve been here.”
   “Let’s not start that.”
   Forrest looked around the room as if he’d never been there before. He walked to the rolltop and looked at the typewriter. “I guess he won’t need a new ribbon after all,” he said.
   “I guess not,” Ray said, glancing at the cabinet behind the sofa. “There’s a will there if you want to read it. Signed yesterday.”
   “What does it say?”
   “We split everything. I’m the executor.”
   “Of course you’re the executor.” He walked behind the mahogany desk and gave a quick look at the piles of papers covering it. “Nine years since I set foot in this house. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
   “It is.”
   “I stopped by a few days after the election, told him how sorry I was that the voters had turned him out, then I asked him for money. We had words.”
   “Come on, Forrest, not now.”
   Stories of the war between Forrest and the Judge could be told forever.
   “Never did get that money,” he mumbled as he opened a desk drawer. “I guess we’ll need to go through everything, won’t we?”
   “Yes, but not now.”
   “You do it, Ray. You’re the executor. You handle the dirty work.”
   “We need to call the funeral home.”
   “I need a drink.”
   “No, Forrest, please.”
   “Lay off, Ray. I’ll have a drink anytime I want a drink.”
   “That’s been proven a thousand times. Come on, I’ll call the funeral home and we’ll wait on the porch.”

   A policeman arrived first, a young man with a shaved head who looked as though someone had interrupted his Sunday nap and called him into action. He asked questions on the front porch, then viewed the body. Paperwork had to be done, and as they went through it Ray fixed a pitcher of instant tea with heavy sugar.
   “Cause of death?” the policeman asked.
   “Cancer, heart disease, diabetes, old age,” Ray said. He and Forrest were rocking gently in the swing.
   “Is that enough?” Forrest asked, like a true smart-ass. Any respect he might’ve once had for cops had long since been abandoned.
   “Will you request an autopsy?”
   “No,” they said in unison.
   He finished the forms and took signatures from both Ray and Forrest. As he drove away, Ray said, “Word will spread like wildfire now.”
   “Not in our lovely little town.”
   “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Folks actually gossip around here.”
   “I’ve kept them busy for twenty years.”
   “Indeed you have.”
   They were shoulder to shoulder, both holding empty glasses. “So what’s in the estate?” Forrest finally asked.
   “You want to see the will?”
   “No, just tell me.”
   “He listed his assets—the house, furniture, car, books, six thousand dollars in the bank.”
   “Is that all?”
   “That’s all he mentioned,” Ray said, avoiding the lie.
   “Surely, there’s more money than that around here,” Forrest said, ready to start looking.
   “I guess he gave it all away,” Ray said calmly.
   “What about his state retirement?”
   “He cashed out when he lost the election, a huge blunder. Cost him tens of thousands of dollars. I’m assuming he gave everything else away.”
   “You’re not going to screw me, are you, Ray?”
   “Come on, Forrest, there’s nothing to fight over.”
   “Any debts?”
   “He said he had none.”
   “Nothing else?”
   “You can read the will if you want.”
   “Not now.”
   “He signed it yesterday.”
   “You think he planned everything?”
   “Sure looks like it.”
   A black hearse from Magargel’s Funeral Home rolled to a stop in front of Maple Run, then turned slowly into the drive.
   Forrest leaned forward, elbows on knees, face in hand, and began crying.

Chapter 7

   Behind the hearse was the county coroner, Thurber Foreman, in the same red Dodge pickup he’d been driving since Ray was in college, and behind Thurber was Reverend Silas Palmer of the First Presbyterian Church, an ageless little Scot who’d baptized both Atlee sons. Forrest slipped away and hid in the backyard while Ray met the party on the front porch. Sympathies were exchanged. Mr. B. J. Magargel from the funeral home and Reverend Palmer appeared to be near tears. Thurber had seen countless dead bodies. He had no financial interest in this one, however, and appeared to be indifferent, at least for the moment.
   Ray led them to the study where they respectfully viewed Judge Atlee long enough for Thurber to officially decide he was dead. He did this without words, but simply nodded at Mr. Magargel with a somber, bureaucratic dip of the chin that said, “He’s dead. You can take him now.” Mr. Magargel nodded, too, thus completing a silent ritual they’d gone through many times together.
   Thurber produced a single sheet of paper and asked the basics. The Judge’s full name, date of birth, place of birth, next of kin. For the second time, Ray said no to an autopsy.
   Ray and Reverend Palmer stepped away and took a seat at the dining room table. The minister was much more emotional than the son. He adored the Judge and claimed him as a close friend.
   A service befitting a man of Reuben Atlee’s stature would draw many friends and admirers and should be well planned. “Reuben and I talked about it not long ago,” Palmer said, his voice low and raspy, ready to choke up at any moment.
   “That’s good,” Ray said.
   “He picked out the hymns and scriptures, and he made a list of the pallbearers.”
   Ray hadn’t yet thought of such details. Perhaps they would’ve come to mind had he not stumbled upon a couple of million in cash. His overworked brain listened to Palmer and caught most of his words, then it would switch to the broom closet and start swirling again. He was suddenly nervous that Thurber and Magargel were alone with the Judge in the study. Relax, he kept telling himself.
   “Thank you,” he said, genuinely relieved that the details had been taken care of. Mr. Magargel’s assistant rolled a gurney through the front door, through the foyer, and struggled to get it turned into the Judge’s study.
   ‘And he wanted a wake,” the reverend said. Wakes were traditional, a necessary prelude to a proper burial, especially among the older folks.
   Ray nodded.
   “Here in the house.”
   “No,” Ray said instantly. “Not here.”
   As soon as he was alone, he wanted to inspect every inch of the house in search of more loot. And he was very concerned with the stash already in the broom closet. How much was there? How long would it take to count it? Was it real or counterfeit? Where did it come from? What to do with it? Where to take it? Who to tell? He needed time alone to think, to sort things out and develop a plan.
   “Your father was very plain about this,” Palmer said.
   “I’m sorry, Reverend. We will have a wake, but not here.”
   “May I ask why not?”
   “My mother.”
   He smiled and nodded and said, “I remember your mother.”
   “They laid her on the table over there in the front parlor, and for two days the entire town paraded by. My brother and I hid upstairs and cursed my father for such a spectacle.” Ray’s voice was firm, his eyes hot. “We will not have a wake in this house, Reverend.”
   Ray was utterly sincere. He was also concerned about securing the premises. A wake would require a thorough scouring of the house by a cleaning service, and the preparation of food by a caterer, and flowers hauled in by a florist. And all of this activity would begin in the morning.
   “I understand,” the reverend said.
   The assistant backed out first, pulling the gurney, which was being pushed gently by Mr. Magargel. The Judge was covered from head to foot by a starched white sheet that was tucked neatly under him. With Thurber following behind, they rolled him out, across the front porch and down the steps, the last Atlee to live at Maple Run.
   HALF AN hour later, Forrest materialized from somewhere in the back of the house. He was holding a tall clear glass that was filled with a suspicious-looking brown liquid, and it wasn’t ice tea. “They gone?” he asked, looking at the driveway.
   “Yes,” Ray said. He was sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigar. When Forrest sat down next to him, the aroma of sour mash followed quickly.
   “Where’d you find that?” Ray asked.
   “He had a hiding place in his bathroom. Want some?”
   “No. How long have you known that?”
   “Thirty years.”
   A dozen lectures leapt forward, but Ray fought them off. They’d been delivered many times before, and evidently they had failed because here was Forrest sipping bourbon after 141 days of sobriety.
   “How’s Ellie?” Ray asked after a long puff.
   “Crazy as hell, the same.”
   “Will I see her at the funeral?”
   “No, she’s up to three hundred pounds. One-fifty is her limit. Under one-fifty and she’ll leave the house. Over one-fifty, and she locks herself up.”
   “When was she under one-fifty?”
   “Three or four years ago. She found some wacko doctor who gave her pills. Got all the way down to a hundred pounds. Doctor went to jail and she gained another two hundred. Three hundred is her max, though. She weighs every day and freaks out if the big needle goes beyond three.”
   “I told Reverend Palmer that we would have a wake, but not here, not in the house.”
   “You’re the executor.”
   “You agree?”
   “Sure.”
   A long pull on the bourbon, another long puff on the cigar.
   “What about that hosebag who ditched you? What’s her name?”
   “Vicki.”
   “Yeah, Vicki, I hated that bitch even at your wedding.”
   “I wish I had.”
   “She still around?”
   “Yep, saw her last week, at the airport, getting off her private jet”
   “She married that old fart, right, some crook from Wall Street?”
   “That’s him. Let’s talk about something else.”
   “You brought up women.”
   “Always a big mistake.”
   Forrest slugged another drink, then said, “Let’s talk about money. Where is it?”
   Ray flinched slightly and his heart stopped, but Forrest was gazing at the front lawn and didn’t notice. What money are you talking about, dear brother? “He gave it away.”
   “But why?”
   “It was his money, not ours.”
   “Why not leave some for us?”
   Not too many years earlier, the Judge had confided to Ray that over a fifteen-year period he had spent more than ninety thousand dollars on legal fees, court fines, and rehab for Forrest. He could leave the money for Forrest to drink and snort, or he could give it away to charities and needy families during his lifetime. Ray had a profession and could take care of himself.
   “He left us the house,” Ray said.
   “What happens to it?”
   “We’ll sell it if you want. The money goes in a pot with everything else. Fifty percent will go for estate taxes. Probate will take a year.”
   “Gimme the bottom line.”
   “We’ll be lucky to split fifty thousand a year from now.”
   Of course there were other assets. The loot was sitting innocently in the broom closet, but Ray needed time to evaluate it. Was it dirty money? Should it be included in the estate? If so, it would cause terrible problems. First, it would have to be explained. Second, at least half would get burned in taxes. Third, Forrest would have his pockets filled with cash and would probably kill himself with it.
   “So I’ll get twenty-five thousand bucks in a year?” Forrest said.
   Ray couldn’t tell if he was anxious or disgusted. “Something like that.”
   “Do you want the house?”
   “No, do you?”
   “Hell no. I’ll never go back in there.”
   “Come on, Forrest.”
   “He kicked me out, you know, told me I’d disgraced this family long enough. Told me to never set foot on this soil again.”
   “And he apologized.”
   A quick sip. “Yes, he did. But this place depresses me. You’re the executor, you deal with it. Just mail me a check when probate is over.”
   “We should at least go through his things together.”
   “I’m not touching them,” he said and got to his feet. “I want a beer. It’s been five months, and I want a beer.” He was walking toward his car as he talked. “You want one?”
   “No.”
   “You wanna ride with me?”
   Ray wanted to go so he could protect his brother, but he felt a stronger urge to sit tight and protect the Atlee family assets. The Judge never locked the house. Where were the keys? “I’ll wait here,” he said.
   “Whatever.”

   The next visitor was no surprise. Ray was in the kitchen digging through drawers, looking for keys, when he heard a loud voice bellowing at the front door. Though he hadn’t heard it in years, there was no doubt it belonged to Harry Rex Vonner.
   They embraced, a bear hug from Harry Rex, a retreating squeeze from Ray. “I’m so sorry,” Harry Rex said several times. He was tall with a large chest and stomach, a big messy bear of a man who worshiped Judge Atlee and would do anything for his boys. He was a brilliant lawyer trapped in a small town, and it was to Harry Rex that Judge Atlee had always turned during Forrest’s legal problems.
   “When did you get here?” he asked.
   “Around five. I found him in his study.”
   “I’ve been in trial for two weeks, hadn’t talked to him. Where’s Forrest?”
   “Gone to buy beer.”
   They both digested the gravity of this. They sat in the rocking chairs near the swing. “It’s good to see you, Ray.”
   “And you too, Harry Rex.”
   “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
   “Nor can I. I thought he’d always be here.”
   Harry Rex wiped his eyes with the back of a sleeve. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “I just can’t believe it. I saw him two weeks ago, I guess it was. He was movin’ around, sharp as a tack, in pain but not complainin’.”
   “They gave him a year, and that was about twelve months ago. I thought he’d hang on, though.”
   “Me too. Such a tough old fart.”
   “You want some tea?”
   “That’d be nice.”
   Ray went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of instant ice tea. He took them back to the porch and said, “This stuff isn’t very good.”
   Harry Rex took a drink and concurred. “At least it’s cold.”
   “We need to have a wake, Harry Rex, and we’re not doing it here. Any ideas?”
   He pondered this only for a second, then leaned in with a big smile. “Let’s put him in the courthouse, first floor in the rotunda, lay him in state like a king or somethin’.”
   “You’re serious?”
   “Why not. He’d love it. The whole town could parade by and pay their respects.”
   “I like it.”
   “It’s brilliant, trust me. I’ll talk to the sheriff and get it approved. Ever’body’ll love it. When’s the funeral?”
   “Tuesday.”
   “Then we’ll have us a wake tomorrow afternoon. You want me to say a few words?”
   “Of course. Why don’t you just organize the whole thing?”
   “Done. Y’all picked out a casket?”
   “We were going in the morning.”
   “Do oak, forget that bronze and copper crap. We buried Momma last year in oak and it was the prettiest damned thang I’d ever seen. Magargel can get one out of Tupelo in two hours. And forget the vault, too. They’re just rip-offs. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, bury ‘em and let ‘em rot is the only way to go. The Episcopalians do it right.”
   Ray was a little dazed by the torrent of advice, but was thankful nonetheless. The Judge’s will had not mentioned the casket but had specifically requested a vault. And he wanted a nice headstone. He was, after all, an Atlee, and he was to be buried among the other great ones.
   If anyone knew anything about the Judge’s business, it was Harry Rex. As they watched the shadows fall across the long front lawn of Maple Run, Ray said, as nonchalantly as possible, “Looks like he gave all his money away.”
   “I’m not surprised. Are you?”
   “No.”
   “There’ll be a thousand folks at his funeral who were touched by his generosity. Crippled children, sick folks with no insurance, black kids he sent to college, every volunteer fire department, civic club, all-star team, school group headed for Europe. Our church sent some doctors to Haiti and the Judge gave us a thousand bucks.”
   “When did you start going to church?”
   “Two years ago.”
   “Why?”
   “Got a new wife.”
   “How many is that?” .
   “Four. I really like this one, though.”
   “Lucky for her.”
   “She’s very lucky.”
   “I like this courthouse wake, Harry Rex. All those folks you just mentioned can pay their respects in public. Plenty of parking, don’t have to worry about seating.”
   “It’s brilliant.”
   Forrest wheeled into the drive and slammed on his brakes, stopping inches behind Harry Rex’s Cadillac. He crawled out and lumbered toward them in the semidarkness, carrying what appeared to be a whole case of beer.

Chapter 8

   When he was alone, Ray sat in the wicker chair across from the empty sofa, and tried to convince himself that life without his father would not be greatly different than life apart from him. This day was long in coming, and he would simply take it in stride and go on with a small measure of mourning. Just go through the motions, he told himself, wrap things up in Mississippi and race back to Virginia.
   The study was lit by one weak bulb under the shade of a dust-covered lamp on the rolltop, and the shadows were long and dark. Tomorrow he would sit at the desk and plunge into the paperwork, but not tonight.
   Tonight he needed to think.
   Forrest was gone, hauled away by Harry Rex, both of them drunk. Forrest, typically, became sullen and wanted to drive to Memphis. Ray suggested he simply stay there. “Sleep on the porch if you don’t want to sleep in the house,” he said, without pushing.
   Pushing would only cause a fight. Harry Rex said he would, under normal circumstances, invite Forrest to stay with him, but the new wife was a hard-ass and two drunks were probably too much.
   “Just stay here,” Harry Rex said, but Forrest wouldn’t budge. Bullheaded enough when he was cold sober, he was intractable after a few drinks. Ray had seen it more times than he cared to remember and sat quietly as Harry Rex argued with his brother.
   The issue was settled when Forrest decided he would rent a room at the Deep Rock Motel north of town. “I used to go there when I was seeing the mayor’s wife, fifteen years ago,” he said.
   “It’s full of fleas,” Harry Rex said.
   “I miss it already.”
   “The mayor’s wife?” Ray asked.
   “You don’t want to know,” Harry Rex said.
   They left a few minutes after eleven, and the house had been growing quieter by the minute.
   The front door had a latch and the patio door had a deadbolt. The kitchen door, the only one at the rear of the house, had a flimsy knob with a lock that was not working. The Judge could not operate a screwdriver and Ray had inherited this lack of mechanical skill. Every window had been closed and latched, and he was certain that the Atlee mansion had not been this secure in decades. If necessary, he would sleep in the kitchen where he could guard the broom closet.
   He tried not to think about the money. Sitting in his father’s sanctuary, he mentally worked on an unofficial obituary.
   Judge Atlee was elected to the bench of the 25th Chancery District in 1959 and was reelected by a landslide every four years until 1991. Thirty-two years of diligent service. As a jurist, his record was impeccable. Rarely did the Appellate Court reverse one of his decisions. Often he was asked by his colleagues to hear untouchable cases in their districts. He was a guest lecturer at the Ole Miss Law School. He wrote hundreds of articles on practice, procedure, and trends. Twice he turned down appointments to the Mississippi Supreme Court; he simply didn’t want to leave the trial bench.
   When he wasn’t wearing a robe, Judge Atlee kept his finger in all local matters—politics, civic work, schools, and churches. Few things in Ford County were approved without his endorsement, and few things he opposed were ever attempted. At various times he served on every local board, council, conference, and ad hoc committee. He quietly selected candidates for local offices and he quietly helped defeat the ones who didn’t get his blessing.
   In his spare time, what little of it there had been, he studied history and the Bible and wrote articles on the law. Never once had he thrown a baseball with his sons, never once had he taken them fishing.
   He was preceded in death by his wife, Margaret, who died suddenly of an aneurysm in 1969. He was survived by two sons.
   And somewhere along the way he managed to siphon off a fortune in cash.
   Maybe the mystery of the money would be solved over there on the desk, somewhere in the stacks of papers or perhaps hidden in the drawers. Surely his father had left a clue, if not an outright explanation. There had to be a trail. Ray couldn’t think of a single person in Ford County with a net worth of two million dollars, and to hold that much in cash was unthinkable.
   He needed to count it. He’d checked on it twice during the evening. Just counting the twenty-seven Blake & Son’s boxes had made him anxious. He would wait until early morning, when there was plenty of light and before the town began moving. He’d cover the kitchen windows and take one box at a time.
   Just before midnight, Ray found a small mattress in a downstairs bedroom and dragged it into the dining room, to a spot twenty feet from the broom closet, where he could see the front drive and the house next door. Upstairs he found the Judge’s .38-caliber Smith & Wesson in the drawer of his night table. With a pillow that smelled of mildew and a wool blanket that smelled of mold, he tried in vain to sleep.

   The rattling noise came from the other side of the house. It was a window, though it took Ray minutes to wake up, clear his head, realize where he was and what he was hearing. A pecking sound, then a more violent shaking, then silence. A long pause as he poised himself on the mattress and gripped the .38. The house was much darker than he wanted because almost all the lightbulbs had burned out and the Judge had been too cheap to replace them.
   Too cheap. Twenty-seven boxes of cash.
   Put lightbulbs on the list, first thing in the morning.
   There was the noise again, too firm and too rapid to be leaves or limbs brushing in the wind. Tap, tap, tap, then a hard push or shove as someone tried again to pry it open.
   There were two cars in the drive—Ray’s and Forrest’s. Any fool could see the house had people in it, so whoever this fool was he didn’t care. He probably had a gun, too, and he certainly knew how to handle it better than Ray.
   Ray slid across the foyer on his stomach, wiggling like a crab and breathing like a sprinter. He stopped in the dark hallway and listened to the silence. Lovely silence. Just go away, he kept saying to himself. Please go away.
   Tap, tap, tap, and he was sliding again toward the rear bedroom with the pistol aimed in front of him. Was it loaded? he asked himself, much too late. Surely the Judge kept his bedside gun loaded. The noise was louder and coming from a small bedroom they had once used for guests, but for decades now it had been collecting boxes of junk. He slowly nudged the door open with his head and saw nothing but cardboard boxes. The door swung wider and hit a floor lamp, which pitched forward and crashed near the first of three dark windows.
   Ray almost began firing, but he held his ammo, and his breath. He lay still on the sagging wooden floor for what seemed like an hour, sweating, listening, swatting spiders, hearing nothing. The shadows rose and fell. A light wind was hitting every branch out there, and somewhere up near the roof a limb was gently rubbing the house.
   It was the wind after all. The wind and the old ghosts of Maple Run, a place of many spirits, according to his mother, because it was an old house where dozens had died. They had buried slaves in the basement, she said, and their ghosts grew restless and roamed about.
   The Judge hated ghost stories and refuted them all.
   When Ray finally sat up, his elbows and knees were numb. With time he stood and leaned on the door frame, watching the three windows with his gun ready. If there had actually been an intruder, the noise evidently spooked him. But the longer Ray stood there the more he convinced himself that the racket had been nothing but the wind.
   Forrest had the better idea. As grungy as the Deep Rock was, it had to be more restful than this place.
   Tap, tap, tap, and he hit the floor again, stricken with fear once more, except this was worse because the noise came from the kitchen. He made the tactical decision to crawl instead of slide, and by the time he got back to the foyer his knees were screaming. He stopped at the French doors that led to the dining room and waited. The floor was dark but a faint porch light slanted feebly through the blinds and shone along the upper walls and ceiling.
   Not for the first time, he asked himself what, exactly, was he, a professor of law at a prestigious university, doing hiding in the darkness of his childhood home, armed, frightened out of his mind, ready to jump out of his skin, and all because he wanted desperately to protect a mysterious horde of cash he had stumbled upon. “Answer that one,” he mumbled to himself.
   The kitchen door opened onto a small wooden deck. Someone was shuffling around out there, just beyond the door, footsteps on boards. Then the doorknob rattled, the flimsy one with the malfunctioning lock. Whoever he was, he had made the bold decision to walk straight through the door instead of sneaking through a window.
   Ray was an Atlee, and this was his soil. This was also Mississippi, where guns were expected to be used for protection. No court in the state would frown on drastic action in this situation. He crouched beside the kitchen table, took aim at a spot high in the window above the sink, and began squeezing the trigger. One loud gunshot, cracking through the darkness, coming from inside and shattering a window, would no doubt terrify any burglar.
   Just as the door rattled again, he squeezed harder, the hammer clicked, and nothing happened. The gun had no bullets. The chamber spun, he squeezed again, and there was no discharge. In a panic, Ray grabbed the empty pitcher of tea on the counter and hurled it at the door. To his great relief, it made more noise than any bullet could possibly have done. Scared out of his wits, he hit a light switch and went charging to the door, brandishing the gun and yelling, “Get the hell outta here!” When he yanked it open and saw no one, he exhaled mightily and began breathing again.
   For half an hour he swept glass, making as much noise as possible.

   The cop’s name was Andy, nephew of a guy Ray finished high school with. That relationship was established within the first thirty seconds of his arrival, and once they were linked they talked about football while the exterior of Maple Run was inspected. No sign of entry at any of the downstairs windows. Nothing at the kitchen door but broken glass. Upstairs, Ray looked for bullets while Andy went from room to room. Both searches produced nothing. Ray brewed coffee and they drank it on the porch, chatting quietly in the early morning hours. Andy was the only cop protecting Clanton at that time, and he confessed he wasn’t really needed. “Nothin’ ever happens this early Monday morning,” he said. “Folks are asleep, gettin’ ready for work.” With a little prodding, he reviewed the crime scene in Ford County—stolen pickups, fights at the honky-tonks, drug activity in Lowtown, the colored section. Hadn’t had a murder in four years, he said proudly. A branch bank got robbed two years ago. He prattled on and took a second cup. Ray would keep pouring it, and brewing it if necessary, until sunrise. He was comforted by the presence of a well-marked patrol car sitting out front. Andy left at three-thirty. For an hour Ray lay on the mattress, staring holes in the ceiling, holding a gun that was useless. He fought sleep by plotting strategies to protect the money. Not investment schemes, those could wait. More pressing was a plan to get the money out of the broom closet, out of the house, and into a safe place somewhere. Would he be forced to haul it to Virginia? He certainly couldn’t leave it in Clan ton, could he? And when could he count it?
   At some point, fatigue and the emotional drain of the day overcame him, and he drifted away. The tapping came back, but he did not hear it. The kitchen door, now secured by a jammed chair and a piece of rope, was rattled and pushed, but Ray slept through it all.

Chapter 9

   At seven-thirty, sunlight woke him. The money was still there, untouched. The doors and windows had not been opened, as far as he could tell. He fixed a pot of coffee, and as he drank the first cup at the kitchen table he made an important decision. If someone was after the money, then he could not leave it, not for a moment.
   But the twenty-seven Blake & Son boxes would not fit in the small trunk of his little Audi roadster.
   The phone rang at eight. It was Harry Rex, reporting that For-rest had been delivered to the Deep Rock Motel, that the county would allow a ceremony in the rotunda of the courthouse that afternoon at four-thirty, that he had already lined up a soprano and a color guard. And he was working on a eulogy for his beloved friend.
   “What about the casket?” he asked.
   “We’re meeting with Magargel at ten,” Ray answered.
   “Good. Remember, go with the oak. The Judge would like that.”
   They talked about Forrest for a few minutes, the same conversation they’d had many times. When he hung up, Ray began moving quickly. He opened windows and blinds so he could see and hear any visitors. Word was spreading through the coffee shops around the square that Judge Atlee had died, and visitors were certainly possible.
   The house had too many doors and windows, and he couldn’t stand guard around the clock. If someone was after the money, then that someone could get it. For a few million bucks, a bullet to Ray’s head would be a solid investment.
   The money had to be moved.
   Working in front of the broom closet, he took the first box and dumped the cash into a black plastic garbage bag. Eight more boxes followed, and when he had about a million bucks in bag number one he carried it to the kitchen door and peeked outside. The empty boxes were returned to the cabinet under the bookshelves. Two more garbage bags were filled. He backed his car close to the deck, as close to the kitchen as possible, then surveyed the landscape in search of human eyes. There were none. The only neighbors were the spinsters next door, and they couldn’t see the television in their own den. Darting from the door to the car, he loaded the fortune into the trunk, shoved the bags this way and that, and when it looked as though the lid might not close he slammed it down anyway. It clicked and locked and Ray Atlee was quite relieved.
   He wasn’t sure how he would unload the loot in Virginia and carry it from a parking lot down the busy pedestrian mall to his apartment. He would worry about that later.

   The Deep Rock had a diner, a hot cramped greasy place Ray had never visited, but it was the perfect spot to eat on the morning after Judge Atlee’s death. The three coffee shops around the square would be busy with gossip and stories about the great man, and Ray preferred to stay away.
   Forrest looked decent. Ray had certainly seen much him worse. He wore the same clothes and he hadn’t showered, but with Forrest that was not unusual. His eyes were red but not swollen. He said he’d slept well, but needed grease. Both ordered bacon and eggs.
   “You look tired,” Forrest said, gulping black coffee.
   Ray indeed felt tired. “I’m fine, couple of hours of rest and I’m ready to roll.” He glanced through the window at his Audi, which was parked as close to the diner as possible. He would sleep in the damned thing if necessary.
   “It’s weird,” Forrest said. “When I’m clean, I sleep like a baby. Eight, nine hours a night, a hard sleep. But when I’m not clean, I’m lucky to get five hours. And it’s not a deep sleep either.”
   “Just curious—when you’re clean, do you think about the next round of drinking?”
   “Always. It builds up, like sex. You can do without it for a while, but the pressure’s building and sooner or later you gotta have some relief. Booze, sex, drugs, they all get me eventually.”
   “You were clean for a hundred and forty days.”
   “A hundred and forty-one.”
   “What’s the record?”
   “Fourteen months. I came out of rehab a few years back, this great detox center that the old man paid for, and I kicked ass for a long time. Then I crashed.”
   “Why? What made you crash?”
   “It’s always the same. When you’re an addict you can lose it any time, any place, for any reason. They haven’t designed a wagon that can hold me. I’m an addict, Bro, plain and simple.”
   “Still drugs?”
   “Sure. Last night it was booze and beer, same tonight, same tomorrow. By the end of the week I’ll be doing nastier stuff.”
   “Do you want to?”
   “No, but I know what happens.”
   The waitress brought their food. Forrest quickly buttered a biscuit and took a large bite. When he could speak he said, “The old man’s dead, Ray, can you believe it?”
   Ray was anxious to change the subject too. If they dwelt on Forrest’s shortcomings they would be fighting soon enough. “No, I thought I was ready for it, but I wasn’t.”
   “When was the last time you saw him?”
   “November, when he had prostate surgery. You?”
   Forrest sprinkled Tabasco sauce on his scrambled eggs and pondered the question. “When was his heart attack?”
   There had been so many ailments and surgeries that they were difficult to remember. “He had three.”
   “The one in Memphis.”
   “That was the second one,” Ray said. “Four years ago.”
   “That’s about right. I spent some time with him at the hospital. Hell, it wasn’t six blocks away. I figured it was the least I could do.”
   “What did you talk about?”
   “Civil War. He still thought we’d won.”
   They smiled at this and ate in silence for a few moments. The silence ended when Harry Rex found them. He helped himself to a biscuit while offering the latest details of the splendid ceremony he was planning for Judge Atlee.
   “Everybody wants to come out to the house,” he said with a mouthful.
   “It’s off limits,” Ray said.
   “That’s what I’m tellin’ them. Y’all want to receive guests tonight?”
   “No,” said Forrest.
   “Should we?” asked Ray.
   “It’s the proper thing to do, either at the house or at the funeral home. But if you don’t, it’s no big deal. Ain’t like folks’ll get pissed and refuse to speak to you.”
   “We’re doing the courthouse wake and a funeral, isn’t that enough?” Ray asked.
   “I think so.”
   “I’m not sittin’ around a funeral home all night huggin’ old ladies who’ve been talkin’ about me for twenty years,” Forrest said. “You can if you want, but I will not be there.”
   “Let’s pass on it,” Ray said.
   “Spoken like a true executor,” Forrest said with a sneer.
   “Executor?” said Harry Rex.
   “Yes, there was a will on his desk, dated Saturday. A simple, one-page, holographic will, leaving everything to the two of us, listing his assets, naming me as the executor. And he wants you to do the probate, Harry Rex.”
   Harry Rex had stopped chewing. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a chubby finger and gazed across the diner. “That’s odd,” he said, obviously puzzled by something.
   “What?”
   “I did a long will for him a month ago.”
   All had stopped eating. Ray and Forrest exchanged looks that conveyed nothing because neither had a clue what the other was thinking.
   “I guess he changed his mind,” Harry Rex said.
   “What was in the other will?” Ray asked.
   “I can’t tell you. He was my client, so it’s confidential.”
   “I’m lost here, fellas,” Forrest said. “Forgive me for not being a lawyer.”
   “The only will that matters is the last one,” said Harry Rex. “It revokes all prior wills, so whatever the Judge put in the will I prepared is irrelevant.” :
   “Why can’t you tell us what’s in the old will?” Forrest asked.
   “Because I, as a lawyer, cannot discuss a client’s will.”
   “But the will you prepared is no good, right?”
   “Right, but I still can’t talk about it.”
   “That sucks,” Forrest said, and glared at Harry Rex. All three took a deep breath, then a large bite.
   Ray knew in an instant that he would have to see the other will and see it soon. If it mentioned the loot hidden in the cabinet, then Harry Rex knew about it. And if he knew, then the money would quickly be removed from the trunk of the little TT convertible and repackaged in Blake & Son boxes and put back where it came from. It would then be included in the estate, which was a public record.
   “Won’t there be a copy of your will in his office?” Forrest asked, in the general direction of Harry Rex.
   “No.”
   “Are you sure?” ‘
   “I’m reasonably sure,” Harry Rex said. “When you make a new will you physically destroy the old one. You don’t want someone finding the old one and probating it. Some folks change their wills every year, and as lawyers we know to burn the old ones. The Judge was a firm believer in destroying revoked wills because he spent thirty years refereeing will contests.”
   The fact that their close friend knew something about their dead father, and that he was unwilling to share it, chilled the conversation. Ray decided to wait until he was alone with Harry Rex to grill him.
   “Magargel’s waiting,” he said to Forrest.
   “Sounds like fun.”

   They rolled the handsome oak casket down the east wing of the courthouse on a funeral gurney draped with purple velvet. Mr. Magargel led while an assistant pushed. Behind the casket were Ray and Forrest, and behind them was a Boy Scout color guard with flags and pressed khaki uniforms.
   Because Reuben V Atlee had fought for his country, his casket was covered with the Stars and Stripes. And because of this a contingent of Reservists from the local armory snapped to attention when Retired Captain Atlee was stopped in the center of the courthouse rotunda. Harry Rex was waiting there, dressed in a fine black suit, standing in front of a long row of floral arrangements.
   Every other lawyer in the county was present, too, and, at Harry Rex’s suggestion, they were cordoned off in a special section close to the casket. All city and county officials, courthouse clerks, cops, and deputies were present, and as Harry Rex stepped forward to begin the crowd pressed closer. Above, on the second and third levels of the courthouse, another crowd leaned on the iron railings and gawked downward.
   Ray wore a brand-new navy suit he’d purchased just hours earlier at Pope’s, the only men’s clothier in town. At $310 it was the most expensive in the store, and slashed from that hefty price was a ten percent discount that Mr. Pope insisted on giving. Forrest’s new suit was dark gray. It cost $280 before the discount, and it had also been paid for by Ray. Forrest had not worn a suit in twenty years and swore he would not wear one for the funeral. Only a tongue lashing by Harry Rex got him to Pope’s.
   The sons stood at one end of the casket, Harry Rex at the other, and near the center of it Billy Boone, the ageless courthouse janitor, had carefully placed a portrait of Judge Atlee. It had been painted ten years earlier by a local artist, for free, and everyone knew the Judge had not been particularly fond of it. He hung it in his chambers behind his courtroom, behind a door so no one could see it. After his defeat, the county fathers placed it in the main courtroom, high above the bench.
   Programs had been printed for the “Farewell to Judge Reuben Atlee.” Ray studied his intently because he didn’t wish to look around the gathering. All eyes were on him, and Forrest. Reverend Palmer delivered a windy prayer. Ray had insisted that the ceremony be brief. There was a funeral tomorrow.
   The Boy Scouts stepped forward with the flag and led the congregation in the Pledge of Allegiance, then Sister Oleda Shumpert from the Holy Ghost Church of God in Christ stepped forward and sang a mournful rendition of “Shall We Gather at t River,” a cappella because she certainly didn’t need any support. The words and melody brought tears to the eyes of many, including Forrest, who stayed close to his brother’s shoulder with his chin
   Standing next to the casket, listening to her rich voice echo upward through the rotunda, Ray for the first time felt the burden of his father’s death. He thought of all the things they could have done together, now that they were men, all the things they had not done when he and Forrest were just boys. But he had lived his life and the Judge had lived his, and this had suited them both.
   It wasn’t fair now to relive the past just because the old man was dead. He kept telling himself this. It was only natural at death to wish he’d done more, but the truth was that the Judge had carried a grudge for years after Ray left Clanton. And, sadly, he had become a recluse since leaving the bench.
   A moment of weakness, and Ray stiffened his back. He would not beat himself up because he had chosen a path that was not the one his father wanted.
   Harry Rex began what he promised would be a brief eulogy. “Today we gather here to say good-bye to an old friend,” he began. “We all knew this day was coming, and we all prayed it would never get here.” He hit the highlights of the Judge’s career, then told of his first appearance in front of the great man, thirty years ago, when Harry Rex was fresh out of law school. He was handling an uncontested divorce, which he somehow managed to lose.
   Every lawyer had heard the story a hundred times, but they still managed a good laugh at the appropriate time. Ray glanced at them, then began studying them as a group. How could one small town have so many lawyers? He knew about half of them. Many of the old ones he’d known as a child and as a student were either dead or retired. Many of the younger ones he’d never seen before.
   Of course they all knew him. He was Judge Atlee’s boy.
   Ray was slowly realizing that his speedy exit from Clanton after the funeral would only be temporary. He would be forced to return very soon, to make a brief court appearance with Harry Rex and begin probate, to prepare an inventory and do a half-dozen other duties as executor of his father’s estate. That would be easy and routine and take just a few days. But weeks and perhaps months were looming out there as he tried to solve the mystery of the money.
   Did one of those lawyers over there know something? The money had to originate from a judicial setting, didn’t it? The Judge had no life outside of the law. Looking at them, though, Ray could not imagine a source rich enough to generate the kind of money now hidden in the trunk of his little car. They were small-town ham-and-egg lawyers, all scrambling to pay their bills and outhustle the guy next door. There was no real money over there. The Sullivan firm had eight or nine lawyers who represented the banks and insurance companies, and they earned just enough to hang out with the doctors at the country club.
   There wasn’t a lawyer in the county with serious cash. Irv Chamberlain over there with the thick eyeglasses and bad hairpiece owned thousands of acres handed down through generations, but he couldn’t sell it because there were no buyers. Plus, it was rumored he was spending time at the new casinos in Tunica.
   As Harry Rex droned on, Ray dwelt on the lawyers. Someone shared the secret. Someone knew about the money. Could it be a distinguished member of the Ford County bar?
   Harry Rex’s voice began to break, and it was time to quit. He thanked them all for coming and announced that the Judge would lie in state in the courthouse until 10 P.M. He directed the procession to begin where Ray and Forrest were standing. The crowd moved obediently to the east wing and formed a line that snaked its way outside.
   For an hour, Ray was forced to smile and shake hands and graciously thank everyone for coming. He listened to dozens of brief stories about his father and the lives the great man had touched. He pretended to remember the names of all those who knew him. He hugged old ladies he’d never met before. The procession moved slowly by Ray and Forrest, then to the casket, where each person would stop and gaze forlornly at the Judge’s bad portrait, then to the west wing where registers were waiting. Harry Rex moved about, working the crowd like a politician.
   At some point during the ordeal, Forrest disappeared. He mumbled something to Harry Rex about going home, to Memphis, and something about being tired of death.
   Finally, Harry Rex whispered to Ray, “There’s a line around the courthouse. You could be here all night.”
   “Get me out of here,” Ray whispered back.
   “You need to go to the rest room?” Harry Rex asked, just loud enough for those next in line to hear.
   “Yes,” Ray said, already stepping away. They eased back, whispering importantly, and ducked into a narrow hallway. Seconds later they emerged behind the courthouse.
   They drove away, in Ray’s car of course, first circling the square and taking in the scene. The flag in front of the courthouse was at half-mast. A large crowd waited patiently to pay their respects to the Judge.

Chapter 10

   Twenty-four hours in Clanton, and Ray was desperate to leave. After the wake, he ate dinner with Harry Rex at Claude’s, the black diner on the south side of the square where the Monday special was barbecued chicken and baked beans so spicy they served ice tea by the half-gallon. Harry Rex was reveling in the success of his grand send-off for the Judge and after dinner was anxious to return to the courthouse and monitor the rest of the wake.
   Forrest had evidently left town for the evening. Ray hoped he was in Memphis, at home with Ellie, behaving himself, but he knew better. How many times could he crash before he died? Harry Rex said there was a fifty-fifty chance Forrest would make it to the funeral tomorrow.
   When Ray was alone he drove away, out of Clanton, headed west to no place in particular. There were new casinos along the river, seventy miles away, and with each trip back to Mississippi he heard more talk and gossip about the state’s newest industry. Legalized gambling had arrived in the state with the lowest per capita income in the country.
   An hour and a half from Clanton, he stopped for gas and as he pumped it he noticed a new motel across the highway. Everything was new in what had recently been cotton fields. New roads, new motels, fast-food restaurants, gas stations, billboards, all spillover from the casinos a mile away.
   The motel had rooms on two levels, with doors that opened to face the parking lot. It appeared to be a slow night. He paid $39.99 for a double on the ground level, around back where there were no other cars or trucks. He parked the Audi as close as possible to his room, and within seconds had the three garbage bags inside.
   The money covered one bed. He did not stop to admire it because he was convinced it was dirty. And it was probably marked in some way. Maybe it was counterfeit. Whatever it was, it was not his to keep.
   All the bills were one-hundred-dollar notes, some brand new and never used, others passed around a little. None were worn badly, and none were dated before 1986 or after 1994. About half were banded together in two-thousand-dollar stacks, and Ray counted those first—one hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills was about fifteen inches high. He counted the money from one bed, then arranged it on the other in neat rows and sections. He was very deliberate, time was of no concern. As he touched the money, he rubbed it between his forefingers and thumbs and even smelled it to see if it was counterfeit. It certainly appeared to be real.
   Thirty-one sections, plus a few leftovers—$3,118,000 to be exact. Retrieved like buried treasure from the crumbling home of a man who had earned less than half that during his lifetime.
   It was impossible not to admire the fortune spread before him. How many times in his life would he gaze upon three million bucks? How many others ever got the chance? Ray sat in a chair with his face in his hands staring at the tidy rows of cash, dizzy with ?
   thoughts of where it came from and where it was headed.
   A slamming car door somewhere outside jolted him back. This ! would be an excellent place to get robbed. When you travel around with millions in cash everybody becomes a potential thief.
   He rebagged it, stuffed it back into the trunk of his car, and drove to the nearest casino.

   His involvement with gambling was limited to a weekend junket to Atlantic City with two other law professors, both of whom had read a book on successful crap shooting and were convinced they could beat the house. They did not. Ray had rarely played cards. He found a home at the five-dollar blackjack table, and after two miserable days in a noisy dungeon he cleared sixty dollars and vowed not to return. His colleagues’ losses were never nailed down, but he learned that those who gamble quite often lie about their success.
   For a Monday night, there was a respectable crowd at the Santa Fe Club, a hastily built box the size of a football field. A ten-floor tower attached to it housed the guests, mostly retirees from up North who had never dreamed of setting foot in Mississippi but were now lured by unlimited slots and free gin while they gambled.
   In his pocket he had five bills taken from five different sections of the loot he’d counted in the motel room. He walked to an empty blackjack table where the dealer was half-asleep and placed the first bill on the table. “Play it,” he said.
   “Playing a hundred,” the dealer said over her shoulder, where no one was there to hear it. She picked up the bill, rubbed it with little interest, then put it in play.
   It must be real, he thought, and relaxed a little. She sees them all day long. She shuffled one deck, dealt the cards, promptly hit twenty-four, then took the bill from Judge Atlee’s buried treasure and put down two black chips. Ray played them both, two hundred dollars a bet, nerves of steel. She dealt the cards quickly, and with fifteen showing she hit a nine. Ray now had four black chips. In less than an minute he’d won three hundred dollars.
   Raiding the four black chips in his pocket, he strolled through the casino, first through the slots where the crowd was older and subdued, almost brain-dead as they sat on their stools, pulling the arm down again and again, staring sadly at the screens. At the craps table, the dice were hot and a rowdy bunch of rednecks were hollering instructions that made no sense to him. He watched for a moment, completely bewildered by the dice and the bets and the chips changing hands.
   At another empty blackjack table, he tossed down the second hundred-dollar bill, more like a seasoned gambler now. The dealer pulled it close to his face, held it up to the lights, rubbed it, and took it a few steps over to the pit boss, who was immediately distrustful of it. The pit boss produced a magnifying device that he stuck in his left eye and examined the bill like a surgeon. Just as Ray was about to break and bolt through the crowd, he heard one of them say, “It’s good.” He wasn’t sure which one said it because he was looking wildly around the casino for armed guards. The dealer returned to the table and placed the suspicious money in front of Ray, who said, “Play it.” Seconds later, the queen of hearts and the king of spades were staring at Ray, and he’d won his third hand in a row.
   Since the dealer was wide awake and his supervisor had done a close inspection, Ray decided to settle the matter once and for all. He pulled the other three hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and laid them on the table. The dealer inspected each carefully, then shrugged and said, “You want change?”
   “No, play them.”
   “Playing three hundred cash,” the dealer said loudly, and the pit boss loomed over his shoulder.
   Ray stood on a ten and a six. The dealer hit on a ten and a four, and when he turned over the jack of diamonds, Ray won his fourth straight hand. The cash disappeared and was replaced with six black chips. Ray now had ten, a thousand dollars, and he also had the knowledge that the other thirty thousand bills stuffed into the back of his car were not counterfeit. He left one chip for the dealer and went to find a beer.
   The sports bar was elevated a few feet, so that if you wanted you could have a drink and take in all the action on the floor. Or you could watch pro baseball or NASCAR reruns or bowling on any of the dozen screens. But you couldn’t gamble on the games; it wasn’t allowed yet.
   He was aware of the risks the casino posed. Now that the money was real, the next question was whether it was marked in some way. The suspicions of the second dealer and his supervisor would probably be enough to get the bills examined by the boys upstairs. They had Ray on video, he was certain, same as everybody else. Casino surveillance was extensive; he knew that from his two bright pals who’d planned to break the bank at the craps table.
   If the money set off alarms, they could easily find him. Couldn’t they?
   But where else could he get the money examined? Walk in the First National in Clanton and hand the teller a few of the bills? “Mind taking a look at these, Mrs. Dempsey, see if they’re real or not?” No teller in Clanton had ever seen counterfeit money, and by lunch the entire town would know Judge Atlee’s boy was sneaking around with a pocketful of suspicious money.
   He’d thought of waiting until he was back in Virginia. He would go to his lawyer who could find an expert to examine a sample of the money, all nice and confidential. But he couldn’t wait that long. If the money was fake, he’d burn it. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
   He drank his beer slowly, giving them time to send down a couple of goons in dark suits who would walk up and say, “Gotta minute?” They couldn’t work that fast, and Ray knew it. If the money was marked, it would take days to link it to wherever it came from.
   Suppose he got caught with marked money. What was his crime? He had taken it from his deceased father’s house, a place that had been willed to him and his brother. He was the executor of the estate, soon to be charged with the responsibility of protecting its assets. He had months to report it to both the probate court and the tax authorities. If the Judge had somehow accumulated the money by illegal means, then sorry, he’s dead now. Ray had done nothing wrong, at least for the moment.
   He took his winnings back to the first blackjack table and placed a five-hundred-dollar bet. The dealer got the attention of her supervisor, who ambled over with his knuckles to his mouth and one finger tapping an ear, smugly, as if five hundred dollars on one hand of blackjack happened all the time at the Santa Fe Club. He was dealt an ace and a king, and the dealer slid over seven hundred fifty dollars.
   “Would you like something to drink?” asked the pit boss, all smiles and bad teeth.
   “Beck’s beer,” Ray said, and a cocktail waitress appeared from nowhere.
   He bet a hundred dollars on the next hand and lost. Then quickly he slid three chips out for the next hand, which he won. He won eight of the next ten hands, alternating his bets from a hundred to five hundred dollars as if he knew precisely what he was doing. The pit boss lingered behind the dealer. They had a potential card counter on their hands, a professional blackjack player, one to be watched and filmed. The other casinos would be notified.
   If they only knew.
   He lost consecutive bets of two hundred dollars, then just for the hell of it pushed ten chips out for a bold and reckless wager of a thousand dollars. He had another three million in the trunk. This was chicken feed. When two queens landed next to his chips, he kept a perfect poker face as if he’d been winning like this for years.
   “Would you like dinner, sir?” the pit boss asked.
   “No,” Ray said.
   “Can we get anything for you?”
   “A room would be nice.”
   “King or a suite?”
   A jerk would’ve said, “A suite, of course,” but Ray caught himself. “Any room will be fine,” he said. He’d had no plans to stay there, but after two beers he thought it best not to drive. What if he got stopped by a rural deputy? And what would the deputy do if he searched the trunk?
   “No problem, sir,” said the pit boss. “I’ll get you checked in.”
   For the next hour he broke even. The cocktail waitress stopped by every five minutes, pushing beverages, trying to loosen him up, but Ray nursed the first beer. During a shuffle, he counted thirty-nine black chips.
   At midnight he began yawning, and he remembered how little he’d slept the night before. The room key was in his pocket. The table had a thousand-dollar limit per hand; otherwise he would’ve played it all at one time and gone down in a blaze of glory. He placed ten black chips in the circle and with an audience hit blackjack. Another ten chips, and the dealer blew it with twenty-two. He gathered his chips, left four for the dealer, and went to the cashier. He’d been in the casino for three hours.
   From his fifth-floor room he could see the parking lot, and because his sports car was within view he felt compelled to watch it. As tired as he was, he could not fall asleep. He pulled a chair to the window and tried to doze, but couldn’t stop thinking.
   Had the Judge discovered the casinos? Could gambling be the source of his fortune, a lucrative little vice that he’d kept to himself?
   The more Ray told himself that the idea was too far-fetched, the more convinced he became that he’d found the source of the money. To his knowledge, the Judge had never played the stock market, and if he had, if he’d been another Warren Buffett, why would he take his profits in cash and hide it under the bookshelves? Plus, the paperwork would be thick.
   If he’d lived the double life of a judge on the take, there wasn’t three million dollars to steal on the court dockets in rural Mississippi. And taking bribes would involve too many other people.
   It had to be gambling. It was a cash business. Ray had just won six thousand dollars in one night. Sure it was blind luck, but wasn’t all gaming? Perhaps the old man had a knack for cards or dice. Maybe he hit one of the big jackpots in the slot machines. He lived alone and answered to no one.
   He could’ve pulled it off.
   But three million dollars over seven years?
   Didn’t the casinos require paperwork for substantial winnings? Tax forms and such?
   And why hide it? Why not give it away like the rest of his money?
   Shortly after three, Ray gave it up and left his complimentary room. He slept in his car until sunrise.

Chapter 11

   The front door was slightly cracked, and at eight o’clock in the morning with no one living there it was indeed an ominous sign. Ray stared at it for a long minute, not certain if he wanted to step inside but knowing he had no choice. He shoved it wider, clenched his fists as if the thief just might still be in there, and took a very deep breath. It swung open, creaking every inch of the way, and when the light fell upon the stacks of boxes in the foyer Ray saw muddy footprints on the floor. The assailant had entered from the rear lawn where there was mud and for some reason had chosen to leave through the front door.
   Ray slowly removed the pistol from his pocket.
   The twenty-seven green Blake & Son boxes were scattered around the Judge’s study. The sofa was overturned. The doors to the cabinet below the bookshelves were open. The rolltop appeared to be unmolested but the papers from the desk were scattered on the floor.
   The intruder had removed the boxes, opened them, and finding them empty, had evidently stomped them and thrown them in a fit of rage. As still as things were, Ray felt the violence and it made him weak.
   The money could get him killed.
   When he was able to move he fixed the sofa and picked up the papers. He was gathering boxes when he heard something on the front porch. He peeked through the window and saw an old woman tapping on the front door.
   Claudia Gates had known the Judge like no one else. She had been his court reporter, secretary, driver, and many other things, according to gossip that had been around since Ray was a small boy. For almost thirty years, she and the Judge had traveled the six counties of the 25th District together, often leaving Clanton at seven in the morning and returning long after dark. When they were not in court, they shared the Judge’s office in the courthouse, where she typed the transcripts while he did his paperwork.
   A lawyer named Turley had once caught them in a compromising position during lunch at the office, and he made the awful mistake of telling others about it. He lost every case in Chancery Court for a year and couldn’t buy a client. It took four years for Judge Atlee to get him disbarred.
   “Hello, Ray,” she said through the screen. “May I come in?”
   “Sure,” he said, and opened the door wider.
   Ray and Claudia had never liked each other. He had always felt that she was getting the attention and affection that he and Forrest were not, and she viewed him as a threat as well. When it came to Judge Atlee, she viewed everyone as a threat.
   She had few friends and even fewer admirers. She was rude and callous because she spent her life listening to trials. And she was arrogant because she whispered to the great man.
   “I’m very sorry,” she said.
   “So am I.”
   As they walked by the study, Ray pulled the door closed and said, “Don’t go in there.” Claudia did not notice the intruder’s footprints.
   “Be nice to me, Ray,” she said.
   “Why?”
   They went to the kitchen, where he put up some coffee and they sat across from each other. “Can I smoke?” she asked.
   “I don’t care,” he said. Smoke till you choke, old gal. His father’s black suits had always carried the acrid smell of her cigarettes. He’d allowed her to smoke in the car, in chambers, in his office, probably in bed. Everywhere but the courtroom.
   The raspy breath, the gravelly voice, the countless wrinkles clustered around the eyes, ah, the joys of tobacco.
   She’d been crying, which was not an insignificant event in her life. When he was clerking for his father one summer, Ray had had the misfortune of sitting through a gut-wrenching child abuse case. The testimony had been so sad and pitiful that everyone, including the Judge and all the lawyers, were moved to tears. The only dry eyes in the courtroom belonged to old stone-faced Claudia.
   “I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said, then blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.
   “He’s been dying for five years, Claudia. This is no surprise.”
   “It’s still sad.”
   “It’s very sad, but he was suffering at the end. Death was a blessing.”
   “He wouldn’t let me come see him.”
   “We’re not rehashing history, okay?”
   The history, depending on which version you believed, had kept Clanton buzzing for almost two decades. A few years after Ray’s mother died, Claudia divorced her husband for reasons that were never clear. One side of town believed the Judge had promised to marry her after her divorce. The other side of town believed the Judge, forever an Atlee, never intended to marry such a commoner as Claudia, and that she got a divorce because her husband caught her fooling around with yet another man. Years passed with the two enjoying the benefits of married life, except for the paperwork and actual cohabitation. She continued to press the Judge to get married, he continued to postpone things. Evidently, he was getting what he wanted.
   Finally she put forth an ultimatum, which proved to be a bad strategy. Ultimatums did not impress Reuben Atlee. The year before he got booted from office, Claudia married a man nine years younger. The Judge promptly fired her, and the coffee shops and knitting clubs talked of nothing else. After a few rocky years, her younger man died. She was lonely, so was the Judge. But she had betrayed him by remarrying, and he never forgave her.
   “Where’s Forrest?” she asked.
   “He should be here soon.”
   “How is he?”
   “He’s Forrest.”
   “Do you want me to leave?”
   “It’s up to you.”
   “I’d rather talk to you, Ray. I need to talk to someone.”
   “Don’t you have friends?”
   “No. Reuben was my only friend.”
   He cringed when she called him Reuben. She stuck the cigarette between her gluey red lips, a pale red for mourning, not the bright red she was once known for. She was at least seventy, but wearing it well. Still straight and slim, and wearing a tight dress that no other seventy-year-old woman in Ford County would attempt. She had diamonds in her ears and one on her finger, though he couldn’t tell if they were real. She was also wearing a pretty gold pendant and two gold bracelets.
   She was an aging tart, but still an active volcano. He would ask Harry Rex whom she was seeing these days
   He poured more coffee and said, “What would you like to talk about?”
   “Reuben.”
   “My father is dead. I don’t like history.”
   “Can’t we be friends?”
   “No. We’ve always despised each other. We’re not going to kiss and hug now, over the casket. Why would we do that?”
   “I’m an old woman, Ray.”
   “And I live in Virginia. We’ll get through the funeral today, then we’ll never see each other again. How’s that?”
   She lit another one and cried some more. Ray was thinking about the mess in the study, and what he would say to Forrest if he barged in now and saw the footprints and scattered boxes. And if Forrest saw Claudia sitting at the table, he might go for her neck.
   Though they had no proof, Ray and Forrest had long suspected that the Judge had paid her more than the going rate for court reporters. Something extra, in exchange for the extras she was providing. It was not difficult holding a grudge.
   “I want something to remember, that’s all,” she said.
   “You want to remember me?”
   “You are your father, Ray. I’m clinging here.”
   “Are you looking for money?”
   “No.”
   “Are you broke?”
   “I’m not set for life, no.”
   “There’s nothing here for you.”
   “Do you have his will?”
   “Yes, and your name is not mentioned.”
   She cried again, and Ray began a slow burn. She got the money twenty years ago when he was waiting tables and living on peanut butter and trying to survive another month of law school without getting evicted from his cheap apartment. She always had a new Cadillac when he and Forrest were driving wrecks. They were expected to live like impoverished gentry while she had the wardrobe and the jewelry.
   “He always promised to take care of me,” she said.
   “He broke it off years ago, Claudia. Give it up.”
   “I can’t. I loved him too much.”
   “It was sex and money, not love. I’d rather not talk about it.”
   “What’s in the estate?”
   “Nothing. He gave it all away.”
   “He what?”
   “You heard me. You know how he loved to write checks. It got worse after you left the picture.”
   “What about his retirement?” She wasn’t crying now, this was business. Her green eyes were dry and glowing.
   “He cashed in the year after he left office. It was a terrible financial blunder, but he did it without my knowledge. He was mad and half-crazy. He took the money, lived on some of it, and gave the rest to the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Lions Club, Sons of the Confederacy, Committee to Preserve Historic Battlefields, you name it.
   If his father had been a crooked judge, something Ray was not willing to believe, then Claudia would know about the money. It was obvious she did not. Ray never suspected she knew, because if she had then the money would not have remained hidden in the study. Let her have a rip at three million bucks and everybody in the county would know about it. If she had a dollar, you were going to see it. As pitiful as she looked across the table, Ray suspected she had very few dollars.
   “I thought your second husband had some money,” he said, with a little too much cruelty.
   “So did I,” she said and managed a smile. Ray chuckled a bit. Then they both laughed, and the ice thawed dramatically. She had always been known for her bluntness.
   “Never found it, huh?”
   “Not a dime. He was this nice-looking guy, nine years younger, you know—”
   “I remember it well. A regular scandal.”
   “He was fifty-one years old, a smooth talker, had a line about making money in oil. We drilled like crazy for four years and I came up with nothing.”
   Ray laughed louder. He could not, at that moment, ever remember having a talk about sex and money with a seventy-year-old woman. He got the impression she had plenty of stories. Claudia’s greatest hits. ^
   “You’re looking good, Claudia, you have time for another one.”
   “I’m tired, Ray. Old and tired. I’d have to train him and all. It’s not worth it.”
   “What happened to number two?”
   “He croaked with a heart attack and I didn’t even find a thousand dollars,” she said.
   “The Judge left six.”
   “Is that all?” she asked in disbelief.
   “No stocks, no bonds, nothing but an old house and six thousand dollars in the bank.”
   She lowered her eyes, shook her head, and believed everything Ray was saying. She had no clue about the cash.
   “What will you do with the house?”
   “Forrest wants to burn it and collect the insurance.”
   “Not a bad idea.”
   “We’ll sell it.”
   There was noise on the porch, then a knock. Reverend Palmer was there to discuss the funeral service, which would begin in two hours. Claudia hugged Ray as they walked to her car. She hugged him again and said good-bye. “I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer to you,” she whispered as he opened her car door.
   “Good-bye, Claudia. I’ll see you at the church.”
   “He never forgave me, Ray.”
   “I forgive you.”
   “Do you really?”
   “Yes. You’re forgiven. We’re friends now.”
   “Thank you so much.” She hugged him a third time and started crying. He helped her into the car, always a Cadillac. Just before she turned the ignition, she said, “Did he ever forgive you, Ray?”
   “I don’t think so.”
   “I don’t think so either.”
   “But it’s not important now. Let’s get him buried.”
   “He could be a mean old sumbitch, couldn’t he?” she said, smiling through the tears.
   Ray had to laugh. His dead father’s seventy-year-old former lover had just called the great man a son of a bitch.
   “Yes,” he agreed. “He certainly could be.”

Chapter 12

   They rolled Judge Atlee down the center aisle in his fine oak casket and parked him at the altar in front of the pulpit where Reverend Palmer was waiting in a black robe. The casket was left unopened, much to the disappointment of the mourners, most of whom still clung to the ancient Southern ritual of viewing the deceased one last time in a strange effort to maximize the grief. “Hell no,” Ray had said politely to Mr. Magargel when asked about opening things up. When the pieces were in place, Palmer slowly stretched out his arms, then lowered them, and the crowd sat.
   In the front pew to his right was the family, the two sons. Ray wore his new suit and looked tired. Forrest wore jeans and a black suede jacket and looked remarkably sober. Behind them were Harry Rex and the other pallbearers, and behind them was a sad collection of ancient judges, not far from the casket themselves. In the front pew to his left were all sorts of dignitaries—politicians, an ex-governor, a couple of Mississippi Supreme Court justices. Clanton had never seen such power assembled at one time.
   The sanctuary was packed, with folks standing along the walls under the stained-glass windows. The balcony above was full. One floor below, the auditorium had been wired for audio and more friends and admirers were down there.
   Ray was impressed by the crowd. Forrest was already looking at his watch. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and got cursed by Harry Rex, not Ray. His new suit was dirty, he’d said, and besides Ellie had bought him the black suede jacket years ago and she thought it would do just fine for the occasion.
   She, at three hundred pounds, would not leave the house, and for that Ray and Harry Rex were grateful. Somehow she’d kept him sober, but a crash was in the air. For a thousand reasons, Ray just wanted to get back to Virginia.
   The reverend prayed, a short, eloquent message of thanks for the life of a great man. Then he introduced a youth choir that had won national honors at a music competition in New York. Judge Atlee had given them three thousand dollars for the trip, according to Palmer. They sang two songs Ray had never heard before, but they sang them beautifully.
   The first eulogy—and there would be only two short ones per Ray’s instructions—was delivered by an old man who barely made it to the pulpit, but once there startled the crowd with a rich and powerful voice. He’d been in law school with the Judge a hundred years ago. He told two humorless stories and the potent voice began to fade.
   The reverend read some scripture and delivered words of comfort for the loss of a loved one, even an old one who had lived a full life.
   The second eulogy was given by a young black man named Nakita Poole, something of a legend in Clanton. Poole came from a rough family south of town, and had it not been for a chemistry teacher at the high school he would have dropped out in the ninth grade and become another statistic. The Judge met him during an ugly family matter in court, and he took an interest in the kid. Poole had an amazing capacity for science and math. He finished first in his class, applied to the best colleges, and was accepted everywhere. The Judge wrote powerful letters of recommendation and pulled every string he could grab. Nakita picked Yale, and its financial package covered everything but spending money. For four years Judge Atlee wrote him every week, and in each letter there was a check for twenty-five dollars.
   “I wasn’t the only one getting the letters or the checks,” he said to a silent crowd. “There were many of us.”
   Nakita was now a doctor and headed for Africa for two years of volunteer work. “I’m gonna miss those letters,” he said, and every lady in the church was in tears.
   The coroner, Thurber Foreman, was next. He’d been a fixture at funerals in Ford County for many years, and the Judge specifically wanted him to play his mandolin and sing “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” He sang it beautifully, and somehow managed to do so while weeping.
   Forrest finally began wiping his eyes. Ray just stared at the casket, wondering where the cash came from. What had the old man done? What, exactly, did he think would happen to the money after he died?
   When the reverend finished a very brief message, the pall-bearers rolled Judge Atlee out of the sanctuary. Mr. Magargel escorted Ray and Forrest down the aisle and down the front steps to a limo waiting behind the hearse. The crowd spilled out and went to their cars for the ride to the cemetery.
   Like most small towns, Clanton loved a funeral procession. All traffic stopped. Those not driving in the procession were on the sidewalks, standing sadly and gazing at the hearse and the endless parade of cars behind it. Every part-time deputy was in uniform and blocking something, a street, an alley, parking spaces.
   The hearse led them around the courthouse, where the flag was at half-mast and the county employees lined the front sidewalk and lowered their heads. The merchants around the square came out to bid farewell to Judge Atlee.
   He was laid to rest in the Atlee plot, next to his long-forgotten wife and among the ancestors he so revered. He would be the last Atlee returned to the dust of Ford County, though no one knew it. And certainly no one cared. Ray would be cremated and his ashes scattered over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Forrest admitted he was closer to death than his older brother, but he had not nailed down his final details. The only thing for certain was that he would not be buried in Clanton. Ray was lobbying for cremation. Ellie liked the idea of a mausoleum. Forrest preferred not to dwell on the subject.
   The mourners crowded under and around a crimson Magargel Funeral Home tent, which was much too small. It covered the grave and four rows of folding chairs. A thousand were needed.
   Ray and Forrest sat with their knees almost touching the casket and listened as Reverend Palmer wrapped it all up. Sitting in a folding chair at the edge of his father’s open grave, Ray found it odd the things he thought about. He wanted to go home. He missed his classroom and his students. He missed flying and the views of the Shenandoah Valley from five thousand feet. He was tired and irritable and did not want to spend the next two hours lingering in the cemetery making small talk with people who remembered when he was born.
   The wife of a Pentecostal preacher had the final words. She sang “Amazing Grace,” and for five minutes time stood still. In a beautiful soprano, her voice echoed through the gentle hills of the cemetery, comforting the dead, giving hope to the living. Even the birds stopped flying.
   An Army boy with a trumpet played “Taps,” and everybody had a good cry. They folded the flag and handed it to Forrest, who was sobbing and sweating under the damned suede jacket. As the final notes faded into the woods, Harry Rex started bawling behind them. Ray leaned forward and touched the casket. He said a silent farewell, then rested with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.
   The burial broke up quickly. It was time for lunch. Ray figured that if he just sat there and stared at the casket, then folks would leave him alone. Forrest flung a heavy arm across his shoulders, and together they looked as though they might stay until dark. Harry Rex regained his composure and assumed the role of family spokesman. Standing outside the tent, he thanked the dignitaries for coming, complimented Palmer on a fine service, praised the preacher’s wife for such a beautiful rendition, told Claudia that she could not sit with the boys, that she needed to move along, and on and on. The gravediggers waited under a nearby tree, shovels in hand.
   When everybody was gone, including Mr. Magargel and his crew, Harry Rex fell into the chair on the other side of Forrest and for a long time the three of them sat there, staring, not wanting to leave. The only sound was that of a backhoe somewhere in the distance, waiting. But Forrest and Ray didn’t care. How often do you bury your father
   And how important is time to a gravedigger?
   “What a great funeral,” Harry Rex finally said. He was an expert on such matters.
   “He would’ve been proud,” said Forrest.
   “He loved a good funeral,” Ray added. “Hated weddings though.”
   “I love weddings,” said Harry Rex.
   “Four or five?” asked Forrest.
   “Four, and counting.”
   A man in a city work uniform approached and quietly asked, “Would you like for us to lower it now?”
   Neither Ray nor Forrest knew how to respond. Harry Rex had no doubt. “Yes, please,” he said. The man turned a crank under the grave apron. Very slowly, the casket began sinking. They watched it until it came to rest deep in the red soil.
   The man removed the belts, the apron, and the crank, and disappeared.
   “I guess it’s over,” Forrest said.
   LUNCH WAS tamales and sodas at a drive-in on the edge of town, away from the crowded places where someone would undoubtedly interrupt them with a few kind words about the Judge. They sat at a wooden picnic table under a large umbrella and watched the cars go by.
   “When are you heading back?” Harry Rex asked.
   “First thing in the morning,” Ray answered.
   “We have some work to do.”
   “I know. Let’s do it this afternoon.”
   “What kinda work?” Forrest asked.
   “Probate stuff,” Harry Rex said. “We’ll open the estate in a couple of weeks, whenever Ray can get back. We need to go through the Judge’s papers now and see how much work there is.”
   “Sounds like a job for the executor.”
   “You can help.”
   Ray was eating and thinking about his car, which was parked on a busy street near the Presbyterian church. Surely it was safe there. “I went to a casino last night,” he announced with his mouth full.
   “Which one?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Santa Fe something or other, the first one I came to. You been there?”
   “I’ve been to all of them,” he said, as if he’d never go back. With the exception of illegal narcotics, Harry Rex had explored every vice.
   “Me too,” said Forrest, a man with no exceptions.
   “How’d you do?” Forrest asked.
   “I won a couple of thousand at blackjack. They comped me a room.”
   “I paid for that damned room,” Harry Rex said. “Probably the whole floor.”
   “I love their free drinks,” said Forrest. “Twenty bucks a pop.”
   Ray swallowed hard and decided to set the bait. “I found some matches from the Santa Fe on the old man’s desk. Was he sneaking over there?”
   “Sure,” said Harry Rex. “He and I used to go once a month. He loved the dice.”
   “The old man?” Forrest asked. “Gambling?”
   “Yep.”
   “So there’s the rest of my inheritance. What he didn’t give away, he gambled away.”
   “No, he was actually a pretty good player.”
   Ray pretended to be as shocked as Forrest, but he was relieved to pick up his first clue, slight as it was. It seemed almost impossible that the Judge could’ve amassed such a fortune shooting craps once a week.
   He and Harry Rex would pursue it later.