The table was spread with breads and cereals. "Tin Lu down there can fix anything you want," French was saying. "Bacon, eggs, waffles, grits."
"This is fine, thanks."
French was fresh and hyper, already tackling another grueling day with the energy that could only come from the prospect of a half a billion or so in fees. He was wearing a white linen shirt, buttoned at the top like the black one last night, shorts, loafers. His eyes were clear and dancing around. "Just picked up another three hundred Minitrin cases," he said as he dumped a generous portion of flakes into a large bowl. Every dish had the obligatory F&F monogram splashed on it.
Ray had had enough of mass torts. "Good, but I'm more interested in Gordie Priest."
"We'll find him. I'm already making calls."
"He's probably in town." Ray pulled a folded sheet of paper from his rear pocket. It was the photo of 37F he'd found yesterday morning on his windshield. French looked at it and stopped eating.
"And this is up in Virginia?" he asked.
"Yep, the second of three units I rented. They've found the first two, I'm sure they know about the third. And they knew exactly where I was yesterday morning."
"But they obviously don't know where the money is. Otherwise, they would have simply taken it from the trunk of your car while you were asleep. Or they would've pulled you over somewhere between here and Clanton and put a bullet in your ear."
"You don't know what they're thinking."
"Sure I do. Think like a crook, Ray. Think like a thug."
"It may come easy for you, but it's harder for some folks."
"If Gordie and his brothers knew you had three million bucks in the trunk of your car, they would take it. Simple as that." He put the photo down and attacked his flakes.
"Nothing is simple," Ray said.
"What do you wanna do? Leave the money with me?"
"Yes."
"Don't be stupid, Ray. Three million tax-free dollars."
"Useless if I get the ole bullet in the ear. I have a very nice salary."
"The money is safe. Keep it where it is. Give me some time to find these boys, and they'll be neutralized."
The neutralization sapped any appetite Ray had.
"Eat, man!" French barked when Ray grew still.
"I don't have the stomach for this. Dirty money, bad guys breaking into my apartment, chasing me all over the Southeast, wiretaps, contract killers. What the hell am I doing- here?"
French never stopped chewing. His intestines were lined with brass. "Keep cool," he said. "And the money'll be yours."
"I don't want the money."
"Of course you do."
"No I don't."
"Then give it to Forrest."
"What a disaster."
"Give it to charity. Give it your law school. Give it to something that makes you feel good."
"Why don't I just give it to Gordie so he won't shoot me?"
French gave his spoon a rest and looked around as if others were lurking. "All right, we spotted Gordie last night over in Pascagoula," he said, an octave lower. "We're hot on his trail, okay? I think we'll have him within twenty-four hours."
;And he'll be neutralized?"
"He'll be iced."
"Iced?"
"Gordie'll be history. Your money'll be safe. Just hang on, okay."
"I'd like to leave now."
French wiped skim milk off his bottom lip, then picked up his miniradio and told Dickie to get the boat ready. Minutes later, they were ready to board.
"Take a look at these," French said, handing over an eight-by-twelve manila envelope.
"What is it?"
"Photos of the Priest boys. Just in case you bump into them."
RAY IGNORED the envelope until he stopped in Hattiesburg, ninety minutes north of the coast. He bought gas and a dreadful shrink-wrapped sandwich, then was off again, in a hurry to get to Clanton, where Harry Rex knew the sheriff and all his deputies.
Gordie had a particularly menacing sneer, one that had been captured by a police photographer in 1991. His brothers, Slatt and Alvin, were certainly no prettier. Ray couldn't tell the oldest from the youngest, not that it mattered. None of the three resembled the others. Bad breeding. Same mother, no doubt different fathers.
They could have a million each, he didn't care. Just leave me alone.
CHAPTER 33
The hills began between Jackson and Memphis, and the coast seemed time zones away. He had often wondered at how a state so small could be so diverse: the Delta region along the river with the wealth of its cotton and rice farms and the poverty that still astonished outsiders; the coast with its blend of immigrants and laid-back, New Orleans casualness; and the hills where most counties were still dry and most folks still went to church on Sundays. A person from the hills would never understand the coast and never be accepted in the Delta. Ray was just happy he lived in Virginia.
Patton French was a dream, he kept telling himself. A cartoonish character from another world. A pompous jerk being eaten alive by his own ego. A liar, a briber, a shameless crook.
Then he would glance over at the passenger's seat and see the sinister face of Gordie Priest. One glance and there was no doubt this brute and his brothers would do anything for the money Ray was still hauling around the country.
An hour from Clanton, and again within range of a tower, his cell phone rang. It was Fog Newton and he was quite agitated. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.
"You wouldn't believe me."
"I've been calling all morning."
"What is it, Fog?"
"We've had a little excitement around here. Last night, after general aviation closed, somebody sneaked onto the ramp and put an incendiary device on the left wing of the Bonanza. Boom. A janitor in the main terminal just happened to see the blaze, and they got the fire truck out pretty fast."
Ray had pulled onto the shoulder of Interstate 55 and stopped. He grunted something into the phone and Fog kept going. "Severe damage though. No doubt it was an act of arson. You there?"
"Just listening," Ray said. "How much damage?"
"Left wing, the engine, and most of the fuselage, probably a total loss for insurance purposes. The arson investigator is already here. Insurance guy's here too. If the tanks had been full it would've been a bomb."
"The other owners know about it?"
"Yes, everyone's been out. Of course they're first on the suspect list. Lucky you were out of town. When are you coming back?"
"Soon."
He made it to an exit and pulled into the gravel lot of a truck stop, where he sat in the heat for a long time and occasionally glanced down at Gordie. The Priest gang moved fast - Biloxi yesterday morning, Charlottesville last night. Where are they now?
Inside, he drank coffee and listened to the chatter of the truckers. To change the subject, he called Alcorn Village to check on For-rest. He was in his room, sleeping the sleep of the righteous, as he described it. It was always amazing, he said, how much he slept in rehab. He'd complained about the food, and things had improved slightly. Either that or he had developed a taste for pink Jell-O. He asked how long he could stay, like a kid at Disney World. Ray said he wasn't sure. The money that had once seemed endless was now very much in jeopardy.
"Don't let me out, Bro," he pleaded. "I want to stay in rehab for the remainder of my life."
The Atkins boys had finished the roof at Maple Run without incident. The place was deserted when Ray arrived. He called Harry Rex and checked in. "Let's drink some beer on the porch tonight," Ray suggested.
Harry Rex had never said no to such an invitation.
THERE WAS a level spot of thick grass just beyond the front sidewalk, directly in front of the house, and after careful deliberation Ray decided it was the place for a washing. He parked the little Audi there, facing the street, its rear and its trunk just a step from the porch. He found an old tin bucket in the basement and a leaky water hose in the back shed. Shirtless and sho
eless, he sloshed around for two hours in the hot afternoon sun, scrubbing the roadster. Then he waxed and polished it for an hour. At 5 P.M., he opened a cold bottle of beer and sat on the steps, admiring his work.
He called the private cell phone number given to him by Pat-ton French, but of course the great man was too busy. Ray wanted to thank him for his hospitality, but what he really wanted was to see if they had made any progress down there icing the Priest gang. He would never ask that question directly, but a blowhard like French would happily deliver the news if he had it.
French had probably forgotten about him. He didn't really care if the Priest boys nailed Ray or the next guy. He needed to make a half a billion or so in mass tort schemes, and that took all his energies. Indict a guy like French, for payoffs or contract killings, and he'd hire fifty lawyers and buy every clerk, judge, prosecutor, and juror.
He called Corey Crawford and got the news that the landlord had once again repaired the doors. The police had promised to keep an eye on the place for the next few days, until he returned.
The van pulled into the driveway shortly after 6 P.M. A smiling face jumped out with a thin overnight envelope, which Ray stared at long after it had been delivered. The airbill was a preprinted form from the University of Virginia School of Law, hand-addressed to Mr. Ray Atlee, Maple Run, 816 Fourth Street, Clariton, MS, dated June 2, the day before. Everything about it was suspicious.
No one at the law school had been given the address in Clan-ton. Nothing from there would be so urgent as to require an overnight delivery. And he could think of no reason whatsoever that the school would be sending him anything. He opened another beer and returned to the front steps, where he grabbed the damned thing and ripped it open.
Plain white legal-size envelope, with the word "Ray" hand-scrawled on the outside. And on the inside, another of the now familiar color photos of Chaney's Self-Storage, this time the front of unit 18R. At the bottom, in a wacky font of mismatched letters, was the message: "You don't need an airplane. Stop spending the money."
These guys were very, very good. It was tough enough to track down the three units at Chaney's and take pictures of them. It was gutsy and also stupid to burn up the Bonanza. Oddly, though, what was most impressive at the moment was their ability to swipe an airbill from the business office at the law school.
After a prolonged moment of shock, he realized something that should have been immediately obvious. Since they'd found 18R, then they knew the money wasn't there. It wasn't at Chaney's, nor at his apartment. They'd followed him from Virginia to Clan-ton, and if he'd stopped somewhere along the way to hide the money, they would know it. They'd probably rummaged through Maple Run again, while he was on the coast.
Their net was tightening by the hour. All clues were being linked, all dots connected. The money had to be with him, and Ray had no place to run.
He had a very comfortable salary as a professor of law, with benefits. His lifestyle was not expensive, and he decided right there on the porch, still shirtless and shoeless, sipping a beer in the early evening humidity of a long hot June day, that he preferred to continue that lifestyle. Leave the violence for the likes of Gordie Priest and hit men hired by Patton French. Ray was out of his element.
The cash was dirty anyway.
"WHY'D YOU park in the front yard?" Harry Rex grumbled as he lumbered up the steps.
"I washed it and left it there," Ray said. He had showered and was wearing shorts and a tee shirt.
"You just can't get the redneck outta some people. Gimme a beer."
Harry Rex had been brawling in court all day, a nasty divorce where the weighty issues were which spouse had smoked the most dope ten years ago and which one had slept with the most people. The custody of four children was at stake, and neither parent was fit
"I'm too old for this," he said, very tired. By the second beer he was nodding off.
Harry Rex controlled the divorce docket in Ford County and had for twenty-five years. Feuding couples often raced to hire him first. One farmer over at Karraway kept him on retainer so he would be available for the next split. He was very bright, but could also be vile and vicious. This had wide appeal in the heat of divorce wars.
But the work was taking its toll. Like all small-town lawyers, Harry Rex longed for the big kill. The big damage suit with a forty percent contingency fee, something to retire on.
The night before, Ray had been sipping expensive wines on a twenty-million-dollar yacht built by a Saudi prince and owned by a member of the Mississippi bar who was plotting billion-dollar schemes against multinationals. Now he was sipping Bud in a rusted swing with a member of the Mississippi bar who'd spent the day bickering over custody and alimony.
"The Realtor showed the house this morning," Harry Rex said. "He called me during lunch, woke me up."
"Who's the prospect?"
"Remember those Kapshaw boys up near Rail Springs?"
"No."
"Good boys. They started buildin' chairs in an old barn ten years ago, maybe twelve. One thang led to another, and they sold out to some big furniture outfit up in the Carolinas. Each of 'em walked away with a million bucks. Junkie and his wife are lookin' for houses."
"Junkie Kapshaw?"
"Yeah, but he's tight as Dick's hatband and he ain't payin' four hundred thousand for this place."
"I don't blame him."
"His wife's crazy as hell and thinks she wants an old house. The Realtor is pretty sure they'll make an offer, but it'll be low, probably about a hundred seventy-five thousand." Harry Rex was yawning.
They talked about Forrest for a spell, then things were silent. "Guess I'd better go," he said. After three beers, Harry Rex began his exit.
"When are you going back to Virginia?" he asked, struggling to his feet and stretching his back.
"Maybe tomorrow."
"Gimme a call," he said, yawning again, and walked down the steps.
Ray watched the lights of his car disappear down the street, and he was suddenly and completely alone again. The first noise was a rustling in the shrubbery near the property line, probably an old dog or cat on the prowl, but regardless of how harmless it was it spooked Ray and he ran inside.
CHAPTER 34
The attack began shortly after 2 A.M., at the darkest hour of the night, when sleep is heaviest and reactions slowest. Ray was dead to the world, though the world had weighed heavily on his weary mind. He was on a mattress in the foyer, pistol by his side, the three garbage bags of cash next to his makeshift bed.
It began with a brick through the window, a blast that rattled the old house and rained glass and debris across the dining room table and the newly polished wooden floors. It was a well-placed and well-timed throw from someone who meant business and had probably done it before. Ray clawed his way upright like a wounded alley cat and was lucky not to shoot himself as he groped for his gun. He darted low across the foyer, hit a light switch, and saw the brick resting ominously next to a baseboard near the china cabinet.
Using a quilt, he swept away the debris and carefully picked up the brick, a new red one with sharp edges. Attached was a note held in place by two thick rubber bands. He removed them while looking at the remains of the window. His hands were shaking to the point of not being able to read the note. He swallowed hard, tried to breathe, tried to focus on the handwritten warning. ; - It read simply: "Put the money back where you found it, then leave the house immediately."
His hand was bleeding, a small nick from a piece of glass. It was his shooting hand, if in fact he had such a thing, and in the horror of the moment he wondered how he could protect himself. He crouched in the shadows of the dining room, telling himself to breathe, to think clearly.
,:: Suddenly, the phone rang, and he jumped out of his skin again. A second ring, and he scrambled into the kitchen where a dim light above the stove helped him grapple for the phone. "Hello!" he barked into the receiver.
"Put the money back, and leave the house," said a calm
but rigid voice, one he'd never heard, one he thought, in the blur of the moment, carried a slight trace of a coast accent. "Now! Before you get hurt."
He wanted to scream, "No," or "Stop it," or "Who are you?" But his indecision caused him to hesitate, and the line went dead. He sat on the floor, and with his back to the refrigerator he quickly ran through his options, slim as they were.
He could call the police - hustle and hide the money, stuff the bags under a bed, move the mattress, conceal the note but not the brick, and carry on as if some delinquents were vandalizing an old house just for the hell of it. The cop would walk around with a flashlight and linger for an hour or two, but he would leave at some point.
The Priest boys were not leaving. They had stuck to him like glue. They might duck for a moment, but they were not leaving. And they were far more nimble than the Clanton night watchman. And far more inspired.
He could call Harry Rex - wake him up, tell him it was urgent, get him back over to the house and unload the entire story. Ray yearned for someone to talk to. How many times had he wanted to come clean with Harry Rex? They could split the money, or include it in the estate, or take it to Tunica and roll dice for a year.
But why endanger him too? Three million was enough to provoke more than one killing.
Ray had a gun. Why couldn't he protect himself? He could fend off the attackers. When they came through the door, he'd light the place up. The gunfire would alert the neighbors, the whole town would be there.
It just took one bullet, though, one well-aimed, pointed little missile that he would never see and probably feel only for a moment, or two. And he was outnumbered by some fellas who'd fired a helluva lot more of them than Professor Ray Atlee. He had already decided that he was not willing to die. Life back home was too good.
Just as his heart rate peaked and he felt his pulse start to decline, another brick came crashing through the small window above the kitchen sink. He jerked and yelled and dropped his gun, then kicked it as he scrambled toward the foyer. On hands and knees he dragged the three bags of cash into the Judge's study. He yanked the sofa away from the bookshelves and began throwing the stacks of bills back into the cabinet where he'd found the wretched loot in the first place. He was sweating and cursing and expecting another brick or maybe the first round of ammo. When all of it had been crammed back into its hiding place, he picked up the pistol and unlocked the front door. He darted to his car, cranked it, spun ruts down the front lawn, and finished his escape.
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