The Summons

by Grisham, John

  Ray cleared his voice and said, "If Forrest drove him to Tupelo, then it's safe to assume Forrest was in the house."

  "All over the house."

  Harry Rex had hired an investigator in Memphis to find Forrest, but there was no trail, no trace. From somewhere within the newspaper, he pulled out an envelope. "Then, this came three days ago."

  Ray pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was from Oscar Meave at Alcorn Village, and it read: "Dear Mr. Vonner: I have been unable to reach Ray Atlee. I know the whereabouts of Forrest, if by chance the family does not. Gall if you would like to talk. Everything is confidential. Best wishes, Oscar Meave."

  "So I called him right away," Harry Rex said, eyeing another young woman. "He has a former patient who's now a counselor at a rehab ranch out West. Forrest checked in there a week ago, and was adamant about his privacy, said he did not want his family to know where he was. Evidently this happens from time to time, and the clinics are always caught in a bind. They have to respect the wishes of their patient, but on the other hand, the family is crucial to the overall rehabilitation. So these counselors whisper among themselves. Meave made the decision to pass along the information to you."

  "Where out West?"

  "Montana. A place called Morningstar Ranch. Meave said it's what the boy needs - very nice, very remote, a lockdown facility for the hard cases, said he'll be there for a year."

  Ray sat up and began rubbing his forehead as if he'd finally been shot there.

  "And of course the place is pricey," Harry Rex added.

  "Of course," Ray mumbled.

  There was no more talk, not about Forrest anyway. After a few minutes, Harry Rex said he was leaving. He had delivered his message, he had nothing more to say, not then. His wife was anxious to see her sister. Perhaps next time they could stay longer, have dinner, whatever. He patted Ray on the shoulder, and left him there. "See you in Clanton" were his last words.

  Too weak and too winded for a run, Ray sat on the bench in the middle of the downtown mall, his apartment above him, lost in a world of rapidly moving pieces. The foot traffic picked up as the merchants and bankers and lawyers hustled to work, but Ray did not see them.

  CARL MIRK taught two sections of insurance law each semester, and he was a member of the Virginia bar, as was Ray. They discussed the interview over lunch, and both came to the conclusion that it was just part of a routine inquiry, nothing to worry about. Mirk would tag along and pretend to be Ray's lawyer.

  The insurance investigator's name was Ratterfield. They welcomed him into the conference room at the law school. He removed his jacket as if they might be there for hours. Ray was wearing jeans and a golf shirt. Mirk was just as casual.

  "I usually record these," Ratterfield said, all business as he pulled out a tape recorder and placed it between him and Ray. 'Any objections?" he asked, once the recorder was in place.

  "I guess not," Ray said.

  He punched a button, looked at his notes, then began an introduction, for the benefit of the tape. He was an independent insurance examiner, hired by Aviation Underwriters, to investigate a claim filed by Ray Atlee and three other owners for damages to a 1994 Beech Bonanza on June 2. According to the state arson examiner, the airplane was deliberately burned.

  Initially, he needed Ray's flying history. Ray had his logbook and Ratterfield pored through it, finding nothing remotely interesting. "No instrument rating," he said at one point.

  "I'm working on it," Ray replied.

  "Fourteen hours in the Bonanza?"

  "Yep."

  He then moved to the consortium of owners, and asked questions about the deal that brought it together. He'd already interviewed the other owners, and they had produced the contracts and documentation. Ray acknowledged the paperwork.

  Changing gears, Ratterfield asked, "Where were you on June the first?" :

  "Biloxi, Mississippi," Ray answered, certain that Ratterfield had no idea where that was.

  "How long had you been there?"

  "A few days."

  "May I ask why you were there?"

  "Sure," Ray said, then launched into an abbreviated version of his recent visits home. His official reason for going to the coast was to visit friends, old buddies from his days at Tulane.

  "I'm sure there are people who can verify that you were there on June the first," Ratterfield said.

  "Several people. Plus I have hotel receipts."

  He seemed convinced that Ray had been in Mississippi. "The other owners were all at home when the plane burned," he said, flipping a page to a list of typed notes. "All have alibis. If we're assuming it's arson, then we have to first find a motive, then whoever torched it. Any ideas?"

  "I have no idea who did this," Ray said quickly, and with conviction.

  "How about motive?"

  "We had just bought the plane. Why would any of us want to destroy it?"

  "To collect the insurance, maybe. Happens occasionally. Perhaps one partner decided he was in over his head. The note is not small - almost two hundred grand over six years, close to nine hundred bucks a month per partner."

  "We knew that two weeks earlier when we signed on," Ray said.

  They shadowboxed for a while around the delicate issue of Ray's personal finances - salary, expenses, obligations. When Ratterfield seemed convinced that Ray could swing his end of the deal, he changed subjects. "This fire in Mississippi," he said, scanning a report of some type. "Tell me about it."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Are you under investigation for arson down there?"

  "No."

  “Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I'm sure. You can call my attorney if you'd like."

  "I already have. And your apartment has been burglarized twice in the past six weeks?"

  "Nothing was taken. Both were just break-ins."

  "You're having an exciting summer."

  "Is that a question?"

  "Sounds like someone's after you."

  “Again, is that a question?"

  It was the only flare-up of the interview, and both Ray and Ratterfield took a breath.

  “Any other arson investigations in your past?"

  Ray smiled and said, "No."

  When Ratterfield flipped another page, and there was nothing typed on it, he lost interest in a hurry and went through the motions of wrapping things up. "I'm sure our attorneys will be in touch," he said as he turned off the recorder.

  "I can't wait," Ray said.

  Ratterfield collected his jacket and his briefcase and made his exit.

  After he left, Carl said, "I think you know more than you're telling."

  "Maybe," Ray said. "But I had nothing to do with the arson here, or the arson there."

  "I've heard enough."

  CHAPTER 39

  For almost a week, a string of turbulent summer fronts kept the ceilings low and the winds too dangerous for small planes. When the extended forecasts showed nothing but calm dry air for everywhere but South Texas, Ray left Charlottesville in a Cessna and began the longest cross-country of his brief flying career. Avoiding busy airspace and looking for easy landmarks below, he flew west across the Shenandoah Valley into West Virginia and into Kentucky, where he picked up fuel at a four-thousand-foot strip not far from Lexington. The Cessna could stay aloft for about three and a half hours before the indicator dipped below a quarter of a tank. He landed again in Terre Haute, crossed the Mississippi River at Hannibal, and stopped for the evening in Kirksville, Missouri, where he checked into a motel.

  It was his first motel since the odyssey with the cash, and it was precisely because of the cash that he was back in a motel. He was also in Missouri, and as he flipped through muted channels in his room, he remembered Patton French's story of stumbling upon Ryax at a tort seminar in St. Louis. An old lawyer from a small town in the Ozarks had a son who taught at the university in Columbia, and the son knew the drug was bad. And because of Patton French and his insatiable greed and c
orruption, he, Ray Atlee, was now in another motel in a town where he knew absolutely no one.

  A front was developing over Utah. Ray lifted off just after sunrise and climbed to above five thousand feet. He trimmed his controls and opened a large cup of steaming black coffee. He flew more north than west for the first leg and was soon over the cornfields of Iowa.

  Alone a mile above the earth, in the cool quiet air of the early morning, and with not a single pilot chattering on the airwaves, Ray tried to focus on the task before him. It was easier though, to loaf, to enjoy the solitude and the views, and the coffee, and the solitary act of leaving the world down there. And it was quite pleasant to put off thoughts of his brother.

  After a stop in Sioux Falls, he turned west again and followed Interstate 90 across the entire state of South Dakota before skirting the restricted space around Mount Rushmore. He landed in Rapid City, rented a car, and took a long drive through Badlands National Park.

  Morningstar Ranch was somewhere in the hills south of Kalispell, though its Web site was purposefully vague. Oscar Meave had tried but had been unsuccessful in pinpointing its exact location. At the end of the third day of his journey, Ray landed after dark in Kalispell. He rented a car, found dinner then a motel, and spent hours with aerial and road maps.

  It took another day of low-altitude flying around Kalispell and the towns of Woods Bay, Polison, Bigfork, and Elmo. He crossed Flathead Lake a half-dozen times and was ready to surrender the air war and send in the ground troops when he caught a glimpse of a compound of some sort near the town of Somers on the north side of the lake. From fifteen hundred feet, he circled the place until he saw a substantial fence of green chain link almost hidden in the woods and practically invisible from the air. There were small buildings that appeared to be housing units, a larger one for administration perhaps, a pool, tennis courts, a barn with horses grazing nearby. He circled long enough for a few folks within the complex to stop whatever they were doing and look up with shielded eyes.

  Finding it on the ground was as challenging as from the air, but by noon the next day Ray was parked outside the unmarked gate, glaring at an armed guard who was glaring back at him. After a few tense questions, the guard finally admitted that, yes, he had in fact found the place he was looking for. "We don't allow visitors," he said smugly.

  Ray created a tale of a family in crisis and stressed the urgency of finding his brother. The procedure, as the guard grudgingly laid out, was to leave a name and a phone number, and there was a slight chance someone from within would contact him. The next day, he was trout fishing on the Flathead River when his cell phone rang. An unfriendly voice belonging to an Allison with Morningstar asked for Ray Atlee.

  Who was she expecting?

  He confessed to being Ray Atlee, and she proceeded to ask what was it he wanted from their facility. "I have a brother there," he said as politely as possible. "His name is Forrest Atlee, and I'd like to see him."

  “What makes you think he’s here?” she demanded.

  “Here’s there, You know he’s there. I know he’s there, so can we please stop the games?”

  “I’ll look into it, but don’t expect a return call.” She hung up before he could say anything. The next unfriendly voice belonged to Darrel, an administrator of something or other. It came late in the afternoon while Ray was hiking a trail in the Swan Range near the Hungry Horse Reservoir. Darrel was as abrupt as Allison. “Half an hour only. Thirty minutes,” he informed Ray. “At ten in the morning.”

  A maximum security prison would have been more agreeable. The same guard frisked him at the gate and inspected his car. “Follow him,” the guard said. Another guard in a gold cart was waiting on the narrow drive, and

  Ray followed him to a small parking lot near the front building. When he got out of his car Allison was waiting, unarmed. She was tall and rather masculine, and when she offered the obligatory handshake Ray had never felt so physically overmatched. She marched him inside, where cameras monitored every move with no effort at concealment. She led him to a windowless room and passed him off to a snarling officer of an unknown variety who, with the deft touch of an baggage handler, poked and prodded every bend and crevice except the groin, where, for one awful moment, Ray thought he might just take a jab there too.

  “I’m just seeing my brother,” Ray finally protested, and in doing so came close to getting backhanded.

  When he was thoroughly searched and sanitized, Allison gathered him up again and led him down a short hallway to a stark square room that felt as though it should have had padded walls. The only door to it had the only window, and, pointing to it, Allison said gravely, "We will be watching."

  "Watching what?" Ray asked.

  She scowled at him and seemed ready to knock him to the floor.

  There was a square table in the center of the room, with two chairs on opposite sides. "Sit here," she demanded, and Ray took his designated seat. For ten minutes he looked at the walls, his back to the door. ; . ':

  Finally, it opened, and Forrest entered alone, unchained, no handcuffs, no burly guards prodding him along. Without a word he sat across from Ray and folded his hands together on the table as if it was time to meditate. The hair was gone. A buzz cut had removed everything but a thin stand of no more than an eighth of an inch, and above the ears the shearing had gone to the scalp. He was clean-shaven and looked twenty pounds lighter. His baggy shirt was a dark olive button-down with a small collar and two large pockets, almost military-like. It prompted Ray to offer the first words: "This place is a boot camp."

  "It's tough," Forrest replied very slowly and softly.

  "Do they brainwash you?"

  "That's exactly what they do."

  Ray was there because of money, and he decided to confront it head-on. "So what do you get for seven hundred bucks a day?" he began.

  “A new life."

  Ray nodded his approval at the answer. Forrest was staring at him, no blinking, no expression, just gazing almost forlornly at his brother as if he were a stranger.

  'And you're here for twelve months?"

  “At least."

  "That's a quarter of a million dollars."

  He gave a little shrug, as if money was not a problem, as if he just might stay for three years, or five.

  "Are you sedated?" Ray asked, trying to provoke him.

  "No."

  "You act as if you're sedated."

  "I'm not. They don't use drugs here. Can't imagine why not, can you?" His voice picked up a little steam.

  Ray was mindful of the ticking clock. Allison would be back at precisely the thirtieth minute to break up things and escort Ray out of the building and out of the compound forever. He needed much more time to cover their issues, but efficiency was required here. Get to the point, he told himself. See how much he's going to admit.

  "I took the old man's last will," Ray said. 'And I took the summons he sent, the one calling us home on May the seventh, and I studied his signatures on both. I think they're forgeries."

  "Good for you." •

  "Don't know who did the forging, but I suspect it was you."

  "Sue me."

  "No denial?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  Ray repeated those words, half-aloud and in disgust as if repeating them made him angry. A long pause while the clock ticked. "I received my summons on a Thursday. It was postmarked in Clan-ton on Monday, the same day you drove him to the Taft Clinic in Tupelo to get a morphine pack. Question - how did you manage to type the summons on his old Underwood manual?"

  "I don't have to answer your questions."

  "Sure you do. You put together this fraud, Forrest. The least you can do is tell me how it happened. You've won. The old man's dead. The house is gone. You have the money. No one's chasing you but me, and I'll be gone soon. Tell me how it happened."

  "He already had a morphine pack."

  "Okay, so you took him to get another one, or a refill, whatever. That's not
the question."

  "But it's important."

  "Why?"

  "Because he was stoned." There was a slight break in the brainwashed facade as he took his hands off the table and glanced away.

  "So he was suffering," Ray said, trying to provoke some emotions here.

  "Yes," Forrest said without a trace of emotion.

  "And if you kept the morphine cranked up, then you had the house to yourself?"

  "Something like that."

  "When did you first go back there?"

  "I'm not too good with dates. Never have been."

  "Don't play stupid with me, Forrest. He died on a Sunday."

  "I went there on a Saturday."

  "So eight days before he died?"

  "Yes, I guess."

  "And why did you go back?"

  He folded his arms across his chest and lowered his chin and his eyes. And his voice. "He called me," he began, "and asked me to come see him. I went the next day. I couldn't believe how old and sick he was, and how lonely." A deep breath, a glance up at his brother. "The pain was terrible. Even with the painkillers, he was in bad shape. We sat on the porch and talked about the war and how things would've been different if Jackson hadn't been killed at Chancellorsville, the same old battles he's been refighting forever. He shifted constantly, trying to fight off the pain. At times it took his breath away. But he just wanted to talk. We never buried the hatchet or tried to make things right. We didn't feel the need to. The fact that I was there was all he wanted. I slept on the sofa in his study, and during the night I woke up to hear him screaming. He was on the floor of his room, his knees up to his chin, shivering from the pain. I got him back in his bed, helped him hit the morphine, finally got him still. It was about three in the morning. I was wild-eyed. I started roaming."

  The narrative fizzled, but the clock didn't.

  "And that's when you found the money," Ray said.

  "What money?"

  "The money that's paying seven hundred dollars a day here."

  "Oh, that money."

  "That money"

  "Yeah, that's when I found it, same place as you. Twenty-seven boxes. The first one had a hundred thousand bucks in it, so I did some calculations. I had no idea what to do. I just sat there for hours, staring at the boxes all stacked innocently in the cabinets. I thought he might get out of bed, walk down the hall, and catch me looking at all his little boxes, and I was hoping he would. Then he could explain things." He put his hands back on the table and stared at Ray again. "By sunrise, though, I thought I had a plan. I decided I'd let you handle the money. You're the firstborn, the favorite son, the big brother, the golden boy, the honor student, the law professor, the executor, the one he trusted the most. I'll just watch Ray, I said to myself, see what he does with the money, because whatever he does must be right. So I closed the cabinets, slid the sofa over, and tried to act as though I'd never found it. I came close to asking the old man about it, but I figured that if he wanted me to know, then he would tell me."