The Summons

He would go back to Memphis, back to his room in Ellie’s basement, back to the streets where pushers were waiting for him. The next phone call might be the last, but then Ray had been half-expecting it for many years. As sick as he was, Forrest had shown an amazing ability to survive.

Ray was in Te

Chapter 37

Both doors were new, unpainted, and much heavier than the old ones. Ray silently thanked his landlord for the extra expense, though he knew that there would be no more break-ins. The pursuit had ended. No more quick looks over the shoulder. No more sneaking to Chaney’s to play hide-and-seek. No more hushed conversations with Corey Crawford. And no more illicit money to fret over, and dream about, and haul around, literally. The lifting of that burden made him smile and walk a bit faster.

Life would become normal again. Long runs in the heat. Long solo flights over the Piedmont. He even looked forward to his neglected research for the monopolies treatise he’d promised to deliver by either this Christmas or the one after. He had softened on the Kaley issue and was ready for one last attempt at di

His apartment was the same, its usual condition since no one else lived there. Other than the door, there was no evidence of a forced entry. He now knew that his burglar had not really been a thief after all, just a tormentor, an intimidator. Either Gordie or one of his brothers. He wasn’t sure how they had divided their labors, nor did he care.

It was almost 11 A.M. He made some strong coffee and began shuffling through the mail. No more anonymous letters. Nothing now but the usual bills and solicitations.

There were two faxes in the tray. The first was a note from a former student. The second was from Patton French. He’d been trying to call, but Ray’s cell phone wasn’t working. It was handwritten on the stationery from the King of Torts, no doubt faxed from the gray waters of the Gulf where French was still hiding his boat from his wife’s divorce lawyer.

Good news on the security front! Not long after Ray had left the coast, Gordie Priest had been “located,” along with both of his brothers. Could Ray please give him a call? His assistant would find him.

Ray worked the phone for two hours, until French called from a hotel in Fort Worth, where he was meeting with some Ryax and Kobril lawyers. “I’ll probably get a thousand cases up here,” he said, unable to control himself.

“Wonderful,” said Ray. He was determined not to listen to any more crowing about mass torts and zillion-dollar settlements.

“Is your phone secure?” French asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, listen. Priest is no longer a threat. We found him shortly after you left, laid up drunk with an old gal he’s been seeing for a long time. Found both brothers too. Your money is safe.”

“Exactly when did you find them?” Ray asked. He was hovering over the kitchen table with a large calendar spread before him. Time was crucial here. He’d made notes in the margins as he’d waited for the call.

French thought for a second. “Uh, let’s see. What’s today?”

“Monday, June the fifth.”

“Monday. When did you leave the coast?”

“Ten o’clock Friday morning.”

“Then it was just after lunch on Friday.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why do you ask?”

“And once you found him, there was no way they left the coast?”

“Trust me, Ray, they’ll never leave the coast again. They’ve, uh, found a permanent home there.”

“I don’t want those details.” Ray sat at the table and stared at the calendar.

“What’s the matter?” French asked. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“What is it?”

“Somebody burned the house down.”

‘Judge Atlee’s?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“After midnight, Saturday morning.”

A pause as French absorbed this, then, “Well, it wasn’t the Priest boys, I can promise you that.”

When Ray said nothing, French asked, “Where’s the money?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

A five-mile run did nothing to ease his tension. Though, as always, he was able to plot things, to rearrange his thoughts. The temperature was above ninety, and he was soaked with sweat when he returned to his apartment.

Now that Harry Rex had been told everything, it was comforting to have someone with whom to share the latest. He called his office in Clanton and was informed that he was in court over in Tupelo and wouldn’t be back until late. He called Ellie’s house in Memphis and no one bothered to answer. He called Oscar Meave at Alcorn Village, and, expecting to hear no news of his brother’s whereabouts, got exactly what he expected.

So much for the normal life.

After a tense morning of back-and-forth negotiations in the hallways of the Lee County Courthouse, bickering over such issues as who’d get the ski boat and who’d get the cabin on the lake, and how much he would pay in a lump-sum cash settlement, the divorce was settled an hour after lunch. Harry Rex had the husband, an overheated cowboy on wife number three who thought he knew more divorce law than his lawyer. Wife number three was an aging bimbo in her late twenties who’d caught him with her best friend. It was the typical, sordid tale, and Harry Rex was sick of the whole mess when he walked to the bench and presented a hard-fought property settlement agreement.

The chancellor was a veteran who’d divorced thousands. “Very sorry about Judge Atlee,” he said softly as he began to review the papers. Harry Rex just nodded. He was tired and thirsty and already contemplating a cold one as he drove the backroad to Clanton. His favorite beer store in the Tupelo area was at the county line.

“We served together for twenty-two years,” the chancellor was saying.

‘A fine man,” Harry Rex said.

“Are you doing the estate?”

“Yes sir.”

“Give my regards to Judge Farr over there.”

“I will.”

The paperwork was signed, the marriage mercifully terminated, the warring spouses sent to their neutral homes. Harry Rex was out of the courthouse and halfway to his car when a lawyer chased him down and stopped him on the sidewalk. He introduced himself as Jacob Spain, Attorney-at-Law, one of a thousand in Tupelo. He’d been in the courtroom and overheard the chancellor mention Judge Atlee.

“He has a son, right, Forrest?” Spain asked.

“Two sons, Ray and Forrest.” Harry Rex took a breath and settled in for a quick visit.

“I played high school football against Forrest; in fact he broke my collarbone with a late hit.”

“That sounds like Forrest.”

“I played at New Albany. Forrest was a junior when I was a senior. Did you see him play?”

“Yes, many times.”

“You remember the game over there against us when he threw for three hundred yards in the first half? Four or five touchdowns, I think.”

“I do,” Harry Rex said, and started to fidget. How long was this going to take?

“I was playing safety that night, and he was firing passes all over the place. I picked one off right before half-time, ran it out of bounds, and he speared me while I was on the ground.”

“That was one of his favorite plays.” Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em late had been Forrest’s motto, especially those defensive backs unlucky enough to intercept one of his passes.

“I think he was arrested the next week,” Spain was saying. “What a waste. Anyway, I saw him just a few weeks ago, here in Tupelo, with Judge Atlee.”

The fidgeting stopped. Harry Rex forgot about a cold one, at least for the moment. “When was this?” he asked. :