“I’d like to go flying sometime,” she announced.
Anything but flying. Ray thought of her young husband and his horrible death, and for a second could think of nothing to say. Finally, with a smile he said, “Buy a ticket.”
“No, no, with you, in a small plane. Let’s fly somewhere.”
“Anyplace in particular?”
“Just buzz around for a while. I’m thinking of taking lessons.”
“I was thinking of something more traditional, maybe lunch or dinner, after you graduate.” She had stepped closer, so that anyone who walked by at that moment would have no doubt that they, student and professor, were discussing illicit activity.
“I graduate in fourteen days,” she said, as if she might not be able to wait that long before they hopped in the sack.
“Then I’ll ask you to dinner in fifteen days.”
“No, let’s break the rule now, while I’m still a student. Let’s have dinner before I graduate.”
He almost said yes. “Afraid not. The law is the law. We’re here because we respect it.”
“Oh yes. It’s so easy to forget. But we have a date?”
“No, we will have a date.”
She flashed another smile and walked away. He tried mightily not to admire her exit, but it was impossible.
______
The rented van came from a moving company north of town, sixty dollars a day. He tried for a half-day rate because he would need it only for a few hours, but sixty it was. He drove it exactly four tenths of a mile and stopped at Chaney’s Self-Storage, a sprawling arrangement of new cinder-block rectangles surrounded by chain link and shiny new razor wire. Video cameras on light poles watched his every move as he parked and walked into the office.
Plenty of space was available. A ten-by-ten bay was forty-eight dollars a month, no heating, no air, a roll-down door, and plenty of lighting.
“Is it fireproof?” Ray asked.
“Absolutely,” said Mrs. Chaney herself, fighting off the smoke from the cigarette stuck between her lips as she filled in forms. “Nothing but concrete block.” Everything was safe at Chaney’s. They featured electronic surveillance, she explained, as she waved at four monitors on a shelf to her left. On a shelf to her right was a small television wherein folks were yelling and fighting, a Springer-style gabfest that was now a brawl. Ray knew which shelf received the most attention.
“Twenty-four-hour guards,” she said, still doing the paperwork. “Gate’s locked at all times. Never had a break-in, and if one happens then we got all kinds of insurance. Sign right here. Fourteen B.”
Insurance on three million bucks, Ray said to himself as he scribbled his name. He paid cash for six months and took the keys to 14B.
He was back two hours later with six new storage boxes, a pile of old clothes, and a stick or two of worthless furniture he’d picked up at a flea market downtown for authenticity. He parked in the alley in front of 14B and worked quickly to unload and store his junk.
The cash was stuffed into forty-two-ounce freezer bags, zipped tight to keep air and water out, fifty-three in all. The freezer bags were arranged in the bottoms of the six storage boxes, then carefully covered with papers and files and research notes that Ray had until
very recently deemed useful. Now his meticulous files served a much higher calling. A few old paperbacks were thrown in for good measure.
If, by chance, a thief penetrated 14B, he would probably abandon it after a cursory look into the boxes. The money was well hidden and as well protected as possible. Short of a safety deposit box in a bank, Ray could think of no better place to secure the money.
What would ultimately become of the money was a mystery that grew by the day. The fact that it was now safely tucked away in Virginia provided little comfort, contrary to what he had hoped.
He watched the boxes and the other junk for a while, not really anxious to leave. He vowed to himself that he would not stop by every day to check on things, but as soon as the vow was made he began to doubt it.
He secured the roll-down door with a new padlock. As he drove away, the guard was awake, the video cameras scanning, the gate locked.
______
Fog Newton was worrying about the weather. He had a student-pilot on a cross-country to Lynchburg and back, and thunderstorms were moving in quickly, according to radar. The clouds had not been expected, and no weather had been forecast during the student’s preflight briefing.
“How many hours does he have?” Ray asked.
“Thirty-one,” Fog said gravely. Certainly not enough experience to handle thunderstorms. There
were no airports between Charlottesville and Lynchburg, only mountains.
“You’re not flying, are you?” Fog asked.
“I want to.”
“Forget it. This storm is coming together quickly. Let’s go watch it.”
Nothing frightened an instructor more than a student up in heavy weather. Each cross-country training flight had to be carefully planned—route, time, fuel, weather, secondary airports, and emergency procedures. And each flight had to be approved in writing by the instructor. Fog had once grounded Ray because there was a slight chance of icing at five thousand feet, on a perfectly clear day.
They walked through the hangar to the ramp where a Lear was parking and shutting down its engines. To the west beyond the foothills was the first hint of clouds. The wind had picked up noticeably. “Ten to fifteen knots, gusting,” Fog said. “A direct crosswind.” Ray would not want to attempt a landing in such conditions.
Behind the Lear was a Bonanza taxiing to the ramp, and as it got closer Ray noticed that it was the one he’d been coveting for the past two months. “There’s your plane,” Fog said.
“I wish,” Ray said.
The Bonanza parked and shut down near them, and when the ramp was quiet again Fog said, “I hear he’s cut the price.”
“How much?”
“Somewhere around four twenty-five. Four-fifty was a little steep.”
The owner, traveling alone, crawled out and pulled his bags from the rear. Fog was gazing at the sky and glancing at his watch. Ray kept his eyes on the Bonanza, where the owner was locking the door and putting it to rest.
“Let’s take it for a spin,” Ray said.
“The Bonanza?”
“Sure. What’s the rent?”
“It’s negotiable. I know the guy pretty well.”
“Let’s get it for a day, fly up to Atlantic City, then back.”
Fog forgot about the approaching clouds and the rookie student. He turned and looked at Ray. “You’re serious?”
“Why not? Sounds like fun.”
Aside from flying and poker, Fog had few other interests. “When?”
“Saturday. Day after tomorrow. Leave early, come back late.”
Fog was suddenly deep in thought. He glanced at his watch, looked once more to the west, then to the south. Dick Docker yelled from a window, “Yankee Tango is ten miles out.”
“Thank God,” Fog mumbled to himself and visibly relaxed. He and Ray walked to the Bonanza for a closer look. “Saturday, huh?” Fog said.
“Yep, all day.”
“I’ll catch the owner. I’m sure we can work a deal.”
The winds relented for a moment and Yankee Tango landed with little effort. Fog relaxed even more and managed a smile. “Didn’t know you liked the action,” he said as they walked across the ramp.
“Just a little blackjack, nothing serious,” Ray said.
CHAPTER 17
The solitude of a late Friday morning was broken by the doorbell. Ray had slept late, still trying to shake off the fatigue from the trip home. Three newspapers and four coffees later he was almost fully awake.
It was a FedEx box from Harry Rex, and it was filled with letters from admirers and newspaper clippings. Ray spread them on the dining table and began with the articles. The
Clanton Chronicle
ran a front-page piece on Wednesday that featured a dignified photo of Reuben Atlee, complete with black robe and gavel. The picture was at least twenty years old. The Judge’s hair was thicker and darker, and he filled out the robe. The headline read JUDGE REUBEN ATLEE DEAD AT 79. There were three stories on the front page. One was a flowery obituary. One was a collection of comments from his friends. The third was a tribute to the Judge and his amazing gift of charity.
The
Ford County Times
likewise had a picture, one taken just a few years earlier. In it Judge Atlee was sitting on his front porch holding his pipe, looking much older but offering a rare smile. He wore a cardigan and looked like a grandfather. The reporter had cajoled him into a feature with the ruse of chatting about the Civil War and Nathan Bedford Forrest. There was the hint of a book in the works, one about the general and the men from Ford County who’d fought with him.
The Atlee sons were barely mentioned in the stories about their father. Referring to one would require referring to the other, and most folks in Clanton wanted to avoid the subject of Forrest. It was painfully obvious that the sons were not a part of their father’s life.
But we could’ve been, Ray said to himself. It was the father who’d chosen early on to have limited involvement with the sons, not the other way around. This wonderful old man who’d given so much to so many had had so little time for his own family.
The stories and photos made him sad, which was frustrating because he had not planned to be sad this Friday. He had held up quite well since discovering his father’s body five days earlier. In moments of grief and sorrow, he had dug deep and found the strength to bite his lip and push forward without breaking down. The passage of time and the distance to Clanton had helped immensely, and now from nowhere had come the saddest reminders yet.
The letters had been collected by Harry Rex from the Judge’s post office box in Clanton, from the courthouse, and from the mailbox at Maple Run. Some
were addressed to Ray and Forrest and some to the family of Judge Atlee. There were lengthy letters from lawyers who’d practiced before the great man and had been inspired by his passion for the law. There were cards of sympathy from people who, for one reason or another, had appeared before Judge Atlee in a divorce, or adoption, or juvenile matter, and his fairness had changed their lives. There were notes from people all over the state—sitting judges, old law school pals, politicians Judge Atlee had helped over the years, and friends who wanted to pass along their sympathies and fond memories.
The largest batch came from those who had received the Judge’s charity. The letters were long and heartfelt, and all the same. Judge Atlee had quietly sent money that was desperately needed, and in many cases it had made a dramatic change in the life of someone.
How could a man so generous die with more than three million dollars hidden below his bookshelves? He certainly buried more than he gave away. Perhaps Alzheimer’s had crept into his life, or some other affliction that had gone undetected. Had he slipped toward insanity? The easy answer was that the old man had simply gone nuts, but how many crazy people could put together that kind of money?
After reading twenty or so letters and cards, Ray took a break. He walked to the small balcony overlooking the downtown mall and watched the pedestrians below. His father had never seen Charlottesville, and though Ray was certain he had asked him to visit, he could not remember a specific invitation. They had
never traveled anywhere together. There were so many things they could have done.
The Judge had always talked of seeing Gettysburg Antietam, Bull Run, Chancellorsville, and Appomatox, and he would have done so had Ray shown an interest. But Ray cared nothing for the refighting of an old war, and he had always changed the subject.
The guilt hit hard, and he couldn’t shake it. What a selfish ass he’d been.
There was a lovely card from Claudia. She thanked Ray for talking to her and expressing his forgiveness. She had loved his father for years and would carry her grief to her grave. Please call me, she begged, then signed off with hugs and kisses. And she’s got her current boyfriend on Viagra, according to Harry Rex.
The nostalgic journey home came to an abrupt halt with a simple anonymous card that froze his pulse and sent goose bumps down the backs of both legs.
The only pink envelope in the pile contained a card with the words “With Sympathy” on the outside. Taped to the inside was a small square piece of paper with a typed message that read: “It would be a mistake to spend the money. The IRS is a phone call away.” The envelope had been postmarked in Clanton on Wednesday, the day after the funeral, and was addressed to the family of Judge Atlee at Maple Run.
Ray placed it aside while he scanned the other cards and letters. They were all the same at this point, and he’d read enough. The pink one sat there like a loaded gun, waiting for him to return to it.
He repeated the threat on the balcony as he
grasped the railing and tried to analyze things. He mumbled the words in the kitchen as he fixed more coffee. He’d left the note on the table so he could see it from any part of his rambling den.
Back on the balcony he watched the foot traffic pick up as noon approached, and anyone who glanced up was a person who might know about the money. Bury a fortune, then realize you’re hiding it from someone, and your imagination can get crazy.
The money didn’t belong to him, and it was certainly enough to get him stalked, followed, watched, reported, even hurt.
Then he laughed at his own paranoia. “I will not live like this,” he said, and went to take a shower.
Whoever it was knew exactly where the Judge had hidden the money. Make a list, Ray told himself as he sat on the edge of his bed, naked, with water dripping onto the floor. The felon who cut the lawn once a week. Perhaps he was a smooth talker who’d befriended the Judge and spent time in the house. Entry was easy. When the Judge sneaked off to the casinos, maybe the grasscutter slinked through the house, pilfering.
Claudia would be at the top of the list. Ray could easily see her easing over to Maple Run whenever the Judge beckoned. You don’t sleep with a woman for years then cut her off without a replacement. Their lives had been so connected it was easy to imagine their romance continuing. No one had been closer to Reuben Atlee than Claudia. If anyone knew where the money came from, it was her.