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 wher............