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."