Hour Game Read Online Free PDF Page A

find in a good old southern family.”
    “Meaning what exactly?”
    “Meaning they’re, well, charming, quirky… you know, slightly eccentric.”
    “You mean crazy,” said Michelle.
    “Well—”
    “Every family’s crazy,” Michelle interrupted. “Some just show it more than others.”
    “I think you’ll find the Battles are right at the top of the list in that regard.”

CHAPTER
    7
    H ARRY L EE C ARRICK LIVED ON A LARGE ESTATE ON THE eastern edge of Wrightsburg. As they drove over, King filled in Michelle on the jurist-turned-practicing-attorney.
    “He was a lawyer here years ago and then went on the local circuit court and then on to the state supreme court for the last two decades. In fact, he swore me into the Virginia State Bar. His family goes back about three hundred years in the commonwealth. You know,
those
Lees. He’s well over seventy but sharper than ever. After he left the bench, he came back here, settled down at the family estate.”
    “You said Junior was from the wrong side of the tracks.”
    “Let’s say he’s occasionally strayed on the other side of the law. But from what I’ve heard he hasn’t been in any trouble for a long time.”
    “Apparently until now.”
    They passed a set of wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the letter
C.
    Michelle looked around at the expansive grounds. “Nice place.”
    “Harry’s done well for himself and his family certainly had money.”
    “Married?”
    “His wife died when she was young. He never remarried and doesn’t have any children. In fact, he’s the last of the Carricks as far as I know.”
    They caught a glimpse of a large brick home with white columns nestled among all the mature trees. Yet King turned away from the direction of the main house and drove down a narrow gravel road, stopping in front of a small clapboard structure painted white.
    “What’s this?” asked Michelle.
    “The opulent law offices of Harry Lee Carrick, Esquire.”
    They knocked on the door and a pleasant-sounding voice called out, “Come in.”
    The man rose from behind the large wooden desk, his hand outstretched. Harry Carrick was about five-nine and slender, with fine silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt and a red-and-white-striped tie. His eyes were more the color of periwinkle than true blue, Michelle decided, and were also pleasingly impish. His eyebrows were thick and the same color as the hair. His grip was firm and his melodious southern accent as smoothly enveloping as three fingers of your favorite libation and an easy chair in which to enjoy it. His energy and manner were that of a man easily twenty years younger. In short, he was the Hollywood version of what a judge should look like.
    Harry said to Michelle, “I was wondering when Sean would get around to bringing you to see me. So I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, you see.”
    He led them to chairs in one corner of the small room. Stout bookcases lined most of the wall space. The furniture all looked to be antique and well used. Cigar smoke hovered in the air like miniature cumuli, and Michelle spotted an old Remington typewriter on one side table, although there was also a PC and laser printer on Harry’s magnificently carved desk.
    “I’ve altogether given in to the efficiencies of the modern age,” he said, his alert eyes observing her wandering gaze. “I resisted computers until the last possible moment and then threw myself wholeheartedly into their embrace. I reserve the Remington for correspondence with certain friends of advancing years who’dconsider it positively disgraceful to receive a missive on anything but monogrammed bond paper graced with the touch of the manual typewriter keys, or else my own personal scrawl, which unfortunately grows ever more indecipherable. Growing old is so darn unappealing until you consider the alternative. I’d recommend always staying young and beautiful,