by John Grisham
“Don’t worry.”
Everyone was waiting. The fishermen were already on the river. Jevy had his paddle, anxious to shove off.
Nate took a step into the boat, and said, “We could honeymoon in Corumbá.”
“Good-bye, Nate. Just tell your people you never found me.”
“I will. So long.” He pushed away, and swung himself into the boat, where he sat down hard, his head spinning again. As they drifted away, he waved at Rachel and the Indians, but the figures were blurred together.
Pushed by the current, the canoes glided over the water, the Indians paddling in perfect tandem. They wasted no effort and no time. They were in a hurry. The motor started on the third pull, and they soon caught the canoes. When Jevy throttled down, the motor sputtered but did not quit. At the first turn in the river, Nate glanced over his shoulder. Rachel and the Indians hadn’t moved.
He was sweating. With clouds shielding the sun, and with a nice breeze in his face, Nate realized that he was sweating. His arms and legs were wet. He rubbed his neck and forehead and looked at the dampness on his fingers. Instead of praying as he had promised, he mumbled, “Oh shit. I’m sick.”
The fever was low, but coming fast. The breeze chilled him. He huddled on his seat and looked for something else to wear. Jevy noticed him, and after a few minutes said, “Nate, are you okay?”
He shook his head no, and pain shot from his eyes to his spine. He wiped drainage from his nose.
After two bends in the river, the trees grew thin and the ground was lower. The river widened, then spilled into a flooded lake with three decaying trees in the center of it. Nate knew they had not passed the trees on the way in. They were taking a different route out. Without the current, the canoes slowed a little but still cut through the water with amazing quickness. The guides did not study the lake. They knew exactly where they were going.
“Jevy, I think I have malaria,” Nate said. His voice was hoarse; his throat already sore.
“How do you know?” Jevy lowered the throttle for a second.
“Rachel warned me. She saw it in the other village yesterday. That’s why we left when we did.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“Yes, and I’m having trouble seeing things.”
Jevy stopped the boat and yelled at the Indians, who were almost out of sight. He moved empty gas tanks and the remnants of their supplies, then quickly unrolled the tent. “You will get chills,” he said as he worked. The boat rocked back and forth as he moved around.
“Have you had malaria?”
“No. But most of my friends have died from it.”
“What!”
“Bad joke. It doesn’t kill many, but you will be very sick.”
Moving gently, keeping his head as still as possible, Nate crawled behind his seat and lay in the center of the boat. A bedroll was his pillow. Jevy spread the lightweight tent over him and anchored it with two empty gas tanks.
The Indians were beside them, curious about what was happening. Lako inquired in Portuguese. Nate heard the word malaria spoken by Jevy, and it caused mumblings in Ipica. Then they were off.
The boat seemed faster. Maybe it was because Nate was lying on the bottom of it, feeling it slice through the water. An occasional branch or limb that Jevy didn’t see jolted Nate, but he didn’t care. His head ached and throbbed like no hangover he’d ever experienced. His muscles and joints hurt too much to move. And he was growing colder. The chills were starting.
There was a low rumble in the distance. Nate thought it might be thunder. Wonderful, he thought. That’s precisely what we need now.
________
THE RAINS stayed away. The river turned once to the west, and Jevy saw the orange and yellow remnants of a sunset. Then it turned back to the east, to the approaching darkness across the Pantanal. Twice the canoes slowed as the Ipicas conferred about which fork to take. Jevy kept their boat a hundred feet or so behind, but as darkness settled in he followed closer. He couldn’t see Nate buried under the tent, but he knew his friend was suffering. Jevy actually once knew a man who died from malaria.
Two hours into the journey, the guides led them through a bewildering series of narrow streams and quiet lagoons, and when they emerged into a broader river the canoes slowed for a moment. The Indians needed a rest. Lako called to Jevy and explained that they were now safe, that they had just gone through the difficult part and the rest should be easy. The Xeco was about two hours away, and it led straight to the Paraguay.
Can we make it alone? Jevy asked. No, came the reply. There were still forks to deal with, plus the Indians knew a spot on the Xeco that would not be flooded. There they would sleep.
How is the American? Lako asked. Not well, Jevy replied.
The American heard their voices, and he knew the boat was not moving. The fever burned him from head to toe. His flesh and clothes were soaked, and the aluminum under him was wet as well. His eyes were swollen shut, his mouth so dry it hurt to open it. He heard Jevy asking him something in English, but he could not answer. Consciousness came and went.
In the darkness, the canoes moved more slowly. Jevy trailed closer, at times using his flashlight to help the guides study the forks and tributaries. At half-throttle, his unsteady outboard settled into a constant whine. They stopped just once, to eat a loaf of bread and drink juice, and to relieve themselves. They latched the three craft together and floated for ten minutes.
Lako was concerned about the American. What shall I tell the missionary about him? he asked Jevy. Tell her he has malaria.
Lightning in the distance ended their brief dinner and rest. The Indians set off again, paddling as hard as ever. They had not seen solid ground in hours. There was no place to land and ride out a storm.
The motor finally quit. Jevy switched to his last full tank, and started it again. At half-throttle, he had enough fuel for about six hours, long enough to find the Paraguay. There would be traffic there, and houses, and at some point, the Santa Loura. He knew the exact spot where the Xeco emptied into the Paraguay. Going downriver, they should find Welly by dawn.
The lightning followed, but did not catch them. Each flash made the guides work harder. But they began to tire. At one point, Lako grabbed a side of the johnboat, another Ipica held the other, Jevy held the flashlight above his head, and they plowed forward like a barge.
The trees and brush grew thicker and the river widened. There was solid ground on both sides. The Indians were chattering more, and when they entered the Xeco the paddling stopped. They were exhausted and ready to stop. It’s three hours past their bedtime, Jevy thought. They found their spot and landed.
Lako explained that he had been the missionary’s assistant for many years. He’d seen lots of malaria; he’d even had it himself three times. He eased the tent off Nate’s head and chest, and touched his forehead. A very high fever, he told Jevy, who was holding the flashlight, standing in mud, and anxious to get back in the boat.
There’s nothing you can do, he said as he completed his diagnosis. The fever will go away, then there will be another attack in forty-eight hours. He was disturbed by the swollen eyes, something he’d never seen before with malaria.
The oldest guide began talking to Lako and pointing to the dark river. The translation to Jevy was to keep it in the center, ignore the small divides, especially the ones to the left, and in two hours he should find the Paraguay. Jevy thanked them profusely, and took off.
The fever didn’t die. An hour later, Jevy checked Nate and his face was still burning. He was curled into a fetal position, semiconscious and mumbling incoherently. Jevy forced water into his mouth, then poured the rest over his face.
The Xeco was wide and easy to navigate. They passed a house, the first they’d seen in a month, it seemed. Like a lighthouse beckoning a wayward ship, the moon broke through the clouds and lit the waters in front of them.
“Can you hear me, Nate?” Jevy said, not loud enough to be heard. “Our luck is changi
ng.”
He followed the moon to the Paraguay.
THIRTY-TWO
_____________
THE BOAT was a chalana, a floating shoe box, thirty feet long, eight feet wide, flat-bottomed, and used to haul cargo through the Pantanal. Jevy had captained dozens of them. He saw the light coming around a bend, and when he heard the knock of the diesel, he knew precisely what kind of boat it was.
And he knew the captain, who was sleeping on his bunk when the deckhand stopped the chalana. It was almost 3 A.M. Jevy tied his johnboat to the bow and hopped on board. They fed him two bananas while he gave them a quick summary of what he was doing. The deckhand brought sweet coffee. They were headed north to Porto Indio, to the army base there to trade with the soldiers. They could spare five gallons of gas. Jevy promised to pay them back in Corumbá. No problem. Everybody helps on the river.
More coffee, and some sugared wafers. Then he asked about the Santa Loura, and Welly. “It’s at the mouth of the Cabixa,” Jevy told them, “docked where the old pier used to be,” he said.
They shook their heads. “It wasn’t there,” the captain said. The deckhand agreed. They knew the Santa Loura, and they had not seen it. It would have been impossible to miss.
“It has to be there,” Jevy said.
“No. We passed the Cabixa at noon yesterday. There was no sign of the Santa Loura.”
Perhaps Welly had taken it a few miles into the Cabixa to look for them. He had to be worried sick. Jevy would forgive him for moving the Santa Loura, but not before a tongue lashing.
The boat would be there, he was certain. He sipped more coffee and told them about Nate and the malaria. There were fresh rumors in Corumbá about waves of the disease sweeping through the Pantanal. Jevy had heard these all of his life.
They filled a tank from a barrel on board the chalana. As a general rule, river traffic during the rainy season was three times faster downstream than up. A johnboat with a good motor should reach the Cabixa in four hours, the trading post in ten, Corumbá in eighteen. The Santa Loura, if and when they found it, would take longer, but at least they would have hammocks and food.
Jevy’s plan was to stop and rest briefly on the Santa Loura. He wanted to get Nate into a bed, and he would use the SatFone to call Corumbá and talk to Valdir. Valdir in turn could find a good doctor who would know what to do when they reached home.
The captain gave him another box of wafers and a paper cup of coffee. Jevy promised to find them in Corumbá next week. He thanked them and unhitched his boat. Nate was alive, but motionless. The fever had not broken.
The coffee quickened Jevy’s pulse and kept him awake. He played with the throttle, raising it until the engine began to sputter, then backing down before it died. As the darkness faded, a heavy mist fell upon the river.
He arrived at the mouth of the Cabixa an hour after dawn. The Santa Loura was not there. Jevy docked at the old pier and went to find the owner of the only nearby house. He was in his stable, milking a cow. He remembered Jevy, and told the story of the storm that took away the boat. The worst storm ever. It happened in the middle of the night, and he didn’t see much. The wind was so fierce that he, his wife, and his child hid under a bed.
“Where did it sink?” Jevy asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What about the boy?”
“Welly? I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you talked to anyone else? Has anyone seen the boy?”
No one. He had not spoken with anyone off the river since Welly disappeared in the storm. He was very sad about everything, and for good measure offered the opinion that Welly was probably dead.
Nate was not. The fever dipped significantly, and when he awoke he was cold and thirsty. He opened his eyes with his fingers, and saw only the water around him, the brush on the bank, and the farmhouse.
“Jevy,” he said, his throat raw, his voice weak. He sat up and worked on his eyes for a few minutes. Nothing focused. Jevy did not answer. Every part of his body ached—muscles, joints, the blood pumping through his brain. There was a hot rash on his neck and chest, and he scratched it until the skin broke. He was sickened by his own odor.
The farmer and his wife followed Jevy back to the boat. They didn’t have a drop of gasoline, and this irritated their visitor.
“How are you, Nate?” he asked, stepping into the boat.
“I’m dying.” He exhaled the words.
Jevy felt his forehead, then gently touched the rash. “Your fever’s down.”
“Where are we?”
“We’re at the Cabixa. Welly is not here. The boat sank in a storm.”
“Our luck continues,” Nate said, then grimaced as pain shot through his head. “Where is Welly?”
“I don’t know. Can you make it to Corumbá?”
“I’d rather just go ahead and die.”
“Lie down, Nate.”
They left the bank with the farmer and his wife standing ankle-deep in mud, waving but getting ignored.
Nate sat for a while. The wind felt good against his face. Before long, though, he was cold again. A chill shuttered through his chest, and he lowered himself gently under the tent. He tried to pray for Welly, but thoughts lasted only for seconds. He simply couldn’t believe he’d caught malaria.
________
HARK PLANNED the brunch in great detail. It was in a private dining room of the Hay-Adams Hotel. There were oysters and eggs, caviar and salmon, champagne and mimosas. By eleven they were all there, dressed casually, and laying into the mimosas.
He had assured them the meeting was of the utmost importance. It had to be kept confidential. He’d found the one witness who could win the case for them.
Only the lawyers for the Phelan children were invited. The Phelan wives had not yet contested the will, and there seemed little enthusiasm on their part for getting involved. Their legal position was very weak. Judge Wycliff had hinted off the record to one of their lawyers that he would not look favorably upon frivolous suits by the ex-wives.
Frivolous or not, the six children had wasted no time contesting the will. All six had rushed into the fray, all with the same basic claim—that Troy Phelan lacked mental capacity when he signed his last testament.
A maximum of two lawyers per heir were allowed at the meeting, and preferably one, if possible. Hark was alone, representing Rex. Wally Bright was alone, representing Libbigail. Yancy was the only lawyer Ramble knew. Grit was there for Mary Ross. Madam Langhorne, the former professor of law, was there for Geena and Cody. Troy Junior had hired and fired three firms since his father’s death. His latest lawyers were from a firm of four hundred. Their names were Hemba and Hamilton, and they introduced themselves to the loose-knit confederation.
Hark closed the door and addressed the group. He gave a short biography of Malcolm Snead, a man he’d been meeting with almost daily. “He was with Mr. Phelan for thirty years,” he said gravely. “Maybe he helped him write his last will. Maybe he is prepared to say the old man was completely nuts at the time.”
The lawyers were surprised by the news. Hark watched their happy faces for a moment, then said, “Or, maybe he is prepared to say he knew nothing of the handwritten will and that Mr. Phelan was perfectly rational and lucid the day he died.”
“How much does he want?” asked Wally Bright, cutting to the chase.
“Five million dollars. Ten percent now, the rest upon settlement.”
Snead’s fee did not faze the lawyers. There was so much at stake. In fact, his greed seemed rather modest.
“Our clients, of course, do not have the money,” Hark said. “So if we want to purchase his testimony, then it’s up to us. For about eighty-five thousand per heir, we can sign a contract with Mr. Snead. I’m convinced he will deliver testimony that will either win the case or force a settlement.”
The range of wealth in the room was broad. Wally Bright’s office account was overdrawn. He owed back taxes. At the other end of the spectrum, the firm where
Hemba and Hamilton worked had partners earning more than a million bucks a year.
“Are you suggesting we pay a lying witness?” Hamilton asked.
“We don’t know if he’s lying,” Hark responded. He could anticipate every question. “No one knows. He was alone with Mr. Phelan. There are no witnesses. The truth will be whatever Mr. Snead wants it to be.”
“This sounds shady,” Hemba added.
“You have a better idea?” Grit growled. He was into his fourth mimosa.
Hemba and Hamilton were big-firm lawyers, unaccustomed to the dirt and grime from the streets. Not that they or their ilk were beyond corruption, but their clients were rich corporations that used lobbyists for legal bribery to land fat government contracts and hid money in Swiss accounts for foreign despots, all with the help of their trusty lawyers. But because they were big-firm lawyers they quite naturally looked down upon the type of unethical behavior being suggested by Hark, and condoned by Grit and Bright and the other ham-and-eggers.
“I’m not sure our client will agree to this,” Hamilton said.
“Your client will jump at it,” Hark said. It was almost humorous to drape ethics over TJ Phelan. “We know him better than you. The question is whether you’re willing to do it.”
“Are you suggesting we, the lawyers, front the initial five hundred thousand?” Hemba asked, his tone one of contempt.
“Exactly,” Hark said.
“Then our firm would never go along with such a scheme.”
“Then your firm is about to be replaced,” Grit chimed in. “Keep in mind, you’re the fourth bunch in a month.”
In fact, Troy Junior had already threatened to fire them. They grew quiet and listened. Hark had the floor.
“To avoid the embarrassment of asking each of us to cough up the cash, I have found a bank willing to loan five hundred thousand dollars for a year. All we need is six signatures on the loan. I’ve already signed.”
“I’ll sign the damned thing,” Bright said in a burst of machismo. He was fearless because he had nothing to lose.
“Let me get this straight,” Yancy said. “We pay Snead the money first, then he talks. Right?”
“Right.”
“Shouldn’t we hear his version first?”
“His version needs some work. That’s the beauty of the deal. Once we pay him, he’s ours. We get to shape his testimony, to structure it to suit ourselves. Keep in mind, there are no other witnesses, maybe with the exception of a secretary.”
“How much does she cost?” asked Grit.
“She’s free. She’s included in Snead’s package.”
How many times in a career would you get the chance to rake off a percentage of the country’s tenth largest fortune? The lawyers did the math. A little risk here, a gold mine later.
Madam Langhorne surprised them by saying, “I’ll recommend to my firm that we take the deal. But this has to be a graveyard secret.”
“Graveyard,” repeated Yancy. “We could all be disbarred, probably indicted. Suborning perjury is a felony.”
“You’re missing the point,” Grit said. “There can be no perjury. The truth is defined by Snead and Snead alone. If he says he helped write the will, and at the time the old man was nuts, then who in the world can dispute it? It’s a brilliant deal. I’ll sign.”
“That makes four of us,” Hark said.
“I’ll sign,” Yancy said.
Hemba and Hamilton were squirming. “We’ll have to discuss it with our firm,” Hamilton said.
“Do we have to remind you boys that all of this is confidential?” Bright said. It was comical, the street fighter from night school chiding the law review editors on ethics.
“No,” Hemba said. “You don’t have to remind us.”
Hark would call Rex, tell him about the deal, and Rex would then call his brother TJ and inform him that his new lawyers were screwing up the deal. Hemba and Hamilton would be history within forty-eight hours.
“Move quickly,” Hark warned them. “Mr. Snead claims to be broke, and is perfectly willing to cut a deal with the other side.”
“Speaking of which,” Langhorne said, “do we know any more about who’s on the other side? We’re all contesting the will. Someone has to be its proponent. Where is Rachel Lane?”
“Evidently she’s hiding,” Hark said. “Josh has assured me that they know where she is, that they are in contact with her, and that she will hire lawyers to protect her interests.”
“For eleven billion, I would hope so,” added Grit.
They pondered the eleven billion for a moment, each dividing it by various magnitudes of the number six, then applying their own personal percentages. Five
