- •I can almost hear the champagne corks popping below me. The tumor has been confirmed!
- •It'll never be seen by the vultures.
- •It was such a good idea that the other lawyers couldn't argue. They arrived, along with Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen, at Gettys' office after five. A court reporter and two video cameras were waiting.
- •In recent years the fighting had almost stopped. Neither could change, so they simply ignored each other. But when the tumor appeared, tj reached out again.
- •It seemed almost cruel to bother her.
- •It was obvious Josh had been thinking about Nate all along, and this slightly irritated Tip. “You kidding?” he said.
- •It would be a vicious, glorious, thoroughly unique moment in the history of American law, and Josh suddenly couldn't wait. “The twenty-seventh is fine with me,” he said.
- •It was made of brown leather, new but built to look well used, and large enough to hold a small legal library. Nate sat it on his knees and popped it open. “Toys,” he said.
- •It was the day before Christmas Eve. Not all memories were painful.
- •Valdir continued, “Even if you flew into the area, you would then have to use a boat to get to the Indians.”
- •Valdir rerolled the last map. “I can arrange an airplane and a pilot.”
- •Valdir had been informed by Air. Josh Stafford that money was no object during this mission. “He'll call me back in an hour,” he said.
- •It was a quick shower, a cool rain the children played in while the adults sat on the porch and watched them in silence.
- •Internal, Jevy said, glancing at Milton.
- •It was almost two when Welly heard them coming. Jevy parked on the bank, his huge truck scattering rocks and waking fishermen as it roared to a stop. There was no sign of the American.
- •If Josh was worried, his voice didn't convey it. The firm was still closed for Christmas, et cetera, but he was busy as hell. The usual.
- •In a corner of the cabin, not far from the four bunks, Nate ate alone at a table that was bolted to the floor.
- •It was overcast and threatening more rain. The sun finally broke through at about six. Nate knew because he'd rearmed himself with a watch.
- •If the fisherman was happy to see another human in the middle of nowhere, he certainly didn't show it. Where could the poor man live?
- •In return for his good work, the children and wives had called him a fag.
- •I will die here, Nate said to himself. I'll either drown, starve, or be eaten, but it is here, in this immense swamp, that I will breathe my last.
- •It was a slight affront to Jevy's pride, but under the circumstances he could not argue. “He may want a little money.”
- •If you only knew, thought Nate. “Thanks. You, uh, said something about seeing a patient.”
- •It had been three years since the Ipicas had seen a death by snakebite. And for the first time in two years, Rachel had no antivenin.
- •Very gently, she touched him. She patted him three times on his arm, and said, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that you are lonely. How would I know?”
- •In fact, Troy Junior had already threatened to fire them. They grew quiet and listened. Hark had the floor.
- •If dengue fever didn't get poor Nate, the irs was waiting.
- •In his sleep, Nate was refortified with drugs he didn't need.
- •Valdir took the phone and walked to a corner. He tried to describe Nate's condition.
- •In Valdir's office, alone, Nate dialed the number of the Stafford Law Firm, a number he had trouble remembering. They pulled Josh out of a meeting. “Talk to me, Nate,” he said. “How are you?”
- •Valdir's despachante in Corumba knew another one in Sao Paulo, a powerful one with high contacts, and for a fee of two thousand dollars a new passport would be delivered.
- •In the narrow dining room between the kitchen and the den, a table had been set for four. Nate was pleased that he had accepted their invitation, not that he'd had the chance to decline it.
- •It certainly wasn't okay with Snead, but he'd taken their money. He had to play along.
- •In St. Michaels, only the Rector and his wife knew who he was. Rumor had it that he was a wealthy lawyer from Baltimore writing a book.
- •In eleven years, Rachel had never received a personal letter, at least not through World Tribes.
- •It was difficult to believe that for most of his professional life he often worked until nine or ten at night, then had dinner in a bar and drinks until one. He grew weary just thinking about it.
- •It occurred to Nate that it was nine o'clock in Houston. She was calling from home, and this seemed more than odd. The voice was pleasant enough, but tentative.
- •If his client didn't want the money, why should he care who got it?
- •It was the only time during the two-day ordeal that Troy Junior fought to a draw. Nate knew to move on, then to come back later.
- •It would take a billion dollars in therapy to straighten out this poor kid, Nate thought. He finished with him in less than an hour.
- •It was a well-rehearsed little oration, and it convinced no one. Nate let it slide. It was five o'clock, Friday afternoon, and he was tired of fighting.
- •It was a game of high-stakes chicken, and Snead held firm. “Of course I'm sure,” he said with enough indignance to seem plausible.
- •It took about fifteen minutes to figure this out.
- •In the loneliness of the hotel room, in a city where he knew no one, it was easy to pity himself, to suffer once again through the mistakes of his past.
- •It was a risk, and they were still talking about it.
- •It was Josh. “It couldn't have gone better,” he announced. “I stopped at twenty million, they want fifty.”
- •If they only knew, he thought as he left the courthouse.
It seemed almost cruel to bother her.
Durban read the same materials and said, “We may never find her. No phones, no electricity; hell, you have to hike through the mountains to get to these people.”
“We have no choice,” Josh said.
“Have we contacted World Tribes?”
“Later today.”
“What do you tell them?”
“I don't know. But you don't tell them you're looking for one of their missionaries because she's just inherited eleven billion dollars.”
“Eleven billion before taxes.”
“There will be a nice sum left over.”
“So what do you tell them?”
“We tell them there's a pressing legal matter. It's quite urgent, and we must speak to Rachel face to face.”
One of the fax machines on board began humming, and the memos started. The first was from Josh's secretary with a list of the morning's calls-almost all from attorneys for the Phelan heirs. Two were from reporters.
The associates were reporting in, with preliminary research on various aspects of applicable Virginia law. With each page that Josh and Durban read, old Troy's hastily scrawled testament got stronger and stronger.
Lunch was light sandwiches and fruit, again served by the stewardess, who kept to the rear of the cabin and managed to appear only when their coffee cups were empty.
They landed in Jackson Hole in clear weather, with heavy snow plowed to the sides of the runway. They stepped off the plane, walked eighty feet, and climbed onto a Sikorsky S-76C, Troy's favorite helicopter. Ten minutes later they were hovering over his beloved ranch. A stiff wind bounced the chopper, and Durban turned pale. Josh slid open a door, slowly and quite nervously, and a sharp wind blasted him in the face.
The pilot circled at two thousand feet while Josh emptied the ashes from a small black urn. The wind instantly blew them in all directions so that Troy's remains vanished long before they hit the snow. When the urn was empty, Josh retracted his frozen arm and hand and shut the door.
The house was technically a log cabin, with enough massive timbers to give the appearance of something rustic. But at eleven thousand square feet, it was anything but a cabin. Troy had bought it from an actor whose career went south.
A butler in corduroy took their bags and a maid fixed their coffee. Durban admired the stuffed game hanging from the walls while Josh called the office. A fire roared in the fireplace, and the cook asked what they wanted for dinner.
THE ASSOCIATE'S NAME was Montgomery, a four-year man who'd been handpicked by Mr. Stafford. He got lost three times in the sprawl of Houston before he found the offices of World Tribes Missions tucked away on the ground floor of a five-story building. He parked his rented car and straightened his tie.
He had talked to Mr. Trill twice on the phone, and though he was an hour late for the appointment it didn't seem to matter. Mr. Trill was polite and soft-spoken but not eager to help. They exchanged the required preliminaries. “Now, what can I do for you?” Trill asked.
“I need some information about one of your missionaries,” Montgomery said.
Trill nodded but said nothing.
“A Rachel Lane.”
The eyes drifted as if he was trying to place her. “Name doesn't ring a bell. But then, we have four thousand people in the field.”
“She's working near the border of Brazil and Bolivia.”
“How much do you know about her?”
“Not much. But we need to find her.”
“For what purpose?”
“It's a legal matter,” Montgomery said, with just enough hesitation to sound suspicious.
Trill frowned and pulled his elbows close to his chest. His small smile disappeared. “Is there trouble?” he asked.
“No. But the matter is quite urgent. We need to see her.”
“Can't you send a letter or a package?”
“Afraid not. Her cooperation is needed, along with her signature.”
“I assume it's confidential.”
“Extremely.”
Something clicked and Trill's frown softened. “Excuse me for a minute.” He disappeared from the office, and left Montgomery to inspect the spartan furnishings. The only decoration was a collection of enlarged photos of Indian children on the walls.
Trill was a different person when he returned, stiff and unsmiling and uncooperative. “I'm sorry, Mr. Montgomery,” he said without sitting. “We will not be able to help you.”
“Is she in Brazil?”
“I'm sorry.”
“Bolivia?”
“I'm sorry.”
“Does she even exist?”
“I can't answer your questions.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Could I speak to your boss or supervisor?”
“Sure.”
“Where is he?”
“In heaven.”
AFTER A DINNER of thick steaks in mushroom sauce, Josh Stafford and Tip Durban retired to the den, where a fire roared. A different butler, a Mexican in a white jacket and starched jeans, served them very old single-malt Scotch from Mr. Phelan's cabinet. Cuban cigars were ordered. Pavarotti sang Christmas songs on a distant stereo.
“I have an idea,” Josh said as he watched the fire. “We have to send someone to find Rachel Lane, right?”
Tip was in the midst of a lengthy draw from his cigar, so he only nodded.
“And we can't just send anyone. It has to be a lawyer; someone who can explain the legal issues. And it has to be someone from our firm because of confidentiality.”
His jaws filled with smoke, Tip kept nodding.
“So who do we send?”
Tip exhaled slowly, through both his mouth and his nose, and smoke boiled across his face and drifted upward. “How long will it take?” he finally asked.
“I don't know, but it's not a quick trip. Brazil's a big country, almost as big as the lower forty-eight. And we're talking jungles and mountains. These people are so remote they've never seen a car.”
“I'm not going.”
“We can hire local guides and such, but it still might take a week or so.”
“Don't they have cannibals down there?”
“No.”
“Anacondas?”
“Relax, Tip. You're not going.”
“Thanks.”
“But you see the problem, don't you? We have sixty lawyers, all busy as hell and swamped with more work than we can possibly do. None of us can suddenly drop everything and go find this woman.”
“Send a paralegal.”
Josh didn't like that idea. He sipped his Scotch and puffed his cigar and listened to the flames pop in the fireplace. “It has to be a lawyer,” he said, almost to himself.
The butler returned with fresh drinks. He inquired about dessert and coffee, but the guests already had what they wanted.
“What about Nate?” Josh asked when they were alone again.