The dead cow had been butchered by Marco and his wife. Its carcass was barely visible in the brush next to the airstrip.
According to Jevy, Milton planned to return by boat as soon as he could find a new wing and propeller. To Nate, this seemed virtually impossible. How could he haul something as bulky as an airplane wing on a boat small enough to navigate the tributaries of the Pantanal, then carry it through the same swamps Nate had seen on horseback?
That was his problem. Nate had other things to worry about.
Madam brought warm coffee and brittle cookies, and they sat in the grass next to the stable and chattered away. Nate’s three little shadows sat close to him, afraid he might leave them. Another hour passed.
It was Tomas, the youngest, who heard the humming sound first. He said something, then stood and pointed and the rest of them froze. The sound grew louder, and became the unmistakable whir of a helicopter. They ran to the center of the airstrip and watched the sky.
When it landed, four soldiers jumped from the open bay and ran to the group. Nate knelt among the boys, and gave them each ten reais. “
Feliz Natal,
” he said. Merry Christmas. Then he hugged them quickly, picked up his briefcase, and ran to the helicopter.
Jevy and Nate waved at the little family as they lifted off. Milton was too busy thanking the pilots and soldiers. At five hundred feet, the Pantanal began to stretch to the horizon. It was dark to the east.
And it was dark in Corumbá when they flew over the city a half hour later. It was a beautiful sight—the buildings and houses, the Christmas lights, the traffic. They landed at the army base west of town, on a bluff above the Paraguay River. The commandant met them and received the profuse thanks he so richly deserved. He was surprised at the lack of serious injuries, but happy nonetheless at the success of the mission. He sent them away in an open jeep driven by a young private.
As they entered the city, the jeep made a sudden turn and stopped in front of a small grocery. Jevy walked inside, and returned with three bottles of Brahma beer. He gave one to Milton and one to Nate.
After a slight hesitation, Nate unscrewed the cap and turned the bottle up. It was very wet, and cold, and thoroughly delicious. And it was Christmas, and what the hell. He could handle it.
Riding in the back of the jeep through the dusty streets, the humid air rushing against his face, cold beer in hand, Nate reminded himself of how lucky he was to be alive.
Nearly four months earlier he had tried to kill himself. Seven hours earlier he had survived a crash landing.
But the day had accomplished nothing. He was no closer to Rachel Lane than he’d been the day before.
The first stop was the hotel. Nate wished them all a Merry Christmas, then went to his room, where he undressed and stood in the shower for twenty minutes.
There were four cans of beer in the refrigerator. He drank them all in an hour, assuring himself with each can that this was not a slide. It would not lead to a crash. Things were under control. He’d cheated death, so why not celebrate with a little Christmas cheer? No one would ever know. He could handle it.
Besides, sobriety had never worked for him. He would prove to himself that he could handle a little alcohol. No problem. A few beers here and there. What was the harm?
FOURTEEN
_____________
T
he phone woke him, but it took a while to get to it. The beer had no lingering effect, other than guilt, but the little adventure in the Cessna was taking its toll. His neck, shoulders, and waist were already dark blue—neat rows of bruises where the harnesses had held him in place as the plane slammed into the ground. There were at least two knots on his skull, the first from a lick he could remember, the second from one he could not. His knees had cracked the backs of the pilots’ seats—slight injuries at first, he’d thought, but their severity had increased during the night. His arms and neck were sunburned.
“Merry Christmas,” the voice greeted him. It was Valdir, and it was almost nine.
“Thank you,” Nate said. “Same to you.”
“Yes. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“Yes, well, Jevy called me last night and told me about the airplane.
Milton must be a crazy man to fly into a storm. I’ll never use him again.”
“Neither will I.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No.”
“Jevy said he thought you were okay.”
“I’m fine, just a little sore.”
There was a slight pause as Valdir changed speeds. “We’re having a small Christmas party in my home this afternoon. Just my family and a few friends. Would you like to join us?”
There was a stiffness to the invitation. Nate couldn’t tell if Valdir was only trying to be polite, or if it was a matter of language and accent.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “But I have a lot of reading to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Very well. I have some good news. I rented a boat yesterday, finally.” It didn’t take long to leave the party and get to the boat.
“Good. When do I go?”
“Perhaps tomorrow. They’re getting it ready. Jevy knows the boat.”
“I’m anxious to get on the river. Especially after yesterday.”
Valdir then launched into a windy narrative of how he’d played hardball with the owner of the boat, a notorious tightwad who had initially demanded a thousand reais per week. They had settled on six hundred. Nate listened but didn’t care. The Phelan estate could handle it.
Valdir said good-bye with another Merry Christmas.
His Nikes were still wet, but he put them on anyway, along with running shorts and a tee shirt. He would try to jog, but if the
parts wouldn’t work then he’d simply walk. He needed fresh air and exercise. Moving slowly around the room, he saw the empty beer cans in the wastebasket.
He would deal with it later. This was not a slide, and it would not lead to a crash. His life had flashed before him yesterday, and that changed things. He could have died. Every day was a gift now, every moment was to be savored. Why not enjoy a few of life’s pleasures? Just a little beer and wine, nothing stronger and certainly no narcotics.
This was familiar turf; lies he’d lived before.
He took two Tylenol and covered his exposed skin with sunblock. In the lobby, a Christmas show was on the television but no one was watching, no one was there. The young lady behind the counter smiled and said good morning. The heavy, sticky heat wafted in through the open glass doors. Nate stopped for a quick shot of sweet coffee. The thermos was on the counter, the tiny paper cups stacked neatly beside it, waiting for anyone to pause and enjoy an ounce of
cafezinho.
Two shots, and he was sweating before he left the lobby. On the sidewalk, he tried to stretch but his muscles were screaming and his joints were locked. The challenge was not running; rather, it was walking without an obvious limp.
But no one was watching. The shops were locked and the streets were empty, as he’d expected them to be. After two blocks, his shirt was already sticking to his back. He was exercising in a sauna.
Avenida Rondon was the last paved street along the bluff above the river. He followed the sidewalk next to it for a long way, limping slightly as the muscles reluctantly loosened a little and the joints stopped grinding. He found the same small park he’d stopped at two days earlier, on the twenty-third, when the crowd gathered for music and carols. Some of the folding chairs were still there. His legs needed rest. He sat on the same picnic
table, and glanced about for the mangy teenager who’d tried to sell him drugs.
But there wasn’t a soul. He gently rubbed his knees and looked at the great Pantanal, expanding for miles, disappearing on the horizon. Magnificent desolation. He thought of the boys—Luis, Oli, and Tomas—his little buddies with ten reais in their pockets and no way to spend it. Christmas meant nothing to them; every day was the same.
Somewhere in the vast wetlands before him was one Rachel Lane, now just a humble servant of God but about to become one of the richest women in the world. If he actually found her, how would she react to the news of her great fortune? How would she react when she met him, an American lawyer who’d managed to track her down?
The possible answers made him uncomfortable.
For the first time, it occurred to Nate that maybe Troy had been crazy after all. Would a rational, lucid mind give eleven billion dollars to a person who had no interest in wealth? A person practically unknown to everyone, including the one signing the hand-scrawled will? The act seemed insane, much more so now that Nate was sitting above the Pantanal, looking at its wilderness, three thousand miles from home.
Little had been learned about Rachel. Evelyn Cunningham, her mother, was from the small town of Delhi, Louisiana. At the age of nineteen, she moved to Baton Rouge and found a job as a secretary with a company involved in the exploration of natural gas. Troy Phelan owned the company, and during one of his routine visits from New York, he spotted Evelyn. Evidently she had been a beautiful woman, and naive in her small-town upbringing. Ever the vulture, Troy struck quickly, and within a few months Evelyn found herself pregnant. This was in the spring of 1954.
In November of that year, Troy’s people at the home office quietly arranged for Evelyn to be admitted to the Catholic
Hospital in New Orleans, where Rachel was born on the second. Evelyn never saw her child.
With plenty of lawyers and lots of pressure, Troy arranged for the quick, private adoption of Rachel by a minister and his wife in Kalispell, Montana. He was buying copper and zinc mines in the state, and had contacts through his companies there. The adoptive parents did not know the identities of the biological ones.
Evelyn didn’t want the child, nor did she want anything further to do with Troy Phelan. She took ten thousand dollars and returned to Delhi, where, typically, rumors of her sins were waiting for her. She moved in with her parents, and they waited patiently for the storm to pass. It did not. With the cruelty that is peculiar to small towns, Evelyn found herself an outcast among the people she most needed. She rarely left the house, and with time retreated even farther, to the darkness of her bedroom. It was there, in the hidden gloom of her own little world, that Evelyn began to miss her daughter.
She wrote letters to Troy, none of which were answered. A secretary hid them and filed them away. Two weeks after his suicide one of Josh’s investigators found them buried in Troy’s personal archives in his apartment.
As the years passed Evelyn sank deeper into her own abyss. The rumors became sporadic but never went away. The appearance of her parents at church or at the grocery always prompted stares and whispers, and they eventually withdrew too.
Evelyn killed herself on November 2, 1959, on Rachel’s fifth birthday. She drove her parents’ car to the edge of town, and jumped off a bridge.
The obituary and the story of her death in the local paper found their way to Troy’s office in New Jersey, where they were also filed away and hidden.
Very little had been learned about Rachel’s childhood. The Reverend and Mrs. Lane moved twice, from Kalispell to Butte,
then from Butte to Helena. He died of cancer when Rachel was seventeen. She was an only child.
For reasons no one but Troy could explain, he decided to reenter her life as she was finishing high school. Perhaps he felt some measure of guilt. Perhaps he was worried about her college education and how she would afford it. Rachel knew she was adopted, but had never expressed an interest in knowing her real parents.
The specifics were unknown, but Troy met Rachel sometime in the summer of 1972. Four years later, she graduated from the University of Montana. Gaps appeared thereafter, huge voids in her history that no investigation had been able to fill.
Nate suspected that only two people could properly document the relationship. One was dead; the other was living like an Indian somewhere out there, on the banks of one of a thousand rivers.
He tried to jog for a block, but quit in pain. Walking was difficult enough. Two cars passed; people were stirring. The roar approached quickly from behind and was upon him before he could react. Jevy slammed on the brakes next to the sidewalk. “
Bom dia
,” he yelled above the engine.
Nate nodded. “
Bom dia
.”
Jevy turned the switch and the engine died. “How do you feel?”
“Sore. And you?”
“No problem. The girl at the desk said you were running. Let’s go for a ride.”
Nate preferred jogging in pain to riding with Jevy, but the traffic was light and the streets were safer.
They drove through downtown, with his chauffeur still thoroughly ignoring all lights and stop signs. Jevy never looked around as they sped through intersections.
“I want you to see the boat,” Jevy said at one point. If he was
sore and stiff from the crash landing, he didn’t show it. Nate only nodded.
There was a boatyard of sorts on the east end of town, at the foot of the bluff, on a small inlet where the water was murky and oil-stained. A sad collection of boats rocked gently in the river—some had been scrapped decades earlier, others were rarely used. Two were obviously cattle boats, with their decks sectioned into muddy wooden pens.
“There it is,” Jevy said as he pointed in the general direction of the river. They parked on the street and walked down the bank. There were several fishing boats, small and low in the water, and their owners were either coming or going. Nate couldn’t tell. Jevy yelled at two of them, and they retorted with something humorous.
“My father was a boat captain,” Jevy explained. “I was here every day.”
“Where is he now?” Nate asked.
“He drowned in a storm.”
Wonderful, thought Nate. The storms get you both in the air and on the water.
A sagging sheet of plywood bridged the dirty water and led to their boat. They stopped at the edge of the bank to admire the vessel, the
Santa Loura.
“How do you like it?” Jevy asked.