The other heirs would quickly follow suit. Josh had spoken with most of their lawyers, and the scramble for the courthouse was in process.
"Every discredited shrink in the country wants a piece of this," Josh said. "There will be lots of opinions."
"Does the suicide worry you?"
"Sure it does. But he planned everything so carefully, even his death. He knew precisely how and when he wanted to die."
"What about the other will? The thick one he signed first."
"He didn't sign it."
"But I saw him. It's on the video."
"No. He scrawled the name Mickey Mouse."
Wycliff was taking notes on a legal pad, and his hand stopped in mid-sentence. "Mickey Mouse?" he repeated.
"Here's where we are, Judge. From 1982 until 1996, I prepared eleven wills for Mr. Phelan. Some were thick, others were thin, and they disposed of his fortune in more ways than you can imagine. The law says that with each new will, the old one has to be destroyed. So I would bring the new will to his office, we'd spend two hours nitpicking our way through it, then he'd sign it. I kept the wills in my office, and I always brought the last one along. Once he signed the new one, we-Mr. Phelan and I-would feed the old one through a shredder he kept near his desk. It was a ceremony that he enjoyed immensely. He'd be happy for a few months, then one of his kids would make him mad, and he'd start talking about changing his will.
"If the heirs can prove that he lacked sufficient mental capacity when he executed the handwritten will, then there is no other will. They were all destroyed."
"In which case he died without a will," Wycliff added.
"Yes, and, as you well know, under Virginia law his estate is then divided among his children."
"Seven children. Eleven billion dollars."
"Seven that we know about. Eleven billion seems to be fairly accurate. Wouldn't you attack the will?"
A big nasty will contest was exactly what Wycliff wanted. And he knew that the lawyers, including Josh Stafford, would get even richer from the war.
But the battle needed two sides, and so far only one had surfaced. Someone had to defend Mr. Phelan's last testament.
"Any word from Rachel Lane?" he asked.
"No, but we're looking."
"Where is she?"
"We think she's a missionary somewhere in South America. But we haven't found her. We have people down there." Josh realized he was using the word "people" quite loosely.
Wycliff was gazing at the ceiling, deep in thought. ""Why would he give eleven billion to an illegitimate daughter who is a missionary?"
"I can't answer that, Judge. He surprised me so many times that I became jaded."
"Sounds a little crazy, doesn't it?"
"It's strange."
"Did you know about her?"
"No."
"Could there be other heirs?"
"Anything is possible."
"Do you think he was unbalanced?"
"No. Weird, eccentric, whimsical, mean as hell. But he knew what he was doing."
"Find the girl, Josh."
"We're trying."
THE MEETING involved only the chief and Rachel. From where Nate sat, on the porch under his hammock, he could see their faces and hear their voices. The chief was bothered by something in the clouds. He would talk, then listen to Rachel, then raise his eyes slowly upward as if anticipating death from the skies. It was obvious to Nate that the chief not only listened to Rachel but also sought her advice.
Around them, the morning meal was winding down as the Ipicas prepared for another day. The hunters gathered in small groups at the men's house to sharpen their arrows and string their bows. The fishermen laid out their nets and lines. The young women began the daylong task of keeping the dirt properly swept around their huts. Their mothers were leaving for the gardens and fields near the forest.
"He thinks it's going to storm," Rachel explained when the meeting was over. "He says you can go, but he will not send a guide. It's too dangerous."
"Can we make it without a guide?" Nate asked.
"Yes," Jevy said, and Nate shot him a look that conveyed many thoughts.
"It would not be wise," she said. "The rivers run together. It's easy to get lost. Even the Ipicas have lost fishermen during the rainy season."
"When might the storm be over?" Nate asked.
"We'll have to wait and see."
Nate breathed deeply as his shoulders sagged. He was sore and tired, covered with mosquito bites, hungry, sick of his little adventure, and worried that Josh was worried. His mission so far had been a failure. He wasn't homesick because there was nothing at home. But he wanted to see Coramba again, with its cozy little cafes and nice hotels and lazy streets. He wanted another opportunity to be alone, clean and sober and unafraid of drinking himself to death.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I really need to get back. There are people at the office waiting to hear from me. This has already taken much longer than expected."
She listened but she really didn't care. A few worried people in a law office in D.C. didn't concern her that much.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
"I have to go the next village for the funeral of the little girl. Why don't you go with me? We will have plenty of time to talk."
Lako led the way, his right foot twisted in, so that with each step he dipped to the left, then jerked himself to the right. It was painful to watch. Rachel followed him, then Nate, laden with a cloth bag she'd brought. Jevy stayed well behind them, afraid he might overhear their conversation.
Beyond the oval ring of huts, they passed small square patches of farmland, now abandoned and overrun with scrub brush. "The Ipicas grow their food on small plots which they carve out of the jungle," she explained. Nate was close behind her, trying to keep up. She took long strides with her wiry legs. A two-mile hike through the woods was child's play. "They are hard on the soil, and after a few years it stops producing. They abandon it, nature reclaims it, and they dig farther into the jungle. In the long run, the soil returns to normal and no harm is done. Land means everything to the Indians. It is their life. Most of it has been taken away by the civilized folks."
"Sounds familiar."
"Yes, it does. We decimate their population with bloodshed and disease, and take away their land. Then we put them on reservations and can't understand why they're not happy about it."
She said hello to two naked little ladies tilling soil near the trail. "The women get the hard work," Nate observed.
"Yes. But the work is easy compared to childbirth."
"I'd rather watch them work."
The air was humid, but free of the smoke that hung eternally over the village. When they entered the woods, Nate was already sweating.
"So tell me about yourself, Nate," she said over her shoulder, "Where-were you born?"
"This could take a while."
"Just hit the high points."
"There are more low ones."
"Come on, Nate. You wanted to talk, let's talk. The hike takes half an hour."
"I was born in Baltimore, oldest of two sons, parents divorced when I was fifteen, high school at St. Paul, college at Hopkins, law school at Georgetown, then I never left B.C."
"Was it a happy childhood?"
"I suppose. Lots of sports. My father worked for National Brewery for thirty years, and he always had tickets to the Colts and Orioles. Baltimore is a great city. Are we going to talk about your childhood?"