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 changing."
He followed the moon to the Paraguay.
Chapter 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 Corumba. 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 Corumba 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, Corumba 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 Corumba 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 Corumba 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 Corumba?"
"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."