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?"
"The fever is gone," he said, rocking in Valdir's easy chair. "I feel fine. A little sore and tired, but I feel good."
"You sound great. I want you home."
"Give me a couple of days."
"I'm sending a jet down, Nate. It will leave tonight."
"No. Don't do that, Josh. That's not a good idea. I'll get there whenever I want."
"Okay. Tell me about the woman, Nate."
"We found her. She is the illegitimate daughter of Troy Phelan, and she has no interest in the money."
"So how did you talk her into taking it?"
"Josh, you don't talk this woman into anything. I tried, got nowhere, so I stopped."
"Come on, Nate. Nobody walks away from this kind of money. Surely you talked some sense into her."
"Not even close, Josh. She is the happiest person I've ever met, perfectly content to spend the rest of her life working among her people. It's where God wants her to be."
"She signed the papers though?"
"Nope."
There was a long pause as Josh absorbed it. "You must be kidding," he finally said, barely audible in Brazil.
"Nope. Sorry, boss. I tried my best to convince her to at least sign the papers, but she wouldn't budge. She'll never sign them."
"Did she read the will?"
"Yes."
"And you told her it was eleven billion dollars?"
"Yep. She lives alone in a hut with a thatched roof, no plumbing, no electricity, simple food and clothes, no phones or faxes, and no concern about the things she's missing. She's in the Stone Age, Josh, right where she wants to be, and money would change that."
"It's incomprehensible,"
"I thought so too, and I was there."
"Is she bright?"
"She's a doctor, Josh, an M.D. And she has a degree from a seminary. She speaks five languages."
"A doctor?"
"Yeah, but we didn't talk about medical practice litigation."
"You said she was lovely."
"I did?"
"Yeah, on the phone two days ago. I think you were stoned."
"I was, and she is."
"So you liked her?"
"We became friends." It would serve no purpose to tell Josh that she was in Corumba. Nate hoped to find her quickly, and, while in civilization, try to discuss Troy's estate.
"It was quite an adventure," Nate said. "To say the least."
"I've lost sleep worrying about you."
"Relax. I'm still in one piece."
"I wired five thousand dollars. Valdir has it."
"Thanks, boss."
"Call me tomorrow."
Valdir invited him to dinner, but he declined. He collected the money and left on foot, loose again on the streets of Coramba. His first stop was a clothing store where he bought underwear, safari shorts, plain white tee shirts, and hiking boots. By the time he hauled his new wardrobe four blocks to the Palace Hotel, Nate was exhausted. He slept for two hours.
JEVY FOUND no trace of Rachel. He watched the crowds on the busy streets. He talked to the river people he knew so well, and heard nothing about her arrival. He walked through the lobbies of the downtown hotels and flirted with the receptionists. No one had seen an American woman of forty-two traveling alone.
As the afternoon wore on, Jevy doubted his friend's story. Dengue makes you see things, makes you hear voices, makes you believe in ghosts, especially in the night. But he kept searching.
Nate roamed too, after his nap and another meal. He walked slowly, pacing himself, trying to keep in the shade and always with a bottle of water in hand. He rested on the bluff above the river, the majesty of the Pantanal spread before him for hundreds of miles.
Fatigue hit him hard, and he limped back to the hotel for another rest. He slept again, and when he awoke Jevy was tapping on the door. They had promised to meet for dinner at seven. It was after eight, and when Jevy entered the room he immediately began looking for empty bottles. There were none.
They ate roasted chicken at a sidewalk cafe. The night was alive with music and foot traffic. Couples with small children bought ice cream and drifted back home. Teenagers moved in packs with no apparent destination.
The bars spilled outdoors, to the edges of the streets. Young men and women moved from one bar to the next. The streets were warm and safe; no one seemed concerned about getting shot or mugged.
At a nearby table, a man drank a cold Brahma beer from a brown bottle, and Nate watched every sip.
After dessert, they said good-bye and promised to meet early for another day of searching. Jevy went one direction, Nate another. He was rested, and tired of beds.
Two blocks away from the river, and the streets were quieter. The shops were closed; the homes were dark; traffic was lighter. Ahead, he saw the lights of a small chapel. That, he said almost aloud, is where she'll be.
The front door was wide open, so from the sidewalk Nate could see rows of wooden pews, the empty pulpit, the mural of Christ on the cross, and the backs of a handful of worshipers leaning forward in prayer and meditation. The organ music was low and soft, and it pulled him in. He stopped in the door and counted five people scattered among the pews, no two sitting together, no one with even the slightest resemblance to Rachel. Under the mural, the organ bench was empty. The music came from a speaker.
He could wait. He had the time; she might appear. He shuffled along the back row and sat alone. He studied the crucifixion, the nails through His hands, the sword in His side, the agony in His face. Did they really kill Him in such a dreadful manner? Along the way, at some point in his miserable secular life, Nate had read or heard the basic stories of Christ: the virgin birth, thus Christmas; the walking on the water; maybe another miracle or two; was he swallowed by the whale or was that someone else? And then the betrayal by Judas; the trial before Pilate; the crucifixion, thus Easter, and, finally, the ascension into heaven.
Yes, Nate knew the basics. Perhaps his mother had told him. Neither of his wives had been churchgoers, though number two was Catholic and they did midnight mass at Christmas every other year.
Three more stragglers came from the street. A young man with a guitar appeared from a side door and went to the pulpit. It was exactly nine-thirty. He strummed a few chords and began singing, his face glowing with words of faith and praise. A tiny little woman one pew up clapped her hands and sang along.
Maybe the music would draw Rachel. She had to crave real worship in a church with wooden floors and stained glass, with fully clothed people reading Bibles in a modern language. Surely she visited the churches when she was in Corumba.
When the song was finished, the young man read some scripture and began teaching. His Portuguese was the slowest Nate had encountered so far in his little adventure. Nate was mesmerized by the soft, slurring sounds, and the unhurried cadence. Though he understood not a word, he tried to repeat the sentences. Then his thoughts drifted.
His body had purged the fevers and chemicals. He was well fed, alert, rested. He was his old self again, and that suddenly depressed him. The present was back, hand in hand with the future. The burdens he'd left with Rachel had found him again, found him then and there in the chapel. He needed her to sit with him, to hold his hand and help him pray.
He hated his weaknesses. He named them one by one, and was saddened by the list. The demons were waiting at home-the good friends and the bad friends, the haunts and habits, the pressures he couldn't stand anymore. Life could not be lived with the likes of Sergio at a thousand bucks a day. And life could not be lived free on the streets.