The Testament (34 page)

She once had a wooden boat with an old motor. It had belonged to the Coopers, her predecessors. When there was gasoline, she used it on the rivers between the four Ipica settlements. And it would take her to Corumbá in two very long days, four on the return.

The motor had finally quit, and there was no money for a new one. Each year when she submitted her modest budget to World Tribes, she prayerfully requested a new outboard, or at least a good used one. She had found one in Corumbá for three hundred dollars. But budgets were tight around the world. Her allotments went for medical supplies and Bible literature. Keep praying, she was told. Maybe next year.

She accepted this without question. If the Lord meant for her to have a new outboard, then she would have one. The questions of if and when were left for Him. They were not for her to worry about.

Without a boat, she traveled between the villages on foot, almost always with Lako limping at her side. And once each August
she convinced the chief to loan her a canoe and a guide for the journey to the Paraguay. There, she would wait for a cattle boat or a
chalana
headed south. Two years before, she had waited for three days, sleeping in the stable of a small
fazenda
on the river. In three days she went from a stranger to a friend to a missionary as the farmer and his wife became Christians under her teachings and prayer.

She would stay with them tomorrow, and wait for a boat to Corumbá.

The wind howled through the lean-to. She held Lako’s hand and they prayed, not for their safety, but for the health of their friend Nate.

________

BREAKFAST WAS served to Mr. Stafford at his desk—cereal and fruit. He refused to leave the office, and when he declared that he would in fact hole up there all day, both of his secretaries scurried to rearrange no less than six meetings. A bagel at ten, at the desk. He called Valdir and was told that he was out of the office, in a meeting somewhere across town. Valdir had a cell phone. Why hadn’t he called?

An associate delivered a two-page summary of dengue, taken from the Internet. The associate said he was needed in court, and asked if Mr. Stafford had any more medical work for him. Mr. Stafford did not see the humor.

Josh read the summary with his bagel. It was in all caps, double-spaced with one-inch margins, about a page and a half long. A Stafford Memo. Dengue fever is a viral infection common throughout the tropical regions of the world. It is spread by a mosquito known as the Aedes, which prefers to bite during the day. The first sign is tiredness, followed quickly by a severe headache behind the eyes, then a mild fever that soon turns into an intense one with sweating and nausea and vomiting. As the fever rises, the muscles in the calves and back begin to ache. The
fever is also known as “breakbone fever” because of the brutal muscle and joint pains. A rash appears after all other symptoms are present. The fever may break for a day or so, but it usually returns with increased intensity. After about a week, the infection wanes and the danger is gone. There is no cure and no vaccine. It takes a month of rest and liquids to return to normal.

And that’s a mild case. Dengue can progress into dengue hemorrhagic fever or dengue shock syndrome, both of which are sometimes fatal, especially in children.

Josh was prepared to send Mr. Phelan’s jet to Corumbá to collect Nate. On board would be a doctor and a nurse, and anything else that might be needed.

“It’s Mr. Valdir,” a secretary said through the intercom. No other calls were being taken.

He was at the hospital. “I’ve just checked on Mr. O’Riley,” he said slowly, precisely. “He is okay. But he is not very conscious.”

“Can he talk?” Josh asked.

“No. Not now. They are giving him drugs for his pain.”

“Does he have a good doctor?”

“The best. A friend of mine. The doctor’s with him now.”

“Ask him when Mr. O’Riley will be able to fly home. I will send a private jet and a doctor to Corumbá.”

There was a conversation in the background. “Not soon,” Valdir reported. “He will need rest when he leaves the hospital.”

“When will he leave the hospital?”

Another conversation. “He can’t say right now.”

Josh shook his head and flung the remnants of his bagel into the wastebasket. “Did you say anything to Mr. O’Riley?” he growled at Valdir.

“No. I think he’s asleep.”

“Listen, Mr. Valdir, it is very important that I talk to him as soon as possible, okay?”

“I understand this. But you must be patient.”

“I’m not a patient man.”

“I understand this. But you must try.”

“Call me this afternoon.”

Josh slammed the phone down and began pacing. It had been an unwise decision to send Nate, fragile and unstable as he was, into the dangers of the tropics. Convenience had been the reason. Send him away for a couple of weeks more, keep him busy elsewhere while the firm sorts out his mess. There were four lesser partners in his firm besides Nate, four Josh had handpicked and hired and mentored and listened to on some matters of management. Tip was one, and he was the sole voice of support for Nate. The other three wanted him gone.

Nate’s secretary had been reassigned. A rising associate had been borrowing his office lately, and was said to have found a home.

If dengue fever didn’t get poor Nate, the IRS was waiting.

________

THE IV bag emptied silently around the middle of the day, though no one bothered to check it. Several hours later Nate woke up. His head was light, and at peace, with no fever. He was stiff but not sweating. He felt the heavy gauze over his eyes, felt the tape holding it there, and after some thought decided to have a look. His left arm held the IV, so he began picking at the tape with the fingers of his right hand. He was aware of voices in another room, and steps on a hard floor. People were busy down the hall. Closer, someone was moaning in a low, steady, painful voice.

He slowly worked the tape from his skin and hair, and cursed the person who’d stuck it there. He laid the bandage to one side; it hung over his left ear. His first image was peeling paint, a dull shade of faded yellow on the wall just above him. The lights were off, rays of sun drifted in from a window. The paint on the ceiling was cracked too, large black gaps shrouded with cobwebs
and dust. A rickety fan dropped from the center and wobbled as it spun.

Two feet caught his attention, two old, gnarled, scarred feet layered with wounds and calluses from toes to soles, sticking in the air, and when he lifted his head slightly he saw that they belonged to a shriveled little man whose bed almost touched his. He appeared dead.

The moaning came from the wall near the window. This poor guy was just as small and just as shriveled. He sat in the middle of his bed, arms and legs folded and tucked into a ball, and suffered his affliction in a trance.

The smell was of old urine, human waste, and heavy antiseptic all mixed into one thick odor. Nurses laughed down the hall. The paint was peeling on every wall. There were five beds besides Nate’s, all of the rollaway variety, parked here and there with little effort at order.

His third roommate was by the door. He was naked except for a wet diaper, and his body was covered with open red sores. He too appeared dead, and Nate certainly hoped he was. For his own good.

There were no buttons to push, no emergency cord or intercom, no way to summon help except for yelling, and this might wake the dead. These creatures might arise and want to visit with him.

He wanted to run, to swing his feet off the bed, onto the floor, rip the IV from his arm, and sprint for freedom. He would take his chances on the street. Surely there couldn’t be as much disease out there. Any place was better than this leper’s ward.

But his feet were like bricks. Nate tried mightily to lift them, one at a time, but they barely moved.

Nate sunk his head to his pillow, closed his eyes, and thought about crying. I am in a hospital in a third world country, he said over and over. I left Walnut Hill, a thousand bucks a day,
pushbutton everything, carpet, showers, therapists at my beck and call.

The man with the sores grunted, and Nate sank even lower. Then he carefully took the gauze and placed it over his eyes, and he taped it just like before, only tighter this time.

THIRTY-FIVE
_____________

S
nead arrived for the meeting with a contract of his own, one he had prepared without the aid of a lawyer. Hark read it, and had to admit that it was not a bad job of drafting. It was titled Contract for Expert Witness Services. Experts give opinions. Snead would deal primarily with the facts, but Hark didn’t care what the contract said. He signed it, and handed over a certified check for half a million. Snead took it delicately, examined every word, then folded it and tucked it away in his coat pocket. “Now where do we start?” he said with a smile.

There was so much to cover. The other Phelan lawyers wanted to be present. Hark had time only for a primer. “In general terms,” he said, “what was the old man’s frame of mind the morning he died?”

Snead squirmed and twisted and frowned as if in deep thought. He really wanted to say the right things. He felt as though he had four-point-five million riding on him now. “He
was out of his mind,” he said, the words hanging in the air while he waited for approval.

Hark nodded. So far so good. “Was this unusual?”

“No. In his last days he was hardly rational.”

“How much time did you spend with him?”

“Off and on, twenty-four hours a day.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“My room was down the hall, but he had a buzzer for me. I was on call around the clock. He would sometimes get up in the middle of the night and want juice or a pill. He simply pushed a button, the buzzer rang me, and I fetched whatever he wanted.”

“Who else lived with him?”

“No one.”

“Who else did he spend time with?”

“Perhaps young Nicolette, the secretary. He fancied her.”

“Did he have sex with her?”

“Would it help our case?”

“Yes.”

“Then they were screwing like rabbits.”

Hark couldn’t help but smile. The allegation that Troy was chasing his last secretary would surprise no one.

It hadn’t taken long for them to find the same sheet to sing from. “Look, Mr. Snead, this is what we want. We need the quirks, the little oddities, the glaring lapses, the strange things he said and did that when taken as a whole will convince anyone he was not of sound mind. You have time. Sit down and begin writing. Put the pieces together. Have a chat with Nicolette, make sure they were having sex, listen to what she says.”

“She’ll say anything we need.”

“Good. Then rehearse, and make sure there are no gaps that other lawyers can find. Your stories must hold together.”

“There’s no one to contradict them.”

“No one? No limo driver or maid or ex-lover or maybe another secretary?”

“He had all those, sure. But no one lived on the fourteenth floor but Mr. Phelan and myself. He was a very lonely man. And quite crazy.”

“Then how did he perform so well for the three psychiatrists?”

Snead thought about this for a moment. Fiction failed him. “What would you guess?” he asked.

“I would guess that Mr. Phelan knew the examination would be difficult because he knew he was slipping, and so he asked you to prepare lists of anticipated questions, and that you and Mr. Phelan spent that morning reviewing such simple matters as the day’s date, he couldn’t keep it straight, and the names of children, names he’d virtually forgotten, where they went to college, whom they were married to, et cetera, then you covered questions about his health. I would guess that after you had drilled him on these basics, you spent at least two hours prompting him on his holdings, the structure of The Phelan Group, the companies he owned, the acquisitions he’d made, the closing prices of certain stocks. He relied on you more and more for financial news, and so this came easy for you. It was tedious for the old man, but you were determined to keep him sharp just before you wheeled him in for the exam. Does this sound familiar?”

Snead liked it immensely. He was awed by the lawyer’s gift of creating lies on the spot. “Yes, yes, that’s it! That’s how Mr. Phelan snowed the psychiatrists.”

“Then work on it, Mr. Snead. The more you work on your stories, the better witness you’ll be. The lawyers on the other side will come after you. They will attack your testimony and call you a liar, so you must be ready. Write everything down, so you’ll always have a record of your stories.”

“I like that idea.”

“Dates, times, places, incidents, oddities. Everything, Mr. Snead. Same for Nicolette. Make her write it down.”

“She doesn’t write well.”

“Help her. It’s up to you, Mr. Snead. You want the rest of the money, then earn it.”

“How much time do I have?”

“We, the other lawyers and myself, would like to video you in a few days. We’ll hear your stories, pepper you with questions, then watch your performance. I’m sure we’ll want to change some things. We’ll coach you along, maybe do more videos. When things are perfect, then you’ll be ready for your deposition.”

Snead left in a hurry. He wanted to put the money in the bank, and buy a new car. Nicolette needed one too.

________

A NIGHT orderly on his rounds noticed the empty bag. The handprinted instructions on the back of it said that the fluids should not be interrupted. He took it to the pharmacy, where a part-time student nurse remixed the chemicals and gave the bag back to the orderly. There were rumors around the hospital about the rich American patient.

In his sleep, Nate was refortified with drugs he didn’t need.

When Jevy found him before breakfast, he was half-awake, eyes still covered because he preferred the darkness. “Welly’s here,” Jevy whispered.

The nurse on duty helped Jevy roll the bed from the room, down the hall, and into a small courtyard where there was sunshine. The nurse turned a crank and half the bed inclined. She removed the gauze and tape, and Nate never flinched. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus. Jevy, just inches away, said, “The swelling is down.”