Джон Гришэм: The Testament

“You don’t have to yell, Josh. I can hear you.”

“Sorry. Tell me she signed it.”

“She signed a trust, but not ours. She’s dead, Josh.”

“No!”

“Yes. She died two weeks ago. Malaria. She left a holographic will, just like her father.”

“Do you have it!?”

“Yes. It’s safe. Everything goes into a trust. I’m the trustee and executor.”

“Is it valid?”

“I think so. It’s written entirely in her hand, signed, dated, witnessed by a lawyer in Corumbá and his secretary.”

“Sounds valid to me.”

“What happens now?” Nate asked. He could see Josh standing behind his desk, eyes closed in concentration, one hand holding the phone, the other patting his hair. He could almost hear him plotting over the phone.

“Nothing happens. His will is valid. Its bequests are carried out.”

“But she’s dead.”

“His estate is transferred to hers. Happens all the time in car wrecks when one spouse dies one day, then the other dies the next. The bequests go from estate to estate.”

“What about the other heirs?”

“The settlement stands. They get their money, or what’s left of it after the lawyers take their cuts. The heirs are the happiest people on the face of the earth, with the possible exception of their lawyers. There’s nothing for them to attack. You have two valid wills. Looks like you’ve just become a career trustee.”

“I have broad discretionary powers.”

“You have a lot more than that. Read it to me.”

Nate found it deep in his satchel, and read it, very slowly, word for word.

“Hurry home,” Josh said.

Jevy absorbed every word too, though he appeared to be watching the river. When Nate hung up and put the phone away, Jevy asked, “The money is yours?”

“No. The money goes into a trust.”

“What is a trust?”

“Think of it as a big bank account. It sits in the bank, protected, earning interest. The trustee decides where the interest goes.”

Jevy still wasn’t convinced. He had many questions, and Nate sensed his confusion. It was not the time for a primer on the Anglo version of wills, estates, and trusts.

“Let’s go,” Nate said.

The motor started again, and they flew across the water, roaring around curves, a wide wake spraying behind them.

They found the chalana late in the afternoon. Welly was fishing. The pilots were playing cards on the back of the boat. Nate called Josh again, and told him to retrieve the jet from Corumbá. He wouldn’t be needing it. He would take his time coming home.

Josh objected, but that was all he could do. The Phelan mess had been settled. There was no real rush.

Nate told the pilots to contact Valdir when they returned, then sent them on their way.

The crew of the chalana watched the chopper disappear like an insect, then cast off. Jevy was at the wheel. Welly sat below, at the front of the boat, his feet dangling inches above the water. Nate found a bunk and tried to nap. But the diesel was next door. Its steady knock prevented sleep.

The vessel was a third the size of the Santa Loura , even the bunks were shorter. Nate lay on his side and watched the riverbanks go by.

Somehow she’d known he wasn’t a drunk anymore, that his addictions were gone, that the demons who’d controlled his life had been forever locked away. She had seen something good in him. Somehow she knew he was searching. She’d found his calling for him. God told her.

Jevy woke him after dark. “We have a moon,” he said. They sat on the front of the boat, Welly at the wheel just behind them, following the light of a full moon as the Xeco snaked its way toward the Paraguay.

“The boat is slow,” Jevy said. “Two days to Corumbá.”

Nate smiled. He didn’t care if it took a month.

The Pantanal region of Brazil, in the states of Mato Grosso and Mato Grosso do Sul, is a land of great natural beauty and a fascinating place to visit. I hope I haven’t portrayed it as one big swamp, fraught with danger. It is not. It’s an ecological gem that attracts many tourists, most of whom survive. I’ve been there twice, and look forward to going back.

Carl King, my friend and a Baptist missionary in Campo Grande, took me deep into the Pantanal. I’m not sure how much of his information was accurate, but we had a wonderful time for four days counting alligators, photographing wildlife, looking for anacondas, eating black beans and rice, telling stories, all from a boat that somehow grew smaller. Many thanks to Carl for the adventure.

Thanks also to Rick Carter, Gene McDade, Penny Pynkala, Jonathan Hamilton, Fernando Catta-Preta, Bruce Sanford, Marc Smirnoff, and Estelle Laurence. And thanks, as always, to David Gernert for poring over the manuscript and making the book better.