"Boa tarde."
She didn't offer to shake hands, nor did she give her name. The next move belonged to them.
"My name is Nate O'Riley. I'm an attorney from Washington."
"And you?" she said to Jevy.
"I'm Jevy Cardozo, from Corumba. I'm his guide."
She looked them up and down with a slight grin. The moment was not at all unpleasant for her. She was enjoying the encounter.
"What brings you here?" she asked. It was American English with no accent, no trace of Louisiana or Montana, just the flat, precise, inflectionless English from Sacramento or St. Louis.
"We heard the fishing was good," Nate said.
No response. "He makes bad jokes," Jevy said, apologizing.
"Sorry. I'm looking for Rachel Lane. I have reason to believe you and she are one and the same."
She absorbed this without changing expressions. "Why do you want to find Rachel Lane?"
"Because I'm a lawyer, and my firm has an important legal matter with Rachel Lane."
"What kind of legal matter?"
"I can tell no one but her."
"I'm not Rachel Lane. I'm sorry."
Jevy sighed and Nate's shoulders slumped. She saw every movement, every reaction, every twitch. "Are you hungry?" she asked them.
They both nodded. She called the Indians and gave them instructions. "Jevy," she said, "go with these men into the village. They will feed you, and give you enough food for Mr. O'Riley here."
They sat on the bench, in the darkening shade, watching in silence as the Indians took Jevy to the village. He turned around once, just to make sure Nate was okay.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SHE DIDN'T SEEM as tall away from the Indians. And she had avoided whatever the women ate that made them thick. Her legs were thin and long. She wore leather sandals, which seemed odd in a culture where no one had shoes. Where did she get them? And where did she get her yellow short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts? Oh, the questions he had.
Her clothing was simple and well worn. If she wasn't Rachel Lane, then surely she knew where Rachel was.
Their knees almost touched. "Rachel Lane ceased to exist many years ago," she said, gazing at the village in the distance. "I kept the name Rachel, but dropped the Lane. It must be serious or you wouldn't be here." She spoke softly and slowly, no syllable missed and each carefully weighed.
"Troy's dead. He killed himself three weeks ago."
She lowered her head slightly, closed her eyes, and appeared to be praying. It was a brief prayer, followed by a long pause. Silence didn't bother her. "Did you know him?" she finally asked.
"I met him once, years ago. Our firm has many lawyers, and I personally never worked on Troy's business. No, I didn't know him."
"Neither did I. He was my earthly father, and I've spent many hours praying for him, but he was always a stranger."
"When did you last see him?" Nate's words too were softer and slower. She had a soothing effect.
"Many years ago. Before I went to college... How much do you know about me?"
"Not much. You don't leave much of a trail."
"Then how did you find me?"
"Troy helped. He tried to find you before he died, but couldn't. He knew you were a missionary with World Tribes, and that you were in this general part of the world. The rest was up to me."
"How could he have known that?"
"He had an awful lot of money."
"And that's why you're here."
"Yes, that's why I'm here. We need to talk business."
"Troy must've left me something in his will."
"You could say that."
"I don't want to talk business. I want to chat. Do you know how often I hear English?"
"Rarely, I would imagine."
"I go to Corumba once a year for supplies. I phone the home office, and for about ten minutes I speak English. It's always frightening."
"Why?"
"I'm nervous. My hands shake as I hold the phone. I know the people I'm talking to, but I'm afraid I will use the wrong words. Sometimes I even stutter. Ten minutes a year."
"You're doing a fine job now."
"I'm very nervous."
"Relax. I'm a swell guy."
"But you've found me. I was seeing a patient just an hour ago when the boys came to tell me that an American was here. I ran to my hut and started praying. God gave me strength."
"I come in peace for all mankind."
"You seem like a nice man."
If you only knew, thought Nate. "Thanks. You, uh, said something about seeing a patient."
"Yes."
"I thought you were a missionary."
"I am. I'm also a doctor."
And Nate's specialty was suing doctors. It was neither the time nor the place for a discussion about medical malpractice. "That's not in my research."
"I changed my name after college, before med school and seminary. That's probably where the trail ended."
"Exactly. Why did you change your name?"
"It's complicated, at least it was then. It doesn't seem important now."
A breeze settled in from the river. It was almost five. The clouds over the forest were dark and low. She saw him glance at his watch. "The boys are bringing your tent here. This is a good place to sleep tonight."
"Thanks, I guess. We'll be safe, won't we?"
"Yes. God will protect you. Say your prayers."
At that moment, Nate planned to pray like a preacher. The proximity to the river was of particular concern. He could shut his eyes and see that anaconda slithering up to his tent.
"You do pray, don't you, Mr. O'Riley?"
"Please call me Nate. Yes, I pray."
"Are you Irish?"
"I'm a mutt. More German than anything else. My father had Irish ancestors. Family history has never interested me."
"What church do you attend?"
"Episcopal." Catholic, Lutheran, Episcopal, it didn't matter. Nate hadn't seen the inside of a church since his second wedding.
His spiritual life was a subject he preferred to avoid. Theology was not his long suit, and he didn't want to discuss it with a missionary. She paused, as usual, and he changed directions. "Are these Indians peaceful?"
"For the most part. The Ipicas are not warriors, but they do not trust white people."
"What about you?"
"I've been here eleven years. They have accepted me."
"How long did it take?"
"I was lucky because there was a missionary couple here before me. They had learned the language and translated the New Testament. And I'm a doctor. I made friends fast when I helped the women through childbirth."
"Your Portuguese sounded pretty good."
"I'm fluent. I speak Spanish, Ipica, and Machiguenga."
"What is that?"
"The Machiguenga are natives in the mountains of Peru. I was there for six years. I had just become comfortable with the language when they evacuated me."
"Why?"
"Guerrillas."
As if snakes and alligators and diseases and floods weren't enough.
"They kidnapped two missionaries in a village not far from me. But God saved them. They were released unharmed four years later."
"Any guerrillas around here?"
"No. This is Brazil. The people are very peaceful. There are some drug runners, but nobody comes this deep into the Pantanal."