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 die gauze and placed it over his eyes, and he taped it just like before, only tighter this time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
SNEAD 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 tided 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, etcetera, 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."
"Hello, Nate," Welly said. He was hovering on the other side. The nurse left them.
"Hello, Welly," Nate said, his words deep, slow, thick. He was groggy, but happy. How well he knew the feeling of being stoned.
Jevy patted his forehead and announced, "The fever is gone too." The Brazilians smiled at each other, relieved that they had not killed the American during their excursion into the Pantanal.
"What happened to you?" Nate asked Welly, trying to clip his words and not sound like a drunk. Jevy passed along the question in Portuguese. Welly was instantly animated, and began his long narrative about the storm and the sinking of the Santa Loura. Jevy stopped him every thirty seconds for the translation. Nate listened while trying to keep his eyes open, but he floated in and out of the scene.