He watched Phil drive away, then reboarded the plane. In nine hours he would be in Corumba.
The trust agreement was deliberately thin, in as few words as possible, and with words as short and as plain as the drafters of such impossible instruments could invent. Josh had made them rewrite it numerous times. If Rachel had the slightest inclination to sign it, then it was imperative she be able to grasp its meaning: Nate would be there to do the explaining, but he knew she had little patience with such matters.
The assets she received under her father's last will and testament would be placed in a trust, named the Rachel Trust, for lack of anything mote creative. The principal would remain intact for ten years, with only the interest and earnings available for charitable giving. After ten years, 5 percent of the principal per year, in addition to the interest and earnings, could be spent at the discretion of the trustees. The annual disbursements were to be used for a variety of charitable purposes, with emphasis on the mission work of World Tribes. But the language was so loose that the trustees could use the money for almost any benevolent cause. The original trustee was Neva Collier, at World Tribes, and she had the authority to appoint up to a dozen other trustees to help with the work. The trustees would govern themselves and report to Rachel, if she wanted.
If Rachel so desired, she would never see or touch the money. The trust would be set up with the assistance of attorneys chosen by World Tribes.
It was such a simple solution.
It would take only a signature, one quick Rachel Lane or whatever her last name was. One signature on the trust, one on the settlement agreement, and the Phelan estate could be closed in due course with no more fireworks. Nate could move on, face his troubles, take his medicine, and begin rebuilding his life. He was anxious to get started.
If she refused to sign the trust and the settlement, then Nate needed her signature on a document of renunciation. She could decline the gift, but she had to notify the court.
A renunciation would render Troy's testament worthless. It would be valid, but not operable. The assets would have no place to go, so the effect would be the same as if he'd died with no will. The law would divide the estate into six shares, one for each of his heirs.
How would she react? He wanted to think she would be delighted to see him, but he wasn't convinced of that. He remembered her waving to his boat as he left, just before the dengue hit. She was standing among her people, waving him away, saying good-bye forever. She did not want to be bothered with the things of the world.
Chapter Fifty-One
VALDIR WAS WAITING at the Corumba airport when he Gulfstream taxied to the small terminal. It was 1 A.M.; the airport was deserted, only a handful of small planes were at the far end of the tarmac. Nate glanced at them, and wondered if Milton's had ever returned from the Pantanal.
They greeted each other like old friends. Valdir was impressed with how healthy Nate looked. When they last saw each other, Nate was reeling from dengue fever and looked like a skeleton.
They drove away in Valdir's Fiat, windows down, the warm muggy air blowing in Nate's face. The pilots would follow in a taxi. The dusty streets were empty. No one moved about. Downtown, they stopped in front of the Palace Hotel. Valdir handed him a key. "Room two-twelve," he said. "I'll see you at six."
Nate slept four hours, and was waiting on the sidewalk when the morning sun peeked between the buildings. The sky was clear, and that was one of the first things he took note of. The rainy season had ended a month earlier. Cooler weather was approaching, though in Corumba the daytime high seldom dipped below seventy-five degrees.
In his heavy satchel he had the paperwork, a camera, a new SatFone, a new cell phone, a pager, a quart of the strongest insect repellent known to modern chemistry, a small gift for Rachel, and two changes of clothes. All limbs were covered; thick khakis over the legs, long sleeves over the arms. He might get uncomfortable and sweat a little, but no insect would penetrate his armor.
At 6 A.M. sharp Valdir arrived, and they sped away to the airport. The town was slowly coming to life.
Valdir had rented the helicopter from a company in Campo Grande for a thousand dollars an hour. It could hold four passengers, came with two pilots, and had a range of three hundred miles.
Valdir and the pilots had studied Jevy's maps of the Xeco River and the tributaries that filled it. With the floods down, the Pantanal was much easier to navigate, both on water and from the air. Rivers were in their banks. Lakes were back within their shores. Fazendas were above water and could be found on aerial maps.
As Nate loaded his satchel into the helicopter, he tried not to think of his last flight over the Pantanal. Odds were in his favor. No way he would crash on successive flights.
Valdir preferred to stay behind, close to a phone. He did not enjoy flying, especially in a helicopter, especially over the Pantanal. The sky was calm and cloudless when they lifted off. Nate wore a seat belt, shoulder harness, and helmet. They followed the Paraguay out of Corumba. Fishermen waved at them. Small boys knee - deep in river water stopped and stared upward. They flew over a chalana loaded with bananas, headed north, in their direction. Then another rickety chalana headed south.
Nate adjusted to the racket and vibration of the aircraft. He listened with his earphones as the pilots chatted back and forth in Portuguese. He remembered the Santa Loura, and his hangover the last time he'd left Corumba headed north.
They climbed to two thousand feet and leveled off. Thirty minutes into the flight, Nate saw Fernando's trading post at the edge of the river.
He was amazed at the difference in the Pantanal from one season to the next. It was still an endless variety of swamps, lagoons, and rivers spinning wildly in all directions, but it was much greener now that the floods had receded.
They stayed above the Paraguay. The skies remained clear and blue under Nate's watchful eyes. He recalled the crash in Milton's plane on Christmas Eve. The storm had boiled over the mountains in an instant.
Dropping to a thousand feet as they circled, the pilots began pointing as if they'd found their target. Nate heard the word Xeco, and saw a tributary enter the Paraguay. He, of course, remembered nothing about the Xeco River. During his first encounter with it, he'd been curled under a tent at the bottom of the boat, wanting to die. They turned west and left the main river, twisting with the Xeco, heading for the mountains of Bolivia. The pilots became more occupied with things below. They were searching for a blue and yellow chalana.
On the ground, Jevy heard the distant thumping of the chopper. He quickly lit an orange flare and sent it flying. Welly did the same. The flares burned bright and left a trail of blue and silver smoke. Within minutes, the chopper came into view. It circled slowly.
Jevy and Welly had used machetes to cut a clearing in a patch of dense shrub, fifty yards from the edge of the river. The ground had been under water just a month earlier. The chopper rocked and swayed and slowly lowered itself to the ground.
After the blades stopped, Nate jumped out and hugged his old pals. He hadn't seen them in more than two months, and the fact that he was even there was a surprise to all three.
Time was precious. Nate feared storms, darkness, floods, and mosquitoes, and he wanted to move as quickly as possible. They walked to the chalana at the river. Next to it was a long, clean johnboat, which appeared to be waiting for its maiden voyage. Attached to it was a brand-new outboard, all compliments of the Phelan estate. Nate and Jevy quickly loaded themselves into it, said good-bye to Welly and the pilots, and sped off.