NINETEEN.

THERE WERE three fights in the hallway after adjournment. Fortunately, none involved Phelans fighting Phelans. Those would come later.

A mob of reporters waited outside the courtroom doors as the Phelans were consoled inside by their lawyers. Troy Junior was the first to exit, and he was immediately surrounded by a pack of wolves, several with microphones in the attack position. He was hungover to begin with, and now that he was half a billion dollars poorer he was in no mood to talk about his father.

“Are you surprised?” some idiot asked, from behind a microphone.

“Damned right,” he said, trying to walk through the group.

“Who is Rachel Lane?” asked another.

“I guess she's my sister,” he snapped.

A skinny little boy with stupid eyes and a bad complexion stopped directly in front of him, thrust a tape recorder in his face, and asked, “How many illegitimate children did your father have?”

Troy Junior instinctively shoved the tape recorder back at him. It landed sharply just above his nose, and as he fell back Troy Junior launched a wild left hook that popped him in the ear and knocked him down. In the commotion, a deputy pushed Troy Junior in another direction and they made a quick escape.

Ramble spit on another reporter, who had to be restrained by a colleague who reminded him the kid was underage.

The third skirmish happened when Libbigail and Spike lumbered out of the courtroom behind Wally Bright. “No comment!” Bright yelled at the horde closing ranks around them. “No comment! Please get out of the way!”

Libbigail, who was crying, tripped over a TV cable and tumbled into a reporter, who also fell. There were shouts and curses, and as the reporter was on all fours and getting to his feet, Spike kicked him in the ribs. He squealed and fell flat again, and as he was thrashing about trying to get up, his foot caught the edge of Libbigail's dress, and she slapped him for good measure. Spike was about to slaughter him when a deputy intervened.

Deputies broke up each fight, always siding with the Phelans over the reporters. They helped rush the beleaguered heirs and their lawyers down the stairs, through the lobby, and out of the building.

Lawyer Grit, who represented Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, was overcome by the sight of so many reporters. The First Amendment seized him, or at least his own rudimentary understanding of it, and he felt compelled to speak freely. With his arm around his distraught client, he grimly offered their reaction to the surprise will. It was obviously the work of a demented man. How else could you explain the passing of such a great fortune to an unknown heir? His client adored her father, loved him deeply, worshiped him, and as Grit babbled on and on about the incredible love between father and daughter, Mary Ross finally took the hint and began crying. Grit himself appeared on the verge of tears. Yes, they would fight. They would battle this grave injustice to the U.S. Supreme Court. Why? Because this was not the work of the Troy Phelan they knew. Bless his heart. He loved his children, and they loved him. Theirs was an incredible bond, forged through tragedy and hardship. They would fight because their beloved father was not himself when he scribbled this ghastly document.

Josh Stafford was in no hurry to leave. He spoke quietly to Hark Gettys and some of the attorneys from the other tables. He promised to send them copies of the hideous will. Things were initially cordial but hostilities were growing by the minute. A reporter he knew from the Post was waiting in the hall, and Josh spent ten minutes with him while saying nothing. Of particular interest was Rachel Lane; her history and whereabouts. There were lots of questions, but Josh had no answers.

Surely Nate would find her before anyone else.

THE STORY GREW. It shot from the courthouse on the waves of the latest telecommunications gadgets and hi-tech hardware. The reporters scrambled with cell phones and laptops and pagers, talking without thinking. The major wires began running the news twenty minutes after adjournment, and an hour later the first round-the-clock news-gab-a-thon broke into its running series of. repetitive stories to go live to a reporter in front of a camera outside the courthouse. “Stunning news here…” she began and then told the story, getting most of it right.

Seated in the rear of the courtroom was Pat Solomon, the last person selected by Troy to run The Phelan Group. He'd been CEO for six years, six very uneventful and very profitable years.

He left the courthouse without being recognized by any reporter. As he rode away, in the back of his limo, Solomon attempted to analyze Troy's last bombshell. He was not shocked by it. After working for Troy for twenty years nothing surprised him. The reaction of his idiot children and their lawyers was comforting. Solomon had once been assigned the impossible task of finding within the company a job that Troy Junior could perform without causing a dip in quarterly profits. It had been a nightmare. Spoiled, immature, badly educated, and lacking basic management skills, Troy Junior had run roughshod through an entire division in Minerals before Solomon was given the green light from above to sack him.

A few years later, a similar episode involved Rex and his pursuit of his father's approval and money. In the end, Rex had gone to Troy in an effort to remove Solomon.

The wives and other children had butted in for years, but Troy had held fast. His private life was a fiasco, but nothing hampered his beloved company.

Solomon and Troy had never been close. In fact, no one, perhaps with the exception of Josh Stafford, had ever managed to become a confidant. The parade of blondes had shared the obvious intimacies, but Troy had no friends. And as he withdrew and declined both physically and mentally, those who ran the company sometimes whispered about its ownership. Surely Troy would not leave it to his children.

He hadn't, at least not the usual suspects.

The board was waiting, on the fourteenth floor, in the same conference room where Troy had produced his testament, then taken flight. Solomon described the scene in the courtroom, and his colorful narrative became humorous. Thoughts of the heirs gaining control had caused great discomfort among the board. Troy Junior had let it be known that he and his siblings had the votes to seize a majority, and that he planned to clean house and show some real profits.

They wanted to know about Janie, wife number two. She'd worked for the company as a secretary until her promotion to mistress, then to wife, and after reaching the top she had been particularly abusive to many of the employees. Troy banned her from the corporate headquarters.

“When she left she was crying,” Solomon said happily.

“And Rex?” asked a director, the chief financial officer who had once been fired by Rex in an elevator.

“Not a happy boy. He's under investigation, you know.”

They talked about most of the children and all of the wives, and the meeting grew festive.

“I counted twenty-two lawyers,” Solomon said with a smile. “Talk about a sad bunch.”

Since it was an informal board meeting, Josh's absence was of no consequence. The head of Legal declared the will to be a stroke of great luck after all. They had to worry about only one unknown heir, as opposed to six idiots.

“Any idea where this woman is?”

“None,” answered Solomon. “Maybe Josh knows.”

BY LATE AFTERNOON, Josh had been forced from his office and had retreated to a small library in the basement of his building. His secretary stopped counting phone messages at a hundred and twenty. The lobby off the main entrance had been crammed with reporters since late morning. He'd left behind strict instructions with his secretaries that no one should disturb him for an hour. So the knock on the door was especially aggravating.

“Who is it?” he shot at the door.

“It's an emergency, sir,” answered a secretary.

“Come in.”

Her head entered just far enough to look him in the face and say, “It's Mr. O'Riley.” Josh stopped rubbing his temples and actually smiled. He glanced around the room and remembered there were no phones. She took two steps and placed a portable on the table, then disappeared.

“Nate,” he said into the receiver.

“That you, Josh?” came the reply. The volume was fine but the words were a little scratchy. The reception was better than most car phones.

“Yes, can you hear me, Nate?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm on the satellite, on the back of my little yacht, floating down the Paraguay River. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, fine. Are you okay, Nate?”

“I'm wonderful, having a ball, just a little boat trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, the propeller snagged a line of old rope, and the engine choked down. My crew is attempting to unravel it. I'm supervising.”

“You sound great.”

“It's an adventure, right, Josh?”

“Of course. Any sign of the girl?”

“Not a chance. We're a couple of days away at best, and now we're floating backward. I'm not sure we'll ever get there.”

“You have to, Nate. We read the will this morning in open court. The whole world will soon be looking for Rachel Lane.”

“I wouldn't worry about that. She's safe.”

“I wish I were with you.”

The edge of a cloud nipped the signal. “What did you say?” Nate asked, louder.

“Nothing. So you'll see her in a couple of days, huh.”

“If we're lucky. The boat runs around the clock, but we're going upriver, and it's the rainy season so the rivers are full and the currents are strong. Plus, we're not exactly sure where we're going. Two days is very optimistic, assuming we get the damned propeller fixed.”

“So the weather's bad,” Josh said, almost at random.

There wasn't much to discuss. Nate was alive and well and moving in the general direction of the target.

“It's hot as hell and it rains five times a day. Other than that it's lovely.”

“Any snakes?”

“A couple. Anacondas longer than the boat. Lots of alligators. Rats as big as dogs. They call them capivaras. They live at the edge of the rivers among the alligators, and when these people get hungry enough they kill them and eat them.”

“But you have plenty of food?”

“Oh, yes. Our cargo is black beans and rice. Welly cooks them for me three times a day.”

Nate's voice was sharp and filled with adventure.

“Who's Welly?”

“My deckhand. Right now he's under the boat in twelve feet of water, holding his breath and cutting rope from the prop. Like I said, I'm supervising.”

“Stay out of the water, Nate.”

“Are you kidding? I'm on the upper deck. Look, I gotta run. I'm using juice and I haven't found a way to recharge these batteries.”

“When will you call again?”

“I'll try and wait until after I find Rachel Lane.”

“Good idea. But call if you have trouble.”

“Trouble? Why would I call you, Josh? There's not a damned thing in the world you can do.”

“You're right. Don't call.”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 559