Cry No More

  They retraced their steps to the parking lot. He boosted her into the truck, and as she buckled herself in, she said, with a touch of irritation, “Why did you get a truck so high I need a stepladder to get into it?”

  “Where we’re going, we’ll need the extra clearance.”

  She gaped at him. “What are we doing, stump-jumping?”

  “Part of the way.”

  The ride was going to be a rough one, then. Before they left Boise he said, “Hungry?” Thinking she needed to fortify herself, she nodded, and he pulled into a fast-food place. Less than five minutes later they were back on the highway, hamburgers in hand.

  “We’ll drive as far as we can, but we’ll have to walk the last leg,” he said. “This guy is a survivalist, and he made damn sure he isn’t easy to get to.”

  “Will he shoot at us?” she asked, a little alarmed.

  “He might, but from what I’ve been able to find out he isn’t generally violent, just a little crazy.”

  Which was better than being a lot crazy, but anyone with a survivalist mind-set might get a little anxious at being approached by two strangers, especially if he’d gone to a lot of trouble to make sure people couldn’t easily get to his house.

  Three hours later, she realized “house” had been a generous term. After leaving the real road, Diaz had driven the truck over terrain so rough and mountainous Milla had simply closed her eyes and held on to the strap, certain they were going to overturn at any minute. When the trail finally ended—and “trail” was another generous term—at a mountain that seemed to go straight up, Diaz turned off the engine and said, “Here’s where we start walking.”

  Milla stuffed her purse under the seat, then jumped out of the truck without waiting for his aid, and turned in a slow circle, staring up at the mountains surrounding her. From what she’d seen so far, Idaho was one of the most beautiful places in the world. The sky was the deep vivid blue of autumn, the trees were a glorious mix of evergreens and color, and the air was crisp and clean.

  He took a backpack out from behind the seat and slipped his arms through the loops. “This way,” he said, stepping into the silent forest.

  “How do you know the exact way?”

  “I told you, I scouted around some yesterday.”

  “But if you came this far, you could have already talked to him.”

  “It was night. I didn’t want to spook him.”

  He’d come up here last night? The wilderness was so rugged and . . . absolute that she couldn’t imagine how he’d found the track, much less managed to stay on it. She knew he was totally at home in the southwestern desert regions, but had vaguely expected him to be more of a fish out of water up here in the mountains. Not so; he seemed to unerringly know the direction he wanted, and he moved through the massive trees like a silent ghost.

  “Have you done mountain hiking before?” she asked, glad she’d made a point of keeping in shape. This wasn’t terrain for a couch potato.

  “The Sierra Madre. I’ve been in the Rockies before, too.”

  “What’s in the backpack?”

  “Water. Food. Ground sheet. The basics.”

  “Are we spending the night out here?” she asked in astonishment.

  “No, we should be back to the truck before dark. I just don’t take chances in terrain like this.”

  Following behind him as she was, she noticed the bulge under his loose shirt. Being armed was natural for him, but she hadn’t seen him get the weapon out of the glove box, nor had he gone into his own room at the hotel. Surely he hadn’t—“Did you have that pistol with you in the airport?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I didn’t have to go through a metal detector.”

  “My God, isn’t that a federal offense, though?”

  He shrugged. “They might get upset if they caught me.”

  “How did you get it up here?”

  “I didn’t. I got it here.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t ask if it’s registered.”

  “It’s registered. Just not to me.”

  “It’s stolen?”

  He sighed. “No, it isn’t stolen. It belongs to the man who owns the truck. And even if I did get caught at the airport with it, I wouldn’t be arrested. They’d want to arrest me, but it wouldn’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “I know some people with Homeland Security. I’ve—uh—done some work for them. Freelance.”

  She was amazed that he was answering her questions, because he was usually so reticent. She hurried a bit until she was more or less abreast with him. “You find terrorists?” she asked in amazement, her voice rising on the last word.

  “Sometimes,” he said, with that vague tone in his voice that said he wasn’t going into any detail on that particular subject.

  “You’re a Fed?”

  He stopped in his tracks and looked at her, his head cocked in mild exasperation. “No, I just said I’ve done some freelance stuff. That’s all. I’ve done jobs for individuals, corporations, governments. I guess I’m kind of a bounty hunter, though I don’t go after bail jumpers. Usually. Now, are we done with the questions?”

  She made a derisive noise in her throat. “In your dreams.”

  His slow smile began transforming his face. “Then can they wait until we’re heading back? I want to listen to what’s around us.”

  “Okay, but only because you have a good reason.” She fell back behind him and they continued the hike in silence, with only their muffled footsteps breaking the peace of the mountains. It was just as well; within minutes the trail went sharply upward, and she needed her breath for the climb.

  After half an hour they heard the sound of rushing water. The almost invisible trail led them straight to the river. The water had cut a small gorge through the mountain; at this point, the sheer rock walls were about eight feet high and the river was narrow, no more than twenty feet wide, which forced the water along at a faster pace. The rapid current frothed and boiled over underwater rocks, whitecapping the surface and occasionally sending up a spray of diamond drops.

  Diaz led them along the bank, with the sound of the rushing water growing louder and louder as the stream gradually narrowed until the width was about twelve feet. He stopped, raised his voice, and said, “Here we are.”

  Only then did she see the tiny shack on the other side of the river. “Shack” was a complimentary description. It appeared to be made out of rough plywood, with black tar paper nailed over it. The forest was making an effort to reclaim its territory, because moss was growing up the sides of the shack, and vines were growing down from the roof. The tar paper and vegetation did a good job of camouflage; the one tiny window and rough rock chimney were almost the only details that gave away the shack’s location.

  “Hello!” Diaz yelled.

  After a minute the rough door opened and a grizzled head stuck out. The man regarded them with suspicion for a moment; then he stared hard at Milla. Her presence seemed to reassure him, because he eased out of the door with a shotgun cradled in his arms. He looked bearlike, standing about six-foot-six and weighing close to three hundred pounds. His long gray hair was in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back, but his beard was only a few inches long, proving that he did some personal upkeep. The beard was the only evidence of that, though. He wore camouflage pants in a forest pattern, and a green flannel shirt.

  “Yeah? Who are you?”

  “My name is Diaz. Are you Norman Gilliland?”

  “That’s right. What about it?”

  “If you don’t mind, we have some questions about your brother that we’d like to ask.”

  “Which brother?”

  Diaz paused, because they had no first name. “The pilot.”

  Norman shifted a wad of chewing tobacco to his other jaw and pondered the matter. “That would be Virgil, I guess. He’s dead.”

  “Yes, we know. Did you know anything about his—”

  “Smuggling? Some.” Norman he
aved a sigh. “Guess you might as well come over. You carrying?”

  “Pistol,” Diaz replied.

  “Just keep it holstered, son, and we’ll do all right.”

  Norman carefully propped the shotgun against the shack, then lifted a long, rough plank that looked to be hand-hewn, about fifteen feet long, three or four inches thick, and a foot wide. It had to be heavy, but Norman handled it as if it were a two-by-four wall stud. He positioned one end of the plank into a notch that had been carved into the riverbank, then got down on his knees and let the other end tilt down until it fit into a corresponding notch on their side of the river. “There you are,” he said. “Come on over.”

  Milla looked at the plank, at the rushing water foaming beneath it, and drew a deep breath. “Ready if you are,” she said to Diaz.

  He caught her hand and carried it to his belt. “Hold on to me for balance.”

  She pulled her hand back. “No way. If I fall, I don’t want to take you with me.”

  “As if I wouldn’t go in after you anyway.” He took her hand once more and put it on his belt. “Hang on.”

  “Are you coming or not?” Norman called irritably.

  “Yes.” Diaz stepped calmly onto the plank, and Milla followed. Twelve inches was really pretty wide; as a kid she’d balanced on much narrower edges. But now that she was an adult, she knew how reckless kids were, and she’d never walked across a roaring river even as a child. She did remember that you had to just do it, that a sure step was much better than a hesitant one. She didn’t crowd Diaz, just maintained a grip on his belt, and it did help with balance. In no time they were across the plank and stepping onto solid ground.

  Neither Diaz nor Norman offered to shake hands, so Milla steeled herself and held out her hand. “I’m Milla Edge. Thank you for talking to us.”

  Norman eyed her hand as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do, then gingerly folded his big paw around her fingers and gave it a barely noticeable shake. “Glad to meet you. I don’t get many visitors.”

  No joke. He’d made damn sure of that by living where he did.

  He didn’t invite them inside, and she was just as glad he hadn’t. Not only was the shack tiny, but she’d bet Norman hadn’t won any housekeeping awards lately. There were a couple of nice-sized rocks nearby, though, and he indicated they should sit there. Norman himself took a seat on a stump. “Now, what can I do for you folks?”

  “You said you knew about your brother’s smuggling,” Diaz said.

  “Course I did. Marijuana. He made a bunch of money, but Virgil never did have any sense about money and I guess he blew it all. God knows, when he died there wasn’t anything left.”

  “He died in a plane crash?”

  “Virgil? Naw. He died of liver cancer, in November of ninety.”

  Before Justin was kidnapped. Milla sighed in sharp disappointment, even though after their conversation in the truck, she hadn’t really been expecting any useful information.

  “Did he ever smuggle anything except weed?”

  “That was pretty much it, I reckon, though there could have been some cocaine runs.”

  “How about people? Babies?”

  “Not that I ever heard.”

  “Did he work for just one man?”

  “He never was that steady. He moved around a lot, until he got sick. The cancer took him fast. By the time he knew he had it, he only had a couple of months left.”

  “Where was he when he died?”

  “Why, right here. I got him buried back in the woods. Nobody wanted to foot the bill for his funeral, so I took care of it myself.”

  There wasn’t anything else to be said. They thanked Norman, Diaz slickly passed him some folded green for his time, and they went back to the plank bridge.

  Milla felt confident enough not to hold on to Diaz’s belt on the return crossing, though he insisted. As long as she didn’t look down at the water, which gave her a mild sense of vertigo as it rushed past, she was fine.

  They were almost halfway across when Diaz made a sharp sound of warning. The board tilted wildly beneath their feet; Milla released Diaz, both arms waving as she scrambled for balance. It happened so fast she didn’t even scream as they both plunged down into the swift, icy river.

  19

  The water was so cold it was numbing, and deeper than she’d expected. The current pushed her below the surface even as it tumbled her along, tossing her like a rag doll in a child’s careless grip. Instinctively she began kicking, trying to go with the current rather than fighting it, and as if rewarding her, it promptly shot her upward.

  Her head broke the surface and she gasped in air. Her hair hung in her face, blinding her. She thought she heard a distant shout; then the current tumbled her under again. Rolling, she took a glancing blow to her left shoulder, but it scarcely stung; what it did do was tilt her back to the right, toward the middle of the river, and she fought for the surface once more. Somehow she got turned so she was going with the current again, swimming as hard as she could, and she popped up like a cork.

  “Milla!”

  The voice calling her name was rough from strain, but she knew it. She turned her head and saw Diaz behind her and to the right, swimming toward her with desperate, powerful strokes. “I’m all right!” she yelled, then felt the current tug at her again. She kicked harder, concentrating on keeping her head above water.

  Diaz was a stronger swimmer, but he was heavier, and he couldn’t gain any ground on her. If she stopped swimming so hard, in order to let him catch up, the current would pull her under again. The banks rose steep and high on both sides of the river, and the water swept them along as if they were in a chute, with no way out even if they could fight their way to the side.

  Ahead, the river curved to the left. A tree had fallen on the right bank, its limbs reaching almost to the water.

  “Tree!” she heard Diaz roar behind her, and understood. She angled to the right, fighting to get within reaching distance of one of the limbs. Her head went under just as she gasped for air and she choked on a mouthful of water. She fought to the surface once more, but the effort and the cold were taking their toll. Her arm and leg muscles ached, and her lungs were burning. Maybe if she could catch one of the limbs, she could rest there for a minute; maybe they could even climb out that way.

  It wasn’t by her efforts that she succeeded; the current obligingly pushed her to the right, where the bank was hollowed out by the water’s force. Desperately she reached up and caught a limb; the water jerked at her and the dead limb broke off in her hand, and she went under.

  She was tiring rapidly, her kicks becoming less forceful, her arm motions jerky instead of smooth. Still she once more gained the surface and sucked in much-needed air, and just before the roil of water pulled her under again for what was probably the last time, a hard arm wrapped around her and held her up. The tree hadn’t stopped her, but it had slowed her enough for Diaz to catch up.

  “Angle to the right!” he yelled. “That’s the side the truck is on!”

  It was comforting to know that he thought they’d make it, at least, otherwise he wouldn’t have cared which side they got out on, just that they got out.

  She had no idea how far the water had carried them, but the current was so swift they could already be half a mile downstream from Norman’s shack. Then, abruptly, the river widened and the current slowed.

  It was still a fast current, so fast she couldn’t fight it, but at least the water smoothed out and stopped battering at her. The riverbanks were less steep, but choked with huge boulders. She could stay on top with less effort and give her burning muscles some rest, but the cold was going bone deep, and she knew they didn’t have much time left before they became too sluggish to swim.

  “Catch the end of my belt and wrap it around your wrist,” Diaz said hoarsely, and a length of leather slapped the water in front of her.

  She caught the belt, but said, “I’ll drag you under.”

  “No you won
’t. We can’t be separated. Do it!”

  What he meant was, if they got separated, she was a dead woman. On the other hand, if she dragged him down, they’d both be dead.

  “We don’t have much time!” he yelled. “We have to get out before we go over a waterfall!”

  There was a waterfall on this river? Her blood chilled even colder. The force of the water would push them to the bottom and they’d drown, assuming they weren’t battered to death on rocks. She didn’t know what he had in mind, but she was game for anything. She clutched the belt and twisted her hand several times, wrapping the leather around her wrist.

  “There’s a right bend!” He coughed, and spat out water. “Just ahead. The current is slower on the inside of a curve, so that’s our chance. Just hang on, and I’ll get us out.”

  “I can kick,” she said, surprised at how guttural her tone was.

  “Then kick like hell.”

  She kicked like hell.

  Her thigh muscles had gone beyond tired, beyond burning. Her legs were in agony, but she kicked. Diaz’s arms scissored like an automaton’s, dragging them on a diagonal through the water. Forward progress was swift, his diagonal progress was measured in inches, and the bend was coming up much too fast; they were going to get swept past it before they could make it to the slower current. She growled like an animal as a burst of adrenaline sent her surging forward, almost even with Diaz. Without the drag of her on his arm, he gained even more ground as the current swept them into the bend.

  A big tree was clinging to the earth right at the water’s edge. As they passed it, Diaz reached out with his right hand and caught one of the big roots.

  He stopped, but the water didn’t and neither did she. When the belt reached the end of its length, her entire body snapped backward like the end of a whip, but she didn’t lose her grip on the leather. Diaz’s face was twisted with effort, his teeth gritted, as he hung on to the root with his right hand and with the left tried to pull her against the current. She kicked, swinging her body, and suddenly the grasp of the water eased and seemed to push her against the bank on the far side of the tree. They were stretched out with the tree between them, tethered by the belt.