Cry No More (20 page)

“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 heaved 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.

Milla caught one of the roots, too, and managed to wedge her feet against an underwater rock that was just past the tree. The current still pushed at her, but she locked her trembling knees and managed to hold her position.

“I’m letting go of the belt,” she managed to say. “I’m braced. How about you?”

“I’m good,” he said. She untwisted the belt and the leather floated free. For a split second she panicked as the water seemed to tug at her, as if it had just been waiting for her to release her lifeline. But she pushed back harder against the tree and held her position.

Her lungs were pumping like bellows, dragging in air for her oxygen-starved muscles. She couldn’t hear anything now except the water and her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Diaz hooked his hands under her arms from behind, and dragged her up and back, onto a shelf of rock and out of the water.

The effort seemed to take all his remaining strength, because he collapsed on his hands and knees on the rock, wheezing and groaning. Milla lay facedown where he’d let her drop, too exhausted to move. Her body felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, as if even twitching a finger would take gargantuan effort.

The rock was in full sunshine and felt warm under her chilled body. Water streamed from their clothes and hair. She closed her eyes and listened to their laboring breaths, listened to the pound of blood through her veins. They were alive.

Maybe she dozed, or fainted, or both. After a while she managed to turn over, onto her back, and let the sunshine wash over her face. Still breathing hard, almost giddy with relief, Milla tilted her face up to the warmth.

That had been so close. She still couldn’t quite believe they’d managed to make it to the bank; she definitely knew she wouldn’t have been able to make it on her own. The water rushed and swirled only a foot beyond where Diaz lay, sucking at the rock and the stubborn tree, knowing that eventually it would claim them. Time, after all, was on the water’s side. Only Diaz’s strength had enabled them to break free of its clutch.

Still gasping a little, she said, “What happened? Why did we fall?”

He said, “The ground crumbled under the other end of the plank and tilted it.”

Her next question was “How did you know there’s a waterfall on this river?”

He was silent a minute; then he said, “There’s always a waterfall. Don’t you watch any movies?”

Overwhelmed by relief and an almost effervescent joy at being alive, she began to laugh.

Diaz had rolled onto his back beside her, his own chest heaving as he fought for breath, but now he turned his head toward her and the hard line of his mouth moved in a slight smile. He watched her for a minute, his dark eyes narrowed against the glare of the afternoon sun. Then he said, “I’d give my left nut to be inside you right now.”

Her laughter vanished as if it had never been, sucked away by the shock of his words. She’d daydreamed and fantasized and obsessed, but she’d never thought she’d have to deal with reality, and here it was, staring her in the face. Diaz? And
her
? The hard fact of what he’d said was so jarring that reality tilted for a moment, leaving her adrift on that warm rock with her head buzzing and adrenaline still burning through her veins. Then everything slammed back into place, and with it came a rush of carnal hunger that stunned her with its force. Diaz—and her. Her insides clenched at the thought of him on top of her, between her legs. She wanted him. She had wanted him the moment she saw him, and she wanted him now.

He’d never even really kissed her. That light comfort kiss in Juarez didn’t count.

She’d wanted this, and now reasons for backing away swarmed through her mind like locusts. If all he wanted was a quick fuck, she wasn’t the woman he was looking for, and she couldn’t imagine him wanting anything other than that. This was
Diaz
, after all; he wasn’t the hang-around type of man, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think she could change him. She’d been so careful not to give him any sexual reaction, any hint that she found him attractive; she’d kept it all inside, in her daydreams. But he’d known anyway; it was in those shrewd dark eyes, that knowledge.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said lazily. “It was just an observation, not a declaration of war.”

“Women always think too much.” She sniffed. “We have to, to keep things balanced.” Odd that he’d chosen “war” as a metaphor . . . or perhaps it was fitting. Squinting up at the sun, trying to find something solid to hold on to, since the ground had just shifted beneath her, she said, “Why do men always offer their left nut and never their right one? Is something wrong with it? Or is the right one somehow more important?”

“You wrong us.” He closed his eyes with a tired sigh, and that slight smile touched his mouth again. “A man takes both his nuts seriously.”

“In that case, I’m flattered.”

“But not interested.”

Here was where she could lightly say “Sorry” and that would be the end of it. Instead, unable to lie, she closed her own eyes and let the silence grow between them.

She felt him move as he heaved himself up; then he was propped on his elbow, leaning over her and blocking the sun. “You’d better say no,” he murmured, flattening his hand on her stomach. The heat from his palm burned through her wet clothing to her chilled skin; then he slipped his fingertips under the waistband of her jeans and she felt the heat go all the way through
her
.

“Not that I intend to do anything right now, anyway,” he continued. “We need to get back to the truck. A rock’s a damn uncomfortable place for what I want to do, our clothes are wet, my balls are so cold it may take me a week to find them, and we don’t have any condoms. But in a few hours things will be different, and if you don’t want to go anywhere with this, you’d better say no right now.”

He was right. She should say no.

But she didn’t. Despite all the good reasons she’d given herself just a moment before . . . she didn’t.

Instead she opened her eyes and turned her head toward him as he bent down to her. His lips were cold; hers were colder. But his tongue was warm, and the kiss was almost shy as he gently explored her mouth. His left hand tangled in her wet hair and he slowly deepened the kiss as he caught her waist and rolled her toward him.

The touch of that whipcord body sent a pool of warmth spreading through her insides. It was almost enough to dispel the chill, but still she suddenly shivered as the aftermath began to catch up to her.

He lifted his mouth and smoothed her hair back from her face, his gaze intent as he watched her. “We have to get to the truck and get warm. The sun will be going down soon, and we don’t want to get caught out here in wet clothes.”

“All right.” He moved back, and she struggled to a sitting position. “Do you think Norman will call the authorities, have them looking for our bodies or something?”

“I doubt it. I don’t guess you heard what he yelled.”

“I heard someone yell something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.”

“He yelled, ‘Good luck.’ “

Astounded, she blinked at him. Then she began snickering as she slowly climbed to her feet. She guessed Norman wasn’t the type to worry about what happened to anyone except himself.

Swaying, she took stock. The backpack he’d been carrying was long gone, of course. She was aching from head to foot, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the battering force of the water or if it was sheer muscle fatigue. She was lucky; she didn’t think she’d hit anything hard enough to injure herself, and she thanked God for the depth of the river, which had probably saved their lives. If it had been shallower, they likely would have been killed on some rocks.

Both her sneakers were gone, as was one sock. How that other sock had stayed on she couldn’t imagine. Her wristwatch was ruined, the face crushed. Likewise her sweater was gone, but she’d only had it around her shoulders, not buttoned.

Diaz was looking down at her feet. “You can’t walk like that,” he said, and began unbuttoning his denim shirt. He stripped it off, then took a knife from his pocket and sliced off the sleeves. Going down on one knee in front of her, he draped a sleeve over his thigh and patted it. “Put your foot here.” Gingerly balancing on one foot, she placed her other foot on the sleeve, and he swiftly wrapped the ends of the sleeve around and around it, then tied a knot on top. After repeating the process with her other foot, he said, “How does that feel? It isn’t like having a leather sole, but is it enough protection for you to walk? If it isn’t, say so instead of tearing up your feet.”