Cry No More Read online

  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