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.”