Cry No More

by Linda Howard

  “Yes, it is.”

  “My name is Milla Edge. I’m the founder of an organization called Finders, which helps locate lost or kidnapped children.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rhonda said kindly. “That’s such a worthy cause; I’ll be glad to donate—”

  “No, this isn’t a telemarketing call,” Milla quickly interrupted. “It concerns your adopted son.”

  There was utter silence on the other end. She couldn’t even hear Rhonda breathing.

  “What do you mean?” Rhonda finally choked. “How can it concern—He’s adopted,” she said in a fierce whisper. “We went through a lawyer to make certain everything was legal. Don’t you dare—”

  “It’s a complicated matter,” Milla said, and hurried to reassure her. “There’s some paperwork that needs to be done. Could I make an appointment to meet with both you and your husband tomorrow? I promise it won’t take long.”

  “What kind of paperwork?”

  “Legal,” Milla said, unwilling to go into more detail on the phone. She didn’t want to spook the Winborns into grabbing Justin and disappearing in the middle of the night. She knew that’s what she would do, rather than risk her son. “It’s just some signatures. No one is questioning the adoption.”

  “Then why—How is Finders involved?”

  “That’s complicated, too. I’ll explain all of it tomorrow. What time would be convenient?”

  “Just a minute.” Rhonda’s voice was faint; there was a clatter as she laid down the receiver, and Milla closed her eyes as she pictured Rhonda whispering to Lee where Justin—Zack—couldn’t hear her. Lee would pick up on his wife’s panic, alarmed that something seemed to be threatening his son, and he would hurry to the phone—

  “This is Lee Winborn. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve frightened your wife,” Milla said apologetically, “and I didn’t mean to. It’s important that I meet with the both of you to explain something about your son’s adoption, and give you some legal papers.”

  “You can explain over the phone—”

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s complicated, as I told Mrs. Winborn. You’ll understand much more when you read the papers. Is there a convenient time tomorrow? While your son is in school would be best.” She softened her voice. “Please. It’s nothing threatening.”

  “All right,” he said abruptly. “One o’clock. Do you need our address?”

  “No, I have it. Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be there at one sharp.” She clicked off the phone and closed her eyes, and realized she was shaking in every muscle. She’d done it. Now all she had to do was hold together through the next step. Since she had been able to get an appointment so early, she called the airlines and managed to get on a six o’clock flight out of Charlotte. Tomorrow night, she thought as she went to bed, she would be back in her own home for the first time since . . . she couldn’t remember, exactly. Longer than a week, she thought.

  The next day she slept as late as possible, ate a late breakfast, watched some morning talk shows, showered and washed her hair and took extra care styling it, as well as with her makeup, keeping the effect subtle. It was vain of her, but she wanted to make a good impression.

  She dressed carefully, in a trim navy skirt and a fitted, long-sleeved blouse in seafoam green, with matching navy buttons. The outfit was both feminine and professional. It was an old trick; the more nervous she was, the more attention she paid to how she looked. By concentrating on her clothes, she could ignore the screaming of her nerves, the nausea that knotted her stomach, the tension that pounded in her temples. She had learned how to remain calm in the face of unspeakable pain, and she did so now, at least on the surface—and that was all that mattered, anyway. The mirror reflected back a face that was almost expressionless, like Diaz—No, don’t think about him, she thought fiercely. He was out of her life.

  The Weather Channel said Charlotte’s high temperature today would be sixty-three, but with a brisk north breeze, so she laid her camel coat aside as she packed. She did the video checkout on the television, and then it was time. Twelve-fifteen. She took a deep breath, made certain her lipstick was even, left the room key on the bedside table with a tip for the maid, then checked once more that all the necessary papers were in her briefcase. Satisfied that she hadn’t left anything undone, she squared her shoulders, balanced her coat and briefcase on top of the suitcase, slung her purse on her shoulder, and opened the door. And stopped dead, all her momentum lost.

  Diaz leaned against the wall beside her door.

  So many thoughts and emotions stormed through her that she could scarcely focus on any of them. Shock was uppermost; she’d thought, hoped, that she would never see him again. And, somehow, she’d forgotten all over again how powerful his physical impact was, what it was to have those cold, dark eyes leveled on you.

  They hadn’t been cold when she was lying naked beneath him, whispered the animal in her, and she wrenched her thoughts from that dark pathway.

  My God, why hadn’t someone called hotel security? Men didn’t just lurk outside hotel rooms for God only knows how long without someone noticing. Even if another guest hadn’t been suspicious, the hotel maids definitely should have been. She glanced wildly up and down the long corridor; a housekeeping cart was parked about a third of the way down the hall to the right. With just the one maid on the floor, perhaps he’d been able to avoid detection. Or perhaps he’d had a quiet word with her and scared the hell out of her, and she was hiding in that room waiting for him to leave.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone cool and hostile, not at all like the tumult going on inside her.

  He straightened and shrugged. “Curiosity. Like rubbernecking at a car wreck.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “That’s what I do.”

  And that was explanation enough, she supposed. He’d known where Justin was, and that gave him a start. Even though Charlotte was a city of half a million people, he’d found her—probably with a few phone calls. The hotel wasn’t supposed to give out room numbers, either, but he’d been waiting outside her door. How did he know where she was going? And how did he know she was going today? She burned to know the answers, but she would bite off her own tongue before she asked him. She didn’t want to talk to him at all.

  She pulled the hotel door shut and walked down the carpeted hallway to the elevator, pulling her suitcase behind her. Diaz fell into step beside her, as she had known he would. She didn’t waste time trying to talk him out of going. She couldn’t evade him, couldn’t convince him to butt out; all she could do was ignore him, so she did—as much as one could ignore a wolf.

  Details of his appearance registered with her. He had shaved, and he wore a decent suit in a dark blue-gray; his hair actually looked brushed, instead of looking as if he’d run his fingers through it and left it at that. Some people might think he looked respectable. She knew better, knew that the cold, enigmatic dark eyes in no way reflected the streak of violence that ran just beneath his surface. He probably had a knife strapped to his leg, a pistol holstered in the small of his back, and God only knows what other weapons hidden on his body.

  But why was he here? This didn’t concern him. They had parted on bitter terms, and he was the last person Milla wanted with her during the wrenching hour she faced. She was still so furious she could barely tolerate being this close to him. She felt the rage bubbling up all over again, tightening her throat. How dare he—?

  She stopped the thought before it could completely form. Going over and over things wasn’t going to change what he’d done, wasn’t going to make her change her mind. Oh, she could try explaining things to him, but what would that accomplish? He had totally misjudged her, he was wrong, and even if he apologized she doubted she could ever forgive him. He knew—knew—how important Justin was to her, knew the hell she’d gone through searching for him, and still he’d kept her son’s location secret from her. How could sh
e ever forgive him?

  It enraged her even more that Diaz was still convinced she was in the wrong. She wanted to slap him so hard his teeth rattled. Instead she ignored him.

  “Do you need to check out?” he asked.

  “No.” If she had to talk to him at all, it would be as briefly as possible.

  They left the hotel by the front door, and she started to give her car receipt to the parking attendant, but Diaz said, “Leave it here. I’ll drive.”

  “I don’t want to ride with you.”

  “You can do it the easy way, or the hard way. Up to you.”

  She didn’t even glance at him, just continued walking beside him as he led the way to a dark blue Jeep Liberty. The easy way was hard enough; she didn’t want to contemplate what the hard way would do to her. The north wind the weather forecaster had talked about bit through her clothes, and she wished she’d put her coat on before coming outside; she concentrated on how chilled she was, anything rather than think about him or what she was facing.

  He put her suitcase in the back with his battered duffel, then opened the passenger door and put her inside. The sun had warmed the interior of the Jeep, and once she was out of the wind she was comfortable. She preferred being chilled, preferred being anywhere else, with anyone else. She prayed for strength, for control, for help in doing this right. She had to put Diaz out of her mind and concentrate on Justin, or she’d never be able to do this.

  “Do you know where they live?” she asked distantly as he got behind the wheel and started the motor, then put the vehicle in gear and pulled out of his parking slot.

  “Yes. I drove by there yesterday.”

  So he’d been a day behind her. She was surprised he hadn’t been closer, that he hadn’t shown up at her hotel in Chicago. But unless he was here to prevent her from talking to the Winborns, why bother? She went rigid as it occurred to her she was now locked in a vehicle with him, helpless to do anything but go where he took her. Stupid!

  She whipped around as far as her seat belt would allow, her gaze lethal. “If you take me anywhere but to the Winborn house, I swear I’ll—”

  “That’s where I’m taking you,” he said grimly. “Though it’s a little late for you to think of that, if I’d decided otherwise.”

  “So I’m not as good at being dirty and underhanded as you are,” she snapped, and turned back to face the windshield. She paid close attention to the turns he took, making certain she didn’t look up and find herself on a highway heading out of Charlotte. If he took one wrong turn, she would scream, she’d hit him, she’d pull on the steering wheel—anything to attract attention.

  Though if he really intended to kidnap her, she realized, none of that would stop him. He’d just knock her out and do as he’d intended. But what use would that be, unless he intended to keep her locked up somewhere for the rest of her life? She was never going to change her mind about seeing the Winborns. She had set her course, and she would keep to it.

  The rest of the drive was made in silence. At twelve fifty-seven he pulled the Jeep into the Winborns’ short concrete driveway. Rhonda’s champagne Infiniti SUV was in the right bay, Lee’s more serviceable extended-cab Ford pickup in the left. Milla’s heartbeat suddenly doubled, leaving her feeling weak and light-headed. Don’t let me faint, she silently begged. Please don’t let me faint. She took slow, deep breaths, forcing her heart rate to calm.

  Diaz got out and came around to open the door for her. His dark eyes narrowed as he surveyed her, but he didn’t say anything, just took her arm and all but levered her out of the seat. If it hadn’t been for him, she didn’t know if she’d have had the strength. She grabbed the briefcase but left her purse on the floorboard. Diaz noticed, of course, and locked the doors behind them.

  The small front yard was immaculately kept, with thick grass that had turned brown, and pots of bright red chrysanthemums. More potted plants were on the steps leading up to the sheltered front entry; someone, probably Rhonda, had a green thumb. Milla found she liked the picture of Rhonda humming as she carefully repotted plants, or trimming away the dead leaves and branches.

  Before she could reach out to ring the doorbell, the door opened, and both of them stood there looking almost haggard with worry. Pity squeezed Milla’s heart. She had tried to reassure them, but maybe she had handled this all wrong. If she had, it was too late now to change. Lee reached out and opened the glass storm door.

  She managed, if not quite a smile, at least a friendly expression. “Hello, I’m Milla Edge. We spoke on the phone last night. This is James Diaz.”

  “I’m Lee Winborn, and this is my wife, Rhonda,” Lee said, automatically reaching out to shake her hand, then Diaz’s. Lee’s hands were strong and slightly rough; he liked playing golf, fishing, occasionally hunting. He had coached Justin—Zack’s—T-ball team, and helped coach his PeeWee football team. He was forty-four, eleven years older than Milla, a vital man with a few sun wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and no visible gray in his dark blond hair.

  Rhonda was average height, her pale blond hair cut in a chic style, her makeup tasteful. She was slim, dressed in tailored trousers and a pretty French blue sweater that reflected color into her gray eyes. With their coloring, Milla thought, no one would suspect Justin wasn’t their natural son unless they told. Zack. She had to remember his name was now Zack.

  “Come in,” Lee said, his voice nervous. He and his wife stepped back, and he gestured Milla and Diaz inside. Rhonda reached out and took his hand, lacing her fingers with his as if she needed his strength.

  They went into the living room, which had the comfortable, lived-in feeling that meant they actually used it. There was a cozy fire going in the gas-log fireplace. There were shelves that held a number of books, children’s mixed in with adult fiction, as well as the small mementos a family collected over the years: a starfish, a signed baseball in a Plexiglas box, photos and boxes and—

  Photos. Milla looked around, and held a moan inside. Pictures of Justin as a fat baby, with one tiny white tooth gleaming as he laughed, his blond hair sticking straight up like a dandelion. She saw his chubby little feet, the fat dimpled hands, the rosy cheeks. There was one of him crawling, wearing nothing but a diaper. Another of him as an adorable toddler, holding a plastic baseball bat like a club; at the beach, with his little shovel and pail, wearing a small red baseball cap. A birthday party. What had to be his first day of school, beaming proudly as he clutched his little backpack. Missing his two front teeth, and wearing such a wide, mischievous grin that she almost whimpered. Her baby, and she had missed all of this. There he was in his T-ball uniform, looking fierce now as he held his bat the way he’d seen the big boys do. Another picture showed him in his football uniform, with his helmet threatening to completely obscure his face. He was so little, and so vital, so happy.

  There were his school pictures, and other studio photographs that were more posed. Another was of him at perhaps one year, clutching a teddy bear that showed signs of severe wear. Sitting on a little John Deere tractor, gripping the steering wheel hard and pretending he was driving. She could just hear him making motor sounds.

  “That’s Zack,” Rhonda said nervously, noticing how Milla was staring at all the photographs. “I know we went overboard taking pictures of him, but—” She broke off and bit her lip.

  “Please, let’s sit down,” Lee said, indicating Milla and Diaz should take the two occasional chairs, while he and Rhonda sat side by side on the couch. “Tell us what this is all about. I don’t mind telling you neither of us slept a wink last night, worrying that something has gone wrong. We can’t think what, but—well, we’re worried.”

  Milla set the briefcase down by her feet and took a deep breath, clasping her hands together. She had tried practicing what she would say, but the words never seemed right, so she fell back on the story she had told so many times, to so many audiences. But this time, she had an ending to the story.

  “My ex-husband is a surgeon,” she s
aid, “a real Doogie Howser.” She managed a tiny smile, thinking of David. “Eleven years ago, he and some other doctors took a sabbatical to work at a small rural clinic in Mexico. I had just learned I was pregnant when we went, but the team included an obstetrician I trusted, so we kept to our original plan and our son, Justin, was born in Mexico. I was at the village market one day when he was six weeks old, and two men grabbed him from me and ran. I had been stabbed in the back and nearly bled to death; by the time I recovered, there was no trace of our baby.”

  Rhonda reached out and grabbed Lee’s hand again. “That’s awful,” she said, looking sick. Perhaps she was identifying with Milla as a mother, or perhaps she had a premonition.

  “I looked for him anyway. I couldn’t give up, when I didn’t know what had happened to him. So many stolen babies are smuggled out of Mexico in car trunks, in the heat of the day, and a lot of them die. I couldn’t stop looking until I knew for certain what happened to Justin, if he died, if . . .” She stopped and swallowed.

  “My husband and I divorced a year after Justin was stolen. A lot of marriages break up after a child dies or is lost. The divorce was mostly my fault—no, all my fault, because I wasn’t interested in being David’s wife. I was too busy searching for Justin. Along the way I founded an organization of mostly volunteers, all over the country, who mobilize to help search whenever someone gets lost, or drive the highways during an Amber Alert. We look for runaways that the police don’t have the money or the manpower to devote to the case. We—” She was going into her regular speech, she realized. She took another deep breath.

  “Enough about that. The short of it is, all of this time I kept looking for Justin, for clues to who had taken him, what had happened to him. Just recently, with Mr. Diaz’s help, the smuggling ring was broken and we found paperwork that allowed us to trace the stolen children.”

  This was it. Now. Her throat clogged and her hands clenched together so hard they were bloodless. “Zack is my son, Justin.”

  Rhonda fell back with a cry, her face paper white. Lee surged to his feet, his hands knotted into fists. “That’s a lie,” he said violently. “We didn’t buy a black market baby; we adopted Zack through an attorney, and if you think you’re going to take our son from us you’re in for the fight of your life.”