Eleven Hours (12 page)

“Coming,” Didi called out, turning off the water. She reached into her bag with wet hands to pull out a brush. Quickly she ran it through her hair. Nothing could have interested her less than her hair, but she was glad for the extra moment of relative safety. Under normal circumstances, she would have squatted in the woods rather than set one foot inside a place like this, but this afternoon, Johnny's bathroom was a sunny oasis.

After brushing her hair, Didi examined the brush, which was plastic and harmless. She threw it back inside her bag.

She thought, maybe I should put on a little lipsti—

The lipstick!

Pulling Elizabeth Arden's New New Rose out of her bag, Didi opened it, and smeared on the dirty mirror, in large letters that got progressively smaller as she started running out of space,

Help me Please!

I'm Didi Wood and I've been kidnapped by a man named Lyle.

He's driving a Tan Ford Taurus Station Wagon Please Help.

He banged loudly on the door again.

“I'm coming!” she yelled. She opened the door and turned off the light, resigned.

He stood right outside, smiling. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine,” she said.

He reached out and touched her hair. “You look pretty.”

She wished she could shear her hair off with lawn scissors. “Thanks.”

“Wipe off your lipstick and I'll kiss you,” he said, leaning close to her.

“I'm not wearing any lipstick,” she said faintly, wiping her lips anyway, and beginning to feel a queasy liquid sensation in her mouth.

Outside a stinking bathroom, in the shadows behind a run-down gas station, in the back woods of rural Texas, a smiling, genial young man was asking Desdemona Wood for a kiss.

Didi couldn't hold it in any longer. She retched and vomited the water she had just drunk all over Lyle's pants and shoes.

He jerked away. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“I'm sorry,” she gasped, and threw up again in short spasmodic bursts. All she could think of was that poor water and how much she needed it and wanted it. The water was absorbed by the grass, and Didi's stomach was empty again. She wiped her mouth. “I'm sorry. I'm feeling sick.”

He grimaced, and his face contorted. “Jeez, that's disgusting,” he said. “Let's get out of here, now!”

“Wait!” She put her hand to her mouth. “Can I just go and wash my mouth out?” She wanted another drink of water.

Lyle went to take her arm, but stopped. The look of aversion was plain on his face. Motioning her to walk in front of him, he said, “No, uh-uh. You've wasted enough of my time already. Let's get out of here.”

She slowly got back into his car, wishing she could wash away the bitter taste in her mouth—a fine metaphor for her day.

Lyle drove around to the front and parked near a gas pump. He filled the tank, then moved the station wagon to the front of the convenience store, telling her he was going to get her something to drink. As he got out, he tapped the bulge in the front of his jacket, to show her, to warn her, to threaten her. Didi kept her eyes on him as he walked around the car.

As he was walking past the TV, he suddenly stopped. Didi looked at the TV. The news was on, but Didi couldn't make out what the anchorwoman was saying. Lyle, however, stood still, staring at the TV. Then Didi's wedding photo flashed up on the screen. She couldn't believe it and rolled down the window a few more inches. All she could make out before Lyle yanked the cord out of the socket was “… armed and dangerous.”

Before he went inside, Lyle turned around and cast Didi a cold, determined look.

Didi had no time to get excited about seeing her face on local television. As soon as Lyle disappeared inside the store, she flung open the glove compartment and grabbed her cell phone. Never taking her eyes off the front door, she pressed 911.

Okay, okay, Didi breathed to herself, keeping her eyes on the store. The sun reflected off the glass and she couldn't see inside. Nine—one—one—send. And she waited a few moments. At first it sounded as if it would go through, but then the beep came, the low-battery beep. Shit. She stayed on the line anyway. Beep—beep—beep—then she heard a voice on the phone. She was afraid to put it to her ear. She didn't want Lyle to see her. With the phone still on her lap, she said loudly, almost shouted, “This is Didi Wood. Please help me. I've been kidnapped by a man named Lyle. We're north of Waco, he's driving a tan—”

Didi thought she heard thunder, and then saw Lyle running out of the store. She had just enough time and presence of mind to throw the phone back into the glove compartment.

“What's wrong?” she asked, looking hopefully toward the store, as if she thought any minute now the nice old man named Johnny would come out with the sheriff and her odyssey into karmic chasms would be over.

However, Johnny didn't come. And Lyle drove off, the tires of the car screeching loudly as he made a right to get back onto the road.

“What's wrong?” he said, his foot flooring the gas pedal. “I'll tell you what's wrong, dearie. That Johnny wasn't a nice man.”

“No?” Didi said weakly. “He looked nice.”

“Well, looks can be very deceiving,” Lyle said. “Believe me when I tell you.”

She believed him. What was that burnt metallic smell?

“Was the TV on inside?” Didi's voice was very low.

“Yeah,” Lyle said rudely. “So?”

“Do—do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Lyle replied.

Didi closed her eyes and whispered,
God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, have mercy on Your servant, from all evil, from all sin, from all tribulation, good Lord, deliver him.

“What are you doing?” he said. “Open your eyes.”

“I'm praying for your soul,” Didi replied.

He scoffed. “What about your soul, Arizona?”

“My soul is not lost,” she said. “You need to be saved before God, and your soul needs to be rescued. It's crying to be rescued. God has to save you, Lyle,” she said. “Help me save you. Welcome God back into your—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. Then, milder, “You got it all wrong.” He chuckled. “Do you know what's really funny?”

Didi couldn't think of anything funny.

“It's not me who needs to be saved, Didi,” Lyle said, stepping on the gas.

5:10 P.M.

Rich sat idly in the chief's office while Scott was on the phone with what seemed to be half the population of Dallas. He had been juggling the phones as if his job were not as an FBI special agent but as an extremely efficient receptionist at a busy New York City corporate office. Rich thought Scott called nearly every field office in Texas and possibly the United States putting them on SWAT alert and informing them of what was happening. He called the border patrol. He called a local judge to make sure he had a line on a warrant in case they needed one. He called FBI headquarters in Quantico, “just in case,” and he called several helicopter stations in Dallas. While on one line, he would pick up the other and talk to both simultaneously, a receiver to each ear. Callers were often put on hold. He sent two agents to Rich's house, as “standard procedure,” to sit outside.

Rich bent down and pulled up his trouser leg to see the color of his socks. They were dark brown. Shit, Rich thought, letting go of his pants and sitting back up. Bad luck all around.

He got up, paced, then stood in front of Scott as if he were on an interview.

During a short break between phone calls, Scott insistently tapped on the desk with a pencil and asked Rich, “So, what do you do?”

“I'm national sales manager for a religious publisher based here in Dallas.”

Scott looked over Rich's expensive suit.

“Oh, yeah? Are you good at it?”

“Yeah, I'm okay. I can size up a customer in less than a minute.”

“Oh,” Scott said, almost absentmindedly. “Is that good?”

“Well, I can tell if they're going to buy and I don't waste time on the customers who aren't. I can tell the difference between the buyers and the lookers in a minute.”

“Ah, that's great, that's great. Listen, so how much does a sales manager make?”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm trying to establish motive here. You make a lot of money?”

“I don't—what's a lot?” Rich was nonplussed by the question. “You think this is a ransom situation?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Probably. I'm trying to figure that out.”

“I don't have that kind of money. No one who knows us would think that—”

Scott raised his hand, asking Rich to keep quiet, and sit down while he answered the phone.

“Okay,” Scott said to Rich after hanging up. “We got some action. We got us some nice activity.”

“So what's going on?” asked Rich, getting up from the chair in front of Scott's desk.

“We located the car.”

“You caught him?” Rich's voice was sick with hope. He couldn't stand it.

Scott shook his head. “No, no, wait, let me finish. Through DMV, we located the car. It belongs to a Lyle Luft, twenty-seven years old, no criminal record. No employment address either.… Hmm. His address is listed as Garland, Texas. So he's a local boy. We got a picture and everything. Come around, I'll show you.”

Rich, reluctantly, walked around to look at the computer screen. Did he really want to look at the face of the man who had taken his wife? No, he really didn't want to. He looked anyway. The guy looked young, and had longish hair. The expression on his face was somehow vapid and intense at the same time.

“Means nothing, the hair,” Scott pointed out. “Alex identified him as having short hair. I'm sure it's been cut several times since the photo was taken.”

Scott called on the intercom. “Get Alex in here, quick.”

While they were waiting, Scott said, looking at the DMV records, “Now this is interesting, too.”

“What?”

“Well, this lists him as the owner of two vehicles. One 1986 Taurus Wagon and one brand-new Honda Accord. White. Where is that car? And if he's going far, why is he driving in a piece of junk instead of a brand-new car? It says here he registered it in June, just a few weeks ago. Where's the car? And where does a man listed as currently unemployed get the money to buy himself a brand-new car?”

“Who cares?”

“Oh,
you
should care,” said Scott. “
You
should. It makes no sense, therefore it must be looked at closer. If things make no sense, there's usually a reason.”

“Maybe he got a loan.”

“Who'd lend money to a jobless man?”

“Maybe he paid cash.”

“Ahh! Also interesting. If he's independently wealthy, what's he doing with your wife?”

Rich was tired of thinking. “Maybe he sold the car.”

Shaking his head, Scott said, “No, he didn't sell it. The car is still registered to him.”

Lopez and Murphy brought in Alex, who looked haggard.

“What's the matter?” Scott said.

Alex rubbed his eyes. “My eyes hurt. Can I stop looking through photos now?”

Scott's expression became slightly contemptuous. “Why don't you take a look at this one.”

Alex took one look at the man on the computer screen and said, “That's him.”

“Great!” Scott exclaimed.

“So can I stop now?” Alex asked.

Scott said, “Get out of here.”

The phone rang.

Before Scott picked it up, he asked Murphy to dispatch men to Lyle Luft's address and get a warrant to search his home, search for and impound the Honda if they found it, and impound Lyle just in case they found him as well.

Scott picked up the receiver and listened intently, nodding a few times, saying yes a few times, and then standing up in the middle of the phone call.

When he hung up, he said to Rich, “Just got a report on a police radio about a homicide thirty miles north and five miles west of Waco, in Aquilla. A gas station owner gunned down behind the cash register. Could be just a coincidence, but a remarkable one, wouldn't you say? How many paths can our Lyle Luft take? I say only one, Rich. What do you say?”

Rich said nothing.

Scott, standing behind the chief's desk, continued, “The man who called the police said he saw a tan station wagon speeding away. The only reason he noticed the car at all is because it was going eighty on a local road. The guy just got scared. Then he pulled into the gas station and found the owner on the floor. Sounds like our man. What do you think?”

Rich, unable to sit, or even concentrate on the individual words, said to Scott in a desperate voice, “Yes, but that's north of Waco. We're here, two hours away. How do we get
there?
”

Scott smiled broadly and walked around the desk to pat Rich on the shoulder. “That you leave to me.”

5:20 P.M.

“Slight change of plans,” said Lyle. “Nothing major. We need to take care of a couple of things real fast. I'm going to get off the highway. Help me look for a pawnshop, will you?”

“Sure,” Didi said, thinking, yeah, when I'm old and gray I'll let you know where there's a pawnshop.

He reached over and patted her belly. This time she sat catatonically, enduring his hand. “I see we've gotten used to me,” Lyle said. “That's good. That's really good, pretty Didi. Because I'm kind of starting to like you, too. You look so—so—” He stammered. “So … pregnant,” he finally said. “Yes, I like you.”

This is new,
Didi thought.

She wanted to say she was heartened by that news. After all, weren't they in high school and wasn't he the boy she wanted to go to the prom with? The boy who called her my bologna and whose shoes she threw up on?