Eleven Hours (13 page)

She never imagined that the face of death would be wearing jeans and a jacket on a scorching summer day, coming up to her in the mall saying, Can I help you with your bags?

What time was it? Oh yeah. Tonight we were going to have steak and French fries, Manda's favorite. I promised her she could shuck the corn. Hope Ingrid put the steak back in the fridge. It must have thawed by now.

When was it in her life that she had been happy? When had the future looked so bright she had to wear sunglasses? Wasn't it just this morning that everything was all right except an irrational fear that something was going to happen to her and the baby? Rich had laughed at her.

Yet karma did come to sit on her shoulders, it came to her and said,
I am the black crow that is going to carry you away, but first I'm going to make you suffer and then I will make you cry, and then I will show you the terrors of the world right here in this car, in the woods, in a ravine.

Lyle was saying something.

“Were you listening?” he asked.

“No, I'm sorry,” she said. “I was praying.”

“Well, stop that,” he snapped. “I need you to help me find a pawnshop.”

“What are you going to pawn?” she asked, trying to sound jovial. Then she actually made a joke. “You won't get much for the car.”

Smirking, and pulling up his turned-up nose at her stab at humor, he said, “Maybe we'll have to pawn something else, then, too, pretty Didi,” staring at the fingers of her left hand.

5:20 P.M.

Rich paced, sat down, stood up, paced, tapped on every wooden and plastic surface in Murphy's office as Scott called seemingly several dozen more people. Scott's deep, methodical voice grated on him; he tried to tune it out. Murphy brought him a Coke; Rich refused it. Juan tried to talk to him; Rich turned away.

“Maybe we should invest in a cell phone,” he muttered, as Scott finally hung up and got ready to leave.

“Got one, man. Let's go to my car and get it, okay? You're impatient, I know, but we have to have help. We can't do this alone. I'm doing everything to see to it that we have all the help we need.”

Murphy suggested, “Maybe Rich should stay here.”

Scott shook his head while making sure the holster for his gun was properly tightened. Rich's heart skipped a beat. He thought he would just break in two if he had to sit and wait at police headquarters for some news.

“Let's go,” said Rich.

“I'm the main case agent. He's coming with me,” said Scott to Murphy. “I need him to make a positive ID, I need him to talk to the kidnapper. I need him with me,” he said, quieter, “in case he's part of this thing himself.”

“Let's go,” Rich said loudly.

They went out the back door and walked to Scott's silver Chevy Lumina. “Get in,” said Scott.

“We're driving?” exclaimed Rich.

“We're driving to the helicopter,” answered Scott.

In the car, Rich said, without looking at Scott, “You know I'm not part of this thing.”

“I know that,” Scott said. “I just didn't want to discuss it with Murphy another second.” He handed Rich the cellular phone and a business card with a phone number scribbled on the back. “Here. Call home and forward your calls to this number. It's headquarters. They'll screen all the calls that come in, and if he calls, they'll trace him and put him through to us.”

“Won't that scare him shitless? To know the FBI's on to him?”

“You have any better ideas? You want your mother to talk to him?”

Rich shook his head.

At the charter station, which looked like a tiny airport, Scott parked his car and walked around to the trunk. Rich followed. Scott opened the trunk and Rich saw four black canvas bags of different shapes on the floor. Leaning in, Scott pulled out the dark bags one by one until three were on the ground and the only thing left in the trunk was one long black bag.

“You're leaving that one?”

“Yes. Those are my golf clubs, and I don't intend to play golf today—unless we finish early.”

Rich didn't think they'd be finishing early.

“Could you give me a hand with these?” Scott said. “We need to load these on the chopper.”

Rich picked up a long, narrow black bag. “What's in this one?” he asked Scott, who slammed the trunk closed, picked up the other two large bags, and started walking briskly to the helicopter. The pilot was already inside. The blades spun into motion.

“Which one? The one you're carrying? Oh, that's the Heckler & Koch MP5.”

Heckler & Koch MP5,
mouthed Rich. He shook the bag gently. Metal rattled inside. “And that would be … what?”

Scott turned his head to Rich. “Machine gun. Fires eight hundred rounds a minute. You think that'll be enough for our friend Lyle Luft?”

Rich turned away from Scott. “No,” he said.

Then he unzipped the bag and looked inside.

“Scott—”

“Rich, come on, man, let's go.”

“Wait, I have a question. Does the Heckler & Koch come with leather grips and little white balls?”

“No. Why?”

“I see,” said Rich. “Well, then, I don't think you're going to be shooting anybody with these, unless—”

Scott ripped the bag out of Rich's hands. “Ah, goddammit,” he said, turning back to his car. He opened up his trunk again, threw his golf clubs in, and pulled out the other black bag.

“May I make a recommendation?” Rich said.

“No.”

“Maybe you can put the golf clubs in, say, a green bag. To avoid confusion in the future.”

“Maybe you can get in the helicopter posthaste.”

As they were getting in, Scott's colorful tie was blown around his neck by the force of the wind from the blades. Rich's tie was crammed into his pants pocket. When they were in the air, Scott asked if Rich had ever been in a helicopter. Rich said no, never, but he wasn't paying attention.

He was thinking of Didi waddling around the house, barefoot, unable to bend down with her big belly, unable to get up off the couch without his help, so vulnerable.

But for now, Scott's small talk was all Rich had. Small talk and an aching heart, and a Heckler & Koch behind their seats.

“It's a good helicopter,” Scott was saying. “I got us a JetRanger. It'll fly at nearly a hundred and seventy-five miles per hour, and its fuel capacity is pretty good too. And do you hear me? We can actually talk inside the cabin. That's what I call a quality chopper.”

“Mmmm,” said Rich. “Where can we land in this thing?”

Smiling, Scott patted Rich's knee. “Anywhere,” he said. “You're with the FBI.”

Rich looked through the oversized front glass canopy of the helicopter. The glass gave him a fish-eye view of the sky and the ground. They flew low enough that Rich could make out the cars on the highway. Every car looked like a station wagon, every light-colored car looked tan. He stopped watching the ground after a while and closed his eyes. He wondered what time it was.

Faintly he heard Scott's voice talking to someone, maybe his AIC, maybe his mother. Who knew at this point? It was probably a sheriff somewhere. “Yeah, you gotta remember about this guy, he shot a man at close range four times. He could have shot him once and it would have been enough, but he wanted to set the place on fire. He means business. If your troopers locate him, approach with extreme caution. Repeat, extreme caution. We don't know what other weapons he has, but we have to assume he's well armed.”

Scott hung up, and for a few minutes there was no more talk.

“Rich,” Scott began, “just want to tell you, man, I know what you're feeling, and I promise you, we'll find him. We'll get him.”

It hurt Rich to open his eyes, but he opened them and shifted to look at Scott. Slowly he said, “You mean find
her,
Scott? Don't you? Get
her.
”

Scott didn't flinch. Didn't seem to understand Rich either. Didn't seem to or didn't want to, and Rich turned away. Scott said nothing for a while.

“Rich, I know you have no money,” Scott began, “but do you have enemies?”

“Enemies?” Rich laughed hollowly. “Lyle Luft is my enemy. But Scott, give me a break. I'm a sales manager for a publisher of religious books. Who's going to be my enemy? God? You think He got mad because I didn't make my projections this quarter?”

Rich wanted to cross himself when he said that. Is God my enemy? All my life He's been my friend, and Didi's too. Has God turned against us?

The Waco police were both more awed by Scott and more resentful of his power than Lopez and Murphy in Dallas. The sheriff kept Scott and Rich waiting in the corridor for ten minutes, although he had been notified of their arrival. When he finally came out of his office, he barely nodded acknowledgment before embarking on a trivial conversation with the dispatcher. Unflappable, Scott chewed gum and talked on his cell phone.

Rich couldn't stand it. Pulling on Scott's sleeve, he widened his eyes at the sheriff standing in the distance and then at Scott.

“Don't worry,” Scott whispered. “We get the last laugh, because he'll be giving up his office in a minute.”

Rich was glad he was on Scott's side. Looking like an overworked corporate executive, Scott, with his unconcerned confidence, pumped the sheriff's hand and immediately declared his office temporary FBI headquarters. Sitting down behind the sheriff's desk, Scott got on the phone, while Rich and the sheriff stood dumbly in the corner. When Scott hung up, he walked over to the sheriff, shook his hand again, and showed him the door, saying, “Well, that will be all. I'll call you if I need you. Thanks.” And closed the door behind him.

“He wasn't exactly nice to you back there,” said Rich when they were alone.

“No? I hadn't noticed.” Scott shrugged. “Listen, it's the special
double
challenge of being a black FBI agent in Texas. I pay no attention to it.” He smiled, going behind the desk and getting comfortable in the chair. “The law is on my side.”

“Plus you'll kick their ass.”

“Yeah, that too.”

*   *   *

The police officers on the scene of Johnny's murder found the scrawled note from Didi on the restroom mirror. The contents of the message were promptly reported to Scott. Meanwhile there were no further signs of Didi and Lyle. Undeterred, Scott called the state trooper headquarters to pass along the description of the car and its license plate number. He faxed photos of Lyle and Didi and reiterated the warning to use extreme caution in approaching Lyle. Scott told Rich that his boss, Raul, had contacted radio stations that had agreed to cooperate and they were now broadcasting reports of the kidnapping every fifteen minutes.

Rich was trying to sort his own emotions. He had been putting off calling home. He knew the girls and his mother would be beside themselves. Overwhelmed by the mass of information coming at him, Rich nonetheless managed a coherent thought. “Scott,” he said slowly, coming up to the desk and fidgeting with the ashtray, “what if Lyle hears reports on the radio that the entire state of Texas is searching for him?”

Scott said impatiently, “Yeah, so?”

Rich dropped the ashtray with a bang and moved away. Scott seemed to know what he was doing. Rich certainly didn't want to be stepping on anybody's toes. Yet …

“Scott, but won't he get desperate?”

“Desperate? You mean more desperate than kidnapping a pregnant woman and killing a man? I don't think so.” The conversation was over as far as Scott was concerned.

Rich felt a bit better for Scott's confidence.

A few minutes later Scott asked to see the dispatcher's records. He found a call at 5:10
P.M.
from Didi Wood. When they replayed the tape, they heard a woman's faint voice, pleading for help. While Scott raged against the dispatcher, Rich asked weakly to hear the recording again. And again.

“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—”

The sheriff was defensive about the oversight, something about being busy and having too much paperwork, and routines being disrupted. Rich wanted to tell the sheriff to shut up. He saw by Scott's expression that Scott did, too.

Rich wanted to know why Didi had stopped talking so abruptly.

Scott explained that the call had come through right around the time of the man's death. He thought that Didi was probably in the car while Lyle was inside the store. Scott thought that maybe Didi saw something that made her stop talking.

“You think she saw him kill the guy?” Rich asked.

Shrugging, Scott said, “Maybe.”

“If she didn't see Lyle kill the man, she might not know how dangerous he is, right?” said Rich. Was that good? Bad?

“Right.”

First a glimmer of hope, then nothing.

The only difference was the setting. First Rich sat in a Dallas police station. Now he sat in a Waco police station. After they left the dispatcher's office, Rich sat on the bench. Then he got up and paced the hall. He went to the bathroom, he had a drink, he sat on the bench, he paced the hall.

He went back inside the sheriff's office and said to Scott, “Could I have five minutes? I've been putting it off, but it's time. I have to call home.”

Scott left the room. Rich sat behind the sheriff's desk, unforwarded his home phone, and dialed the number, hoping his mother would pick up the phone. No, Amanda got to it first.

“Daddy!” she shrieked. “Did Mommy have the baby?”

In the background, he heard Irene crying, “Mommy, Mommy!” and his own mother yelling, “Manda, give me the phone right this instant!”

The bridge of his nose aching from the tension, Rich said, “Manda, honey, let me talk to Grandma, okay?”