Eleven Hours (21 page)

He interrupted. “Worth about six thousand dollars, right?”

“I swear on my children's lives—”

“Don't do that, don't swear on your children. It's sacrilegious.”

Didi couldn't believe her ears. “Lyle, it's not sacrilegious. Your kidnapping me is sacrilegious. You must know that, don't you, that you're acting against God?”

“So?” he snapped. “I don't care about Him.”

Shaking her head, Didi said, “Lyle, you have the potential to be good, to be very good. Cows are not much good or bad, or dogs or dolphins. No, just us, humans. An average man can be only so good and only so bad. A better man can be better, and worse. A man of genius the best yet, but the worst too.”

“Well, I'm no genius, Didi.”

“No,” Didi said. “But you can be good, Lyle. Very good. Great, maybe. You have that ability inside yourself.”

“And how do you know this?”

She chose her words carefully. “Because,” she said, “I've seen you be very bad.”

He didn't reply at first but then said, “I haven't been very bad, Desdemona. I've been expedient.”

She shook her head. “No, Lyle. Without a doubt, you let evil enter your heart. You're a Christian man, I know you are. We can help each other—”

“Oh, I know it.”

“You can still be saved, Lyle.”

He laughed. “You're kidding me, right? You think any cop is gonna let me go now?”

She stared at him, amazed. “The cops? No, saved before God, Lyle. Before God.”

He shook his lowered head. “You're not getting under my skin, Didi. You're not. I don't want be saved by Him. I hate Him. Plus He doesn't exist.”

“That's a contradiction in terms,” said Didi softly. “You cannot hate that which doesn't exist.”

“Didi, as I told you before, you should worry less about saving me…” Lyle nearly smiled. “… and worry more about saving yourself.”

“The two are synonymous,” said Didi.

Shaking his head at her, Lyle said, “Forget it, Didi. I'm trying to build a new life here, and you're bothering me with bullshit.”

She looked at him in wonderment. Her body stopped hurting for an instant, as her thoughts stood still trying to make sense of him. The mind couldn't do it, and the body began aching again. “Lyle, what are you talking about? You've kidnapped a woman, killed a police officer, probably killed that old man, Johnny. You're in Texas, Lyle. What do you think the punishment is for killing a police officer in Texas? What kind of life are you thinking of? Are you thinking of life on death row?”

“That's not much of a life,” said Lyle, and Didi felt her low spirits sink beneath the earth.

“Is this—your first kidnapping?” she asked.

And he laughed. “Yes, Barcelona. This is my first kidnapping. Is this
your
first kidnapping?”

The Belly began to squeeze tight. Omigod, she gasped, closing her only open eye and holding her belly. Oh my God.
Hear my voice when I cry to You.

Didi knew she didn't have much time.

7:45 P.M.

When they arrived in San Angelo, Scott said it was good that all the cities they were checking out were near each other, because otherwise the helicopter would be out of fuel. As it was, they had gone about as far as they could. “Choppers don't have very good range,” he said.

Would it take them to El Paso? Rich wondered. To New Mexico? To Arizona? To Mexico? Would they follow Lyle Luft all the way to Mexico in their fuel-guzzling noisy bubble with skis for landing gear?

The San Angelo police precinct was tiny and ill-equipped, but the officers were friendlier than those in Waco. They tried to accommodate Scott in every way. The sheriff himself went out and brought Rich and Scott something to eat from his favorite Mexican place. Scott ate again.

Rich didn't touch his food.

Scott said, “I don't think he's leaving Texas, Rich.” He paused to point toward the enchiladas. “Have something to eat. I feel he's close. There isn't a hell of a lot of Texas left.”

“There's plenty left, like another three hundred miles to El Paso.”

“Only a hundred and fifty miles to El Paso,” said Scott. “The chopper makes you lose your sense of distance.”

Rich knew it wasn't just the chopper that was making him lose all sense.

“Why do you think he's not leaving Texas?”

“Eat and I'll tell you.”

“I can't,” Rich said. “Do you think he's feeding my wife?”

“Probably. He doesn't want her to die. Rich, you're no good to your wife starving and thirsty.”

“I'm no good to my wife anyway,” Rich said. “What am I doing to help my wife?” He looked at Scott. “What are
you
doing to help my wife?”

Scott stopped eating. “What would you like me to do?”

“He's in a police car. Put out a bulletin saying you won't go after him if he releases her.”

“Another bulletin? You think he'll buy it? He shot a cop. He knows we won't mean it. It's the oldest trick in the book.”

“Only if you're really old. He's not a professional criminal. He's nuts. Maybe he's scared for his life. And a man who's threatened isn't going to be acting rationally.”

“He hasn't been acting rationally from the get-go.”

“No, that's not true,” said Rich. “He's been acting according to his own logic. However skewed we might think it is, it's rational to him.”

“That's the definition of crazy, Rich. When you're doing fucked-up things and thinking you're completely sane.”

“Tell him that.” Rich paused. “If he lets Didi go, tell him you won't pursue him. Tell him you have no jurisdiction over him if he goes into another state—”

“But that's a lie. That's when our jurisdiction begins.”

“Who cares?” Rich snapped. “It's going to get dark soon. He's going to get away. We don't have a lot of time. Either we find him, or we—”

“He's not leaving the state,” Scott said. “He's staying right here. There aren't too many cities around here. I'm sure that right now we're farther west than he is. Remember he's driving cautiously. And he's not leaving. He could live in El Paso. He could be from here. He could be from Abilene. No, our man Lyle is heading back home.”

“Why do you think he's not heading out of state?”

His mouth full, Scott said, “Because his Social Security number is a Texas number.”

“So? Mine is from Illinois. What does that prove?”

“That if you kidnapped someone without thought of ransom, that's where you'd be heading.”

“Illinois is a big place.”

“Yeah, it is.” Scott continued to eat his rice and beans. “First place I'd look for you would be in Chicago. Then I'd try everywhere else. You'll forgive me, man, for being hungry, but I work better on a full stomach. Anyway, usually we're able to get a whole bunch of information about someone through our database. We have access to every record imaginable. The credit records usually tell us a lot.”

“What does his tell you?”

“His is nonexistent. The only thing he's got in his name is the Honda. He paid cash for it, though, since there are no liens on the title. We still haven't figured out where he got the cash.”

Rich shook his head. “How can that be? How can a twenty-seven-year-old man not have any credit records?”

“By not having any credit,” Scott said. “I know, I know. It's rare.” He smiled. “Imagine a world where we had no credit history.”

“There is no such place,” Rich said, his strained expression relaxing. Then he thought of something. “Ah … Scott, Scott. Wait. If you look up my credit file, there'll be a load of information on me.…”

“Yeah?”

“But I bet not so much on my wife. Bet you my wife will have little or no information on her. Most of our credit cards are in my name.”

“What are you saying?”

“Maybe his credit was all in his wife's name.”

“We spoke to his landlord in Garland. He was single.”

“Yes, in Garland,” Rich said excitedly. “But he's not headed to Garland, is he? He's headed somewhere west of Waco. Maybe wherever he's going he has a wife.”

Scott pushed his food away and got up. “Maybe. But all we have is his last name. Luft. And it may not even be her last name. We don't have a first name for her, if
she
even exists. No date of birth. No Social Security number. What kind of records are we supposed to get?”

“You've got your crime directory, don't you? That famous FBI database?”

“You mean the NCIC, the National Crime Information Center,” said Scott. “If the guy or his wife had stolen weapons, ever committed any kind of crime for which they needed to be fingerprinted, ever stolen a car, then yes. But Rich,” Scott said, “Lyle Luft was not in the NCIC.”

“Maybe his wife is.”

“We don't know that he has a wife!” Scott sounded exasperated.

“Please check. I'm telling you. People have credit reports.”

“Not if they live hand to mouth or never had a credit card or never borrowed money.”

“Do you know any such people?”

“No,” said Scott. “But there's obviously one, and he's the one who's got Didi.”

Rich mumbled, “Shit.”

Scott put his arm around him. “Let's go to the phones again. I'm going to call the Bureau in Abilene and El Paso and see if they have anything on a Lyle Luft—”

“Any Luft. We're looking for a phantom wife.”

“Your wife is not a phantom, Rich,” Scott said.

“Not mine,” Rich said, shaking his head. “His.”

*   *   *

Rich had avoided calling home since they were in Dallas. Now it was eight o'clock and he had to call his mother. With a heavy heart, he dialed the number.

“Mom?”

“Oh, God! Have you found her?”

“Mom, please don't sound so panicked in front of the kids! For God's sake!”

“They're in the bath. I put them in the bath together. Those two are a pair.”

Didi's parents usually looked after Manda and Reenie. Rich's mom was too proper to get her hands dirty with the girls.

“They certainly are. Are they okay?”

“They're fine. Have you found her?”

“Not yet, Mom.”

“Oh my God. What does he want? Money?”

“We don't know. We don't think so.”

“Richard? Are the police helping you with this? Where are you calling from?”

“Yes, Mom,” Rich said tiredly. “The police are doing all they can. Don't worry—”

“How can I not worry? What are you saying?”

“No, I know. Just please—hang tight. Don't forget, Reenie likes warm milk.”

“Richard, where are you? You have to come home. Reenie told me she's not going to bed until her mommy reads her a book. She wants to read the big Peter Pan book. She's got it all picked out.”

Scott had come back, and Rich lowered his voice and tried to sound as casual as possible, belying his anxiety and his great, ugly anger.

“Mom, you'll have to read her that book. I can't come home. I'm in San Angelo.”

“Where is that?”

“Far.”

“Is Didi there?”

“We don't know.” Rich was exhausted. He couldn't blame his mother, but he was exhausted just the same. “Listen, just tell the girls that everything is going to be okay, and that we will be home soon.”

“You will be?”

“I don't know.”

“Richard, you have to call me more often. I haven't heard from you for hours, and I was just frantic.”

“Yeah. Mom, there was nothing to tell you. There still isn't.”

“So you should have called earlier then.”

“Okay, yeah, look, I need to get off the phone. Kiss the kids for me. Tell them Daddy loves them.”

“Reenie was hysterical for her mother,” his mother said sharply and hung up.

For a few seconds, Rich couldn't look up at Scott. Then he placed the phone on the hook.

“It's tough, man,” said Scott, sitting down behind the desk. “It's tough talking to family.”

“No. It's tough talking to my mother,” said Rich.

8:00 P.M.

Didi remembered when her two girls were born. Amanda had arrived five years ago, and the labor with her was harder. Didi didn't recall much of it except that it was painful as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Then the doctor said, a beautiful baby girl, and Rich cried, and Didi tried to cry but she was still drifting, and then she slept for what felt like weeks, and then she went home, and slept some more, and then all of a sudden Amanda was a month old and Didi was conscious again.

Irene's arrival three years ago was similar, except she was two weeks late and the birth had to be induced. The contractions got bad fast. Then Didi was given an epidural and stopped feeling. Someone shouted push, push, and then someone pressed down hard on her belly to get the baby out, and then the head was out and the nurse said, look, Didi look, at the head, there it is, touch the head, look at it, one more push and the baby is out. But Didi couldn't look or touch. When the baby was out, Rich cried, and Didi may have cried that time, too—and regretted she hadn't touched her baby's head. But the regrets came later. She couldn't have looked down for anything. She couldn't open her eyes.

When people asked her how her labors had been, she'd say she didn't remember. Or she'd say she was knocked out for most of it. How did your labor start, do you remember? Yes, Didi would reply. I was marinating a chicken with Amanda and watching a Queen concert on TV with Irene.

But what was she going to say about Adam or Evelyn? How did your labor start, Didi? Oh, I was sitting in a stolen police car next to a complete stranger. I couldn't see out of my right eye. I hadn't had a drink in eight hours. If only she could write that down somewhere. When she was younger and unmarried and childless, she used to write in her diary. About friends and adolescent longings and real and imagined slights. But then her easy life took hold of her, and she didn't have time to write.