Eleven Hours (28 page)

“Must be scared shitless,” said Didi without hesitating. “Much like me.”

“If you were to die, how do you think he'd feel?”

There was no answer to his question. Certainly no answer she wanted to give him. They weren't talking about an abstract notion. They were talking about her dying.

“Maybe what I want,” said Lyle slowly, “is to make him, feel how I felt when Mel died.”

“I don't know why. You don't know him at all. Why would you want to hurt him?”

“Why would God want to hurt me?”

“God knows you,” Didi said. “He's the only one with answers for that one.”

She thought. “Besides, that's bogus, Lyle. You didn't know I was married. I could have been a single mother on welfare, really unhappy and very alone.”

He shook his head. “You looked really happy, Desdemona.”

People had said that to her before. They said she radiated marriage.

“Tell me, Didi, if your husband came just in the nick of time to rescue you and saved you from me and shot me dead in cold blood, tell me, would you…” He seemed at a loss for words. “Would you—cry for me?”

“Yes, Lyle, I would.” She couldn't tell if she was lying. Couldn't
feel
if she was lying. I'd cry for me more, though, she thought. Cry in relief for my beloved life.

“Would you go back home, back to your life, and forget me?”

“Forget you? Are you kidding me? No, I wouldn't forget you.”

“No,” he said. “I don't suppose you would. I'm going to make it very hard for your husband to ever forget me. Kind of the way I myself stopped believing in God, but I haven't forgotten Him.”

Didi shook her head mournfully. “Yes, you have, Lyle,” she said. “Yes, you have.”

“No, Desdemona,” said Lyle, almost gleefully. “God has forgotten you.”

Our night isn't over yet, Didi thought, helplessly clutching her lousy bottle.

“A fire sounds nice,” she said.

“Does, doesn't it. But I'm not going to build it. Don't want any curious teenagers coming to visit us, do we?”

“Don't we?” Didi said wanly. Her eyes were glazing over. She was having another contraction. “Ahhh,” she moaned, and he saw and his eyes narrowed. “What?” he said. “You're in pain?”

“My eye hurts,” Didi said. “It's just throbbing. I need to get it stitched up.”

Ruefully, Lyle smiled, stroking her face. “Don't worry, Desdemona. It will be all right soon.”

She screamed and it hurt worse. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop threatening me!” She nearly fell sideways onto him, catching herself only at the last second, holding back, the broken bottle neck shifting in her twisted hands. She was at such an awkward angle. She would have succeeded only in hurling herself off the bench, possibly swiping him as she fell to the ground.

He said, “I'm not being kind enough.”

“Kind?” she gasped. And then the contraction was over. She calmed down. “No, Lyle. You aren't being kind enough.”

“Let's pretend to make that fire, Didi,” he said. “It will make you feel better. We'll take a little walk, we'll talk about your life if you like. We have a little time, but not much.” He seemed to be listening to the silence again. “I think I have more faith in your husband than you do. We don't want any surprises.” Getting up, he extended his hand to her.

Didi didn't take the hand and got up off the bench by herself.

The two walked back to the car. He reached into it and turned off the lights. At first they were left in near darkness. Then Didi's eyes adjusted to the night. She made out the shapes of trees, the moon up above, and Lyle as he approached her.

Didi's handcuffed hands were intertwined together in front of her. She thought, I don't care if I have to dislocate my thumb or break it off, but I must free one of my hands.

Lyle took her by the upper arm and said, “Walk with me. Walk with me into the woods.”

No, she thought. No. I can't go with him anywhere. I have to stay near the car. He is not Winnie-the-Pooh, and I'm not Piglet. This is not the Hundred Acre Wood. I have to stay right here. “Lyle—”

She was almost glad he was holding her arm when the pain gripped her. She doubled over and moaned.

Lyle let go of her, and she fell to her knees on the gravelly road. For a minute she moaned on the ground in front of him as he stood and watched. Then it was done.

“Get up,” he said.

He didn't help her. Didi got up with difficulty, pressing her hands against her knees to steady herself.

“Okay, what's wrong with you?”

“I just have a little stomachache. I haven't eaten, haven't drank,” Didi said, in a voice rasping with thirst. Her throat felt as if it were bleeding. “I'm not feeling great.”

He looked tense and suspicious. “Are you having those … baby pains?” he said uncertainly.

“No, no, nothing like that. Believe me, you'd know those,” Didi managed to say in a calm voice. “Can't hide those. They're vicious.” She was not going to tell this man she was in labor.

Baby pains,
he had said. Didi's head tottered. When is this all going to end? When is it all going to end badly. It was not a question. Something inside Didi was ready to part with life. Oh, but

baby pains

She moved her right thumb deep into her palm to make her hand narrower—narrow enough to slide through the cuff. Without letting go of the bottle neck, she tried to move the right cuff off her wrist with her left hand. It wasn't working. When she almost dropped the broken glass, she stopped attempting to get the handcuffs off. Without the bottle, she was unarmed. She might free her hands, but she'd be unarmed.

They walked a little deeper into the stand of trees.

“Let's sit here, Lyle,” said Didi when she saw the outlines of another picnic table. “Let's sit here and talk a bit. Want to do that? How would that be?”

Lyle's shadowy face smiled at her. “Sure, Desdemona.”

She gratefully sat down on the bench several feet away from him. “Sit closer to me, Didi. We've been through a lot together.”

“That we have,” she said, moving closer to him. She didn't want him to see her fiercely trying to free her right hand while the left hand hung on to the beer bottle.

Lyle looked into her face. “I can see you were once beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, thinking, bastard, bastard, bastard. Get off my hands, get off my hands, she thought to the handcuffs. But they wouldn't come off and then

baby pain

She closed her eyes and began to count. She forgot about the cuffs for sixty seconds. The middle thirty seconds were the worst. She tried not to move, and only her bitten and bloody lip spoke of the baby's desire to leave her.

Lyle didn't look at her until the contraction was over.

“What do you want to know about me, Lyle?” Didi asked in a weak voice.

“About you?” he repeated, sounding surprised. “Nothing. I know about you already. I asked you about Desdemona. Did she have a hard life?”

Didi nodded. She figured she had about three minutes before the next contraction to tell him about Desdemona. “Desdemona was Othello's wife.”

“Did he love her?”

“Very much,” said Didi, wanting to cry again. No time for crying. Only minutes before
baby pain.
“He adored her. Then he found out that she might have cheated on him—”

“How did he find out?”

“Iago told him.”

“Was Iago telling the truth?”

“No, of course he wasn't. Desdemona was a faithful wife.”

Lyle smirked. “Like you, Desdemona?”

Nodding, she said, “Like me, Lyle.”

“And then?”

“Then Othello went crazy and killed Desdemona.”

“How did he kill her?”

“He smothered her.”

“And the story was over?”

“No,” replied Didi. “Othello found out Iago had been lying, so he killed himself.”

Lyle studied her face. “He did?” Shrugging, he asked, “And Iago? He went scot-free?” Lyle asked with hope.

“No,” said Desdemona. “He was found out and sentenced to be tortured to death for his crime.”

“Ahhh,” said Lyle. “A just punishment.”

They were silent.

Turning to Didi, Lyle asked, “What punishment would be fitting for me, Desdemona?”

“None,” she said instantly, “if you let me go.”

“I see,” he said, half smiling. “And if I don't?”

“Death by torture would be okay, then,” Didi said, failing in a half smile of her own.

“Didi, I'm sorry,” he drew out, “but you know I can't let you go now.”

Didi mustered enough fortitude to ask, “So is that what you want? You want me to come to Mazatlán with you?”

“Well, no, you see,” said Lyle softly, “that would be a bit like always keeping a wolf at the door, now wouldn't it? A pretty wolf, but a wolf nonetheless.”

“I don't understand—” She closed her mouth to hide a moan of pain. He glanced over at her and said nothing. He must have thought she was reacting to him.

“Wouldn't it, Didi?” Lyle repeated. Didi was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The pain was becoming measurably stronger. The
baby pain
was here. There was no return to the state of her pregnancy where every once in a while Didi would feel the Belly benignly contract in a Braxton Hicks. There was only one way to go, and that was out of the pregnancy, and she was headed into that unknown now, and she was headed there with a beast. She and the beast together would enter the tunnel, and she would close her eyes and hope for the best, and pray for some good luck, even some mediocre luck, any luck, as long as it wasn't the terrible god-awful luck she'd been having lately. She'd close her eyes much as she did now and pray for ice to fall into her throat. When she would open her eyes again, she would have a baby and not be pregnant anymore.

But she might be dead. The baby might be dead.

No.

No.

9:45 P.M.

Using the landing lights, the pilot set the helicopter down on Wyona Road, right in front of the Blecks' house. Scott and Rich were the first to arrive, followed quickly by the four SWAT cars, followed by six more. By the time they got Scott's gear out of the helicopter, there were four black vans and a posse of sheriff's cars, nineteen cars in all on Wyona Road.

Scott asked the policemen to turn off their lights. Then he asked the sheriff of Eden for the map of the area that Scott had called him about earlier.

The sheriff, a portly, sweating man, finally admitted he didn't have one in his possession. Apparently the city hall office had one, but it was closed. Short of breaking in, there was no way to get it.

The Blecks' house was dark, except for the porch light and the single light in what was probably the living room. It looked as if the Blecks weren't home.

“They're not home?” said Rich incredulously. “How can they not be home?”

“I don't know, man. It makes no sense,” said Scott.

“What about this day does?” said Rich.

Scott wasn't fooling around. He had his Glock in hand and his Heckler & Koch by his side, and he didn't take his eyes off the house. He called in for more reinforcements from San Angelo. Scott said they were not leaving Eden without Lyle Luft, dead or alive.

Rich thought it was ironic that they had been in San Angelo over two hours ago, so close to Eden, and yet so far. But even in Eden, what did they have? As they sat, Didi's life hung in the balance somewhere.

“Maybe there's nothing here,” said Rich. “Maybe it's just another dead end.”

“Nothing's been a dead end, Rich,” Scott said. “Every single thing has led us to him, and I'm telling you, he's here. His Honda is here. He thinks we don't know about his car, but he won't be able to drive it anywhere, not in Texas, not in New Mexico, nowhere.”

“Where is the Honda?”

“I don't know. Most likely parked somewhere. I thought he might be stupid enough to park it in front of the in-laws' house, but he's obviously not such a moron. He's parked it where there are a bunch of other cars, like a garage, repair shop, gas station, someplace like that.”

“Well, this place's so small. How many gas stations can there be?”

“I'm on it, all right?” Scott said. “Me and you are waiting here for the Blecks. My boys and the sheriff's men will look for the Honda.”

Rich said, “You know, he could have taken it already. Dumped the cop car, taken his Honda, and driven out of town.”

Scott shook his head. “I'm pretty certain it didn't happen. He was only a few steps ahead of us. He's got business here, and we're going to find out what it is. If he just wanted to put Didi into his Honda and drive off, he could have parked it in a million different places in Dallas. It's very easy to park a car there. But in a city of a thousand people? Fifteen hundred? It's much harder to stash, but worth the risk for Lyle to leave it here. My guess is, he's hiding out right now, waiting to get it later. He doesn't want the abandoned cop car to alert the police. He'll wait, swap cars, and then head on out in the middle of the night. If we find the Honda, we're in like Flint.”

Rich sighed. “Nice speech,” he said, “but where's my wife?”

“The Blecks will tell us,” Scott said. He paused. “Listen, don't look at this as failure, all right? But I'm afraid you've driven me to this.” Opening his wallet, Scott pulled out a crumpled cigarette.

Rich sighed. “The day has gotten to you.”

“Yes.” He smiled. “I picked the wrong day to give up smoking.”

“Do you have a light?”

“Do I have a light?” Scott chuckled, reaching into his load-bearing vest. “How do you think we set off all those bombs?”