Eleven Hours (32 page)

Maybe I can move next time, in the next thirty seconds when I'm feeling no pain.

But Didi couldn't move in the next thirty seconds between contractions either. The need to push did not abate. It was blinding, even when she lay on her side.

She rolled over, looking for the car, and then rolled back to Lyle and muttered, “I'd like to stay and make you cry, Lyle. But I'm tired of looking at your stinking face, and I have a baby to bear. A baby that's not going to end up in Mazatlán. I wanted to ask you something, but never got the chance. Did you become whole through my suffering? Did my humiliation heal you, make you one with God, you filthy piece of shit?”

She rolled away from him and cried through another contraction, pleading into the ground for someone to help her.

Lyle, I know how you died and you had a bad death, but it was the death you deserved. You once asked me this and I answered you, but I lied. I'm not going to cry for you, and if my baby and I are going to be okay, I'll never think of you again. But if something should go wrong, if I'm never going to be able to have children after this, or if I lose my vocal cords or my rotted fingers, or if my septum leaks for the rest of my life, daily reminding me of you, then I'll remember that you're burning in hell, your immortal soul having gone through reliction, and I will feel better. Either way, you should have killed me quick instead of torturing me, because I wasn't going to go silently.

Lyle, you didn't know me at all.

She picked up the knife and wiped it on her dress. The knife remained slick and bloody. She let it fall to the ground.

I'm leaving you, and you'll have to have the Lord Jesus Christ ask for your eternal soul.

Didi Wood couldn't stand up or leave him.

Lying on her side, facing him, she folded her hands together and prayed.
Give rest, Oh Christ, to Your servant, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing nor life everlasting.
She meant to say
but life everlasting,
but went on without correcting herself.
Into Your hands we commend Your servant, we humbly beseech You, a sinner of Your own redeeming, receive him into the arms of Your mercy. Amen.

At last Didi staggered up and limped to the car, handcuffs at her right side, water trickling down her legs.

Unforgiving gravity was pressing the baby down. Gravity's help was the
last
thing she wanted.

To stand and walk was unbearable.

When she got inside the car, she sat down.

That wasn't much better.

So she lay down on her side again, her head at the wheel, and tried not to push.

One thirty seconds.

Two thirty seconds.

Three thirty seconds. She couldn't open her eyes now. She was nearly done. The pressure in her groin intensified.

“No,” she whispered. “No. We're not ready. I'm not ready. We can't be born yet, darling. Mommy needs to sleep just a little bit. Please … please help me.”

Four thirty seconds.

She had to do something.

She pressed on the horn. It blared harshly and briefly in the darkened park.

10:35 P.M.

“We didn't do anything,” was the first thing Bernie Bleck said.

“No, nothing,” his wife said.

“That's good,” said Scott. “Glad to hear it.”

“If this is about the taxes from 1995—”

Scott cut him off. “How much do you owe?”

Rich nudged him.

Bernie said, “I don't know.” Turning to Mrs. Bleck, “How much do we owe, missus?”

Maureen Bleck started to talk. “What, altogether? See, we meant to pay, but Bernie here, he came into a little bit of money, we sold one of our houses—not that we have so many or anything, no, we just had two, and we sold one of them, and we meant to build us a nice house in Naples, Florida, you know where that is? It's a real nice area, real warm, and the people are real nice, anyhow, we meant to build us a house, but things came up—and we never did go ahead and do it.” She shook her head and stared at the ground.

Rich saw that Scott was about to let go his short-leashed temper. Yet something stopped him. Rich knew what made him stop gritting his teeth. He too felt fleetingly sorry for poor old Maureen Bleck, who had lost her daughter and grandson.

“Mrs. Bleck,” said Scott, “that isn't why I'm here.”

Bernie Bleck sucked in his breath.

“Don't worry, Mr. Bleck, sir,” said Scott. “No matter how efficient you think the U.S. government is, not all branches communicate with each other. Believe me, this is not my jurisdiction. I do not do the dirty work of the Treasury. Well, not today anyway. No, I'm here because we want to know if you've seen your son-in-law lately.”

“Son-in-law?” Bernie exclaimed. “Lyle? No, we haven't seen him since—” He caught himself. “Since a few months ago.”

“No,” said Maureen, hanging on to her husband. “Not since a few months ago.”

Clinging to each other, they were inching their way to their porch.

Scott went around and stood in their path. Reluctantly they stopped.

“Have you seen him today?”

“Today? No, of course not,” said Bernie. “Why would we see him today?”

“He hasn't stopped by? He hasn't called?”

“Not as of seven o'clock,” said Bernie.

“Maybe he called since then,” said Maureen.

“I doubt it,” said Bernie. “Why would he?”

Scott asked, “Where did you go?”

“To San Angelo. To the movies,” Maureen said.

Scott said, “Mr. and Mrs. Bleck. Lyle Luft kidnapped this man's wife. A pregnant woman. This is a matter of life and death. He has come to Eden to pick up a car and then disappear. We found the car, but we haven't found him. We need to know where he may be hiding out. Lyle has killed a police officer and stolen his vehicle, so he has to be in a place where he can hide the car. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

The cell phone rang. Scott listened, grunted, then hung up. “Somewhere
other
than the Eden cemetery,” he said. “Because he's not there.”

Deflated, Rich stood spiritlessly at Scott's side.

“Gee, we haven't seen him in a long time,” said Mrs. Bleck. “Where could they have gone, Bernie?”

Bernie wasn't listening. “God, I knew he was crazy. I told you and told you,” he snapped. “Told Mel too. Don't marry him, I said. He is unstable. He'll make you unhappy.” Bernie Bleck shook his head miserably. “Now look what he's gone and done.”

Scott said sternly, “We need to find him right away. Is there any place at all that Lyle and your daughter hung out, frequented, liked? Any place here that meant something to him?”

“They used to go to the movies a lot,” said Maureen, sniffling. “But the movie theaters are in San Angelo.” She turned to Rich, “I'm real sorry—”

“Where else?” Scott interrupted her.

“Where else, Bernie?”

“How the hell should I know where that maniac liked to go? I told her not to marry him!”

“Try to stay focused, Mr. Bleck. Where else? He's not in San Angelo. He's here in Eden. He's someplace where he can hide a large Crown Victoria police car.”

“Maybe Tony's garage?” offered Bernie Bleck. “He was kind of friendly with Tony.”

“My men have searched the whole place. They're not there. That's where his Honda was, though, so you're on the right track. Can you think of anyplace else?”

“Not really,” said Mrs. Bleck. “This is a real small town, you know. They met in Abilene, where Mel worked as assistant manager of a Taco Bell. But here there really wasn't much for them to do. They went to the park a lot when they were here.”

“Park?” Scott became rigid. “What park?”

“Pfluger Park. They used to go and have picnics there on Sundays—”

“Where is it?” Scott said, backing away and gesturing violently to the black vans and the cars.

“It's a few miles down Eighty-seven. There's a sign. Pfluger Park. It's kind of woodsy back there, and there are a couple of picnic areas, so I don't know—”

Scott was dragging Rich by the arm. “Thank you!” he yelled. “Let's go, let's go, let's go!”

Rich ran.

10:35 P.M.

She didn't have the strength to keep pressing on the horn. No one was going to come anyway.

On the floor of the car, Didi saw her shopping bags from the mall. She wanted to get up, but she couldn't move. She lay in a fetal position, her right hand gripping the underside of the seat, holding on, riding the contraction down. She was in too much pain even to scream. All her energy was fighting the inevitable. She was too afraid to bring a baby into the world by herself. Yet every ninety seconds, her belly was telling her push, and every ninety seconds Didi was biting her lips in an effort not to.

Where are the keys to the car? Maybe I'll start the car up and drive to the nearest gas station, the nearest anything. I'll drive as long as driving somewhere doesn't take longer than thirty seconds.

It was too late to drive at this hour.

They'd missed the ride to Mazatlán.

No one to call. No radio, no phone. It's dark. I have no water. Don't they always tell you to have water nearby? Is that to wash the baby? It's a good thing I don't have any water. I'd drink it anyhow. The baby wouldn't get any.

Her body shattered through another contraction.

Come on,
Desdemona.
Your hour has come.

No. I'll just lie on my side till help comes. I'll lie on my side and wait.

And the baby will die, stuck for an hour or two or four in the birth canal. Lyle didn't kill it, couldn't kill it, you wouldn't let him. You wouldn't let him. Why? So you could kill the baby yourself? So you could let him run out of life out of your womb but not into life yet? Somewhere in that tunnel, where you are and where the moon shines bright as your only light and where the trees are dark and the crickets cry, he's stuck with you, and you aren't getting up, Desdemona. Come on, get up,
she groaned, clasping the wheel.
GET UP, DIDI.

She sat up, and felt the exploding pressure in her pelvis.
Push me, it said, or I will tear you from side to side. I will shred you.

Wait,
she breathed.
Wait. I have nothing to catch you with. I have nothing to tie you with, when you come. Just wait.

Unbearable tremors overran her body. Her legs, her arms were shaking uncontrollably. In the hundred-degree heat of the night, Didi felt very cold. When the contraction was over, Didi ripped off her bloody dress. I don't want my baby lying on Lyle's blood. He's not going to feel the pig anywhere near him.

Again.

That motivated her. Disgusting bastard, she thought, leaning into the Victoria's Secret bag and pulling out her silk robe, silk nightgown, silk bra, and silk panties, all in the color of a nice burgundy. Didi took off her blood-soaked bra, but she had neither the stamina nor the coordination to put on the clean one. She hung on to the door handle and cried, breathing shallowly, breathing the baby back inside her.

In the next twenty seconds, she tried to put on the nightgown, and failed. Her shaking was too severe.

Didi finally managed to throw on the robe, ripping off one of the robe ties. Where's the knife? I need the knife. She had left it near Lyle. She moved the seat back as far as it would go, opened the car door, and screamed, “Help me!” Her voice rang through the trees. “Help me!” Didi didn't recognize her voice. It didn't belong to her. It belonged to a man, or a woman with no vocal cords. It barely registered out of the car. “Help me,” the voice hoarsely whispered. Swinging the door shut, she laid the nightgown under herself. I have nothing to push against. I have no midwife to put my feet against, I have no stirrups, I have no Rich.

Who?

Rich.

“Help me,” she whispered. “Dear God, help me.”

Still calling for God, after everything.

Didi moved the seat closer to the dashboard.

The dashboard would have to be her Rich, her God, her midwife, her stirrups.

Putting her feet up on the dash, she gripped the door handle with one hand, the seat divider with the other, and rasped, “Okay. Let's go.” And pushed.

She pushed as hard as she could. She felt as if she were being ripped from the inside out. Then it stopped. Panting, she let go of the door handle and lowered her hand between her legs. She felt a squishy, wet softness.

That's it, she thought. That's my baby. He's been there all along, just waiting for me.

Her teeth chattering, Didi remembered the cries of the nurses during her last labor. She put her chin on her chest, grabbed on to the door handle and the seat divider, and pushed.

And pushed and pushed. And then thought fleetingly, wait—

Here I am, pushing away, holding on for my life, shaking. But who's going to catch this baby?

And the answer came back to her in a rasp. You, Didi. You. Let go and guide your baby out.

She let go of the door handle, slumping against the seat and unable to hold herself upright any longer. The handcuffs were still attached to her right wrist. She could have found the keys, but they were with Lyle, and she'd be damned if she would touch that bastard again. Unless it was to kick him.

She put her fingers between the baby's crowned head and her own torn perineum and pushed. She pushed hard at first. If it hurt, she couldn't tell, she was numb, she was her own Darvocet, her own epidural anesthesia. She pushed hard, then remembered she was to push slow. At first it was just the squishiness, but then more came through, and for a second she became terrified that there was something wrong with the baby, because the head was so soft and pliant, and then she thought,
are the cuffs digging into his head,
and then,
no, that's not the head, it's his behind,
and before she had a chance to push again, the baby forced its head into the world. Didi held it in her hands. The little head was so slippery and she was shaking so badly, Didi thought,
I could drop it without meaning to, without wanting to. And where's the body? Do I have to push again? No, no.
Her legs were falling off the dash. Didi couldn't keep them up, couldn't keep them open. Grunting like a weight lifter, she pushed one more time, and then the body of her baby slipped quietly into her hands. She saw its back and behind. She turned it over.