Eleven Hours Read online

  Lyle pulled up to the pump and said, “Now, I want to show you something.” Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he pulled out a gun. “Are you familiar with guns?” He stared at her. “I’ll take your silence to mean no. Believe me, I didn’t want to show you this, but you have a tendency to rant and rave and all. This gun? It’s a thirty-eight Super Automatic Colt. It’s got a muzzle velocity of thirteen hundred feet per second. That’s about half of a Fireball, but pretty powerful, anyway. I want you to know that no matter how nice I’ve been, I mean business, okay? I don’t want to kill you, but I’d much rather kill you than die myself. Do you understand?”

  Didi nodded silently.

  “If you scream or carry on in any way to make yourself known to Johnny, I’ll have to shoot you and shoot poor Johnny, too, who never did anybody any harm. So by your screaming not only are you going to die, but you’ll kill an innocent person, too. Do you understand that much?”

  Again she nodded.

  “All righty then. I’m glad we understand each other. First I’m going to gas up. Did you say you needed a bathroom?”

  “Let me go to the bathroom first,” Didi said pleadingly. “I’m dying here.”

  Lyle smiled. “Gosh, I forgot. Pregnant women do have to go a lot, don’t they? My wife could barely drink one beer before she was off to the ladies’ room.” He looked around. “The bathrooms are probably out back. Let me drive you.”

  As they were pulling around the corner, a heavyset, elderly man walked out of the small convenience store and calmly waved a key on a large wooden ring in front of Didi’s window.

  “Do you want me to get that?” she asked casually, her hand on the door handle.

  “No!” he said, slamming the shift into park. “I’ll get it.”

  Nodding, Didi focused straight ahead. Bald, round-faced, kindly-looking Johnny didn’t deserve to die because of her.

  It made no sense for Lyle to take the key when the man was standing so close to Didi’s side of the car. All she would have had to do was roll down her window and stick out her hand. But Lyle went around the front of the car, took the key, and said something to the man. The man nodded, looked at Didi, and smiled. Didi shook her head. They’re having a moment on my account, she thought. She tried to listen through the glass. She could barely make out what Lyle was saying.

  “I have a riddle for you. See if you can guess.”

  Johnny stared warily at Lyle’s jacket.

  Gritting his teeth, Lyle said, “Ready?”

  “I’m not much into riddles right now,” said Johnny, handing Lyle the restroom key. “Too hot out here.”

  Lyle didn’t extend his hand to take the key. “Listen to me. Tell me if it’s easy. My wife over there says it’s a piece of cake.”

  “Okay, shoot,” said Johnny.

  Didi rolled down her window an inch, straining to hear. Lyle didn’t notice.

  “You have to guess a female name, okay?” he said. “From an old classic play about a man who loves a woman and another man who wants to, and does, both of them harm. It begins with a D, and it rhymes with—” here Lyle chuckled. “‘Barcelona,’ ‘Arizona,’ ‘my bologna.’”

  “Desdemona,” said Johnny immediately. “Do you want the bathroom or not?”

  Taking the key, Lyle looked bleakly at Johnny. “How did you know that?”

  “Piece of cake,” said Johnny, smiling at Didi.

  Didi turned away from Johnny. So hot, so hot. All Didi wanted was a restroom and a drink.

  They drove around back. While still in the car, Lyle gave Didi the key, and said, “In exactly sixty seconds I’m coming in to get you.”

  “Got it,” she said. “Can I take my bag?”

  He was instantly suspicious. “What for?”

  She tried to sound pleasant. “So I can brush my hair and put on some lipstick. I feel yucky.”

  He eyed her—nervously, she thought. He reached over and grabbed the bag; after rummaging through it, he pulled out the cell phone. Didi’s spirits sank, but it was moot. The LCD display on the phone said LOW BATTERY.

  He threw the phone in the glove compartment and, handing her the bag, said, “Hurry up.”

  “Okay,” she replied. “Of course I will. Just give me an extra minute to freshen up, okay?”

  “Just hurry up, that’s all,” he said.

  Didi placed her fingers around the handle and opened the door. She opened the door!

  Opened the door and left his car with her bag.

  The outside air stood still and thick and heavy with heat. She had to fight her way through it, stagger her way through it, as if the heat were a jungle, full of trees and branches that hit her in the face. It was just as hot as it had been in his car but not as sour. She hoped that airing the car out would help. Her legs moved sluggishly.

  The small, dark restroom reeked of old urine and shit. There was dirty water on the floor. Didi didn’t want to speculate on the nature of that water. She turned on the light and shut the door. She carefully laid her bag on top of the tank and then squatted above the toilet. Relief.

  But just as quickly, terrors overwhelmed her and she felt no better. After flushing the toilet, she glimpsed at herself in the mirror.

  It wasn’t her own face she saw. The woman in the mirror was drenched and weak and ghastly. Didi turned on the water, and Lyle banged loudly on the door. She heard him say, “Come on.” The handle turned. Thank God she had locked it.

  “Hold on,” she said. “I’m going to the bathroom. Wait a second, okay?”

  After hearing him move away from the door, Didi frantically searched through her bag, looking for anything that might help her. A toothpick, a nail file, scissors.

  She found a paper clip on the bottom of the bag, a couple of quarters, and Irene’s Hunchback of Notre Dame board book.

  She examined the paper clip and then threw it on the floor in frustration. Stifling her helpless sounds, Didi cursed softly under her breath and ran her hands under the water, then cupped them, filled them, and drank from them. Big gulps, one, two, three, four, five, six. As many handfuls as there had been rings on her phone before she opened it and breathed her husband’s name into it. Rich, she whispered now. Dearest Rich, you’ll forgive me for standing you up and for shopping so much and for getting caught up in the karma we talked about yesterday. You didn’t believe me when I told you I was afraid, but here we are.

  Lyle banged on the door again. “Come on,” she heard him say.

  “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.”