Eleven Hours (23 page)

*   *   *

Scott threw the phone down and bolted up. “We got something.”

Rich exclaimed, “You found the car?”

Shaking his head, Scott said, “No, but we're leaving. Come.” He drank the rest of his Coke and threw the can in a wastebasket.

“Where are we going?”

“Abilene.”

They ran out to the parking lot in the back of the station, where the helicopter was waiting, its blades bursting the air into tiny particles of dust.

“What's in Abilene?”

“Get in and I'll tell you.”

When they were in the air, Rich said, “We have our best conversations cooped up in here, en route to nowhere.”

Scott replied, “They're not that good, our conversations, Rich.”

Rich agreed. “What's in Abilene?”

“Lyle Luft's past is in Abilene. There's a good chance Lyle's there too.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the Social Security office told me that a Lyle Luft paid his Social Security tax out of eight different places in Abilene, Texas, from 1964 until now.”

“1964?” Rich tried to do the math and failed. “Was our Lyle even born in 1964?”

“No. I think it's the dad.”

Rich got excited; his hands became agitated. “Does Lyle Luft Senior have an address in Abilene?”

“Sure does. That's where we're going.”

Rich thought. “The white pages could have told us all that.”

Scott smiled ruefully. “You're right, Rich. But how long would it have taken us to look for a Lyle Luft through all the telephone records in Texas?”

Rich said, “About five minutes. To plow through the Texas area codes looking for a Lyle Luft.”

He didn't mean it as a rebuke. It was coming back to the same thing—he was an amateur, he wasn't supposed to have any of the answers. And they were the FBI. They were supposed to find his wife. And then Rich remembered they were only supposed to catch Lyle. The wife was incidental. He briefly felt hostile toward Scott again, but Scott was his only ally.

“Scott? Tell me,” Rich asked after staring out the glass of the helicopter. “How long you been doing this?”

“Twelve years,” said Scott. “I joined right out of law school. The only job I ever had.”

“Do you have a wife? Kids?”

“Got an ex-wife. One son.” Scott was quiet. “They live in Oklahoma. I see my son once a month and during vacations sometimes. If I'm not working.”

“The FBI is your life,” Rich said.

Scott nodded. “The FBI is my life.”

“Then how come you don't have any answers for me?”

“What answers do you want, Rich?”

“Tell me this is all going to turn out all right.”

Scott was quiet. At last he said, “It will all turn out all right.”

“You're lying.” Rich fell back into his seat. His shoulder was pressed into Scott's. He couldn't look at him.

Dear God, Rich prayed. I promise I will never take Didi for granted again. I will never have her say to me, you don't touch my pregnant belly enough. If you get her out of this, I will never take my hands off her belly. I'll keep my hands on her and I'll caress her, and I'll feel my baby kick. I will kiss her breasts and kiss her belly, and press my ear against the navel to hear the baby, and she'll never have to ask me to do any of it. I think I have been a good husband, but she has been even a better wife to me, and I will never take her for granted again if only—

Rich turned east, away from Scott; he didn't want Scott to see his eyes.

Time was running out for Didi. The sun hovered above darkness.

“Scott,” Rich said again, in a voice thick with heartbreak. “Tell me why a man would kidnap my wife.”

Scott was silent.

“You must know all the types. We know he didn't kidnap her for money, right?”

“Right,” said Scott. “Though he did hock her diamond ring.”

“Yeah,” Rich said. “But that would be too pathetic. He didn't kidnap my wife for fifteen hundred bucks.”

“I agree.” Scott paused. “That would be pathetic.”

“We pretty well know he's not an international terrorist, and he didn't kidnap her to get Libyans out of Turkish jails, right?”

“Yes, we can eliminate that.”

“We know he is not her ex-husband or an old boyfriend, so he didn't kidnap her because she was Didi.”

“Yes, we can assume he is a total stranger.”

“Well, what else is there?”

“About a dozen kidnappings a year are done by women wanting newborn infants. They dress as nurses, go into hospitals, take babies.”

Rich felt keenly uncomfortable. “Yes. Well. We're not in a hospital, are we? What else is left?”

“Not much.”

“What, though?”

Scott was quiet. “Come on, Rich,” he said, staring into the clouds. “Nothing left, except he's a psycho and wants your wife for some crazy reason.”

8:40 P.M.

Didi got out of the car as Lyle instructed her. Dusk had fallen, but she could clearly see a path and gravestones. Beyond them was a small forest. He had turned the car off but left the lights on, and they shone onto a gravelly walkway.

“Your wife is dead?” Didi breathed out. She was having another contraction and struggled to stand still on her buckling legs.

“You're so smart, pretty Didi. So smart,” Lyle said, taking her arm. Reaching under her handcuffs, he rubbed her belly, and she involuntarily shuddered. Funny that she could stand still during labor pains, yet when Lyle touched her, she jumped. He repulsed her, and she sensed that he knew it.

Despite her cringing, he didn't release her arm. He pushed her forward through the grass and tombstones. The car lights shone at her back. He was walking too quickly, and she stumbled as he forced her onward.

They came to a small graveside. Lyle moved her out of the way of the car lights, and Didi read the inscription:
MELANIE LUFT, WIFE OF LYLE, MOTHER OF LYLE
, 1971–1998.

Right next to her plot was a smaller tombstone, a tiny one. It read,
LYLE LUFT III, SON OF MELANIE AND LYLE, MAY
14, 1998–
MAY
17, 1998.

Didi sucked in her breath. She wanted to double over. Clasping her handcuffed hands tighter, she numbly mouthed a short prayer for a little soul whose body lay in the ground.

Poor Lyle, thought Didi.

They did not speak. Didi suffered another pain that she bore silently, and then she kept her one good eye closed along with the bad one. Her head was bowed, and she heard Lyle sobbing next to her.

Lyle has grief. And he's not bearing his silently.

Or alone.

“I should tell you what happened.”

“It's all right, Lyle,” Didi whispered. “You don't have to say anything.” Tears rolled down her face. The salt made her cheeks sting.

“No, I want to. Mel and I were expecting our first child this July,” Lyle said. “But back in May something went wrong. I told her and told her not to smoke while she was pregnant, but she was so sure of herself. I told her to drink more milk, but she said, who needs dairy products? They're bad for you, spinach is much better, blah, blah. And she went into labor three months early. No one could figure out why.” He sniffed loudly.

Didi wanted to wipe his face.

“After an emergency C-section, the baby hung on, but something went wrong with Mel. They couldn't stop the bleeding. She was just bleeding to death from the inside out, and all those great fucking doctors,” he sniveled, “they could do nothing to help. Nothing. Imagine that. All those years in med school and nothing.” He paused.

Her own heartache abating for a moment, Didi said, without looking at him, “I'm very sorry, Lyle—”

“She died.”

That was too bad for Melanie, thought Didi.

And too bad for me.

Too bad for me that a woman I don't know died hundreds of miles away from me. She died, and somehow I am here staring at her grave.

“She bled to death,” Lyle continued. “When they autopsied her, they discovered she had something called, I don't know what, postpartum hemophilia, or some shit. Apparently happened to only three people in the entire United States.” He wailed.

Four, thought Didi. To
me,
too.
I
didn't smoke.
I
drank milk. And now it's happening to
me,
too.

Didi didn't have the courage to ask about the baby. She didn't have to.

His voice slipping into choking spasms of stuttering emotion, Lyle said, “The baby … he couldn't—couldn't … couldn't m—m—m—make it on his own.”

“I'm really sorry, Lyle,” was all Didi could whisper.

“He was t—t—too small … they said he was too little to survive … barely a pound. Eleven inches long. My little boy … not even a foot long.”

“I'm sorry, Lyle,” Didi repeated hoarsely.

He turned to her, his face a crushed contortion of pain. “I held him in my hands. I held my dead son in my hands before they took him away.”

Softly, Didi said, “Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding, deal graciously with Lyle in his grief, surround him with Your love that he may not be overwhelmed by his loss—”

“Too late,” interrupted Lyle.

Didi stopped praying.

“We buried him here,” Lyle told her. “Then I moved to Dallas. I didn't know nobody in Dallas. I just wanted to disappear. To die.”

Didi stood with a bowed head, wondering why he hadn't. She'd be home right now reading books with her kids, not standing here with him in a cemetery in Eden, Texas.

“But it's just not me,” continued Lyle. “I'm not the suicidal type.”

“No?” Didi said wistfully.

They stood side by side, both shackled: Didi by her metal restraints, Lyle by his grief.

Didi yanked on her handcuffs, and one hand almost went through.
Many young bulls encircle me; they open wide their jaws at me, like a ravening and a roaring lion. Packs of dogs close me in, circle around me; they pierce my hands and my feet; I can count all my bones.

When didn't
almost
count? she thought. In land mines and pregnancies. Well, it didn't count here either. But she would get her hand out. She would get her hand out if it meant tearing the outer layer of skin right off. She would get her hand out.

And then?

Then she would run.

Okay.

She would run. Run back to the police car with no police radio, and then? Maybe then she could roll down the window and shout, “Come on, Lyle, let's go!”

Or maybe she could hit him over the head with her handcuffs.

But she didn't want to hurt him. He was already so broken.

I just want to break free. That's all I want. I want to get myself to a hospital—at the very least to a police station where a cop can deliver my baby. I have to get us out of the cemetery.

It was hard for Didi to stand, because her legs were folding under her in another contraction.

Yeah, run.

Do contractions stop for a running pregnant woman? Does the baby say, oh, wait, I'm not coming yet? My mother is running, and I can't possibly be coming now when she is running in a cemetery at night.

Didi thought, maybe Lyle could deliver her baby.

She wondered if she told him she was in labor, if he'd—maybe he'd take pity on her. Buoyed by her hope in human nature, Didi said cautiously, after the pain passed, “Lyle, I'm very sorry for your loss. Really. I'm very, very sorry. I feel awful for you.” She meant it.

Then Lyle said, “Have I told you about Mazatlán, Didi? Mel and I drove there. We were headed for Acapulco and the car broke down.”

Do I
need
to hear this? thought Didi.

“I want you to hear me out, Didi,” he said. “It's important. Mel and I thought we had bad luck. But it wasn't bad luck. Because one day in Mazatlán made us forget the rest of our plans to go down to Acapulco, then cut across to Yucatán, see the pyramids. We didn't care about seeing anything anymore after spending a day in Mazatlán.” His back was to Didi. He sank down to this knees. “We sat on a bench and ate fresh fish. We bought fruit from the stands and at night we had coffee and chicken mole and sopapillas.”

Didi slowly backed away. Lyle seemed to be in a trance. If he continued talking, she could back up all the way to the car.

And then what? How would she get it started? Spit on the spark plugs and rub them between her hands? Or should she just cast a spell? If Didi could cast spells, it certainly wouldn't be to start some silly old car.

“The car got fixed the next day,” Lyle continued, “but we never left. I don't think we even went to get the car from the shop until we were ready to leave for Texas.” Lyle was talking to the gravestone, not to Didi, who took another couple of steps back. “I remember watching an old man make a straw hat. Out of straw.”

Lyle laughed lightly and turned to Didi, who froze, looking at him with wide eyes. “Where are you going, Didi?”

“Nowhere, Lyle.”

“No. That's right. Nowhere.” He was facing her but not coming any closer. “You seem to be farther away from me than a few minutes ago. Or is that just my imagination?”

Didi took a couple of steps forward.

“What's the matter? You don't like my story?”

“I like it very much,” she said. “Tell me, was it pretty, this Mazatlán?”

“Pretty? We were on our honeymoon. I thought my wife was pretty. I thought the sun was pretty and the ocean. I guess Mazatlán was pretty, too. And it's great for kids. It's got nice beaches. The water is warm. We saw lots of kids playing.”

“It sounds nice,” she said.

“Wouldn't you like to go see it?” he asked

She didn't know how to answer.

Yes?

No?

Among all the thoughts in her head, Mazatlán was negligible.