Eleven Hours

by Paullina Simons

  Yeah, it’s a good thing for you I’m not Schwarzenegger, she thought as she trailed behind him to the police car. Because you’d be dead, motherfucker.

  She couldn’t see out of her right eye. She felt caked, sticky blood all over her face.

  They got into the car. Didi was glad she had followed her instincts and hadn’t run when Lyle was “burying” the police officer. Lyle pulled the keys out of his pocket. Didi knew he was too smart to leave keys lying around.

  Though he was dumb enough to try to sell the cell phone. Dumb enough to wear a jacket in July. Dumb enough to wear an ill-fitting uniform with blood on it. Who’d ever mistake him for a cop?

  In the middle of the dashboard was the police radio. Didi stared at it longingly, and he must have seen her, because before she could speak, he grabbed the radio and ripped it out, leaving the wires dangling. Then he threw it in the back seat.

  “Nice job,” he said to her. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  They pulled out onto the highway and quietly and steadily gained speed on US 84. Empty US 84 must have seemed too busy to Lyle, because soon they got off and drove north on a country road. The road was quiet and the fields were flat. Opening her mouth, Didi breathed the air in the car. Belatedly she noticed the air was cool. There was air-conditioning. No matter—she was burning up. She wiped a little condensation off one of the vents and put the fingers into her mouth. Was that better? With her heart numb, she prayed for the dead police officer, lying in the field, shot in the face while his wife maybe cooked chili at home and waited for him. Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world, and may your rest be this day in peace, and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God. Amen.

  Lyle hit ninety miles an hour.

  7:00 P.M.

  At the Waco police station, Rich and Scott sat across from each other at the sheriff’s desk. Scott asked Rich if he wanted something to eat, but Rich wasn’t hungry.

  The radio had another Didi bulletin on the local station. Scott immediately got on the phone with Raul, and they spent a few minutes congratulating each other on the success and good positioning of the bulletins. “Keep the pressure on,” Scott said, before hanging up.

  “Scott,” Rich said when the FBI man had finished talking with the agent-in-charge, “isn’t it a bit premature to pat ourselves on the back? I mean, we haven’t found them.”

  “I know. But we will. I told you. I have a great record in this.”

  “In what, Scott?”

  “In this. In catching the perp. The perpetrator,” Scott added, as Rich stared at him in confusion.

  Rich felt the warm sting of anger rushing through him. “We haven’t caught him, Scott.”

  There was a knock on the door. Scott went to answer it, and as he passed Rich, he patted him and said, “Don’t worry. Leave it to me. I’ll take care of everything.” Rich moved away from Scott’s hand, and watched silently as Scott brought in a sandwich from Arby’s.

  Rich needed to call home and talk to his girls again. It was getting late, but he had no news. Lyle Luft hadn’t called. He had nothing to tell his mother. What could he say? All he’d learned since his last phone call was that Lyle Luft was a murderer as well as a kidnapper. Was that going to comfort his mother? Was that going to comfort his girls? Poor Manda. She probably had had to eat a sandwich, the only thing her grandmother could make with some success. Hope Mom helped her with her homework. Ah, heck, thought Rich. She can stay home tomorrow. If this doesn’t warrant being absent from school, what does?

  Then Rich wondered what they were going to do at home. Sit, wait for the phone to ring while I don’t call, while I have nothing to tell them? I’m probably going to have to come home without Didi, and then I’m going to have to tell my daughters something.

  What am I going to tell them? What can I tell them? What will they understand? What won’t make them crazy?

  What won’t make me crazy?

  All Rich wanted was to hear Didi’s voice tell him she was all right and the baby was all right. Then he could call home and not lie to his girls. He could say that Mommy was all right. He’d have other problems, of course, like where to get the ransom money. But he’d get it. He’d go to the owner of his company and ask him to put up the money and then drastically reduce his salary until the debt was paid.

  The bastard wasn’t calling. He had kidnapped Didi, killed a man, sold his car and Didi’s ring, and then disappeared, and was on the road somewhere, running away from Rich, while Rich sat restfully in a chair. Rich wasn’t doing much chasing. The only thing that connected Rich Wood to Lyle Luft and to his wife was the nervous-sounding bulletins, coming every fifteen minutes, alerting the state of Texas that Rich’s wife was missing and that the man who had abducted her was armed and dangerous.

  Something besides the obvious was bothering Rich, something closer to anger instead of pain, and the anger wasn’t at his wife or her kidnapper. It was at someone else, and as Rich sat there and watched Scott wolf down a roast beef sandwich, that something bothered him until he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  He stood up. “Scott, I want you to call Raul and tell him to ask the stations to stop broadcasting reports of Didi’s kidnapping,” he said at last.

  His mouth full, Scott said, “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to lead to no good,” said Rich.

  “Trust me.” Scott smiled and continued to chew. “This is the way we do things. And we’re going to catch the bastard.”

  “See,” Rich said, coming to the table, “I think that that’s my problem with you, Scott. Not that you’re not a professional. But what the hell are you talking about?” Rich felt as if he had a fever. His whole body was shivering. “Scott, I don’t give a shit if you catch the bastard. Trust me when I tell you this. I couldn’t care less about anything else in the whole world. The only thing I care about is that I get my wife and baby back alive. And I think your pursuing the ‘bastard,’ as you call him, doesn’t account for that. I think, and I may be wrong, but I think that you personally don’t give a shit whether you get my wife back to me, all you care about is whether or not you catch the bastard. So I’m telling you, I want you to call Raul right now and tell him to stop with the stupid bulletins. Luft could panic and harm her. It’s the only thing you should care about, Scott. Not eating your fucking sandwich, though I’m sure you’re hungry, and not catching the ‘bastard,’ though that would be nice for you. But getting a pregnant woman out alive. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  Scott temporarily stopped eating, and then resumed again. “I see you’re upset. We’ll talk again when you’ve calmed down—”

  “No,” said Rich, raising his voice. “We’ll talk now.”

  “Rich, I don’t want to talk to you when you’re like this—”

  “Like what?” Rich screamed. “Like what? Crazed, you mean? Insane? Livid? Scared shitless? Like what, Scott? Tell me how you would like me to be. Like you?”

  Scott stood up. “The Outreach program and the radio stations are our friends, not our enemies, okay? Lyle Luft is our enemy. I know it’s him you’re angry at—”

  “You’re wrong! Right now I’m angry at you! Don’t you get what I’m telling you? Don’t you see that if he hears the police reports coming at him, he’s going to panic? He’s going to feel there’s no way out.”

  “No,” said Scott. “He’s going to turn off the radio. Then he’s going to get scared, and that’s okay. They usually get scared. Then they make a mistake. He’s got to get gas on the way. He’ll go inside the store, your wife will need to use the bathroom, he’ll get hungry. All we need is one phone call from a passerby, and we’re on him.”

  Rich began to speak, but Scott cut him off. “Look, look, like I said, I know you’re upset, man, and I appreciate that—”

  “Get the hell away from me, you appreciate that!”

  “Wait a minute! You need to understand that we have a way of working, a standard procedure, and that’s what we’re going
to do here.”

  “Oh, this is standard procedure for you, is it?” Rich exploded. “Well, you know what? Not for me. And tell me, if this is just standard procedure for you, how come he hasn’t called, huh? How come the kidnapper hasn’t called and told us what he wants? Is that standard too?”

  “It’s a little deviant,” Scott admitted. “But this is what we do for a kidnapping. And we’re usually successful.”

  “Usually successful, huh? You told me how many kidnappers you catch, but you didn’t tell me how many hostages you get out alive.”

  Scott was momentarily silent. Then he said, “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” Rich said. “Which part didn’t you understand? You told me you catch nine out of ten kidnappers. How many hostages do you get back alive, going by your standard procedure?”

  Scott replied, “I don’t know the answer to that question. There are many different types of kidnappings.”

  Suspicious, alarmed, and frightened, Rich walked around the desk where Scott stood and said quickly, “Scott, stop bullshitting me, man. Tell me how many.”

  “I don’t know. For something like this—”

  “How many?” Rich yelled.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Twenty percent, all right?” He let out a deep pained breath.

  Horrified, Rich said, “Twenty percent? You lose—twenty percent?”

  “No,” Scott said, looking down at his half-eaten sandwich. He picked it up and threw it in the trash. “We get back twenty percent.”

  Rich staggered back. “You—you lose eighty percent?” he whispered.

  Scott said nothing.

  Rich began to shake. Clenching his fists, he struck out, hitting Scott on the side of the face. “You bastard!” he screamed. “You are the bastard, not him! How could you not have told me this?”

  Scott reeled from the punch but didn’t fall. He went for Rich, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pushed him hard away. “What the hell are you doing?” But his expression read what Rich felt: shame, guilt, fear. Scott was helpless and he knew it.

  “Scott!” Rich cried. “Scott, you’re telling me that if you follow procedure, four out of five victims die? Oh my God! I want you to call Raul right now, right now! And stop those reports. Do you hear me? Do you understand me? Because if anything you’ve done results in the death of my wife, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Rubbing his jaw, Scott pushed past Rich to walk to the door, but stopped and said huskily, “No hard feelings. I know you’re torn up inside.”

  “You don’t know,” said Rich fiercely, shoving Scott away. “You have no idea. And it’s all right because I have hard feelings for the both of us.”

  When Scott was near the door, he turned to Rich and said, “I’m going to go talk to our favorite sheriff. I think it’s too late to call off the radio reports. They’ve been broadcasting it for over two hours. All the radio and TV stations know. They already have the news. They’re going to keep broadcasting until Lyle Luft is apprehended.”

  Rich was silent, trying to get his breath back.

  “And if you felt this strongly about it, why didn’t you say something before?” Scott asked. “Why didn’t you tell us at four-thirty when there was something we could still do about it?”

  “Scott, let me ask you,” Rich said, his voice trembling. “How many kidnapping cases is this for you? Is this your first?”

  “No,” Scott said indignantly. “I’ve had thirteen other kidnapping cases in my career.”

  “You can’t win this one, Scott,” Rich said. “So don’t let your pride ruffle your feathers. Well, this is my first kidnapping case ever. I hope it’ll be my last. This is not a job for me, this is not a day at work. That’s why I didn’t think of it at four-thirty,” Rich said, slamming the desk with his first. He realized he hadn’t unclenched them since he punched Scott and now fought to regain control of his hands. The fists clenched involuntarily.

  “All right, man,” Scott said quietly.

  Rich said loudly, “I didn’t think of it, but you should have thought of it. You are supposed to be great at this.”

  “I am good at this.”

  “I think you have your goals messed up. My goals are clear. If I get out of this halfway sane, I’ll read up every book ever published on kidnapping so I can do better next time.”

  “There will be no next time, Rich,” Scott said. “This only happens once in a lifetime.”

  Rich went on, “I’m sure in one of your stupid FBI books it says somewhere that the most important thing is to try to get the hostage out alive. I mean, you must have had some training in Quantico other than climbing trees, or whatever the fuck else you guys do. I don’t know how you’re going to do that by threatening the kidnapper. He’s going to feel trapped, he’s going to feel caged. And when he feels he’s come to a dead end, he is going to kill my wife and my baby and then kill himself.”

  Tears were rolling down Rich’s cheeks, but he didn’t care. “And then you’re going to go home and go to sleep.”

  Scott sat in front of Rich on the edge of the desk and spoke without looking at him. “I’m sorry. We’re rated on our apprehension record. Just like the DAs are judged by their conviction records. Sometimes I can lose sight of my main objective—”

  “How can you?” Rich said weakly. “When you know the odds?”

  “If anything I’ve done results in harm to your wife, I’ll quit my job.” Scott extended his hand. Rich felt Scott’s emotional handshake.

  “Don’t quit,” said Rich. “Get her back.”

  Scott left the room. When he came back, he sat down, saying nothing.

  They waited.

  At seven-thirty, the phone rang. Scott listened for a couple of seconds and then dropped the phone and jumped up. “Come on, let’s go,” he said urgently. “They found Smokey’s truck.”

  * * *

  The helicopter was screaming white noise from its rotor. Rich wanted to get in, but Scott told him to wait.

  In the parking lot, he took off his shirt and tie and stood barechested while he rummaged around in his bag. The tie was scooped up in the tornado of rotor wind and blown away.

  Rich barely saved Scott’s shirt. Scott screamed something. Rich didn’t hear and leaned closer.

  Scott pulled a black shirt out of his bag and put that on. Rich noted that Scott was powerfully built; it was probably a good thing that Rich hadn’t angered him with his punch. Rich felt better about Scott, because he knew Scott understood. They were in it together now.

  Passing a black vest to Rich, Scott yelled, “Here, put that on.”

  “What is it?” Rich said.

  “It’s a safety vest! Put it on!”

  “What about you?”

  “I have another one!” Scott pulled out a bigger black vest, this one with a groin protector.

  Rich yelled, “Hey—”

  “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers! Put on what I give you and don’t put your groin in the line of fire!”

  Scott pulled off his dress slacks and put on a pair of black pants. He put the safety vest over the shirt and pants. Over the vest he put another piece of equipment—a black mesh load-bearing vest.

  In a minute, they were in the air.

  Rich asked about the vest. “What’s in here?”

  “What isn’t in here is more the question. Lessee, I’ve got bandannas for my head, two pairs of handcuffs, a steel baton, extra clips for the Colt and the Glock and the H&K, a light mount for the H&K, and a couple of hand grenades.”

  “Ahh,” said Rich. “No actual gun, though.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Scott reached behind his seat and retrieved a weapon from one of the black bags. Rich thought it looked light and unimpressive, but it was a 10mm Glock 17. Scott said it was one of the most powerful automatic pistols available, standard issue for the FBI.

  “What’s the seventeen stand for?” Rich asked.

  “Seventeen percent plastic.”

  “It
’s a plastic gun?” Rich said incredulously. “Are the bullets plastic, too?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Scott. “All the parts that matter are metal.”

  God, it was hot. He noticed that Scott was sweating profusely. Scott pulled out a black bandanna and wiped his forehead with it before tying it over his hair.

  “It’s all right,” Scott said. “It’s air-conditioned in here. If I can’t handle a little heat, I don’t deserve to be in the FBI.”

  “So, do you think they’re in the truck?” Rich asked. He was afraid of the answer.

  “No. The report said an empty truck. I think he switched cars again.”

  “What cars? Where would he get another car?”

  “I don’t know. Someone ran out of gas, or had a flat tire. He could have pulled someone over, killed them for their car. We’ll see when we get there. I just better have some support.”

  Rich felt sick from the tension. They had found the truck. They hadn’t said his wife was in it. Was that good? Or was it very bad?

  * * *

  “So tell me,” he said to Scott, speaking hoarsely. His voice felt weak after yelling under the helicopter. “Tell me why you had to change your pants too? Why couldn’t you just put the safety vest and the other one on over your regular clothes?”

  “Couple of reasons,” said Scott. “One—if I get shot, I don’t want you to get light-headed seeing me bleed to death in my starched white shirt.”

  Rich was going to tell him not to worry, but decided it sounded too flip. “And another reason,” Scott continued, “is that this material, called BDU, is fire-repellent.”

  “Are we expecting a fire?” Rich said.

  “You know what my motto is?” Scott said. “It’s the Boy Scout motto. ‘Be prepared.’” He paused. “In any case, this is our uniform for all contingencies, not just Lyle Luft.”

  Rich was thinking. He wanted to listen to Scott, he wanted Scott to keep talking. Something about being armed, ready, dressed, nearly comforted Rich.

  “Sorry about earlier,” Rich said.