Eleven Hours (25 page)

In a few moments, Lyle got up and said, “Let's go, Didi. Back to the car.”

She walked slowly, pretending to study the ground. “Could you open the door for me?” she asked.

He opened the door and shoved her inside.

If I don't have a drink now, I will die.
I am poured out like water, my mouth is dried out like a clay pot, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and you have laid me in the dust of the grave.

As if that's the most of my problems.

Didi flung her head back and closed her eyes.

She heard Lyle start the car, felt it pull away.

And then he said to her, “Have you ever had an abortion, Didi?”

“What?” she quietly asked, and all of a sudden—

That was enough for her.

Didi raised her hands, flung herself at him, and hit him as hard as she could over the head with the metal edges of her handcuffs.

Didi thought she broke skin. He yelped in a way that satisfied her. She stayed long enough to hit him again, harder.

He thrust his right arm at her to stop her, but she hit his arm away, grabbed the door handle, opened the car, and threw herself out on her side.

Her ribs exploded. The car had been going slowly, but the ground was hard. Didi realized that only intellectually. She immediately picked herself up, got onto her feet, and began running away from the car. She heard Lyle scream,
“Didi!”
She didn't turn around. She ran into the darkness and gravestones and the trees. Unable to see, she collided with a stone that cut her across the knees. In pain, she went around the stone and kept running, her hands out in front to protect her against a branch or a tree. She couldn't hear Lyle behind her, couldn't hear his footsteps, couldn't even hear her own.

In the moonlight she saw the shape of a tree, then of a number of trees. She ran toward them. She knew she was running slowly. With the tension in her belly, her feet were barely moving. Come on, come on, she whispered to herself. She dropped to the ground and crawled until she found a small ditch behind a tree. She fell into it, rolled to one side, and tried not to breathe.

9:00 P.M.

The helicopter landed at the intersection of a suburban street, a block away from the Lufts' house in Abilene. Three black vans waited. The back doors to the vans were open and the “special agents,” as Scott called them, sat with their feet hanging over the edge, waiting for instructions. They were dressed like Scott, though few were wearing black bandannas. Farther down the block, Rich saw at least ten cop cars, no sirens, but lights flashing.

Scott popped out of the helicopter, his H&K in hand, walked over to the men in the van, and said, “Did you guys bring the map of the neighborhood I asked for?”

One of the men brought out the map from inside the van. Scott studied it briefly. “We probably won't need gas masks, but bring the light mounts for the rifles, because we don't know how long before this guy shows up. Hell, bring the smoke, too. If he's in the house, we'll smoke him out.”

“And then we'll kill him,” Rich whispered.

“Shhhh,” Scott said, and then added, “Here, don't forget the vest, will you? Make sure it's zipped all the way up on the side. I know you're hot, but zip it up right, okay?”

Rich shook his head. This could not be his life. He could not be standing in the middle of a quiet, tree-lined street zipping up his safety vest.

“Can I have a gun too?” asked Rich.

“Shh,” said Scott, glancing at the men sitting in the black van. “I can't give you a gun. It's against protocol.”

“Fuck protocol.”

“If I gave you a gun and anyone found out, my ass would be grass.”

“So the answer to my question would be no? I can handle a gun. My father and I hunted when I was little,” Rich said.

“Ah, blood sports,” said Scott. “That's good. This is almost the same. Thankfully, you won't be the one doing the hunting.”

“Too bad,” said Rich, looking behind Scott at the SWAT men. “Do we really need them?” he asked.

“Yes, we really do. We're not Butch and Sundance, for God's sake. We can't go in alone. What would we do without them? Talk sense into him?”

“What do you guys have in there, anyway?”

“I don't know. Usual stuff. Tear gas, rifles, bombs.”

“Oh.”

“What were you expecting? We don't have, like, a howitzer in there.”

“Why not?” Rich asked, staring into Scott's sweating face. “I mean, why can't we go to the Luft house by ourselves? We're just going for information. You don't think Lyle Luft brought my wife to meet his parents, do you?”

Scott glanced at Rich and then away.

Rich was too numb for fear. “What?” he said tiredly. “You think he already killed her and came over to his mom's house for a little Monday-night steak? I don't think so.”

“You're right, of course,” said Scott, prodding Rich along down the street, and then motioning the men to come with them. “All right,” he said to them, walking backward as he spoke. “Listen to me, and listen carefully. We may have a man inside who is holding a pregnant hostage and is trigger-happy—armed with at least two powerful guns. Use all possible caution and common sense when approaching. I want at least one man for each window and door in the house. The Abilene cops know to close off the area, right? I don't want our friend Lyle driving off in his Honda with this man's wife while we're adjusting our crotch straps. Now, then, come with me, and then disperse. I want to walk up to the house alone. But I need two men to cover me. Rich, you stay here.”

Shaking his head, Rich said, “Absolutely not.”

Scott looked surprised. The SWAT guys shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“My wife could be in there,” Rich said firmly, not allowing any argument. “I'm coming in too.”

Scott sighed deeply. “And two more men to cover Rich. Got it?”

“We can never be too careful,” Scott said to Rich as they started walking. Scott had given his H&K to another SWAT team member to carry. The bandanna was not much good at keeping sweat off Scott's face.

“I don't know how you can walk with all that shit strapped on you,” said Rich.

“I'll admit I'm a little warm,” Scott said. “And I'd rather be wearing my suit and tie when I come to knock on people's doors. It always seems more civil—”

“What? To blow their brains out in a suit and tie seems more civil?”

“Exactly right.”

“I see.”

The SWAT men with their high-powered rifles spread out between the houses. Some ran ahead of Rich and Scott, disappearing into the trees. Some trailed behind them. Four men flanked them.

Before they turned the corner to Washington Street, Scott said to his group, “Do you think we could be more conspicuous?”

The men stared.

“Okey-dokey, I meant
less
conspicuous,” explained Scott. “Listen, just stay close, but don't crowd me, okay? If he's in here, we don't want him opening fire.”

Rich looked around him as the SWAT men took their positions. Rich felt better that they were here for him. He opened up his shirt a button and kept walking. His undershirt was damp with sweat, and his short hair was wet at the roots. Then he looked over at Scott and was ashamed at himself for being hot. “Man, that stuff on you is heavy, isn't it?” he said.

“All in all it weighs thirty-seven pounds. That's with the light mount. But hey, I don't have my machine gun, so really it's only twenty-seven pounds.”

Pulling out his Glock 17, Scott made sure it was loaded, felt in his load-bearing vest for more clips, and then said, “Cover me if I get into trouble, man.”

“Are you talking to me?” asked Rich.

“No,” Scott said, nodding in the direction of an armed officer.

“Oh,” said Rich, walking fast beside him. “Because I could sell you a really nice counter display that holds twelve inspirational titles. That's about all I can do.”

This was an old, well-kept neighborhood. The small houses were mostly one-story, surrounded by mature trees. It was late, and there were only a few people on their porches, sitting in their lawn chairs looking out onto the street with passively alarmed faces. The rest had gone back inside; Rich could see them through the open windows, watching TV in their living rooms.

Husbands and wives watching TV in their living rooms.

All Rich could do was keep walking.

Scott was unsmiling and focused.

“We're not going to fuck it up, are we, Scott?”

Without slowing down, Scott put a heavy hand on Rich's back. “Let's go and talk to mister and missus.”

The Luft house was a small brown bungalow with a long porch. Scott didn't like the length of the porch, and Rich knew why. If Lyle was in the house, he could easily point a gun out of one of the front windows and shoot Scott dead as he stood at the door.

“Your men will cover you, right?” Rich asked.

Scott nodded. “After he shoots me from the far end of this porch, my soldiers will cover me up and take me away before I'm cold.”

He asked if they were ready before he mounted the porch. Turning around, he made sure his men were in their places. “Let's go.”

He pounded hard on the door with the butt of his Glock.

Rich said, “No time for niceties.”

“None,” said Scott.

The door was opened by a thin, bald man.

“You must have the wrong house,” he said immediately. “I seen you guys outside. You're making a mistake.”

“FBI,” said Scott. “May we come in?”

“Not without a warrant—”

Scott burst the door wide open and pummeled through past Mr. Luft. “Leave that for the movies, Mr. Luft, and for celebrity defendants. We're investigating a felony kidnapping. We think the kidnapper may be in your house. We don't need a warrant to find him. We have exigent circumstances. However, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you that we do have a warrant for your son's arrest. Now, where is he?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Mr. Luft. “You get out of my house—”

But he was stopped as three of Scott's men kicked down his back door and pushed into the living room, a gray-haired woman in front of them. “Doris?” said Mr. Luft.

“What do they want, Lyle?” Doris said shrilly.

“We want your son, Mrs. Luft,” said Scott. “Lyle Luft. We want him.”

“Well, he's not here!” she said defensively. “What's he done?”

“Kidnapped this man's wife,” Scott said. Rich watched speechlessly. In a matter of ten seconds, ten SWAT men stormed through the house, flooding every room with their rifles and their black uniforms. The small living area was dwarfed by their presence. Rich heard their footsteps and shouts. They ransacked the whole house in half a minute. “He's not here,” said one of the men as he came out of the hall bathroom.

“Well, of course he's not here,” barked Mr. Luft. “Doris told you he wasn't.”

“Lyle,” she wailed. “What are they talking about? Lylie didn't kidnap anybody.”

“You know that?” Scott said.

“I know my son,” she said. “He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“No?” Scott said. “He would kill two human beings, though, in cold blood and kidnap a pregnant woman.”

Rich noted that Doris's expressionless face had clicked on. Murder and kidnapping didn't impress Doris Luft. But when Scott said “pregnant woman,” her look suddenly changed.

Scott said impatiently, “Your son is wanted for first-degree murder and kidnapping. If you know where he is and don't tell us, you'll be arrested and tried. You could get ten years if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, you'll be convicted of conspiracy to commit a felony, and for that you'll get twenty-five. Now, where is your son?”

Rich, placing a calming hand on Scott's back, stepped forward to Mrs. Luft and said, “Is everything all right, Mrs. Luft? You looked a little—stricken just now when Agent Somerville said—”

“Pregnant? Did you say pregnant?” Doris said in a squeaky voice.

“Shut up, woman,” said Mr. Luft. “For God's sake, stop your whining.”

Turning back to Scott, he said, “We're telling you he's not here.”

“That much we know,” Scott said. “Where is he?”

“We don't know. We haven't heard from him for three weeks, and that's the truth.”

“But, Lyle, remember I said to you how strange it was that he hadn't called?” Doris turned to Rich. “It was his birthday a few days ago, and we couldn't get in touch with him.”

“Shut up, Doris!” said Mr. Luft. “God, woman.”

Rich and Scott exchanged glances. “Okay,” Scott said. “Let's have it. Where is he?”

“We don't know. He lives in Dallas now.”

“Yes, we know,” said Scott. “Have you heard from him today?”

“No,” said Lyle.

“Have you seen him today?” Scott persisted.

“No, again,” said Mr. Luft.

Scott came up to him, “Don't get smart with me, sir,” he said. “I won't put up with it.”

Lyle Luft backed off. “Would that be all, officers?” he said. “Sorry we couldn't help you.”

Rich and Scott looked over at Doris, who was crying quietly in the corner. Rich asked, “What's the matter? Why are you crying?”

Lyle Luft said, “Oh, she just gets hysterical for no reason. Doris, what did I tell you?”

Doris tried but couldn't stop sobbing. “Hope my boy is okay,” she cried.

Scott shook his head, and Rich looked down.
Mothers,
thought Rich.

Rich said, “Mrs. Luft, is your son married? Is his wife pregnant?”

Doris stammered. “My son is—my son was—”

“Doris!” said Mr. Luft.

“Mr. Luft!” said Scott. “Quiet.”