Eleven Hours (19 page)

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.

“It's all right,” Scott replied. “I'm pretty good-natured. Otherwise, you'd have a serious rap sheet for your behavior. What was it?—threatening to kill a federal officer, assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm—”

“Not grievous,” said Rich lightly.

“I'd better not give you a gun. You're a little trigger-happy today.”

“About the gun,” Rich said. “If this Glock you have is standard-issue, why didn't you carry it in Dallas? How come it was in your bag in the trunk of the car?”

Scott shrugged. “I prefer the more traditional approach to firearms. I say if you shoot well, you don't have to shoot so frequently. So I carry a Colt forty-five.”

“Ahh. Is that the gun you guys carried till this ten-millimeter Glock came along?”

“No, just till the nine-millimeter Glock came along. That was a good gun. But the Bureau says it doesn't do enough damage.”

Rich found that ironic. “What? The holes aren't big enough?”

“Exactly right,” deadpanned Scott.

*   *   *

In a few minutes they were east of Goldthwaite on US 84, near Center City, not a city, really, just a burp on the map. Scott had asked the local police to close off the road a mile west and a mile east of the Toyota truck. The helicopter landed on the highway next to a patrol car with two officers in it.

“Jesus! Where are my men?” Scott was yelling from the chopper door. “I called fifteen minutes ago. Where are they?”

One of the police officers shrugged. “They're probably on their way. In the meantime, we'll help.”

Scott motioned for the pilot to kill the engine.

When he could talk normally, Scott looked the police officer over and asked, “Are you wearing a vest?”

The officer shook his head.

“Is your partner wearing a vest?”

Again no.

“So what are you going to do?” Scott yelled. “Stop the bullets with your chest? Rich, give me your vest.”

Handing it to one of the officers, Scott said, “You can fight about who gets it later. Now I want you to come with me.” The officers seemed to have barely heard him.

Rich found himself unable to get out of the helicopter. “Come on!” Scott yelled. Rich shook his head and withdrew from Scott's hand. He waited in the helicopter. He didn't want to look inside the truck that was parked at an angle off the road. He was too afraid of what he might find in there. He turned away and faced the other direction.

Scott came back.

“Come on!” he yelled again. “They're not there.” Rich got out and ran toward the truck.

“Stop!” Scott said. “There's blood on the road.”

The policemen looked closer. “Not blood,” one of them said. Rich saw stains that a number of cars had passed through near the white line of the shoulder. “Not blood, sir. Just a stain.”

“Just a stain?” Scott asked. “No, not a stain. Blood.” The two officers looked closer. One of them shook his head.

Scott said, “See, let me explain. We have a dangerous criminal on the road. He has already killed an old man in cold blood. The truck he was driving is right here.” He pointed. “When I see something that looks like blood in these circumstances, I let my good sense tell me it's blood. After all, this is not a spill in the middle of my kitchen.”

In the meantime, Rich went over to the truck.

Scott looked along the road. “Not only is it blood,” he said, “but look, there's a whole trail of it disappearing into the field. Why don't you two go—no, wait,” he said, staring off into the distance.

Rich looked up from the windows of the truck. “What is it?”

“Better not go there,” Scott said. “There aren't enough of us. God, where are my men? What if he's in the fields with your wife?”

Rich paled. “That's not my wife's blood on the road,” he said.

“How do you know?” asked Scott.

Rich had no answer, but he said no.
No.
His Didi hadn't died in Center City in the field, on a road. She wasn't roadkill, she hadn't been dragged into the field. Not his wife.

“Let's go,” Rich said. “Let's go right now. I'm not waiting another minute. He could be there with her.”

Shaking his head, Scott said, “Hold on, hold on. I'm going to radio in for help. I don't care if I get sent a whole bunch of incompetents. We need help. His truck is here but he's not. Where is he? He's probably running with her into those woods at the end over there. That's where he is. That's where I'd go—to the woods. Away from this open space.”

Rich felt his legs buckling, but he straightened out and said, “I'm not waiting. Now, are you coming with me?”

Scott held him back by grabbing his shoulder. “It'll be all right, Rich. Please. Let me do my job,” he said gently. “Stay here.”

“No,” Rich said, twisting out from Scott's arm. He jumped down the embankment and ran along the trail of blood.

Scott ran after him, calling the police officers to come. “Wait!” Scott yelled after Rich. “Wait, goddammit! What are you, crazy?”

Rich didn't answer. He wasn't listening anymore. He heard Scott running after him. The two policemen followed. The four raced by the side of the trampled grass.

Rich followed the path through the grass, and then suddenly he stopped and groaned. He thought he felt shock, but it wasn't shock. It was relief. The half-naked body lying face-up in a ditch wasn't Didi. Rich asked God for forgiveness, but the feeling of relief did not leave him. Half of the man's head had been blasted by a gunshot wound, and glassy eyes stared blankly up at the cloudless summer sky. He was dead.

Coming up behind Rich, Scott looked down at the ground and said, “Bastard. Oh, goddamn bastard.”

The other officers followed. One of them looked down at the dead policeman and cried out, “That's Ernie. God, that's Ernie.”

The four stared vacantly into the ditch. Scott placed his hand on the patrolman's back. “I'm sorry, man. Let's go back and call EMS. He's dead, though. Wife?”

“Yes, Jesus, I went to their wedding a year ago. Ernie and Eileen were expecting a baby in a few months. What am I going to tell her?”

The policemen remained by the body of their fellow officer. Rich and Scott slowly walked back to the road.

“Why was he naked?” Rich asked quietly.

“Because the bastard took his clothes.”

“You don't think he's around here?”

“Nah. Ernie's patrol car is gone. Luft switched cars again.”

When they reached the highway, Scott went to the patrolmen's car to call headquarters. Meantime Rich opened the door of the Toyota. He was stunned by his weakness. He had to hold on to the truck. He had just felt a moment of relief and the hot air almost cooled him in his fear, but now as he opened the door and saw the inside of the truck, nausea overwhelmed him.

The truck smelled of Didi.

It smelled of other things too. It smelled of sweat and vomit and something even more acrid. It was filthy and oily. But through it all, Rich Wood smelled his wife. Her perfumed lotion smell redeemed the foulness in the Toyota.

There was blood on the passenger seat and the passenger door, and on the door handle. Rich touched it; the blood was not yet dry. It soiled his fingers. Recoiling, Rich stepped away from the car and saw the rag on the grass. He picked it up. It was still moist with blood. Is this my wife's? he thought. He pressed it to his face, rubbed his own face in it, this oily bloody rag, a rag with her life on it. “Didi,” he whispered, trying not to scream, “where are you, where?”

The field was empty and burnt. The grass was short, the sagebrush silver-green and flowerless. Nothing moved in the heat and the sun except Rich's hands pressing the rag to his face and to his chest.

Scott came to the truck. “What is this?” he said, looking at the cloth and then at Rich's face. “What are you doing?”

Rich didn't answer him. “Where's my wife?” he whispered. “What am I going to tell my children if she dies, if he kills her? What?”

Gently, Scott pulled at Rich's arm. “Come on, man, we've got to go. We'll talk in the air.”

Rich followed slowly. “Where are we going?”

“I don't know,” said Scott. “West of here.”

The pilot asked where to; Scott in turn asked him what the next big city west of here was.

The pilot told him it was either San Angelo or Abilene. Both were more than a hundred miles away.

“Okay,” Scott said. “We're going to San Angelo.”

*   *   *

Aloft, Scott said, “This is what happened. The cop must have pulled them over, and Luft shot him and dragged his body into the fields, changed into his uniform. Took his patrol car. He's now disguised and better armed.”

Rich said nothing, still feeling thick guilt about feeling comfort at a man's death. He was anxious. What about the blood on the rag? Could it have been the dead cop's? But how could that be? Luft had probably shot him when he was standing near the driver's window, and Rich had found the rag on Didi's side of the car. The rag was Didi's. Still clutching it, Rich thought, that's an awful lot of blood. Did he shoot her? Is she having the baby? Both thoughts were terrible. He could find no comfort.