Read Eleven Hours for Free Online Page B

couldn’t hear above the country music.
    Were they off Central Expressway? Didi thought so; she could see the tops of trees and houses. He must have got off and was driving through the side streets. Where was he taking her?
    â€œCan I get up?” she asked.
    He said nothing, but lifted his hand from her head, and she took that to mean yes. She got up.
    â€œSo what were you doing back there?” he asked. “What were you thinking?”
    When Didi didn’t reply, he said, “Look, I don’t blame you. I’m not even mad.” He smiled as if to prove that. “See? But you have to understand, it’s useless.”
    She rubbed her head where his hand had been.
    â€œPerhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You have to behave. We’re going for a little ride, that’s all, but you’re carrying a baby and you have to be careful. Do you understand?”
    â€œPlease let me out,” Didi said dully. “I have a husband … children.”
    From the corner of her eye she saw a slight smile. He wasn’t touched. He was just bemused.
    Turning down the music, he said, “Look, I’d prefer not to argue with you. Don’t get out of my car anymore. I want us to be friendly, but you have to show me I can trust you.”
    â€œFriendly?” she repeated, thinking she’d misheard. “Yes, of course. Friendly. Sure.”
    â€œDon’t you think falling out of my car would have hurt the baby?” he asked.
    â€œI wasn’t going to fall out of the car,” said Didi. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”
    â€œGood. Then we won’t have any trouble,” the man said. “Now be a good girl and let me drive. We’ve lost over an hour because of the work on Seventy-five.”
    â€œWhere are we headed?” Didi asked carefully.
    â€œMazatlán,” he said.
    Didi said nothing. She didn’t want to know.
    â€œMexico,” the man said.
    He told me anyway, Didi thought, shuddering.
    Didi again thought she could hear the phone ringing.
    Soon she recognized the stark warehouse clubs and tattoo joints that defined Deep Ellum—the funky, loud, slightly dangerous boozing and dining section of downtown Dallas. There were a couple of interstates they could take from there. Interstate 30 to Houston, or Interstate 20 to Shreveport, or Interstate 35 to Waco, Austin, San Antonio, and eventually Mexico.
    No one would ever find them—find her —in Mexico. Not Rich, not the police, no one. Mexico was where people went to disappear.
    The prospect of disappearing—disappearing with him—dried up Didi’s throat. She licked her lips and realized she had no spit in her mouth. For the first time since the mall she acknowledged to herself that she was thirsty.
    Didi was about to ask him if the air-conditioning was on, and then she looked over at the dashboard. There was no air-conditioning. Oh, great, she thought, and for the next silent fifteen minutes, she obsessed about the fact that there was no AC in her kidnapper’s station wagon.
    No air-conditioning was an immediate problem. Didi was hot. Her own minivan had a gauge that told her, among other things, the outside temperature. However, his old car was not AC equipped. The dash clock was broken. The vent inside the car was blowing hot air, and the windows were closed.
    Didi watched him get on Interstate 35E going south to Waco.
    â€œWe’re going to Waco?” Didi asked.
    â€œNo,” he said, his tone losing some of its earlier courtesy. “I told you where we’re going. Now don’t ask me again.”
    Didi sighed tensely, looking away from him. The road was hypnotic. It usually was so easy when Rich was driving to let her mind go blank and disappear into the road. However, not today. Not when she was this hot, this short of breath, this scared.
    Didi reached over to roll down the window, and the man immediately lost his temper,