Eleven Hours. Paullina Simons

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.

      ‘We’re going to Waco?’ Didi asked.

      ‘No,’ 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, shouting, ‘What are you doing?’

      She gasped, stunned by his outburst, and said, ‘I’m hot. I was going to roll the window down.’

      ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No windows. Don’t want you screaming again, do I?’

      ‘Who’s going to hear me here on the highway?’

      ‘I said no.’

      ‘I won’t scream,’ she said. ‘I’m just real hot. I need air.’

      ‘Yeah, well, you should have thought of that in the mall. Didn’t need air then, did you?’ he said coldly.

      What was he talking about? And what’s happening to him? Why did he sound so angry?

      ‘I’m real hot,’ Didi repeated.

      He swirled one of the central vents on her. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here’s some air.’

      Didi sat back against the brown vinyl seat and closed her eyes. She wiped her sweating head, opened her eyes, and said, ‘Couldn’t we stop for a drink? I’m thirsty.’ She was hoping to bring some of his earlier politeness back.

      ‘No, we can’t stop for a drink,’ he snapped. ‘What do you think this is? A trip to Disney World? Sit and be quiet. Please,’ he added, composing himself.

      Didi had no choice about sitting, but she did shut up. He’s moody, she thought. Is this ma’am and please thing just a facade? God help me if it is.

      After a few moments, he said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but we have to make tracks. I have to concentrate, okay? Don’t want to go too fast, don’t want to go too slow. We’ll stop soon.’

      Oddly comforted by his courteous demeanor, Didi nodded and then said, ‘Don’t you want to call my husband?’

      ‘No!’ His nasal voice was shrill. ‘Why would I want to call him?’

      Beads of sweat ran down her cheeks. ‘To ask him for money?’

      Shaking his head, he leaned toward her and touched her gently on the arm. ‘You’re so naive. That’s what I like about you.’

      Didi wiped her face and then licked her fingers. Ten minutes later, the salt in the sweat made her crazy for a drink, but she didn’t talk.

      What was her Rich doing? He must have realized by now she wasn’t coming to the Laredo Grill. Where was he? Was he trying to call? Then she remembered her cell phone. She’d left it on standby at Warner Bros after she called him. Could he have called already and she hadn’t heard? Or was that the phone ringing?

       3.25 PM

      Rich Wood didn’t find his wife at the Valley View Mall. He didn’t find her at the Galleria Mall, either, though the parking there was more complicated.

      Rich knew his wife liked to use valet parking at the Westin Hotel adjacent to the Galleria; Didi loved to just get out of the car and pay four bucks and not worry about parking space. So he drove over to the Westin and asked about Didi’s van at the valet window. The valet, whose name tag read José, asked Rich to describe the van and Didi. Rich did. ‘Oh, jes, Didi, no, she no park here today. She have baby soon?’

      José said that the last time he’d seen Didi was four days ago, and he always tried to park her car close for her because when she came out of the mall with the bags, ‘she no like to wait so much.’

      The fact that the valet knew his wife by name because she visited the Galleria so often amused Rich. Oh, you Didi. You lead a secret life away from me. While I work, you’re getting to know José. You never told me you were on a first-name basis with the Westin valet.

      But he didn’t have a wife to say that to just then. He didn’t even have her van.

      Before he left, he dialed her cell phone number again from the pay phone inside the Westin.

       3.30 PM

      The light trill of the cellular phone was unmistakable this time. Didi didn’t move. Glancing over at the man from the corner of her eye, Didi saw he was hypnotized by the road and the radio’s loud music. He wasn’t acknowledging the muffled ringing. She panicked, then became exhilarated.

      The phone was buried deep inside her big black carryall on the floor between her and the door. Very, very slowly she reached to her right and in one motion stuck her hand in the bag without moving the rest of her body forward. The phone had rung four times. Keeping her eyes on the road, Didi hunted for the phone inside the bag. Please let me find the damn thing. Her other bag was so small, the phone always lay right on top – on top of her wallet or makeup bag or mail. The cramped bag had been so inconvenient – hence the new one – but now she would give away one of her cats to be able to reach the phone. Six rings. Maybe the man’s hearing was bad, because Didi thought the phone sounded like a church’s noontime bells. Finally, she felt the phone’s smooth leather-covered exterior. Instead of taking the phone out, she flipped it open inside the bag. It stopped ringing. She waited. The man continued to drive, saying nothing. She was silent for a few seconds. And then Didi said, ‘Rich?’

      The man came out of his torpor and turned to her.

      ‘Rich?’ she said again.

      ‘Who are you talking to? I’m not Rich,’ the man said, looking suspicious and on guard.

      ‘Well, what is your name?’ she said. ‘You never told me.’ She was hoping Rich could hear her through the muffling effect of the bag.

      ‘Why are you talking so loud?’ he said. ‘I’m not deaf, you know.’ A pause. ‘And what was that ringing?’ He slammed the radio power off. Didi’s heart stopped. She couldn’t answer.

      ‘That ringing? What was that?’ He looked over at her. Her hand was in the bag.

      ‘Was