The Husband Read Free

fingers off one by one…
    The kidnappers would expect him to summon the authorities or to wait for someone else to do so. Forbidden, however, was any mention of Holly or of kidnapping, or of the fact that the dogwalker had been murdered as an example to Mitch.
    Indeed, his unknown adversaries might have put him in this predicament specifically to test his ability to keep his mouth shut at the moment when he was in the most severe state of shock and most likely to lose his self-control.
    He opened the phone. The screen brightened with an image of colorful fish in dark water.
    After keying in 9 and 1, Mitch hesitated, but then entered the final digit.
    Iggy dropped his trowel, moved toward the street.
    Only when the police operator answered on the second ring did Mitch realize that from the moment he’d seen the dead man’s shattered head, his breathing had been desperate, ragged, raw. For a moment, words wouldn’t come, and then they
blew
out of him in a rough voice he barely recognized.
    “A man’s been shot. I’m dead. I mean, he’s dead. He’s been shot, and he’s dead.”

3
    P olice had cordoned off both ends of the block. Squad cars, CSI vans, and a morgue wagon were scattered along the street with the insouciance of those to whom parking regulations do not apply.
    Under the unblinking gaze of the sun, windshields blazed and brightwork gleamed. No cloud remained to be a pirate’s patch, and the light was merciless.
    The cops wore sunglasses. Behind the dark lenses, perhaps they glanced suspiciously at Mitchell Rafferty, or perhaps they were indifferent to him.
    In front of his client’s house, Mitch sat on the lawn, his back against the bole of a phoenix palm.
    From time to time, he heard rats scrabbling in the top of the tree. They liked to make a high nest in a phoenix palm, between the crown and the skirt.
    The feathery shadows of the fronds provided him with no sense of diminished visibility. He felt as if he were on a stage.
    Twice in two hours, he had been questioned. Two plainclothes detectives had interviewed him the first time, only one on the second occasion.
    He thought he had acquitted himself well. Yet they had not told him that he could go.
    Thus far, Iggy had been interviewed only once. He had no wife in jeopardy, nothing to hide. Besides, Iggy had less talent for deception than did the average six-year-old, which would be evident to experienced interrogators.
    Maybe the cops’ greater interest in Mitch was a bad sign. Or maybe it meant nothing.
    More than an hour ago, Iggy had returned to the flower bed. He had nearly completed the installation of the impatiens.
    Mitch would have preferred to stay busy with the planting. This inactivity made him keenly aware of the passage of time: Two of his sixty hours were gone.
    The detectives had firmly suggested that Iggy and Mitch should remain separated because, in all innocence, if they talked together about the crime, they might unintentionally conform their memories, resulting in the loss of an important detail in one or the other’s testimony.
    That might be either the truth or malarkey. The reason for keeping them apart might be more sinister, to isolate Mitch and ensure that he remained off balance. Neither of the detectives had worn sunglasses, but Mitch had not been able to read their eyes.
    Sitting under the palm tree, he had made three phone calls, the first to his home number. An answering machine had picked up.
    After the usual beep, he said, “Holly, are you there?”
    Her abductors would not risk holding her in her own home.
    Nevertheless, Mitch said, “If you’re there, please pick up.”
    He was in denial because the situation made no sense. Kidnappers don’t target the wives of men who have to worry about the price of gasoline and groceries.
    Man, you aren’t listening. I’m a gardener.
    We know.
    I have like eleven thousand bucks in the bank.
    We know.
    They must be insane. Delusional. Their scheme was based on some mad fantasy