The Husband

answering machine stood on a corner desk. The only message was from Iggy:
    "Sorry, bro. I should've called as soon as he left here. But Taggart...he's like fully macking triple overhead corduroy to the horizon. He scares you off the board and makes you want to sit quiet on the beach and just watch the monsters break."
    Mitch sat at the desk and opened the drawer in which Holly kept their checkbook and bank statements.
    In his conversation with the kidnapper, he had overestimated their checking-account balance, which was $10,346.54.
    The most recent monthly statement showed an additional savings-account balance of $27,311.40.
    They had bills due. Those were in a different drawer of the same desk. He didn't look at them. He was counting only assets.
    Their monthly mortgage payment was automatically deducted from their checking account. The bank statement listed the remaining loan balance as $286,770.
    Recently, Holly had estimated that the house was worth $425,000. That was a crazy amount for a small bungalow in an old neighborhood, but it was accurate. Though old, the neighborhood was desirable, and the greater part of the value lay in the large lot.
    Added to their cash on hand, the equity in the house made a total of approximately $175,000. That was far short of two million; and the kidnapper had not sounded like a guy whose intention was to negotiate in good faith.
    Anyway, the equity in the house couldn't be converted to cash unless they took a new loan or sold the place. Because the house was jointly owned, he needed Holly's signature in either scenario.
    They wouldn't have had the house if Holly hadn't inherited it from her grandmother, Dorothy, who had raised her. The mortgage had been smaller upon Dorothy's death, but to pay inheritance taxes and save the house, they'd had to work out a bigger loan.
    So the amount available for ransom was approximately thirty-seven thousand dollars.
    Until now, Mitch had not thought of himself as a failure. His self-image had been that of a young man responsibly building a life.
    He was twenty-seven. No one could be a failure at twenty-seven.
    this fact was indisputable: Although Holly was the center of his life, and priceless, when forced to put a price on her, he could pay only thirty-seven thousand.
    A bitterness overcame him for which he had no target except himself. This was not good. Bitterness could turn to self-pity, and if he surrendered to self-pity, he would make a failure of himself. And Holly would die.
    Even if the house had been without a mortgage, even if they had half a million in cash and were wildly successful for people their age, he would not have had the funds to ransom her.
    That truth brought him to the realization that money would not be what saved Holly. He would be what saved her if she could be saved: his perseverance, his wits, his courage, his love.
    As he returned the bank statement to the drawer, he saw an envelope bearing his name in Holly's handwriting. It contained a birthday card that she had bought weeks before the day.
    On the front of the card was the photograph of an ancient man festooned with wrinkles and wattles. The caption declared When you're old, I'll still need you, dear.
    Mitch opened the card and read By then, the only thing I'll have left to enjoy is gardening, and you'll make excellent compost.
    He laughed. He could imagine Holly's laugh in the store when she had opened the card and read that punch line.
    Then his laugh became something different from a laugh. In the past five terrible hours, he had more than once come close to tears but had repressed them. The card ruined him.
    Below the printed text, she had written Happy birthday! Love, Holly. Her writing was graceful but not flamboyant, neat.
    In his mind's eye, he saw her hand as she held the pen. Her hands looked delicate, but they were surprisingly strong.
    Eventually he recovered his composure by remembering the strength of her fine hands.
    He went to the kitchen and found Holly's car keys on the pegboard by the back door. She drove a four-year-old Honda.
    After retrieving his cell phone from the charger beside the toaster oven, he went outside and moved his truck to the garage at the back of the property.
    The white Honda stood in the second bay, sparkling because Holly had washed it Sunday afternoon. He parked beside the car.
    He got out of the truck and shut the driver's door, and stood between the vehicles, sweeping the room with his gaze. If anyone had been here,