The Husband

voice of Detective Taggart.
    "I love these old neighborhoods. This was how southern California looked in its great years..."
    Not just the rooms of the house but the front porch, too, had been bugged.
    He knew that he had been outmaneuvered only an instant before he felt the muzzle of the handgun against the back of his neck.

Chapter 13

     
     
    Although he flinched, Mitch did not attempt to turn toward .. the gunman or to swing the lug wrench. He would not be able to move fast enough to succeed.
    During the past five hours, he had become acutely aware of his limitations, which counted as an achievement, considering that he had been raised to believe he had no limitations.
    He might be the architect of his life, but he could no longer believe that he was the master of his fate.
    "...before they cut down all the orange groves and built a wasteland of stucco tract houses."
    Behind him, the gunman said, "Drop the lug wrench. Don't stoop to put it down. Just drop it."
    The voice was not that of the man on the phone. This one sounded younger than the other, not as cold, but with a disturbing deadpan delivery that flattened every word and gave them all the same weight.
    Mitch dropped the club.
    "...more convenient. But I happened to be in your neighborhood."
    Apparently using a remote control, the gunman switched off the recorder.
    He said to Mitch, "You must want her cut to pieces and left to die, the way he promised."
    "No."
    "Maybe we made a mistake, choosing you. Maybe you'd be happy to be rid of her."
    "Don't say that."
    Every word matter-of-fact, all with the same emotional value, which was no value at all: "A large life-insurance policy. Another woman. You could have reasons."
    "There's nothing like that."
    "Perhaps you'd do a better job for us if, as compensation, we promised to kill her for you."
    "No. I love her. I do."
    "You pull another stunt like this one, she's dead."
    "I understand."
    "Let's go back the way you came."
    Mitch turned, and the gunman also turned, staying behind him.
    As he began to retrace his steps along the final aisle, past the first of the southern windows, Mitch heard the lug wrench scrape against the boards as the gunman scooped it off the floor.
    He could have pivoted, kicked, and hoped to catch the man as he rose from a quick stoop. He feared the maneuver would be anticipated.
    Thus far, he had thought of these nameless men as professional criminals. They probably were that, but they were
    something else, too. He did not know what else they might be, but something worse.
    Criminals, kidnappers, murderers. He could not imagine what might be worse than what he already knew them to be.
    Following him along the aisle, the gunman said, "Get in the Honda. Go for a ride."
    "All right."
    "Wait for the call at six o'clock."
    "All right. I will."
    As they neared the end of the aisle, at the back of the loft, where they needed to turn left and cross the width of the garage to the steps in the northeast corner, something like luck intervened by way of a cord, a knot in the cord, a loop in the knot.
    At the moment it happened, Mitch didn't perceive the cause, only the effect. A tower of cardboard boxes collapsed. Some tumbled into the aisle, and one or two fell on the gunman.
    According to stenciled legends on the cartons, they contained Halloween ceramics. Packed with more bubble wrap and shredded tissue paper than with decorative objects, the boxes were not heavy, but an avalanche of them almost knocked the gunman off his feet and sent him stumbling.
    Mitch dodged one box and raised an arm to deflect another.
    The falling first stack destabilized a second.
    Mitch almost reached toward the gunman to steady him. But then he realized that any offer of support might be misinterpreted as an attack. To avoid being misunderstood—and shot—he stepped out of his enemy's way.
    The old dry wood of the railing at the back of the loft could safely accommodate anyone who leaned casually on it, but it proved too weak to endure the impact of the stumbling gunman. Balusters cracked, nails shrieked loose of their holes, and two butted lengths of the handrail separated at the joint.
    The gunman cursed at the storm of boxes. He cried out in alarm as the railing sagged away from him.
    He fell to the floor of the garage. The distance was not great, approximately eight feet, yet he landed with a terrible sound, and in a clatter of broken railing, and the gun went off.

Chapter 14

     
    From the toppling of the