The Husband

Barnes?"
    Mitch's father believed that shame had no social usefulness, that it was a signature of the superstitious mind, and that a person of reason, living a rational life, must be free of it. He believed, as well, that the capacity for shame could be expunged by education.
    In Mitch's case, the old man had failed miserably, at least on this score. Although the thug on the phone was the only witness to this willingness to save a brother at the expense of a friend, Mitch felt his face turn warm with shame.
    "Mr. Barnes," the kidnapper said, "is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. If for no other reason, your friend would not be an acceptable substitute for your brother. Now go to Anson's house and wait for our call."
    Resigned to this development but sick with despair that his brother must be imperiled, Mitch said, "What should I tell him?"
    "Absolutely nothing. I'm requiring yon to tell him nothing. I am the experienced handler, not you. When I call, I'll let him hear Holly scream, and then explain the facts."
    Alarmed, he said, "That's not necessary, making her scream. t promised not to hurt her."
    "I promised not to rape her, Mitch. Nothing you say to your brother will be as convincing as her scream. I know better than you how to do this."
    His cold, sweaty grip on the pistol was problematic. When his hand began to shake, he put the weapon on the passenger's seat once more.
    "What if Anson isn't home?"
    "He's home. Get moving, Mitch. It's rush hour. You don't want to be late getting to Newport Beach."
    The kidnapper terminated the call.
    When Mitch pressed the end button on his phone, the act felt grimly predictive.
    He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his unraveled nerves, but then opened them because he felt vulnerable with them closed.
    When he started the engine, a flock of crows flew up from the pavement, from the shadow of the steeple to the steeple itself.

Chapter 19

     
    Famous for its yacht harbor, its mansions, and its wonderland of upscale shopping, Newport Beach was not home exclusively to the fabulously wealthy. Anson lived in the Corona del Mar district, in the front half of a two-unit condo.
    Shaded by a massive magnolia, approached by a used-brick path, with New England architecture as interpreted by a swooning romantic, the house did not impress, but it charmed.
    The door chimes played a few bars of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy."
    Anson arrived before Mitch pressed the bell push a second time.
    Although as fit as an athlete, Anson was a different physical type from Mitch: bearish, barrel-chested, bull-necked. That he had been a star quarterback in high school testified to his quickness and agility, for he looked more like a middle linebacker.
    His handsome, broad, open face seemed always to be anticipating a reason to smile. At the sight of Mitch, he grinned.
    "Fratello mio!" Anson exclaimed, embracing his brother and drawing him into the house. "Entrino! Entrino!"
    The air was redolent of garlic, onions, bacon.
    "Cooking Italian?" Mitch asked.
    "Bravissimo, fratello piccolo! From a mere aroma and my bad Italian, you make a brilliant deduction. Let me hang up your coat."
    Mitch had not wanted to leave the pistol in the car. The gun was tucked under his belt, in the small of his back.
    "No," he said. "I'm fine. I'll keep it."
    "Come to the kitchen. I was in a funk at the prospect of another dinner alone."
    "If you're immune to funk," Mitch said.
    "There is no such thing as funk antibodies, little brother."
    The house featured a masculine but stylish decor, emphasizing nautical decorative items. Paintings of sailing ships portrayed proud vessels tossed in storms and others making way under radiant skies.
    From childhood, Anson had believed that perfect freedom could never be found on land, only at sea, under sail.
    He'd been a fan of pirate yarns, stories of naval battles, and tales of adventure on the bounty. He'd read many of them aloud to Mitch, who had sat enthralled for hours.
    Daniel and Kathy suffered motion sickness in a rowboat on a pond. Their aversion to the sea had been the first thing to inspire Anson's interest in the nautical life.
    In the cozy, fragrant kitchen, he pointed to a pot steaming on the stove. "Zuppa massaia."
    "What kind of soup is massaia?"
    "Classic housewife's soup. Lacking a wife, I have to get in touch with my feminine side when I want to make it."
    Sometimes Mitch found it hard to believe that a pair as leaden as their parents could have produced a son