The Husband

He assisted in the pretense of an ordinary conversation: "How many does he have now?"
    "He told me. I don't remember. You could say the den's become a sewer."
    "Some of the spheres are pretty things."
    "Very pretty," Mitch agreed as he printed THEY'LL CALL AT 7:30.
    Mystified, Anson mouthed the questions Who? What?
    Mitch shook his head. He indicated the wall clock—7:27.
    They conducted a self-conscious and inane conversation until the phone rang promptly on the half-hour. The ring came not from Mitch's cell but from the kitchen phone.
    Anson looked to him for guidance.
    In the event, which seemed likely, that the timing of this call was coincidental and that the expected contact would come on the cell phone, Mitch indicated that his brother should answer it.
    Anson caught it on the third ring and brightened when he heard the caller's voice. "Holly!"
    Mitch closed his eyes, bent his head, covered his face with his hands, and from Anson's reaction, knew when Holly screamed.

Chapter 20

     
    Mitch expected to be brought into the call, but the kidnapper spoke only to Anson, and for longer than three minutes.
    The substance of the first part of the conversation was obvious, and could be deduced from hearing his brother's half of it. The last couple of minutes proved not easy to follow, in part because Anson's responses grew shorter even as his tone of voice became more grim.
    When Anson hung up, Mitch said, "What do they want us to do?"
    Instead of answering, Anson came to the table and picked up the bottle of Chianti. He topped off his glass.
    Mitch was surprised to see that his own glass was empty. He could recall having taken only a sip or two. He declined a refill.
    Pouring in spite of Mitch's protest, Anson said, "If your heart's in the same gear as mine, you'll burn off two glasses of this stuff even as you're swallowing it."
    Mitch's hands were trembling, though not from the effect of Chianti, and in fact the wine might steady them.
    "And Mickey?" Anson said.
    Mickey had been an affectionate nickname that Anson had called his younger brother during a particularly difficult period of their childhood.
    When Mitch looked up from his unsteady hands, Anson said, "Nothing will happen to her. I promise you, Mickey. I swear nothing will happen to Holly. Nothing."
    Through the formative years of Mitch's life, his brother had been a trustworthy pilot, bringing them through storms, or a wingman flying defense as it was needed. He seemed overreaching now, however, when he promised a safe landing, for surely Holly's kidnappers controlled this flight.
    "What do they want us to do?" he asked again. "Is it even possible, is it something that can be done, or is it as crazy as it seemed to me the moment I first heard him demand two million?"
    Instead of replying, Anson sat down. Leaning forward, shoulders hunched, beefy arms on the table, the wineglass all but concealed by his large hands, he was an imposing presence.
    He still looked bearish but no longer cuddly. The women usually drawn to him as the tides to the moon, upon seeing him in this mood, would take a wide orbit around him.
    This particular set to Anson's jaw, the flare of his nostrils, a perceived change in his eyes from a soft seawater green to an emerald hardness heartened Mitch. He knew this look. This was Anson rising to meet injustice, which always brought out in him a stubborn, effective resistance.
    Although relieved to have his brother's assistance, Mitch felt guilty, too. "I'm sorry about this. Man, I never anticipated you'd be dragged into it. I was blindsided by that. I'm sorry."
    "If you don't have anything to be sorry about. Nada, zip, zero."
    "If I'd have done something different..."
    "If you'd done anything different, maybe Holly would be dead now. So what you've done so far is the right thing."
    Mitch nodded. He needed to believe what his brother had said. He felt useless nonetheless. "What do they want us to do?" he asked again.
    "First, Mickey, I want to hear everything that's happened. What the sonofabitch on the phone told me isn't a fraction of it. I need to hear it from the beginning until you rang my bell."
    Surveying the room, Mitch wondered where an eavesdropping device might be hidden.
    "Maybe they're listening to us right now, maybe they're not," Anson said. "It doesn't matter, Mickey. They already know everything you're going to tell me because they did it to you''
    Mitch nodded. He fortified himself with some Chianti. Then he gave Anson