The Husband

someone other than the dog, and felt watched, but more than watched. Studied. Attended. Pursued.
    His heart was a thundering herd, hooves on stone.
    He surveyed the day but saw no gunman. The rifle could have been fired from any house, from any rooftop or window, or from behind a parked car.
    Anyway, the presence he sensed was not that of the shooter. He did not feel watched from a distance, but from an intimate vantage point. He felt as if someone loomed over him.
    Hardly more than half a minute had passed since the dog-walker had been killed.
    The crack of the rifle had not brought anyone out of any of the beautiful houses. In this neighborhood, a gunshot would be perceived as a slammed door, dismissed even as it echoed.
    Across the street, at the client's house, Iggy Barnes had risen from his knees to his feet. He didn't appear to be alarmed, merely puzzled, as if he, too, had heard a door and didn't understand the meaning of the fallen man, the grieving dog.
    Midnight Wednesday. Sixty hours. Time on fire, minutes burning. Mitch couldn't afford to let hours turn to ashes while he was tied up with a police investigation.
    On the sidewalk, a column of marching ants changed course, crawling toward the feast within the cratered skull.
    In a mostly clear sky, a rare cloud drifted across the sun. The day paled. Shadows faded.
    Chilled, Mitch turned from the corpse, stepped off the curb, halted.
    He and Iggy couldn't just load the unplanted impatiens into the truck and drive away. They might not be able to do so before someone came along and saw the dead man. Their indifference to the victim and their flight would suggest guilt even to the most unworldly passerby, and certainly to the police.
    The cell phone, folded shut, remained in Mitch's hand. He looked upon it with dread.
    If you go to the cops, we'll cut her 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."

Chapter 3
     
    Police 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