The Husband

drove inland on state highways, desert moths swirled as white as snowflakes in the headlights and burst against the windshield.
    Julian Campbell lived behind stone walls, behind an imposing iron gate framed by a massive limestone chambranle. The ascendants of the chambranle featured rich carvings of leafy vines that rose to the capping transverse, joining to form a giant wreath at the center.
    "This gate," Mitch said, "must've cost as much as my house."
    Anson assured him: "Twice as much."

Chapter 24

     
    To the left of the main gate, the stacked-stone estate wall incorporated a guardhouse. As the Expedition drifted to a stop, the door opened, and a tall young man in a black suit appeared.
    His clear dark eyes read Mitch as instantly as a cashier's scanner reads the bar code on a product. "Good evening, sir." He at once looked past Mitch to Anson. "Pleased to see you, Mr. Rafferty."
    With no sound that Mitch could detect, the ornate iron gates swung inward. Beyond lay a two-lane driveway paved with quartzite cobblestones, flanked by majestic phoenix palms, each tree lighted from the base, the great crowns forming a canopy over the pavement.
    He drove onto the estate with the feeling that, all forgiven, Eden had been restored.
    The driveway was a quarter of a mile long. Vast, magically illuminated lawns and gardens receded into mystery on both sides.
    Anson said, "Sixteen manicured acres."
    "There must be a dozen on the landscape staff alone."
    "I'm sure there are."
    From red tile roofs, limestone walls, mullioned windows radiant with golden light, columns, balustrades, and terraces, the architect had conjured as much grace as grandeur. So large that it should have been intimidating, the Italianate house instead looked welcoming.
    The driveway ended by encircling a reflecting pond with a center fountain from which crisscrossing jets, like sprays of silver coins, arced and sparkled in the night. Mitch parked beside it.
    "Does this guy have a license to print money?"
    "He's in entertainment. Movies, casinos, you name it."
    This splendor overawed Mitch but also raised his hopes that Julian Campbell would be able to help them. Having built such wealth after being critically wounded and released from the FBI on permanent disability, having been dealt such a bad hand yet having played it to win, Campbell must be as street-smart as Anson promised.
    A silver-haired man, with the demeanor of a butler, greeted them on the terrace, said his name was Winslow, and escorted them inside.
    They followed Winslow across an immense white-marble receiving foyer capped by a coffered plaster ceiling with gold-leaf details. After passing through a living room measuring at least sixty by eighty feet, they came finally into a mahogany-paneled library.
    In response to Mitch's question, Winslow revealed that the book collection numbered over sixty thousand volumes. "Mr. Campbell will be with you momentarily," he said, and departed. The library, which incorporated more square footage than Mitch's bungalow, offered half a dozen seating areas with sofas and chairs.
    They settled into armchairs, facing each other across a coffee table, and Anson sighed. "This is the right thing."
    "If he's half as impressive as the house—"
    "Julian is the best, Mickey. He's the real deal."
    "He must think a lot of you to meet on such short notice, past ten o'clock at night."
    Anson smiled ruefully. "What would Daniel and Kathy say if I turned away your compliment with a few words of modesty?"
    " 'Modesty is related to diffidence,' " Mitch quoted. " 'Diffidence is related to shyness. Shyness is a synonym for timidity. Timidity is a characteristic of the meek. The meek do not inherit the earth, they serve those who are self-confident and self-assertive.' "
    "I love you, little brother. You're amazing."
    "I'm sure you could quote it word for word, too."
    "That's not what I mean. You were raised in that Skinner box, that rat maze, and yet you're maybe the most modest guy I know."
    "I've got issues," Mitch assured him. "Plenty of them."
    "See? Your response to being called modest is self-criticism." Mitch smiled. "Guess I didn't learn much in the learning room."
    "For me, the learning room wasn't the worst," Anson said. "What I'll never scrape out of my mind is the shame game."
    Memory flushed Mitch's face. "'Shame has no social usefulness. It's a signature of the superstitious mind.'"
    "When did they first make you play the shame game, Mickey?"
    "I think I was