The Husband

choosing a book to take to bed. Or maybe not to bed. A spider does not sleep; neither does history.
    Terrace to steps, descending to another terrace, the gunmen expertly conveyed Mitch.
    The moon lay drowned in the swimming pool, as pale and undulant as an apparition.
    Along garden pathways where hidden toads sang, across a broad lawn, through a copse of tall lacy silver sheens shimmering like the scales of schooling fish, by a roundabout route, they
    came to a large but elegant building encircled by a romantically lighted loggia.
    The gunmen's vigilance never wavered during the walk.
    Night-blooming jasmine twined the columns of the loggia and festooned the eaves.
    Mitch drew slow deep breaths. The heavy fragrance was so sweet as to be almost narcoleptic.
    A slow-moving black long-horned beetle crossed the floor of the loggia. The gunmen guided Mitch around the insect.
    The pavilion contained exquisitely restored cars from the 1930s and 1940s—Buicks, Lincolns, Packards, Cadillacs, Pontiacs, Fords, Chevrolets, Kaizers, Studebakers, even a Tucker Torpedo. They were displayed like jewels under precisely focused arrays of pin lights.
    Estate vehicles in daily use were not kept here. Evidently, by taking him to the main garage, they would have risked encountering members of the household staff.
    The gunman with the pitted face fished from his pocket a set of keys and opened the trunk of a midnight-blue Chrysler Windsor from the late 1940s. "Get in."
    For the same reason they had not shot him in the library, they would not shoot him here. Besides, they wouldn't want to risk doing damage to the car.
    The trunk was roomier than those of contemporary cars. Mitch lay on his side, in the fetal position.
    "You can't unlock it from the inside," the scarred man said. "They had no child-safety awareness in those days."
    His partner said, "We'll be on back roads where no one will hear you. So if you make a lot of noise, it won't do you any good."
    Mitch said nothing.
    The scarred man said, "It'll just piss us off. Then we'll be harder on you at the other end than we have to be."
    "I don't want that."
    "No. You don't want that."
    Mitch said, "I wish we didn't have to do this."
    "Well," said the one with smooth skin, "that's how it is."
    Backlighted by the pin spots, their faces hung over Mitch like two shadowed moons, one with an expression of bland indifference, the other tight and cratered with contempt.
    They slammed the lid, and the darkness was absolute.

Chapter 28

     
    Holly lies in darkness, praying that Mitch will live. She fears less for herself than for him. Her captors at all times wear ski masks in her presence, and she assumes they would not bother to conceal their faces if they intended to kill her.
    They aren't just wearing them as a fashion statement. No one looks good in a ski mask.
    If you were hideously disfigured, like the Phantom of the Opera, maybe you would want to wear a ski mask. But it defied reason that all four of these men would be hideously disfigured.
    Of course, even if they hoped not to harm her, something could go awry with their plans. In a moment of crisis, she might be shot accidentally. Or events could change the kidnappers' intentions toward her.
    Always an optimist, having believed since childhood that every life has meaning and that hers will not pass before she finds its purpose, Holly does not dwell on what might go wrong, but envisions herself released, unharmed.
    She believes envisioning the future helps shape it. Not that she could become a famous actress merely by envisioning herself accepting an Academy Award. Hard work, not wishes, builds careers.
    Anyway, she doesn't want to be a famous actress. She would have to spend a lot of time with famous actors, and most of the current crop creep her out.
    Free again, she will eat marzipan and chocolate peanut-butter ice cream and potato chips until she either embarrasses herself or makes herself sick. She hasn't thrown up since childhood, but even vomiting is an affirmation of life.
    Free, she will celebrate by going to Baby Style, that store in the mall, and buying the huge stuffed bear she saw in their window when she passed by recently. It was fluffy and white and so cute.
    Even as a teenage girl, she liked teddy bears. Now she needs one anyway.
    Free, she will make love to Mitch. When she is done with him, he'll feel as if he's been hit by a train.
    Well, that isn't a particularly satisfying romantic image. It's not the kind of thing