The Husband

know sooner rather than later that his fratello piccolo, his little brother, was alive and free. Mitch would lose his ease of movement and the advantage of surprise.
    Most likely, Campbell didn't expect a report from his pair of executioners until morning. Perhaps he would not even seek them out until the following afternoon.
    Indeed, Campbell might miss the Chrysler Windsor before he missed the men. That depended on which of his machines he most valued.
    Mitch needed to be able to catch Anson by surprise, and he needed to be in his brother's house at noon to take the call from the kidnappers. Holly was on a higher and narrower ledge than ever.
    He could not hide, and his enemy would not. For predator and prey—whoever might be which—this had to be a fight to the death.

Chapter 31

     
    Surrounded by noble white plumes that suggested an encircling protectorate of helmeted knights, Mitch in the pampas grass recalled the hard crack of the two shots that had almost drilled him as he had been taking the pistol from the dead gunman.
    If his adversary's weapon had been equipped with a sound suppressor, as it had been in the library, the reports would not have been so loud. He might not have heard them.
    In this desolate place, the gunman had not been concerned about attracting unwanted attention, but he had not removed the silencer just for the satisfaction of a louder bang. He must have had another reason.
    Sound suppressors were most likely illegal. They facilitated quiet murder. They were meant for use in close quarters—as in a mansion where the household staff was not reliably corrupt.
    Logic led Mitch quickly to conclude that a sound suppressor was useful only in discreet situations because it diminished the accuracy of the weapon.
    " When you were standing over your captive in a library or when you forced him to kneel before you on a lonely desert road, a pistol with a sound suppressor might serve you well. But at a distance of twenty feet, or thirty, perhaps it reduced the accuracy to such a degree that you were more certain to hit your target by throwing the pistol than by shooting it.
    Small stones rattled like tumbling dice.
    The sound seemed to have arisen west of him. He turned in that direction. With caution, he parted the pampas panicles.
    Fifty feet away, the gunman crouched like a hunchback troll. He was waiting for any repercussions of the noise that he had made.
    Even when still, the man could not be mistaken for a thrust of rock or for desert flora, because he'd drawn attention to himself in the process of crossing a long barren swath of alkaline soil. That patch of ground appeared not merely reflective but luminous.
    If Mitch had not paused here, if he had continued west, he would have encountered the killer in the open, perhaps coming face-to-face as in a Western-movie showdown.
    He considered lying in wait, letting his stalker draw closer before firing.
    Then instinct suggested that the colony of pampas grass and similar features of the landscape were exactly the places that would most interest the gunman. He expected Mitch to hide; and he would regard the pampas with suspicion.
    Mitch hesitated, for the advantage still seemed to be his. He could fire from cover, while the troll stood in the open. He had not yet squeezed off a shot with this pistol, while his adversary had expended two.
    A spare magazine. Given that mayhem was the gunman's business, he probably carried a spare magazine, maybe two.
    He would approach the pampas colony cautiously. He would not make an easy target of himself
    When Mitch fired and missed because of distance, angle, distorting light, and lack of experience, the gunman would return fire. Vigorously.
    The pampas offered visual cover, not protection. A barrage of eight rounds followed at least by another volley often would not be survivable.
    Still crouching, the trollish figure took two tentative steps forward. He paused again.
    Inspiration came to Mitch, a bold idea that for a moment he considered discarding as reckless but then embraced as his best chance.
    He let the panicles ease into their natural positions. He slipped out of the colony opposite from the point at which the gunman approached it, hoping to keep it between them as long as possible.
    To a choir of crickets and the more sinister clicking-shrilling of the unknown insect musician, Mitch hurried eastward, along the route that he had taken earlier. He passed the point at which he had descended the