The Husband

Though still marked by blustering crosscurrents, a more genteel version slipped down the roof slopes and danced with the courtyard greenery instead of whipping it.
    Mitch slipped under the arching fronds of a Tasmanian tree fern, which swayed, trembled. He crouched there, peering out at the patio.
    The skirt of broad, spreading, lacy fronds rose and dipped, rose and dipped, but the patio was not entirely screened from him at any time. If he remained alert, he couldn't miss a man passing from the back condo to the front.
    In the shelter of the tree-fern canopy, he smelled rich planting soil, an inorganic fertilizer, and the vaguely musky scent of moss.
    At first this comforted him, reminded him of life when it had been simpler, just sixteen hours ago. After a few minutes, however, the melange of odors brought to mind instead the smell of blood.
    In the condo above the garages, the lights went out.
    Perhaps assisted by the windstorm, a door slammed shut. The chorus of wind voices did not entirely cover the thud of heavy hurried footsteps that descended exterior stairs to the courtyard.
    Between the fronds, Mitch glimpsed a bearish figure crossing the brick patio.
    Anson was not aware of his brother behind him, closing, and let out a strangled cry only when the Taser short-circuited his nervous system.
    When Anson staggered forward, trying to stay on his feet, Mitch remained close. The Taser delivered another fifty-thousand-volt kiss.
    Anson embraced the bricks. He rolled onto his back. His burly body twitched. His arms flopped loosely. His head rolled side to side, and he made noises that suggested he might be in danger of swallowing his tongue.
    Mitch didn't want Anson to swallow his tongue, but he wasn't going to take any action to prevent it from happening, either.

Chapter 41

     
    Apocalyptic flocks of wind beat wings against the walls and l. swoop the roof, and the darkness itself seems to vibrate.
    The hairless hands, white as doves, groom each other in the dim glow of the half-taped flashlight.
    The gentle voice regales her: "In El Valle, New Mexico, there is a graveyard where the grass is seldom cut. Some graves have stones, and some do not."
    Holly has finished the chocolate. She feels half sick. Her mouth tastes like blood. She uses Pepsi as a mouthwash.
    "A few graves without headstones are surrounded by small picket fences crafted from the slats of old fruit and vegetable crates."
    All this is leading somewhere, but his thoughts proceed along neural pathways that can be anticipated only by a mind as bent as his.
    "Loved ones paint the pickets in pastels—robin's-egg blue, pale green, the yellow of faded sunflowers."
    In spite of the sharp enigmas underlying their soft color, his eyes repel her less, right now, than do his hands.
    "Under a quarter moon, hours after a new grave was closed, we did some spade work and opened the wooden casket of a child."
    "The yellow of faded sunflowers," Holly repeats, trying to fill her mind with that color as defense against the image of a child in a coffin.
    "She was eight, taken by cancer. They buried her with a Saint Christopher medal folded in her left hand, a porcelain figurine of Cinderella in her right because she loved that story."
    The sunflowers will not sustain, and in her mind's eye, Holly sees the small hands holding tight to the protection of the saint and to the promise of the poor girl who became a princess.
    "By virtue of some hours in the grave of an innocent, those objects acquired great power. They were death-washed and spirit-polished."
    The longer she meets his eyes, the less familiar they become.
    "We took from her hands the medal and the figurine, and replaced them with...other items."
    One white hand vanishes into a pocket of his black jacket. When it reappears, it holds the Saint Christopher medal by a silver chain.
    He says, "Here. Take it."
    That the object comes from a grave does not repulse her, but that it has been taken from the hand of a dead child offends.
    More is happening here than he is putting into words. There is a subtext that Holly does not understand.
    She senses that to reject the medal for any reason will have terrible consequences. She holds out her right hand, and he drops the medal into it. The chain ravels in random coils on her palm.
    "Do you know Espanola, New Mexico?"
    Folding her hand around the medal, she says, "It's another place I've missed."
    "My life will be changed there," he reveals as he picks up the flashlight