The Husband

was never silent.
    The chill on the back of his neck intensified nail by nail. When the last was extracted, he eagerly lifted aside the sheet of plywood.
    He found only floor joists. Blankets of fiberglass insulation filled the spaces between the joists.
    He lifted out the fiberglass. No strongbox or plastic-wrapped bundles of currency were concealed beneath the insulation.
    The prophetic feeling had passed, as had the sense that somehow he had been close to Holly. He sat in mystification.
    What the hell was that all about?
    Surveying the attic, he felt no compulsion to take up other sheets of plywood.
    His original assessment had been correct. In concern of a fire, if for no other reason, Anson wouldn't hide a lot of money where he couldn't get at it quickly.
    Mitch left the spiders in darkness with the ever-seeking wind.
    In the master closet, after putting up the folding ladder and the trapdoor, he continued his search. He looked behind the hanging clothes, checked drawers for false bottoms, felt under every shelf and along every molding for a hidden lever that might spring open a panel.
    In the bedroom, he peered behind paintings in hope of finding a wall safe, although he doubted that Anson would be that obvious. He even rolled the king-size bed out of place, but he found no loose square of carpet concealing a floor vault.
    Mitch worked through two bathrooms, a hall closet, and two spare bedrooms that had not been furnished. Nothing.
    Downstairs, he began in the mahogany-paneled, book-lined study. There were so many potential hiding places that he had only half finished with the room when he glanced at his watch and saw it was 11:33.
    The kidnappers would be calling in twenty-seven minutes.
    In the kitchen, he picked up the pistol and went to the laundry room. When he opened the door, the stink of urine met him.
    He switched on the light and found Anson in misery.
    Most of the flood had been soaked up by his pants, his socks, his shoes, but a small yellow puddle had formed on the tiles at the feet of the chair.
    Other than rage, the closest thing sociopaths have to human emotions is self-love and self-pity, the only love and only pity of which they are capable. Their extreme self-love is beyond mere rampant egomania.
    Psychotic self-love includes nothing as worthy as self-respect, but it does encompass a kind of overweening pride. Anson could not feel shame, but his pride had fallen from a high place into a swamp of self-pity.
    His tan could not conceal an ashen undertone. His face appeared spongy, fungoid. The bloodshot eyes were filmy pools of torment.
    "Look what you've done to me," he said.
    "You did it to yourself."
    If self-pity left room in him for anger, he hid it well.
    "This is sick, man."
    "It's way sick," Mitch agreed.
    "You're having a good laugh."
    "No. Nothing funny here."
    "'You're laughing inside."
    "I hate this."
    "If you hate this, where's your shame now?"
    Mitch said nothing.
    "Where's your red face? Where's my blushing brother?"
    "We're running out of time, Anson. They'll be calling soon. I want the cash."
    "What do I get? What's in it for me? Why am I supposed to just give and give?"
    Arm extended full length, assuming the posture that Campbell had taken with Mitch himself, he pointed the gun at his brother's face.
    "You give me the money, and I'll let you live."
    "What kind of life would I have?"
    "You keep everything else you've got. I pay the ransom, take care of this without the police ever knowing there was a kidnapping, so nobody has to get a statement from you."
    No doubt Anson was thinking about Daniel and Kathy.
    "You go on like before," Mitch lied, "make whatever kind of life you want."
    Anson would have been able to pin their parents' deaths on Mitch with ease if Mitch had been dead and buried in a desert grave beyond discovery. Not so easy now.
    "I give you the money," Anson said, "you set me loose."
    "That's right."
    Dubious, he said, "How?"
    "Before I leave to make the trade, I Taser you again, and then I take off the cuffs. I leave while you're still twitching."
    Anson thought it over.
    "Come on, pirate boy. Give up the treasure. If you don't tell me before the phone rings, it's over."
    Anson met his eyes.
    Mitch didn't look away. "I'll do it."
    "You're just like me," Anson said.
    "If that's what you want to think."
    Anson's gaze didn't waver. His eyes were bold. His eyes were direct and probing.
    He was shackled to a chair. His shoulders ached and his arms ached. He had wet