The Husband

before his brother had begun to reveal the business done with Campbell. He could not pretend that the effect was psychological, that Anson's revelation had transformed him in Mitch's eyes, for the change preceded the disclosure.
    "One-half of one percent of men are pedophiles," Anson said. "In the U.S.—one and a half million. And millions of others worldwide."
    In this bright white room, Mitch felt on the threshold of a darkness, a terrible gate opening before him, and no turning back.
    "Pedophiles are eager consumers of child pornography,"
    Anson continued. "Though they might be buying it through a police sting operation that will destroy them, they risk everything to get it."
    Who did Hitler's work, Stalin's, Mao Tse-tung's? Neighbors did the work, friends, mothers and fathers did the work, and brothers.
    "If the stuff comes in the form of dull text about the history of British theater and converts into exciting pictures and even video, if they can get their need filled safely, their appetite becomes insatiable."
    Mitch had left the pistol on the kitchen table. Perhaps he had unconsciously suspected some outrage like this and had not trusted himself with the weapon.
    "Campbell has two hundred thousand customers. In two years, he expects a million worldwide, and revenues of five billion dollars."
    Mitch remembered the scrambled eggs and toast he had made in this creature's kitchen, and his stomach curdled at the thought of having eaten off plates, with utensils, that those hands had touched.
    "Profit on gross sales is sixty percent. The adult performers do it for the fun. The young stars aren't paid. What do they need with money at their age? And I've got a little piece of Julian's business. I told you I have eight million, but it's three times that much."
    The laundry room was intolerably crowded. Mitch sensed that in addition to him and his brother, unseen legions were attendant.
    "Bro, I just wanted you to understand how filthy the money is that's going to buy Holly. The rest of your life, when you kiss her, touch her, you're going to think about the source of all that dirty, dirty money."
    Chained helpless to the chair, sitting in urine, soaked in the fear sweat that earlier the darkness had wrung from him, Anson raised his head defiantly and thrust out his chest, and his eyes shone with triumph, as though having done what he had done, having facilitated Campbell's vile enterprise, was payment enough, that having had the opportunity to serve the appetite of the depraved at the expense of the innocent was all the reward he would need to sustain him through his current humiliation and through the personal ruination to come.
    Some might call this madness, but Mitch knew its real name.
    "I'm leaving," he announced, for there was nothing else to be said that would matter.
    "Taser me," Anson demanded, as if to assert that Mitch did not have the power to hurt him in any lasting way.
    "The deal we made?" Mitch said. "Screw it."
    He switched out the lights and pulled shut the door. Because there are forces against which it is wise to take extra—and even irrational—precautions, he wedged the door shut with a chair. He might have nailed it shut, as well, if he'd had time.
    He wondered if he would ever feel clean again.
    A fit of the shakes took him. He felt as if he would be sick.
    At the sink, he splashed cold water in his face.
    The doorbell rang.

Chapter 52

     
    The chimes played a few bars of "Ode to Joy." Only minutes had passed since Julian Campbell terminated their phone call. Five billion a year in revenues was a treasure that he would do anything to protect, but he couldn't have gotten a fresh pair of gunmen to Anson's place this quickly.
    Mitch cranked off the water at the sink and, face dripping, tried to think if there was any reason he should risk checking on the identity of the visitor through a living-room window. His imagination failed him.
    Time to get out of here.
    He grabbed the trash bag that held the ransom and plucked the pistol off the table. He headed for the back door.
    The Taser. He had left it on a counter by the ovens. He returned for it.
    Again the unknown visitor rang the bell.
    "Who's that?" Anson asked from the laundry room.
    "The postman. Now shut up."
    Nearing the back door once more, Mitch remembered his brother's cell phone. It had been on the table beside the ransom, yet he had grabbed the bag and left the phone.
    Julian Campbell's call, Anson's hideous revelations, and the