The Husband by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

it even better.
    At the end of the hallway was the master bedroom. He withdrew clean underwear and socks from a bureau drawer.
    For now, as impossible as every mundane task seemed in these circumstances, he could do nothing other than what he had been told to do.
    The day had been warm; but a night in the middle of May was likely to be cool. At the closet, he slipped a fresh pair of jeans and a flannel shirt from hangers. He put them on the bed.
    He found himself standing at Holly’s small vanity, where she daily sat on a tufted stool to brush her hair, apply her makeup, put on her lipstick.
    Unconsciously, he had picked up her hand mirror. He looked into it, as if hoping, by some grace that would foretell the future, to see her fine and smiling face. His own countenance did not bear contemplation.
    He shaved, showered, and dressed for the ordeal ahead.
    He had no idea what they expected of him, how he could possibly raise two million dollars to ransom his wife, but he made no attempt to imagine any possible scenarios. A man on a high ledge is well advised not to spend much time studying the long drop.
    As he sat on the edge of the bed, just as he finished tying his shoes, the doorbell rang.
    The kidnapper had said he would
call
at six, not come calling. Besides, the bedside clock read 4:15.
    Leaving the door unanswered was not an option. He needed to be responsive regardless of how Holly’s captors chose to contact him.
    If the visitor had nothing to do with her abduction, Mitch was nevertheless obliged to answer the door in order to maintain an air of normalcy.
    His truck in the driveway proved that he was home. A neighbor, getting no response to the bell, might circle to the back of the house to knock at the kitchen door.
    The six-pane window in that door would provide a clear view of the kitchen floor strewn with broken dishes, the bloody hand prints on the cabinets and the refrigerator.
    He should have drawn shut the blinds.
    He left the bedroom, followed the hall, and crossed the living room before the visitor had time to ring the bell twice.
    The front door had no windows. He opened it and found Detective Taggart on the porch.

9
    T he praying-mantis stare of mirrored lenses skewered Mitch and pinned his voice in his throat.
    “I love these old neighborhoods,” Taggart said, surveying the front porch. “This was how southern California looked in its great years, before they cut down all the orange groves and built a wasteland of stucco tract houses.”
    Mitch found a voice that sounded almost like his own, though thinner: “You live around here, Lieutenant?”
    “No. I live in one of the wastelands. It’s more convenient. But I happened to be in your neighborhood.”
    Taggart was not a man who
just happened
to be anywhere. If he ever went sleepwalking, even then he would have a purpose, a plan, and a destination.
    “Something’s come up, Mr. Rafferty. And since I was nearby, it seemed as easy to stop in as to call. Can you spare a few minutes?”
    If Taggart was not one of the kidnappers, if his conversation with Mitch had been taped without his knowledge, allowing him across the threshold would be reckless. In this small house, the living room, a picture of tranquillity, and the kitchen, smeared with incriminating evidence, were only a few steps apart.
    “Sure,” Mitch said. “But my wife came home with a migraine. She’s lying down.”
    If the detective was one of
them,
if he knew that Holly was being held elsewhere, he did not betray his knowledge by any change in his expression.
    “Why don’t we sit here on the porch,” Mitch said.
    “You’ve got it fixed up real nice.”
    Mitch pulled the door shut behind him, and they settled into the white wicker chairs.
    Taggart had brought a nine-by-twelve white envelope. He put it on his lap, unopened.
    “We had a porch like this when I was a kid,” he said. “We used to watch traffic go by, just watch traffic.”
    He removed his sunglasses and tucked