The Husband

On the table lay a large dead moth. It was a night-flyer, gray with black details along its scalloped wings.

The moth must have gotten in the previous evening. They had spent some time on the porch, and the door had been open.

Maybe it was alive, sleeping. If he cupped it in his hands and took it outside, it might fly into a corner of the porch ceiling and wait there for moonrise.

He hesitated, reluctant to touch the moth, for fear that no flutter was left in it. At his touch, it might dissolve into a greasy kind of dust, which moths sometimes did.

Mitch left the night-flyer untouched because he wanted to believe that it was alive.

The connecting door between the dining room and the kitchen stood ajar. Light glowed beyond.

The smell of burnt toast lingered on the air. It grew stronger when he pushed through the door into the kitchen.

Here he found signs of a struggle. One of the dinette chairs had been overturned. Broken dishes littered the floor.

Two slices of blackened bread stood in the toaster. Someone had pulled the plug. The butter had been left out on the counter, and had softened as the day grew warmer.

The intruders must have come in from the front of the house, surprising her as she was making toast.

The cabinets were painted glossy white. Blood spattered a door and two drawer fronts.

For a moment, Mitch closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the moth flutter and fly up from the table. Something fluttered in his chest, too, and he wanted to believe that it was hope.

On the white refrigerator, a woman’s bloody hand print cried havoc as loud as any voice could have shouted. Another full hand print and a smeared partial darkened two upper cabinets.

Blood spotted the terra-cotta tiles on the floor. It seemed to be a lot of blood. It seemed to be an ocean.

The scene so terrified Mitch that he wanted to shut his eyes again. But he had the crazy idea that if he closed his eyes twice to this grim reality, he would go blind forever.

The phone rang.

7 (#u59dfd530-e91d-5f2e-b5a8-9f6f571e2586)

He did not have to tread in blood to reach the telephone. He picked up the handset on the third ring, and heard his haunted voice say, “Yeah?”

“It’s me, baby. They’re listening.”

“Holly. What’ve they done to you?”

“I’m all right,” she said, and she sounded strong, but she did not sound all right.

“I’m in the kitchen,” he said.

“I know.”

“The blood—”

“I know. Don’t think about that now. Mitch, they said we have one minute to talk, just one minute.”

He grasped her implication: One minute, andmaybe never again.

His legs would not support him. Turning a chair away from the dinette table, collapsing into it, he said, “I’m so damn sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Who are these freaks, are they deranged, what?”

“They’re vicious creeps, but they’re not crazy. They seem… professional. I don’t know. But I want you to make me a promise—”

“I’m dyin’ here.”

“Listen, baby. I want your promise. If anything happens to me—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“If anything happens to me,” she insisted, “promise you’ll keep it together.”

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“You keep it together, damn it. You keep it together and have a life.”

“You’re my life.”

“You keep it together, mower jockey, or I’m going to be way pissed.”

“I’ll do what they want. I’ll get you back.”

“If you don’t keep it together, I’ll haunt your ass, Rafferty. It’ll be like that Poltergeist movie cubed.”

“God, I love you,” he said.

“I know. I love you. I want to hold you.”

“I love you so much.”

She didn’t reply.

“Holly?”

The silence electrified him, brought him up from the chair.

“Holly? You hear me?”

“I hear you, mower jockey,” said the kidnapper to whom he had spoken previously.

“You sonofabitch.”

“I understand your anger—”