She senses that if she denies his assertion, she will test his patience and perhaps make him angry. His soft voice and his gentle manner are sheep's clothing, and Holly does not want to poke the wolf beneath the fleece.
'You've given me so much to think about,' she says.
'I am aware of that. You've been living behind a curtain, and now you know there's not just a window under it, but a whole new world beyond.'
Afraid that one wrong word will shatter the spell that the killer has cast over himself, Holly says only, 'Yes.'
He rises to his feet. 'You have some hours yet to decide. Do you need anything?'
A shotgun, she thinks, but she says, 'No.'
'I know what your decision will be, but you need to reach it on your own. Have you ever been to Guadalupita, New Mexico?'
'No.'
His smile curves up behind the slit in the black mask. 'You will go there, and you will be amazed.'
He follows his flashlight, leaving her alone in darkness.
Gradually Holly realizes that the wind is still blowing hard. From the moment he'd told her that he killed the other kidnappers, the wind had vanished from her consciousness.
For a while she has heard only his voice. His sinuous, insidious voice.
She has not even heard her heart, but she hears it now and feels it, too, shaking the cage of ribs against which it pounds.
The baby, tiny ball of cells, is now bathed in the fight-or-flight chemicals that her brain has ordered released into her blood. Maybe that isn't so bad. Maybe it's even good. Maybe being marinated in that flood will make Baby Rafferty, him or her, tougher than would otherwise be the case.
This is a world that increasingly requires toughness of good people.
With the Saint Christopher medal, Holly sets diligently to work on the stubborn nail.
Part Three
Until Death Us Do Part
Chapter 46
The alarm woke Mitch at eight-thirty, and the wind that had worried his dreams still churned the real world.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, yawning, looking at the backs of his hands, at the palms. After what those hands had done the previous night, they ought to have looked different from the way they had always looked before, but he could discern no change.
Passing the mirrored closet doors, he saw that his clothes were not unusually wrinkled. He had awakened in the same position in which he had fallen asleep; and he must not have moved in four hours.
In the bathroom, searching drawers, he found several unopened toothbrushes. He unwrapped one and used it, then shaved with Anson's electric razor.
Carrying the pistol and the Taser, he went downstairs to the kitchen.
The chair was still braced under the laundry-room doorknob. No sound came from in there.
He cracked three eggs, spiced them with Tabasco sauce, scrambled them, sprinkled Parmesan on them, and ate them with two slices of buttered toast and a glass of orange juice.
By habit, he began to gather the dishes to wash them, but then realized the absurdity of being a thoughtful guest under these circumstances. He left the dirty dishes on the table.
When he opened the laundry and switched on the lights, he found Anson cuffed as before, soaked in sweat. The room wasn't
unusually warm.
'Have you thought about who I am?' Mitch asked.
Anson didn't appear angry anymore. He slumped in the chair and hung his burly head. He did not look physically smaller; but in some way he had been diminished.
When his brother didn't answer, Mitch repeated the question: 'Have you thought about who I am?'
Anson raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, but his lips were pale. Jewels of sweat glittered in his beard stubble.
'I'm in a bad way here,' he complained in a voice that he had never used before, one with a whine and with the particular note of offense that suggested he felt victimized.
'One more time. Have you thought about who I am?'
'You're Mitch, but you're not the Mitch I know.'
'That's a start.'
'There's some part of you now…I don't know what you are.
'I'm a husband. I cultivate. Preserve.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'I don't expect you to understand.'
'I've got to go to the bathroom.'
'Go ahead.'
'I'm bursting. I really have to piss.'
'You won't offend me.'
'You mean here?'
'It's messy but it's convenient.'
'Don't do this to me, bro.'
'Don't call me bro.'
Anson said, 'You're still my brother.'
'Biologically.'
'Man, this isn't right.'
'No, it isn't.'
The legs of the chair had scraped a lot more glaze off the floor tiles. Two tiles were cracked.
'Where do you keep the cash?' Mitch asked.
'I wouldn't take your dignity like this.'
'You handed me over to killers.'
'I didn't humiliate you first.'
'You said you'd rape my wife and kill her.'
'Are you stuck on that? I explained that.'
He had struggled so fiercely to free the chair from the washer that the thick orange extension cord had dimpled the metal of the machine at one corner.
'Where do you keep the cash, Anson?'
'I've got, I don't know, a few hundred in my wallet.'
'I'm not stupid. Don't handle me.'
Anson's voice cracked. 'This hurts like a sonofabitch.'
'What hurts?'
'My arms. My shoulders are on fire. Let me change position. Cuff my hands in front of me. This is torture.'
Almost pouting, Anson looked like a big little boy. A boy with a coldly calculating reptilian brain.
'Let's talk about the cash first,' Mitch said. 'You think there's cash, like a lot of cash? There's not.'
