The Husband by Dean Koontz Page B

of me.”
    Eyes still downcast, the detective pointed to the porch railing. “I’m talking about this.”
    On the white handrail, in the warm stillness, a pair of winged insects squirmed together, as if trysting.
    “Termites,” Taggart said.
    “They might just be winged ants.”
    “Isn’t this the time of year when termites swarm? You better have the place inspected. A house can appear to be fine, solid and safe, even while it’s being hollowed out right under your feet.”
    At last the detective looked up and met Mitch’s eyes.
    “They’re winged ants,” Mitch said.
    “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mitch?”
    “Not that I can think of.”
    “Take a moment. Be sure.”
    Had Taggart been allied with the kidnappers, he would have played this differently. He wouldn’t have been so persistent or so thorough. There would have been a sense that it was a game to him, a charade.
    If you had spilled your guts to him, Mitch, Holly would be dead now.
    Their previous conversation could have been recorded from a distance. These days, high-tech directional microphones, what they called shotgun microphones, could pick up voices clearly from hundreds of feet away. He’d seen it in a movie. Little of what he saw in movies was based on any truth, but he thought shotgun microphones were. Taggart might have been as oblivious of the taping as Mitch had been.
    Of course, what had been done once could be done twice. A van that Mitch had never seen before stood at the curb across the street. A surveillance specialist might be stationed in the back of it.
    Taggart surveyed the street, evidently seeking the object of Mitch’s interest.
    The houses were suspect, too. Mitch didn’t know all of the neighbors. One of the houses was empty and listed for sale.
    “I’m not your enemy, Mitch.”
    “I never thought you were,” he lied.
    “Everyone thinks I am.”
    “I’d like to think I don’t have any enemies.”
    “Everyone has enemies. Even a saint has enemies.”
    “Why would a saint have enemies?”
    “The wicked hate the good just because they
are
good.”
    “The word
wicked
sounds so…”
    “Quaint,” Taggart suggested.
    “I guess in your work, everything looks black-and-white.”
    “Under all the shades of gray, everything
is
black-and-white, Mitch.”
    “I wasn’t raised to think that way.”
    “Oh, even though I see proof every day, I have some trouble staying focused on the truth. Shades of gray, less contrast, less certainty—that’s so much more comfortable.”
    Taggart took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. From the same pocket, he withdrew one of his business cards.
    “You already gave me a card,” Mitch said. “It’s in my wallet.”
    “That one just has the homicide-division number. I’ve written my cell phone on the back of this one. I seldom give it out. You can reach me twenty-four/seven.”
    Accepting the card, Mitch said, “I’ve told you everything I know, Lieutenant. Jason being caught up in this just…mystifies me.”
    Taggart stared at him from behind twin mirrors that portrayed his face in shades of gray.
    Mitch read the cell number. He put the card in his shirt pocket.
    Apparently quoting again, the detective said, “‘Memory is a net. One finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.’”
    Taggart descended the porch steps. He followed the front walkway toward the street.
    Mitch knew that everything he had told Taggart was caught in the detective’s net, every word and every inflection, every emphasis and hesitation, every facial expression and twitch of body language, not just what the words said but also what they implied. In that haul of fish, which the cop would read with the vision of a true Gypsy poring over tea leaves, he would find an omen or an indicant that would bring him back with warnings and new questions.
    Taggart stepped through the front gate and closed it