The New Husband(61)

Lowers inhibitions and awareness. It lowers everything.

“Got to be more careful, buddy,” he had lectured, when Glen was in chains. “Never lose sight of your drink at the bar. That’s drinking 101. But I guess that’s what they teach the ladies.”

Glen woke up with a hangover like no other and no memory of how he ended up naked in those rumpled sheets, the smell of sex in the room and Teresa lingering nearby.

“Well, that shouldn’t have happened,” Teresa had said as she poured him coffee.

And it never happened again. Simon got what he had wanted—those two pictures to complete his plan and set everything in motion.

The next time Glen saw Simon it was at the boat launch. Simon had scouted that spot on Lake Winnipesaukee numerous times and correctly anticipated no one but Glen would be there at that hour. Glen was always the first on the lake. It was a thing with him, a source of pride.

Simon parked his truck near Glen’s. It was the same make and model as the one Glen drove, a purchase Simon had made a year before, anticipating this day. He wanted everything for Nina to feel familiar. It was the same reason he wore Glen’s brand of cologne.

Simon climbed out of the cab and, for good measure, erected a barricade across the access road on which he placed an official-looking ROAD CLOSED sign purchased from the internet.

He approached Glen and Daisy with a friendly smile on his face, but no fishing pole in hand. Daisy barked as Simon grew nearer, but he had a dog treat at the ready to win her over.

“Sweet pup,” Simon said, as he crouched to give Daisy a pat. When he stood, Simon drew his Taser and blasted Glen with a jolt. Glen didn’t have time to raise his hands in defense. He fell to the ground, grunting, convulsing wildly. Simon fed Daisy a second treat to quiet her down, and then silenced Glen with electrical tape over his mouth. After that, Simon secured zip ties around Glen’s wrists and ankles to further immobilize him.

Glen had no memory of this, but Simon lifted him off the ground and effortlessly threw him into his boat. He slashed Glen’s arm with a Bowie knife, releasing enough blood to make him even woozier. He quickly applied bandages to the wound, knowing he’d suture the gash closed when he brought Glen home, applying the skills he had perfected on pillows.

Simon used his Taser on Glen a second time for good measure. When he moved him from the boat into his truck bed, Glen was, in Simon’s words, limp as a rag doll. With Glen subdued, Simon got his boat into the water and, using more treats, coaxed Daisy aboard before piloting the craft toward the middle of the lake. He was careful not to step in any of the blood covering the deck. He wanted the blood to throw everyone off balance. Keep them guessing. Make Nina uncertain and unsure, which he equated with more vulnerability. Accident? Did he drown? Did he fake his death?

At a spot that felt right to him, Simon dove overboard. He had left his shoes in the truck, and he swam to shore in his clothing. The entire sequence took fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds to complete, a bit shorter than planned.

He retrieved his barricade, checked for fresh tire tracks and, seeing none, drove home with his passenger in the back of the truck. Simon carried Glen downstairs, put him in the room he had spent months constructing, changed him into a gray sweatsuit, and put him in chains.

Simon took great pleasure in sharing every detail of his plan with Glen, boasting of his cleverness, beginning with that fateful setup at the Muddy Moose. He had been tracking Glen’s movements for years, studying his patterns. He knew Glen was as predictable as the tide. Almost without fail, Saturday mornings were spent fishing on the lake with his loyal dog, Daisy, serving as first mate. Sundays he was with Nina and the kids. Sometimes he’d go with them to church. He spent Monday through Friday hiding out in Carson.

But now he was Simon’s guest, every single day.

And every day was basically the same. Boredom. That was something Glen would never overcome. He had his exercises—yoga to keep his muscles from shortening too much, along with a bodyweight routine he’d developed to keep them from atrophying completely. Simon would make regular checkups, make sure Glen was staying healthy enough. Too much weight loss, any sort of hunger strike, was always countered with threats of violence.

Glen had the TV, but it was only an occasional treat. Every two weeks, Simon would provide Glen with five books, mostly nonfiction, often topics related to history. Simon said it was to keep Glen’s mind sharp so his brain didn’t go to mush. Five books in. Five books out. That was the routine. Glen had those two weeks in which to read them all. New book day had become as intoxicating as those whiskies had been.

But today was even better. Today, he’d spoken to his daughter—well, sort of spoke to her. Excited as he was, guilt and regret ate away Glen’s appetite. He was always hungry, but the hamburger Simon left for him had gone untouched. Food, like the books and TV, was another reward.

Suggest the best present for Nina—get greasy fries.

Give Simon something to say, a perfect compliment, something Nina would like to hear—maybe earn a cup of hot coffee.

The first question Simon had ever asked Glen was food-related: What’s your wife’s favorite meal?

Glen had told him: eggplant rollatine.

He got treats like a dog for doing Simon’s bidding, but now he couldn’t eat. His stomach was the size of a walnut.

Once Simon moved in with Nina, Glen was certain that would be it for him. It was the milestone he felt he’d been marching toward, the plank on which he walked. But after move-in day came and went, Simon did what he always did—pumped Glen for information about Nina and the kids.