The Husband
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The Husband

3.8 216
by Dean Koontz

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With each and every new novel, Dean Koontz raises the stakes -- and the pulse rate -- higher than any other author. Now, in what may be his most suspenseful and heartfelt novel ever, he brings us the story of an ordinary man whose extraordinary commitment to his wife will take him on a harrowing journey of adventure, sacrifice, and redemption to the mystery of love…  See more details below


With each and every new novel, Dean Koontz raises the stakes -- and the pulse rate -- higher than any other author. Now, in what may be his most suspenseful and heartfelt novel ever, he brings us the story of an ordinary man whose extraordinary commitment to his wife will take him on a harrowing journey of adventure, sacrifice, and redemption to the mystery of love itself -- and to a showdown with the darkness that would destroy it forever.

What would you do for love? Would you die? Would you kill?

We have your wife. You can get her back for two million cash. Landscaper Mitchell Rafferty thinks it must be some kind of joke. He was in the middle of planting impatiens in the yard of one of his clients when his cell phone rang. Now he’s standing in a normal suburban neighborhood on a bright summer day, having a phone conversation out of his darkest nightmare.

Whoever is on the other end of the line is dead serious. He has Mitch’s wife and he’s named the price for her safe return. The caller doesn’t care that Mitch runs a small two-man landscaping operation and has no way of raising such a vast sum. He’s confident that Mitch will find a way.

If he loves his wife enough. . . Mitch does love her enough. He loves her more than life itself. He’s got seventy-two hours to prove it. He has to find the two million by then. But he’ll pay a lot more. He’ll pay anything.

From its tense opening to its shattering climax, The Husband is a thriller that will hold you in its relentless grip for every twist, every shock, every revelation…until it lets you go, unmistakably changed. This is a Dean Koontz novel, after all. And there’s no other experience quite like it.

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Editorial Reviews

Would you die for love? Would you steal? Would you kill? These are the questions posed in the masterful Dean Koontz's, taut, electrifying thriller about an ordinary man faced with the abduction of his wife. The Husband will exceed the expectations of even the most ardent Koontz fan.
Would you die for love? Would you steal? Would you kill? These are the questions posed in the masterful Dean Koontz's, taut, electrifying thriller about an ordinary man faced with the abduction of his wife. The Husband will exceed the expectations of even the most ardent Koontz fan.
Publishers Weekly
Koontz's latest thriller, slated for fast track silver screen adaptation in a joint venture between Random House and Focus Features, presents a spellbinding Hitchcock-flavored tale of an innocent, unassuming everyman caught in an intricate web of duplicity. While toiling away in the yard of a client, Orange County landscaper Mitch Rafferty casually answers his cellular phone and learns that his wife, Holly, has been taken hostage; the humble man of the soil must raise a $2 million ransom to prevent the unthinkable from happening. Graham, fresh from such recent audiobook triumphs as John Berendt's The City of Falling Angels and Lisa Gardner's Alone, delivers a smooth single-malt scotch of a performance. Graham brings a straight-arrow, earnest 20-something cadence to Mitch's voice. He also skillfully navigates the diverse cast of Southern California characters-young Holly facing danger with both grace and bravery, a seasoned homicide detective, a sadistic kidnapper obsessed with New Age spirituality, and a high-tech entrepreneur hiding a sinister secret-with masterful use of vocal inflection and carefully timed pauses. Simultaneous release with the Bantam hardcover (Reviews, Apr. 25). (Aug.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
VOYA - Joanna Morrison
It is just a typical hot, boring day at work when landscape gardener Mitch Rafferty receives an unexpected call on his cell phone from his wife, Holly. She does not sound like herself, an impression reinforced when a man's voice interrupts to tell Mitch that Holly has been kidnapped and that he has only sixty hours in which to raise two million dollars to ransom her. He allows no questions, offers no explanations, and most important, demands no police involvement or Holly will die. Just to be sure that Mitch gets the point, the caller directs Mitch's attention to a man walking a dog across the street, and Mitch watches in horror as the dog walker is shot by a sniper. Mitch is now a believer, but where in the world is a gardener supposed to come up with that kind of cash? The story proceeds at a breakneck pace, piling twists upon twists as Koontz shows why Mitch and Holly have been chosen for this extortion, how Mitch's family background and history has influenced the kidnapping, and movingly the growing determination and outrage of a good, ordinary man pushed too far. Fans of Koontz's Odd Thomas (Bantam, 2004/VOYA February 2005) will appreciate the supernatural slant to Mitch and Holly's relationship, and readers of thrillers will find this novel a genuine page-turner.
Library Journal
Many of the elements that denote a Koontz work are here: mystery, suspense, violence, and tropical suburban California. When landscaper Mitch Rafferty receives a call from his wife, Holly, she announces that she's been abducted; her kidnappers demand a $2 million ransom. Mitch, an ordinary working Joe, doesn't have that kind of money, but the kidnappers know how he can get it. Listeners root for Mitch, who wants nothing more than to live with Holly and raise a family in safe seclusion behind their rose-entwined white picket fence. He won't employ the same questionable methods to rear rational-materialist children as his egg-head parents did, methods that employed sensory deprivation, semistarvation, nudity, and severe verbal analysis. Holter Graham is an excellent narrator, with an interesting ability with accents, but he does not develop enough distinction between his male and female voices. Recommended only for libraries that have either a large budget or a very small audio collection of Koontz titles. David Faucheux, Louisiana Audio Information & Reading Svc., Lafayette Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher
“A pulse-pounding thriller with echoes of Hitchcock.”—Publishers Weekly
 “Moves like a roller coaster without brakes . . . Koontz is America’s No. 1 author of thrillers [and] The Husband is one of his finest novels.”—The Denver Post
“Breakneck speed and complexities . . . Koontz is a master of the edge-of-your-seat, paranoid thriller—and perhaps the leading American practitioner of the form.”—The Star-Ledger
“[A] hair-raising thriller . . . Nothing should be given away about this sinuous nail-biter’s developments . . . all help ratchet up the suspense.”—Booklist (starred review)

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Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.10(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.50(d)
Age Range:
14 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

The Husband

By Dean Koontz

Random House

Dean Koontz
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0553804790

Chapter One


A man begins dying at the moment of his birth. Most
people live in denial of Death's patient courtship until, late in life and deep in sickness, they become aware of him sitting bedside.

Eventually, Mitchell Rafferty would be able to cite the minute that he began to recognize the inevitability of his death: Monday, May 14, 11:43 in the morning--three weeks short of his twenty-eighth birthday.

Until then, he had rarely thought of dying. A born optimist, charmed by nature's beauty and amused by humanity, he had no cause or inclination to wonder when and how his mortality would be proven.

When the call came, he was on his knees.

Thirty flats of red and purple impatiens remained to be planted. The flowers produced no fragrance, but the fertile smell of the soil pleased him.

His clients, these particular homeowners, liked saturated colors: red, purple, deep yellow, hot pink. They would not accept white blooms or pastels.

Mitch understood them. Raised poor, they had built a
successful business by working hard and taking risks. To them, life was intense, and saturated colors reflected the truth of nature's vehemence.

This apparently ordinary but in fact momentous morning, the California sun was a buttery ball. The sky had a basted sheen.

Pleasantly warm, not searing, the daynevertheless left a greasy sweat on Ignatius Barnes. His brow glistened. His chin dripped.

At work in the same bed of flowers, ten feet from Mitch, Iggy looked boiled. From May until July, his skin responded to the sun not with melanin but with a fierce blush. For one-sixth of the year, before he finally tanned, he appeared to be perpetually embarrassed.

Iggy did not possess an understanding of symmetry and harmony in landscape design, and he couldn't be trusted to trim roses properly. He was a hard worker, however, and good if not intellectually bracing company.

"You hear what happened to Ralph Gandhi?" Iggy asked.

"Who's Ralph Gandhi?"

"Mickey's brother."

"Mickey Gandhi? I don't know him, either."

"Sure you do," Iggy said. "Mickey, he hangs out sometimes at Rolling Thunder."

Rolling Thunder was a surfers' bar.

"I haven't been there in years," Mitch said.

"Years? Are you serious?"

"I thought you still dropped in sometimes."

"So I've really been missed, huh?"

"I'll admit, nobody's named a bar stool after you. What--did you find someplace better than Rolling Thunder?"

"Remember coming to my wedding three years ago?" Mitch asked.

"Sure. You had great seafood tacos, but the band was woofy."

"They weren't woofy."

"Man, they had tambourines."

"We were on a budget. At least they didn't have an accordion."

"Because playing an accordion exceeded their skill level."

Mitch troweled a cavity in the loose soil. "They didn't have finger bells, either."

Wiping his brow with one forearm, Iggy complained: "I must have Eskimo genes. I break a sweat at fifty degrees."

Mitch said, "I don't do bars anymore. I do marriage."

"Yeah, but can't you do marriage and Rolling Thunder?"

"I'd just rather be home than anywhere else."

"Oh, boss, that's sad," said Iggy.

"It's not sad. It's the best."

"If you put a lion in a zoo three years, six years, he never forgets what freedom was like."

Planting purple impatiens, Mitch said, "How would you know? You ever asked a lion?"

"I don't have to ask one. I am a lion."

"You're a hopeless boardhead."

"And proud of it. I'm glad you found Holly. She's a great lady. But I've got my freedom."

"Good for you, Iggy. And what do you do with it?"

"Do with what?"

"Your freedom. What do you do with your freedom?"

"Anything I want."

"Like, for example?"

"Anything. Like, if I want sausage pizza for dinner, I don't have to ask anyone what she wants."


"If I want to go to Rolling Thunder for a few beers, there's nobody to bitch at me."

"Holly doesn't bitch."

"I can get beer-slammed every night if I want, and nobody's gonna be calling to ask when am I coming home."

Mitch began to whistle "Born Free."

"Some wahine comes on to me," Iggy said, "I'm free to rock and roll."

"They're coming on to you all the time--are they?--those sexy wahines?"

"Women are bold these days, boss. They see what they want, they just take it."

Mitch said, "Iggy, the last time you got laid, John Kerry thought he was going to be president."

"That's not so long ago."

"So what happened to Ralph?"

"Ralph who?"

"Mickey Gandhi's brother."

"Oh, yeah. An iguana bit off his nose."


"Some fully macking ten-footers were breaking, so Ralph and some guys went night-riding at the Wedge."

The Wedge was a famous surfing spot at the end of the Balboa Peninsula, in Newport Beach.

Iggy said, "They packed coolers full of submarine sandwiches and beer, and one of them brought Ming."


"That's the iguana."

"So it was a pet?"

"Ming, he'd always been sweet before."

"I'd expect iguanas to be moody."

"No, they're affectionate. What happened was some wanker, not even a surfer, just a wannabe tag-along, slipped Ming a quarter-dose of meth in a piece of salami."

"Reptiles on speed," Mitch said, "is a bad idea."

"Meth Ming was a whole different animal from clean-and-sober Ming," Iggy confirmed.

Putting down his trowel, sitting back on the heels of his work shoes, Mitch said, "So now Ralph Gandhi is noseless?"

"Ming didn't eat the nose. He just bit it off and spit it out."

"Maybe he didn't like Indian food."

"They had a big cooler full of ice water and beer. They put the nose in the cooler and rushed it to the hospital."

"Did they take Ralph, too?"

"They had to take Ralph. It was his nose."

"Well," Mitch said, "we are talking about boardheads."

"They said it was kinda blue when they fished it out of the ice water, but a plastic surgeon sewed it back on, and now it's not blue anymore."

"What happened to Ming?"

"He crashed. He was totally amped-out for a day. Now he's his old self."

"That's good. It's probably hard to find a clinic that'll do iguana rehab."

Mitch got to his feet and retrieved three dozen empty plastic plant pots. He carried them to his extended-bed pickup.

The truck stood at the curb, in the shade of an Indian laurel. Although the neighborhood had been built-out only five years earlier, the big tree had already lifted the sidewalk. Eventually the insistent roots would block lawn drains and invade the sewer system.

The developer's decision to save one hundred dollars by
not installing a root barrier would produce tens of thousands
in repair work for plumbers, landscapers, and concrete contractors.

When Mitch planted an Indian laurel, he always used a root barrier. He didn't need to make future work for himself. Green growing Nature would keep him busy.

The street lay silent, without traffic. Not the barest breath of a breeze stirred the trees.

From a block away, on the farther side of the street, a man and a dog approached. The dog, a retriever, spent less time walking than it did sniffing messages left by others of its kind.

The stillness pooled so deep that Mitch almost believed he could hear the panting of the distant canine.

Golden: the sun and the dog, the air and the promise of the day, the beautiful houses behind deep lawns.

Mitch Rafferty could not afford a home in this neighborhood. He was satisfied just to be able to work here.

You could love great art but have no desire to live in a museum.

He noticed a damaged sprinkler head where lawn met sidewalk. He got his tools from the truck and knelt on the grass, taking a break from the impatiens.

His cell phone rang. He unclipped it from his belt, flipped it open. The time was displayed--11:43--but no caller's number showed on the screen. He took the call anyway.

"Big Green," he said, which was the name he'd given his
two-man business nine years ago, though he no longer remembered why.

"Mitch, I love you," Holly said.

"Hey, sweetie."

"Whatever happens, I love you."

She cried out in pain. A clatter and crash suggested a struggle.

Alarmed, Mitch rose to his feet. "Holly?"

Some guy said something, some guy who now had the phone. Mitch didn't hear the words because he was focused on the background noise.

Holly squealed. He'd never heard such a sound from her, such fear.

"Sonofabitch," she said, and was silenced by a sharp crack, as though she'd been slapped.

The stranger on the phone said, "You hear me, Rafferty?"
"Holly? Where's Holly?"

Now the guy was talking away from the phone, not to Mitch: "Don't be stupid. Stay on the floor."
Another man spoke in the background, his words unclear.

The one with the phone said, "She gets up, punch her. You want to lose some teeth, honey?"
She was with two men. One of them had hit her. Hit her.

Mitch couldn't get his mind around the situation. Reality suddenly seemed as slippery as the narrative of a nightmare.

A meth-crazed iguana was more real than this.

Near the house, Iggy planted impatiens. Sweating, red from the sun, as solid as ever.

"That's better, honey. That's a good girl."

Mitch couldn't draw breath. A great weight pressed on his lungs. He tried to speak but couldn't find his voice, didn't know what to say. Here in bright sun, he felt casketed, buried alive.

"We have your wife," said the guy on the phone.

Mitch heard himself ask, "Why?"

"Why do you think, asshole?"

Mitch didn't know why. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to reason through to an answer because every possible answer would be a horror.

"I'm planting flowers."

"What's wrong with you, Rafferty?"

"That's what I do. Plant flowers. Repair sprinklers."

"Are you buzzed or something?"

"I'm just a gardener."

"So we have your wife. You get her back for two million cash."

Mitch knew it wasn't a joke. If it were a joke, Holly would have to be in on it, but her sense of humor was not cruel.

"You've made a mistake."

"You hear what I said? Two million."

"Man, you aren't listening. I'm a gardener."

"We know."

"I have like eleven thousand bucks in the bank."

"We know."

Brimming with fear and confusion, Mitch had no room for anger. Compelled to clarify, perhaps more for himself than for the caller, he said, "I just run a little two-man operation."

"You've got until midnight Wednesday. Sixty hours. We'll be in touch about the details."

Mitch was sweating. "This is nuts. Where would I get two million bucks?"

"You'll find a way."

The stranger's voice was hard, implacable. In a movie, Death might sound like this.

"It isn't possible," Mitch said.

"You want to hear her scream again?"
"No. Don't."

"Do you love her?"


"Really love her?"

"She's everything to me."

How peculiar, that he should be sweating yet feel so cold.

"If she's everything to you," said the stranger, "then you'll find a way."

"There isn't a way."

"If you go to the cops, we'll cut her fingers off one by one, and cauterize them as we go. We'll cut her tongue out. And her eyes. Then we'll leave her alone to die as fast or slow as she wants."

The stranger spoke without menace, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were not making a threat but were instead merely explaining the details of his business model.

Mitchell Rafferty had no experience of such men. He might as well have been talking to a visitor from the far end of the galaxy.

He could not speak because suddenly it seemed that he might so easily, unwittingly say the wrong thing and ensure Holly's death sooner rather than later.

The kidnapper said, "Just so you'll know we're serious . . ."

After a silence, Mitch asked, "What?"

"See that guy across the street?"

Mitch turned and saw a single pedestrian, the man walking the slow dog. They had progressed half a block.

The sunny day had a porcelain glaze. Rifle fire shattered the stillness, and the dogwalker went down, shot in the head.

"Midnight Wednesday," said the man on the phone. "We're damn serious."

Excerpted from The Husband by Dean Koontz Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
"The Husband moves like a roller coaster without brakes….Without a doubt, Koontz is America's No. 1 author of thrillers today … The Husband is one of his finest novels."—The Denver Post

"Dean Koontz thrillers are the perfect way to chill out on a hot summer day."—The Chicago Tribune

"Fast-paced.... Koontz often pulls the rug out from under his readers' assumptions about his characters and their motives."—Associated Press, Book Reveiw

"Koontz ratchets up the tension.... [A] pulse-pounding thriller with echoes of Hitchcock and Cornell Woolrich."—Publishers Weekly

Meet the Author

Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.

Brief Biography

Newport Beach, California
Date of Birth:
July 9, 1945
Place of Birth:
Everett, Pennsylvania
B.S. (major in English), Shippensburg University, 1966

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