Susan jerked on her restraints and screamed: 'Proteus, no! You murderous son of a bitch! You bastard! No, stop it, no!'
Susan needed a measure of discipline.
I made this point earlier. I explained my reasoning, and you were, I believe, convinced of the fairness and logic of my position, as any thoughtful person would be.
I had intended to use Shenk to discipline her. This was worrisome, of course, a risky proposition, because Shenk's sexual arousal during the disciplinary proceedings might make him difficult to control.
Furthermore, I was loath to let Shenk touch her in any way that might be suggestive or to let him make obscene propositions to her, even if these things would terrify her and ensure her cooperation.
She was my love, after all, not his.
She was mine to touch in the intimate way that he longed to touch her.
Mine to touch.
Mine to caress when eventually I acquired hands of my own.
Only mine.
Consequently, it had occurred to me that Susan might be well disciplined merely by letting her see the atrocities of which Enos Shenk was capable. Watching the troll in action, at his worst, she would surely become more cooperative out of fear that I might turn him loose on her, set him free to do what he wanted. With this fear to keep her submissive, we could avoid the roughness I had planned for later, in the spirit of de Sade.
Not that I would ever ever ever have turned Shenk loose on her. Never. Impossible.
Yes, I admit that I would have used the brute to terrify Susan into submission if nothing else worked with her. But I would never have allowed him to savage her.
You know this to be true.
We all know this to be true.
You are quite capable of recognizing the truth when you hear it, just as I am capable of speaking nothing else.
Susan didn't know it to be true, however, which made her quite vulnerable to the threat of Shenk.
So, as she lay riveted by the scene on the television, I said, 'Now. Watch.'
She stopped calling me names. Fell silent.
Breathless. She was breathless.
Her exceptional blue-grey eyes had never been so beautiful, as clear as rainwater.
I watched her eyes even as I watched events unfold in the driveway.
And Fritz Arling, reacting instantly to the sight of Shenk, tore open the black leather valise and snatched out a set of car keys.
'Watch,' I told Susan. 'Watch, watch.'
Her eyes so wide. So blue. So grey. So clear.
Shenk chopped the cleaver at the window in the front door on the passenger side. In his eagerness, he swung wildly and struck the door post instead.
The hard clang of metal on metal reverberated through the warm summer air.
Ringing like a bell, the cleaver slipped from Shenk's hand and fell to the driveway.
Arling's hands were shaking, but he thrust the key into the ignition on the first try.
Shrieking with frustration, Shenk scooped up the cleaver.
The Honda engine roared to life.
His strange sunken face contorted by rage, Shenk swung the cleaver again.
Incredibly, the cutting edge of the steel blade skipped across the window. The glass was scored but not shattered.
For the first time in half a minute, Susan blinked. Maybe hope fluttered through her.
Frantically, Arling popped the hand brake and shifted the car into gear-
— as Shenk swung the weapon yet again.
The cleaver connected. The window in the passenger door burst with a boom like a shotgun blast, and tempered glass sprayed through the interior of the car.
A flock of startled sparrows exploded out of a nearby ficus tree. The sky rattled with wings.
Arling tramped hard on the accelerator, and the Honda leaped backward. He had mistakenly shifted into reverse.
He should have kept going.
He should have reversed as fast as possible to the end of the long driveway. Even though he would have had to drive while looking over his shoulder to avoid slamming into the thick boles of the old queen palms on both sides, he would have been moving far faster than Shenk could run. If he had rammed the gate with the back of the Honda, even at high speed, he probably would not have smashed his way through it, for it was a formidable wrought-iron barrier, but he would have twisted it and perhaps pried it part way open. Then he could have scrambled out of the car and through the gap in the gate, into the street, and once in the street, shouting for help, he would have been safe.
He should have kept going.
Instead, Arling was startled when the Honda leaped backward, and he rammed his foot down on the brake pedal.
The tires barked against the cobblestone driveway.
Arling fumbled the gearshift into Drive.
Susan's eyes so wide.
So wide.
She was breathless and breathtaking. Beautiful in her terror.
When the vehicle rocked to a halt, Enos Shenk threw himself at the shattered window. Slammed against the car without concern for his safety. Clawed at the door.
Arling tramped on the accelerator again.
The Honda lurched forward.
Holding on to the door, reaching through the broken-out window with his right arm, squealing like an excited child, Shenk chopped with the cleaver.
He missed.
Arling must have been a religious man. Through the directional microphones that were part of the exterior security system, I could hear him saying, 'God, God, please, God, no, God.'
The Honda picked up speed.
I used one, two, three security cameras, zooming in, zooming out, panning, tilting, zooming in again, tracking the car as it weaved around the turning circle, providing Susan with as much of the action as I could capture.
Holding fast to the car, pulling his feet off the cobblestones, hanging on for the ride, the squealing Shenk chopped with the cleaver and missed again.
Arling drew back sharply in panic from the arc of the glinting blade.
The car curved half off the cobblestones, and one tire churned through a bordering bed of red and purple impatiens.
Wrenching the wheel to the right, Arling brought the Honda back onto the pavement barely in time to avoid a palm tree.
Shenk chopped again.
This time the blade sank home.
One of Arling's fingers flew.
Zoom in.
Blood sprayed across the windshield.
As red as impatiens petals.
Arling screamed.
Susan screamed.
Shenk laughed.
Zoom out.
The Honda swung out of control.
Pan.
Tires gouged through another bed of flowers.
Blossoms and torn leaves sprayed off rubber.
A sprinkler head snapped.
Water geysered fifteen feet into the June day.
Tilt up.
Silver water gushing high, sparkling like a fountain of dimes in the sunshine.
Immediately, I shut off the landscape watering system.
The glittering geyser telescoped back into itself. Vanished.
The recent winter had been rainy. Nevertheless, California suffers periodic droughts. Water should not be wasted.
Tilt down. Pan.
The Honda crashed into one of the queen palms. Shenk was thrown off, tumbling back onto the cobblestones.
The cleaver slipped from his hand. It clattered across the pavement.
Gasping, hissing with pain, making strange wordless sounds of desperation, clamping his badly wounded hand in his other, Arling shouldered open the driver's door and scrambled out of the car.
Dazed, Shenk rolled off his back, onto his hands and knees.
Arling stumbled. Nearly fell. Kept his balance. Shenk was wheezing, striving to regain his breath, which had been knocked out of him.
Arling staggered away from the car.