In the Honda, Arling switched on the cell phone. Shenk crashed through the butler’s pantry, through the dining room, into the main hail.
He waved the cleaver as he ran. He liked sharp instruments. He’d had a lot of fun with knives over the years.
Outside, phone in hand, finger poised over the keypad, Fritz Arling hesitated.
Now I must tell you about the aspect of this incident that most shames me. I do not wish to tell you, would much prefer not to mention it, but I must honour the truth.
You insist.
I obey.
In the master bedroom, a large television is concealed in a carved-walnut, French armoire opposite the foot of Susan’s bed. The armoire features motorized pocket doors that flip open and retract to expose the screen.
As Enos Shenk raced along the hallway on the ground floor, his heavy footsteps thudding off marble, I activated the doors on the bedroom armoire.
“What’s happening?” Susan asked again, straining against her bonds.
Downstairs, Shenk reached the foyer, where the rain of light off the Strauss-crystal chandelier drizzled along the sharp edge of the cleaver. [sorry, but I cannot repress the poet in me]
Simultaneously, I disengaged the electric lock on the front door and switched on the television in the master bedroom.
In the Honda, Fritz Arling tapped the first digit of a phone number into the cell-phone keypad.
Upstairs, Susan lifted her head off the pillows to stare wide-eyed at the screen.
I showed her the Honda in the driveway.
“Fritz?” she said.
I zoomed in tight on the Honda windshield so Susan could see that the occupant of the vehicle was, indeed, her former employee.
As the front door opened, I used a reverse angle from another camera to show her Shenk crossing the threshold onto the porch, cleaver in hand.
Such a chilling look on his face.
Grinning. He was grinning.
At the top of the house, trussed and helpless, Susan gasped: “Nooooo!”
Arling had punched in a third number on the cell phone. He was about to press the fourth when from the corner of his eye he became aware of Shenk crossing the porch.
For a man of his years, Arling was quick to react. He dropped the cell phone and pulled shut the driver’s door. He pressed the master lock switch, locking all four doors.
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.