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.