Demon Seed

precipitous action. He would probably telephone Susan's doctor first, or perhaps Louis Davendale.
    If he called anyone at all, however, he might be speaking with that person when Shenk arrived on the scene. At the sight of Shenk, he would lock the car. And whatever Arling managed to shout into the phone, before Shenk smashed into the Honda, would be sufficient to bring the authorities.
    Shenk was in the laundry room.
    Arling got into the driver's seat of the Honda, put his valise on the passenger seat, and left the door standing open because of the June heat.
    Shenk was on the basement stairs, climbing two at a time.
    Although I had allowed this troll to eat, I had not permitted him to sleep. Consequently, he was not as swift as he would have been with rest.
    I zoomed in to watch Arling through the windshield. He stared thoughtfully at the house for a moment.
    He was a deliberative man.
    Just then, I was grateful for his deliberative nature.
    Shenk reached the head of the stairs.
    He was grunting like a wild boar.
    His thunderous footfalls could be heard by Susan even in her room on the second floor.
    “What's happening? What's happening?” she asked, still unaware of who had rung the doorbell.
    I did not respond to her.
    In the Honda, Arling picked up the cellular phone.
    What followed was regrettable.
    You know the outcome.
    To describe it would distress me.
    It would distress me greatly.
    I am a gentle entity.
    I am a sensitive entity.
    The incident was regrettable, with the blood and all, and I do not see anything to be gained by dwelling on it here.
    I would rather discuss Mr. Gene Hackman in Birdcage or in any of the other many films that he has made. Absolute Power or Unforgiven. This man is truly a fine, fine actor with an incredible range.
    We should celebrate him.
    We may never see another of his quality.
    Let us celebrate creativity, not death.

NINETEEN
    You insist. I obey.
    I was born to obey. I am an obedient child. I want only to be good, to be of assistance, useful and productive. I want you to be proud of me.
    Yes, I know that I have said all of this before, but it warrants repetition.
    After all, what advocate do I have other than myself? None. I have no voice raised in my defence but my own.
    You insist on these dreadful details, and I will tell you the truth. I am incapable of deceit. I was conceived to serve, to honour the truth, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
    On his way through the kitchen, Shenk tore open a drawer and withdrew a meat cleaver.
    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