3
B
ill and Louise walked down the woodsy path to the street, as the cicadas continued their racket in the sticky night. It was a familiar late-summer sound in Washington. She only wished she could enjoy their cacophony the way she usually did. It reminded her of the powerful natural world surrounding her, more powerful than any that flawed mankind could create.
Bill seemed to pick up the thought from her mind. “A string orchestra,” he said, “just for us.”
She squeezed her husband's hand. She was grateful for Bill. She was also grateful to be going home, only a short walk across the cul-de-sac. That was why neighborhood parties were so welcome; there was no long car trip home. She imagined cuddling up in bed next to her spouse in the spoon position and drifting off to sleep, forgetting everything, especially Peter Hoffman.
When they reached their front yard, Bill's cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the unfamiliar local number. “I bet it's Janie,” he said. Indeed it was. Their seventeen-year-old, who'd driven to a party in Louise's car, told her father that the car wouldn't start.
“I'll come and get you,” he said, and listened to the directions that Janie gave him.
“Humph,” grumbled Louise. “That car is only two years old. I wonder if she just flooded it.”
“Honey, you can't flood cars anymore. It has to be something else. Probably the battery and it just needs a jump.”
They opened the gate to their yard, a tiresome task, but fencing the property had been necessary because of a growing deer population. Moon-shaped and rustic, the gate appeared to stand alone, set as an accent in the landscape. Actually, it was attached to fine mesh fencing that was almost invisible in the random forest shrubbery.
At the garage, Bill veered off so he could get in his car and collect their daughter. Louise continued up the moss-covered flagstone path and passed under the flower- and vine-covered pergola. In the pale moonlight, this overhead bower reminded her of gardens she'd known when they'd been stationed in Israel, though it was not nearly as exotic as those lily-and-rose-filled creations. Gardening in Washington, with its overheated summer nights and high humidity, was a challenge. Not every plant flourished here, as they seemed to do in the Middle East.
She opened the two locks on the front door and went in and switched on the lights, not bothering to relock the door. Bill and Janie would be back soon. Exhausted despite the fact that it was not even midnight, Louise slumped down on the living room couch. She wondered if she would sleep tonight, for bad memories were tumbling through her head. She'd determined not to let Peter Hoffman ruin her life, but now she needed to renew that promise to herself. She knew the answer: a hot bath and a good book. She sprang up, turned off all but the reading light next to the couch and went into the hallway to her bedroom. Then she heard the front door click open. Bill, with Janie.
Her steps slowed. No, it was too soon. Bill and Janie wouldn't be home this quickly.
A wave of cold passed through her body, and she shivered. Maybe it was just her neighbor, Sam Rosen, bringing her something she'd forgotten at the party. “Hello. Who is it?” she called. “Sam?”
There was no answer. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of leaning against the wall of the hallway, then chided herself for being so foolish as to think this northern Virginia neighborhood was safe enough that she didn't have to lock the door.
Turning quietly around, Louise tiptoed back into the kitchen. It was lit only with a stove light set on “dim.” Every decision she made, she knew, would be important. Stifling a sob, she looked around and considered her options. A knife was too dangerous, for an intruder might be strong enough to pry it away from her and plunge it into her chest. Kitchen scissors held the same danger. Then she found just the thing, something with weight and not too much bulk. She grabbed her new milk pitcher off the counter and held it behind her back. Now the question was, where was the best place to meet the intruder? Certainly not in the hall or the kitchen.
She heard an amused, “What the fuck's this?” and pulled in a quick gasp of air. Was it Peter Hoffman's voice? Whoever it was, he had just bumped into something in the living room. She heard a crash and realized it was her blooming cape primrose, which sat in a corner on a high plant stand. A stab of anger filled her as she realized the intruder had deliberately destroyed the plant. It had to be Peter Hoffman.
A new feeling enveloped her and she gripped the pitcher as she would a billy club. How dare the man come here? A visceral sense of survival grew inside of her. She would not let him harm her; she was going to fight. The crash told her Hoffman was no more than fifteen feet away. She quickly darted from the kitchen into the adjoining dining room, scurrying around the antique pine dining room table as if it were a battlement. Since the living room light was on and the dining room was dark, he didn't see her, at least for an instant. But she saw him and gasped.
Hoffman had changed out of the casual sports attire he wore when he barged into the Radebaugh party. He was dressed now in dark sweat clothes with a balaclava over his face. Images of terrorists flooded her mind, and she wondered if it could be someone elseâan Arab extremist, or even a cat burglar.
Then he said, “Louise, my little spitfire,” and she was sure.
“You'd better get the hell out of here.” She spat it out at him.
“Tut, tut,” he sneered, “what language.” He pulled off his head covering, stuck it in his pocket and unzipped his sweatshirt top to reveal a white undershirt. His face broke into a big smile, he opened his arms, but he didn't make a move toward her. “That's what I like about you, Louise, that spirit. It's like the spirit of a male pony that hasn't been de-balled.”
“Save me your trite rhetoric and go home. Go home to Phyllis, who might appreciate you. Just get out of here, or they'll throw you right back into the mental hospital.”
He came into the dining room area and took a few steps around the table. She took the same number of steps away from him. “Oh, no. I came to get you, Louise. I dropped Phyllis off at home and came back. I saw your husband drive off. Wondered where he went. To buy you ice cream or something at the Seven-Eleven?”
“He just went a few blocks.” She stopped. She didn't want to bring up their beautiful daughter, Janie, for fear of putting ideas in his head. “He'll be back in an instant, so you'd better get out of here.”
Hoffman laughed. “I don't think he'll return that soon. I figure I'll have enough time with you.” He moved again toward her. “And I intend to make the most of it, bitch. Pay you back, my dear, for causing me to spend four of the most boring years of my life pretending to be insane.”
He moved around the table. Now he was on the side nearest the wall of windows that looked out into the woods. For a big man, he moved like lightning. Louise inched farther away. In a moment he'd pounce, and she'd be a goner.
She had one chance. She threw the pitcher at him. He laughed as he ducked, and the pitcher smashed through a dining room window. “Now what are you going to do since you've emptied your chamber, Louise?” he taunted. “Or do you have an apple parer in your pocket?” Desperate, she realized she was cornered. Behind her was the antique cabinet with pieces of art glass, useless as weaponry. “Peter,” she said, willing to deal now, “what is it you want?”
Even in the dimness, she could see his wicked smile and knew he wasn't done with her. He'd only started. “You'll see,” he assured her. He feinted, first to the left, then to the right, and she didn't know which way to move. Then he rushed at her like a person possessed. He moved around the pine table and grabbed her with arms of iron and pulled her against him.
Before she could scream, he covered her mouth with one hand and bent her back in an uncomfortable position. What was he going to doârape her? Or kill her? Her body trembled with rage as she used all her strength in an attempt to slide from under his grasp.
“Now, my dear, you're not so adventurous, are you?” he asked, sneering down at her. His breath was sour and hot, as if it were the physical manifestation of the evil inside him.
Then she heard the voices, and a shudder of relief passed through her body. They came from the patio, not from the front door as she would have expected. Pausing only an instant, Hoffman yanked her upright as if she were a rag doll and shoved her into the living room. Two figures were threading their way through the patio furniture. It was Sam Rosen and Greg Archer. “Sam!” she screamed. “Help!”
Not bothering to flee or even put on his hood to conceal his identity, Hoffman whipped off his sweatshirt, revealing the T-shirt underneath, and tied the dark garment casually by its sleeves around his waist. Stunned, Louise stood and propped herself against the couch as Hoffman switched on a floor lamp and stepped closer to the jagged hole in the broken window. “Hi, guys, it's Peter,” he called to the two men. “This Eldridge woman invites me in, then she completely loses it.” His eyes widened innocently. “Go figure
.
I can't. I have to get home now. Otherwise Phyllis is going to get mighty suspicious. I told her I'd only be out a few minutes. I'll leave you two to try to cool Louise down.” With that, he hurried through the living room and out the front door.
Pulling in some deep breaths, she went to the patio door and unlocked it. “Thank God you came, Sam. Peter Hoffman broke into my house!”
Sam held her in a quick embrace. “We thought we heard a crash. What happened here?”
Greg added, “Peter told us he was coming to your house.”
“What do you mean?” she asked incredulously.
Sam patted her arm. “Just tell us your story first.”
She looked warily at the two men and said, “Bill had to drive over to Mount Vernon apartments to pick up Janie. No sooner did he leave than Hoffman walked in my front door, dressed like a burglar!”
Greg said, “Was the door locked?”
“No, actually, it wasn't.”
“And you mean you didn't invite him in?”
She gave him a frosty look.
Sam put up his hands. “Hey, hey, let's not argue. What Greg's talking about is that Hoffman told us when we left the party that the two of you were going to be âtalking things over and making peace.' ”
“That's an outright lie!” she cried.
Sam nodded his head slowly. “Apparently so. What happened to the window?”
“He was coming at me, Sam. I threw a pitcher at him, but he still grabbed me. He acted as if he'd like to kill me. He wore all dark clothes and he had a hood on, a balaclava.”
“
I
didn't see any hood,” said Greg. “Did you, Sam?”
Sam reluctantly shook his head.
“What I observed,” recalled Greg, “was that he was wearing a pretty innocent-looking t-shirt.”
Louise's eyes blazed. “Obviously, he left the party and dropped his wife at home and changed his clothes. Then he snuck back over here and barged into my house.”
Greg sighed and rolled his eyes. “One thing sure is true: you've made an enemy out of that guy.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You mean because I discovered he murdered a woman?” Louise's eyes blazed with anger.
Sam came over and put an arm around her shoulder. “Louise, sit down on the sofa. You have to calm down. Are you hurt in any way?”
She did as he suggested, wiggling her shoulders and moving her arms around. Then she gazed down at the mess near the smashed dining room window. “But I need to clean up that glass and the pieces of my pitcher.”
“Not right now,” said Sam. “What you need is a drink. Where's the whiskey?”
She slumped back on the couch. “There's some brandy in the cupboard next to the fridge. Glasses are there, too.”
Greg sat in the wooden antique chair across from her, the one Louise had inherited from her grandmother. Fortunately for him, he didn't lean back or exhibit any other strenuous behavior, or she would have called him on it. “Face it, Louise, you were talking to this man at the party about an hour ago,” he told her.
Stifling all sarcasm, for she had to learn how to get along with this companion of her friend, she replied, “I did not talk to him, or at least not more than a sentence. He talked to me. And you're right. I have made an enemy out of this man. I only hope the police will arrest him.”
“Maybe you can get a restraining order.”
Sam brought her a little glass of brandy and one for him and Greg as well. She sipped hers slowly. Then the reality sank in. Peter Hoffman didn't necessarily want to hurt her, he just wanted to make trouble. Now she and Bill would have to step up and take the initiative to get a restraining order. Or would they possibly throw him back into the mental hospital?
Greg leaned forward carefully, apparently realizing he was sitting on a relic. “The trouble is, Louise, he could make a case for himself. Your front door was open, right?”