The pumper unit from the Church Creek Fire Company screeched to a halt at the foot of the drive, inches from Hoffner’s front bumper. His truck was blocking their way.
A radio crackled. Permission apparently asked and granted, because seconds later the fire truck advanced, made contact with Hoffner’s vehicle and shoved it, grinding and lurching, into a stand of trees where it sat, slewed sideways between two giant tulip poplars.
Hoffner’s yellow jacket disappeared into the trees. If he continued in that direction, I worried, no way he’d miss Lilith’s studio.
‘Is everyone out of the house?’ a fireman asked as he hopped out of the truck.
‘Yes. We’re all here.’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said as his colleagues busily unrolled their hoses. The pumper roared to life and water began to play against what remained of the roof of Lilith’s cottage, sizzling, changing the smoke from black to white as clouds of steam arose from the ashes.
‘Injuries?’
Nobody spoke. Nick leaned on his cane, Lilith against a tree, leg bent, stork-like, at the knee. With the exception of the firemen who clearly had other priorities, I was the only able-bodied person in the neighborhood. If anybody was going to stop Hoffner, it had to be me.
‘Nick, I need to borrow your cane.’ With Hoffner’s gun gone, I hoped the weapon would give me some tactical advantage.
Nick looked confused.
‘Wait a minute,’ his mother said. She uncurled her fingers revealing the box cutter cradled in her palm.
‘My God,’ I whispered, considering the implications. Slashing tires was one thing, but a living human being? I shivered. Yet Hoffner had just proved how dangerous he could be. I took the box cutter from Lilith, opened and closed it experimentally a few times, admiring the way the razor moved smoothly in and out of its casing. ‘Just in case,’ I told her, securing the blade and slipping the cutter into my pocket.
Then I sprinted into the woods after James Hoffner.
As I suspected, Hoffner had found Lilith’s studio hideaway. When I charged through the door, his back was to me and he appeared to be studying ‘Sailboat 23,’ still clamped to Lilith’s easel.
‘The police are on the way, Hoffner. I’d blow this joint if I were you.’
He turned to face me, slowly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He grinned malevolently. ‘It’s just you and me, then, Mrs Ives? Mano-a-mano?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do you have to be so melodramatic? There’s nothing here, as you can see. Lilith told you. She’s put her letters into a bank vault. What don’t you understand about that, Hoffner? No point in discussing it with me. Why don’t you go away now and discuss it with the bank officers at BB &T?
‘What do you expect to gain from the letters, anyway?’ I pressed on. ‘Chandler’s not going to give in to blackmail. He’ll simply acknowledge the affair and move on. Every public figure is having affairs these days. It’s quite the thing. Lynx News isn’t going to fire him because of a simple affair.’
Hoffner smiled dangerously. ‘It isn’t Chandler.’
‘Dorothea? Don’t make me laugh. She’s known about her husband’s affair with Lilith for years.’
‘That’s not what she told me.’ With a swipe of his arm, he swept ‘Sailboat 23’ off the easel. Without taking his eyes off me, he stepped on the painting. When the canvas only sagged, he stamped on it repeatedly. ‘Marriage! Reputation! Social standing! That’s what motivates Doro Dearest.’ A savage kick sent the ruined painting flying into the wall where it knocked over two others, like dominoes.
Several hundred yards away, Lilith’s house was turning into a pile of ash. What remained in this studio was all she had, and I wasn’t going to let Hoffner ruin that, too.
Hoffner’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, to threaten me, probably, but before he could utter a word, I heard sirens, supplemental fire trucks, I supposed, ambulances maybe, police. ‘Hear that, Hoffner? I told you, we called the cops. They’re coming for you.’
While Hoffner had been taking out his hostility on ‘Sailboat 23,’ I’d worked my way closer to the window and to the door that led out to the patio.
‘You!’ Hoffner snarled, turning away from the easel, backing me up against the chaise lounge. He reeked of gasoline. I hadn’t smoked for decades, but I wished I still carried matches so I could strike one, set his jeans on fire.
The box cutter bulged reassuringly in my pocket, yet I hesitated to use it. Slashing another person’s flesh, feeling their blood sluice over me, warm and red and smelling of copper… my stomach heaved.
I felt around for the afghan, found it where Lilith had draped it over the arm of the chaise, and tossed it over Hoffner’s head.
‘Goddammit!’ It took Hoffner only a moment to shrug his way out from under the afghan, but it was time enough for me to wrench open the back door and escape through it, running hell-bent for leather in the direction of the main house.
Hoffner, mad as a bull, charged after me.
About fifty yards down the path I collided, literally, with one of two firemen dragging fire hoses toward the creek. ‘Help! He’s after me!’ I panted.
The fireman looked puzzled. ‘Who, ma’am?’
I turned, equally puzzled, in time to see Hoffner crouching at the end of the pier, untying one of the lines that held Lilith’s motorboat to the dock. As the firemen and I watched, Hoffner stepped into the boat, tilted the outboard motor into the down position, stooped and squeezed the gas line bulb. His elbow shot out once, twice, three times as he yanked on the starter rope in an attempt to get the little engine going.
‘Is there a problem, ma’am?’ one of the firemen asked.
The distinctive roar of the outboard motor being revved up cut the breeze. With Hoffner’s hand on the throttle, the little boat backed, turned and shot into the creek, leaving a rooster tail in its wake.
Hoffner had gotten away.
‘No problem at all,’ I told the fireman, mentally turning Hoffner over to the vicissitudes of the wind and the tide. ‘I think my problem just solved itself.’
When I got back to what remained of Lilith’s cottage, I was pleased to see that the Madison Volunteers had powered up their pumper and water from the creek was now reaching the blaze. A third truck screamed up the drive. The volunteers from the Neck District did their best, too, but by then it was mostly too late. The roof of Lilith’s historic cottage had fallen into the shell of the building, leaving nothing but charred beams, blackened stone walls and an ancient chimney, standing erect and proud like a monument over the smoking ruins. Still the firemen remained, playing water on the house, chasing sparks and dousing flare-ups to keep the fire from spreading to the nearby woods.
Nicholas limped off to check on the damage Hoffner had done to his mother’s paintings, while I remained sitting under a tree, watching the firemen and comforting Lilith, my arm around her shoulders. Quite suddenly, she shivered and all the color drained from her face. ‘Lilith, are you OK?’ I thought about the chaise in her studio. ‘Do you need to lie down?’
Lilith shook her head, and slipped out from under my sheltering arm. ‘Zan!’
I turned to see John Chandler, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, striding in our direction. Eyes on the prize, he weaved up the drive, deftly navigating a path between fire trucks and fire hoses, seemingly oblivious to the chaos going on around him.
Next to me, Lilith struggled to rise, but before she could get to her feet, Chandler had broken into a loping run, closing the distance between them in seconds. He seized Lilith by the hands and pulled her up, catapulting her straight into his arms.