Winter House

Chapter 11

CLEO WINTER-SMYTH FUMBLED IN HER PURSE FOR HER OWN prescription sedatives. She handed the pharmacy bottle to her ex-husband. „Sheldon, you’ll have to crush these in water.“

„Why?“

„Because your daughter could never swallow pills.“

Bitty watched him amble off toward the kitchen. She was always startled by each reminder that her father knew less about her than strangers did. But now this pain was put aside. Uncle Lionel would be back from the garage soon, and this was rare and precious time, a few minutes alone with her mother. „I want to show you something.“ She retreated to the foyer closet, flung open the door and swept three hats from a lower shelf.

„No, Bitty, don’t do that.“ Cleo had the tone of one reprimanding a four-year-old as she came up behind her daughter and bent low to collect the fallen haberdashery. But now the hats dropped to the floor as her hands flew up to cover her face. „My God. It’s a mouse hole. But the house hates mice. How could this – “

„No, Mother. I drilled that hole myself. See how shallow the closet is? And the back wall isn’t cedar. All the other closets in the house – “

„Well, of course it’s shallow. It’s a hat closet. It’s always been a hat closet.“

„There’s no such thing. Aunt Nedda said this was a normal closet when she was a little girl. She said coats were kept in here.“

„Well, the house was rented out when we were children. One of the tenants must have changed it into a hat closet.“

„No, it’s a normal closet with a false wall. If you look through the hole – “

„Not a mouse hole,“ said Cleo. „Well, that’s a relief.“ Her eyes traveled over the exposed section of the wall. „You’re right. It’s not cedar. Looks cheap. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed that before. But then, it’s always been full of hats. There was a time when everyone wore them. So it made sense, you see, to have a place to – “

„It’s not a hat closet!“ This was Bitty’s attempt at yelling, but it came out as an impatient squeak. „It’s a hiding place.“ She hunkered down in front of the drilled hole. With more composure, she said, „If you shine a light in there, you can see a trunk. It’s just like the trunks in the attic. Did you ever count them, Mother? One for every dead Winter – except for Sally. Didn’t you ever wonder about Sally’s trunk?“

„The south attic? We never go up there. Why would we? Why would you? I don’t think I want to – Oh, no. Bitty, I asked yon not to do that.“

Hats were in flight once more as Bitty cleared one shelf and then another. Cleo ran about the foyer rescuing hats on the fly and yelling, „Bitty, stop! Stop it this instant!“ She reached high in the air to catch one with a wide brim sailing by like a Frisbee.

Bitty lifted one board from its moorings and then the next. She never heard the door open, but now Uncle Lionel was behind her asking, „What’s going on? Bitty, have you lost your mind?“

Bitty was laughing, though not hysterically. This was genuinely funny. She might be the only one in the house who could pass a psychological evaluation.

Cleo’s arms were wrapping round her daughter as she yelled, „You’re not well! You don’t know what you’re doing! This has to stop!“

Oh, yes – the terrible insanity of skimming hats across the foyer. Bitty wrestled free. She ran through the doorway and across the front room, aiming herself at the kitchen like a missile. She collided with her father. A glass of water fell from his hand and crashed to the floor. She circled round him, ducking his hand and almost slipping in the wide puddle. Upon entering the kitchen, she pulled open the glass cabinet that housed the fire extinguisher and the ax.

Bitty returned to the front room to enjoy one shining moment as the center of attention. The three of them were agape and staring at the fire ax in her hand. Her father was shaking his head, trying to make sense of this sight – his daughter armed with a lethal weapon. Ah, and now she discovered a new side effect as she walked toward them and they moved back.

Power.

She entered the foyer to stand before the closet. It was now bare of every shelf within her reach. She took one mighty swing of the ax to crack open the brittle plaster wall. Her second swing was too high, slicing through one of her mother’s hats and trapping the blade in the cut of high shelf.

Braver now, the trio entered the foyer, hands reaching out.

„Don’t you dare!“ Bitty pulled the ax free and turned on them.

Her mother held up her hands like a mugging victim. „It’s all right, dear. Everything is going to be all right.“

Bitty swung the ax again, putting another hole in the thin board of the closet’s back wall and raising a small cloud of white plaster dust.

„That’s enough,“ said her mother, sternly now, as if her forty-year-old child were merely acting up in front of company.

Bitty made another swing, wielding the ax with all her might. The wall cracked inward. She used the ax as a hammer to drive the shards of the wall back into a hollow space.

„That’s enough!“ said Cleo. „Stop it!“

Completing her very first act of open rebellion, Bitty pulled loose other sections of the ruined wall, working like a dervish to expose the small trunk on the floor behind it. As she gripped a brass handle and dragged it out, it became wedged in the opening. With one hard tug, the trunk came loose and flew backward with Bitty into the room, landing on its side and falling open to spill its contents at her mother’s feet.

A rotted nightgown, a yellow braid – a tiny skeleton.

If a doll had bones.

Lieutenant Coffey had been almost flattered – almost – when District Attorney Buchanan deigned to visit Special Crimes Unit at this late hour, having left a dinner party and one royally pissed-off campaign contributor during an election year. The dapper little weasel had come accompanied by an honor guard of five minions, all of them dressed in tuxedos and shiny shoes. There were rarely any of the female assistant DAs in his traveling entourage; they were much too tall in high heels. Buchanan liked to surround himself with small men, following the principle that no head should be higher than the king’s.

For the past ten minutes, the lieutenant had endured the protocol of ascending and descending speech. He was always called Jack, and Buchanan was addressed as sir or Mister District Attorney. And now Buchanan had run out of breath in a rather one-sided argument, or perhaps he had simply exhausted his store of insults.

The lieutenant picked his next words with care. „Well, sir, it’s the kind of case that comes along once in a career.“

„That’s no excuse. I told your detectives to stay clear of that law firm. They completely disregarded my direct order. And now I understand that they’re harassing one of Sheldon Smyth’s clients – a seventy-year-old woman, for God’s sake. She’s being watched around the clock.“

„Yes, sir. We have a plainclothes detail guarding Nedda Winter.“ Coffey sat down behind his desk and picked up a pen.

„Well, Jack, you can forget that court order for protective custody. I blocked it.“

„Yes, I know.“ Jack Coffey’s grin was wide and impolitic as he finished scribbling his note, and now he passed it to the district attorney, who read’ the single line.

„Oh, Jesus Christ.“ The note dropped to the floor as Buchanan stood up and cleared the room, waving his ADAs out the door, yelling, „Move – now!“ When his entourage had fled the office, the district attorney lowered his voice to a conspirator’s whisper. „Red Winter? You plan to implicate the Smyths in the Winter House Massacre? Do you want me to have a heart attack, right here, right now?“

Oh, yes, and if there was a God -

„No fucking way, Jack. The lawsuit potential is staggering. Now listen carefully. This is another direct order from me to Mallory and Riker. From now on, your detectives stay away from the Smyth firm and Nedda Winter.“

„In that case, screw it. You don’t get to order my detectives around. That’s my job. And, if you’re not gonna help them, then stay the hell out of their way.“

Buchanan’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. This was almost an assault, these words of insurrection. And now it must occur to him that the lieutenant had a bomb in his pocket.

He did.

„I smell conflict of interest,“ said Coffey, and this was a roundhouse punch of words. „Hell, you’re going out of your way to advertise it.“ He walked around his desk to loom over the shorter man, and Buchanan lowered himself into the chair. The lieutenant bent down, working his way into the man’s personal space, and the DA had nowhere to go. „I’m betting that law firm turns up on your A-list for campaign contributions. You like the Smyths so much? Fine. Then you go down with them.“ Heady words in an election year.

Mallory appeared out of nowhere. Neither man had heard her coming. She laid a copy of Sheldon Smyth’s canceled check in the DA’s lap to back up the lieutenant’s charge of conflict of interest. Buchanan was a long time staring at that check, as if he were counting the many zeros of his purchase price.

As if Mallory only wanted change for a dollar, she said, „I need a court order to force Nedda Winter into protective custody. No judge will sign off on that until they get a call from you.“

The man’s eyes were little gray pinballs as he considered his options. And now, Buchanan the Weasel was back, eyes sly and calculating. He crushed the photocopy in one white-knuckled fist, perhaps with the idea that women were easier to intimidate. „Is this your idea of – “

„A gift?“ Mallory dusted imaginary lint from the shoulder of her blazer.

„Yes, that’s exactly what it is. You’ll want to return that campaign contribution before we make the arrest.“

Mallory was now dead to the district attorney. He turned his angry face on the lieutenant. „All right, Jack. You’ll get custody of the old lady – but that’s all you get.“ He held up the photocopied check. „Down the road, you don’t get to use this crap on me again.“

„Deal.“ And Coffey would abide by it. The favor bank of cops, politicians and other felons depended upon the principle of honor among extortionists.

Cleo Winter-Smyth made a break with manikin demeanor. She was so much softer now. Leaning down to the trunk, she wiped ages of dust from the small brass plaque to read the name of her youngest sister, „Sally.“ The woman sank to the floor and knelt before the spilled remains of a dead child. There was no flesh on the bones. A hole had been gnawed in the trunk, and that could only be the work of hungry rats.

So much for the theory that it was the house and not the exterminator that killed the vermin and other pests.

The rodents had left behind a long corn-silk braid. Cleo caressed it with a trembling hand. „Baby Sally. That’s what we called her.“ She picked up a tiny shoe, brittle with age. The laces had rotted away. In a stutter of tears, she said, „We were a family, Sally, Lionel and me.“

Bitty was stunned. Mother instinct had been there once, but it had been exhausted on a little girl who had died so long ago.

Mother? Can you see me? I’m standing here right beside you. I’m alive. Look at me. Look at me!

This was the lament of a child, and it had never worked. Bitty stared at the ax in her hand and the destruction of the closet wall. She was still invisible for all of this.

„Baby Sally,“ echoed Lionel with more feeling than Bitty would have thought possible. Suddenly, the bizarre little family reunion with a skeleton was done. Feelings spent, brother and sister donned their masks again and turned in unison to face Sheldon Smyth.

Lionel stepped toward the man, as if to strike him. „Your father told us she died in the hospital. But Sally never made it that far.“

„What are you saying?“ The lawyer was backing away.

„Uncle James was long gone,“ said Cleo. „Sally didn’t have a guardian to authorize hospital care. Did that worry your father, Sheldon?“

„Maybe,“ said Lionel, „he was afraid the authorities would ask too many questions. They might find out that our guardian had abandoned us.“

Cleo seamlessly continued her brother’s thought. „The court would’ve appointed another guardian and asked a lot of questions. But the Smyth firm wasn’t finished draining our trust fund.“

Lionel pointed to the bones at his feet. „So it was Sally’s bad luck to get between the lawyers and the money.“

„You can’t believe my father would have any part in murdering a small – “

„No, I don’t,“ said Cleo. „Sally was dying from the day she was born. But I think her death was damned inconvenient for him.“

„And when she was dead,“ said Lionel, „your father put her inside that wall. If she was ever found, then Uncle James could take the blame – if he ever came back.“

„If Uncle James ever demanded the rest of his cut,“ said Cleo. „There’s no other explanation for keeping Sally’s body in the house. Or did your father intend to blame it on us?“

Lionel Winter turned to his niece with mild surprise, as if noticing Bitty for the first time. „Your mother and I were only children – so easy to intimidate. Uncle James disappeared after a few years, and the three of us were left with a nanny and Sally’s nurse. If the authorities found out what our situation was, they would’ve split us up and put us in foster care. That’s what the lawyers told us. They said we were penniless. Sheldon’s father moved the three of us into the summer house. He said the cost of taking care of us was out of his own pocket – his generosity, his money.“

„He told us we were worse than penniless,“ said Cleo. „He said this house would have to be rented out to pay down the family debts.“

„One day, your mother and I came back from school, and the nurse told us our litde sister had been taken to the hospital. We never saw Sally again.“

„She was here all that time.“ Cleo glared at her ex-husband.

If the ax were in her mother’s hand -

„I’d like to know,“ said Lionel, „was Sally dying or dead when the nurse called your father out to the summer house to collect her?“

„No, Sheldon,“ said Cleo, „don’t shake your head – don’t pretend that you don’t know all the details. I know your father would’ve warned you about a little body walled up in this house.“

„The Smyths are long-term planners,“ said Lionel.

Cleo looked down at her daughter, another Smyth. „Didn’t you ever wonder why your father never wanted custody of you? The Smyths plan ahead for generations.“

Bitty turned to her father, but he was looking elsewhere. All her life she had been told of a custody battle that had never taken place. And all this time, she had been her father’s tie to the Winter family fortune, a tie that could not be undone until a day when all the money would flow back again the other way – generational planning.

The lawyer in Sheldon Smyth was smiling at his ex-wife. „If this is made public, Cleo, you and your brother lose everything back to the trust fund. When Nedda dies, it all goes to the Historical Society. You’ll be dead broke, the both of you, and lucky if you don’t wind up in jail.“

„But we didn’t do anything wrong,“ said Cleo. „We were the victims.“

„I don’t think the district attorney will see it that way,“ said Sheldon. „It all depends on what sort of a deal I make for myself – if it comes to that – if you push me to it. You two became co-conspirators when you had the trust fund money repaid to your personal accounts. You were originally intended to have a lifetime draw, but you wanted all the money. Those were your terms.“

„That was so long ago,“ said Lionel. „Surely the statute of limitations – “

„It doesn’t apply here. Ask my daughter. She’s a lawyer. The yearly reparations installments – oh, let’s call it extortion – that makes it an ongoing crime.“

Lionel and Cleo turned to Bitty, silently asking if this was true. It was an interesting moment for a legal consultation. Bitty loosened her grip on the ax, then idly shifted it from hand to hand, giving this problem actual consideration. „Did either of you sign anything to get those yearly payments?“

„Damn right, they did,“ said Sheldon. „That money is trust fund restitution. It can’t be disguised as any other form of compensation. If the firm goes down, so do they.“

„Sorry.“ Bitty shrugged. „That’s how Daddy’s firm ensured your silence. They made you part of the crime.“ She looked down at the tiny skeleton at her feet. „Two crimes.“

„And no statute of limitations,“ said Sheldon, who was enjoying this just too much. „You see, the trust was never entirely drained. The theft of the restitution money is a crime in progress – conspiracy grand theft.“ He nudged Sally Winter’s trunk with the toe of his shoe. „And, may I point out, that you’re the ones in possession of a dead child. The fact that the body was hidden – well, that guarantees a homicide investigation. Reporters camped out on the doorstep, television people and their cameras following you everywhere you go. You find that appealing?“

No, they did not. Cleo was holding on to Lionel’s arm for support.

„So,“ said Sheldon, „it appears that we have a lot to talk about. And then we have to put Sally back in the wall.“ He turned to his daughter. „Bitty, my love, you’re also a part of this now.“ He gave her his most radiant smile, then turned back to his ex-wife. „Cleo, suppose you put on a pot of coffee. We’ll all sit down together and – “

„Bitty,“ said Cleo, „go up to your room. I’ll call you down when we’ve agreed on something.“ She reached out and plucked the ax from her daughter’s hand as if this deadly weapon were no more than a disallowed sweet that might ruin Bitty’s dinner. „Go on now.“

Defenseless, Bitty climbed the stairs. When she turned back, she saw her uncle picking up the bones of his little sister and gendy, reverendy placing them in the trunk.

Nedda was drinking Courvoisier in Charles’s front room when she began to beep. She pulled the pager from her pocket. „Bitty made me take this when we were at the hospital.“

„Horrible invention,“ said Charles. „I’d never own one. Pagers and cell phones. Those gadgets don’t make life easier for people. They simply make escape impossible.“

She looked at the glowing display of digits on the face of the pager. „And, of course, this number is Bitty’s cell phone.“

„Then I’ll give you some privacy,“ said Charles. „I have some work to do in my office across the hall. I might be awhile, so don’t wait up. Sleep well. See you in the morning.“

Nedda waited until he was gone, then rang Bitty’s number, charmed by the old-fashioned rotary dial on the antique telephone. She held the receiver to her ear and only counted one ring, before she heard Bitty’s voice. „Hello, dear. How are you feeling____________________What?… Calm down--Yes, dear, but why did you leave the hospital?… Why would they… Don’t upset yourself… No, of course I don’t mind--We’ll sort this out when I get there.“

Nedda found paper and a fountain pen in the drawer of a small writing desk. She left a note for Charles, explaining that Bitty needed her and that she might be gone for a few hours. Her next call was to the car service.

An unmarked police car stopped beside a recendy vacated stretch of curb outside of Charles Buder’s apartment building. The watchers were changing shifts, and all the attention of the man behind the wheel was devoted to the task of parallel parking. His partner stood on the sidewalk, directing the stop and starts of squeezing the car into a tight parking space. That done – a perfect job – they settled in for the last tour of duty on this plainclothes detail. When the custody order arrived, the old woman would be taken away by police from another division. It was going to be an early night, and they were both thinking ahead to cold beers and hot slices from Ray’s Pizza as the taillights of Nedda Winter’s limousine disappeared around the corner.

Harry Bell, the desk sergeant in the SoHo station house, looked up to see a rookie standing before him, though he should not have seen the youngster’s face for another five hours. The cop was supposed to be sitting in a chair outside of Bitty Smyth’s hospital room, an unauthorized posting that had drained the bank of favors owed to Detective Mallory.

„Peterson,“ said the sergeant, „you should be uptown. Guard duty at the hospital? Is it all coming back to you now?“

„I was relieved of duty,“ said Peterson, tacking on a belated „sir.“

„Now that’s funny, kid, ‘cause I don’t remember calling you back here. So whose idea was – “

„It was the family. They relieved me.“

„The Mafia? That family? Was gunplay involved?“

„No, sir.“ The boy made the mistake of smiling at his sergeant’s little joke instead of running for his life. „It was Sheldon Smyth. He’s the lady’s father – and he’s a lawyer.“

„Oh, well, that makes it okay.“ Sergeant Bell knew he could shoot this boy right now for just cause and get away with it. „I guess they changed the line of command. Now it’s lawyers giving orders to the uniforms – instead of their sergeants. Well, somebody should’ve told me.“

Harry Bell’s smile grew wide and wicked as the young cop’s face quickly reddened. The torture of raw recruits passed for sport on a slow night. That was what rookies were for. That was why God had made so many of them. „Tell you what, kid, why don’t you go upstairs and explain all of this to Detective Mallory? No, go ahead. She’ll understand. Ever met her?“

„No, sir.“

Perfect.

„Well, she looks like a babe, real pretty, but don’t let that fool you. Down deep, she’s a motherly type.“

Harry Bell watched the rookie drag his feet climbing the stairs to Special Crimes Unit. If the sergeant had been wearing a hat, he would have removed it and whistled a funeral hymn.

Winter House was dark when Nedda opened the front door. By the dim glow filtering in from the street, she could see the floor strewn with haberdashery and bits of plaster. Her niece’s frightened ramble on the telephone seemed more coherent to her now.

The wall switch would not work, but the security alarm still glowed. She tapped in the code to disable it, then crossed the threshold into the front room, moving toward the staircase in total darkness. Her only weapon was beneath the pillow in her bedroom. She looked up at the sound of her name whispered from the second-floor landing. By the light of a candle, Bitty drifted down the stairs, pausing halfway with a finger pressed to her lips to caution silence. She lifted the candle high to light Nedda’s way as they climbed slow and stealthy toward Bitty’s bedroom.

Once they were behind a closed door, her niece said, „I called the police. They’re not coming. Maybe I put it badly. I might have seemed hysterical. I told them I was afraid to leave my room. The lights wouldn’t work. They already think I’m crazy. They said I should call an electrician.“

Scores of candles were alight on every surface and wavering with the drafts of the house. Nedda picked up a candlestick and walked back to the door. „I’ll go down to the cellar. I know where the fuse box is.“ But first she would go to her bedroom to fetch the ice pick.

„No!“ Bitty grabbed her aunt’s arm, pulled her away from the door, then slid the thick bolt safe home. „They’re all downstairs in the kitchen. They’ll see you.“

„They?“

„Uncle Lionel and my parents.“

„Why does that – “

„Please, Aunt Nedda.“

This was probably not the time for a rational conversation. She only wanted to end Bitty’s fear. „All right, dear. If that worries you, I’ll use the garden door to the cellar.“

„But one of them pulled out the fuses!“

„So I’ll put in new ones. There’s a big supply of them on top of the fuse box, a flashlight, too.“ Nedda put one hand on the doorknob.

„Don’t leave me alone.“ The look on Bitty’s face was pure anguish.

Nedda was wondering how much of this could be put down to hysteria, and then Bitty described the trunk of Sally Winter and its sad contents.

Hard news – as though her youngest sister had died only this moment, and the grief was new.

Sally, my Sally.

So the house, truly sickened, was coughing up its dead tonight.

„I know why the house has gone dark,“ said Bitty. „I’m supposed to have an accident on the stairs.“

The desk sergeant noted every head in the station house turning toward the stairs, and it was no surprise to see Kathy Mallory flying back to earth, her feet touching down on every third step. Apparently, young Peterson had confessed.

With eyes cast down, Sergeant Bell feigned interest in his paperwork. As the detective sped by his desk, he inquired after the health of his young rookie. „Did you kill him?“

He looked up to see the back of Mallory pushing through the door and into the street.

„I’ll take you back to Charles’s place in SoHo.“ Nedda looked through her purse by the light of a dozen candles, finally emptying it out on the bed to search for a scrap of paper with a phone number for the car service.

„Here, I found it.“ She picked up the telephone receiver and listened to a dial tone. „Well, the phone is still working.“

Bitty screamed and grabbed her aunt’s arm.

Nedda whirled around. On the far side of the room, the wastebasket was in flames. The fire climbed the curtains with astonishing speed, eating the lace, flames licking the ceiling and spreading along the wallpaper. Bitty was yelling and waving her arms. The bird ran from its cage, wings flapping in a fair imitation of his mistress. Nedda scooped up the bird and crammed it into a deep coat pocket, then grabbed her niece by the arm. „We have to go, Bitty. We have to get everyone out of the house.“

Nedda slid back the bolt and dragged her niece into the hall, closing the door as the bedcovers burst into flames. They were at the edge of the stairs when she saw a march of three candle flames below and the glow of three disembodied heads floating in the dark. The small procession of Cleo, Lionel and Sheldon moved toward the staircase.

Smoke seeped out from under the door and, rising in a draft, drifted across Bitty’s face. „Oh, God!“ She broke free of her aunt’s grasp and ran up the stairs to the next landing.

„No, Bitty! Come back!“ Nedda gave chase as the little troop of candles had dwindled to two and climbed the stairs.

Bitty’s face was a picture of abject horror as she looked back toward her room. The smoke was escaping through the wide crack beneath the door and winding upward, following her up the stairs. Nedda caught up to her niece, but failed to get hold of her. Bitty’s hands were windmills to fend off all comers as she ran upward. The smoke went with her rising in her wake. She stumbled and would have tumbled back, but Nedda was behind her to break the fall. A gray cloud was forming below and billowing toward them, obscuring the stairs.

„Bitty, we have to go back through the smoke. Hold your breath.“

„No! No!“

Nedda warded off the swats from her niece’s flailing hands. Below her, she heard the bedroom door being opened. „No!“ she screamed. „Close that door! I’ve got Bitty. I’ll get her out. Save yourselves.“ The smoke was spreading and thickening, blotting out the landing below. She dragged her niece down into the smoke, the only way out. It cost her precious air to scream, „Cleo, Lionel! Get out! Get out of the house!“

Beloved faces were emerging from the black cloud, coughing, choking, hands reaching out. Bitty was loose again, running upstairs to where the air was still breathable.

„Fire!“ The homeless man banged on the glass door of the apartment building. He was in tears. „Fire! People are dying! Don’t you believe me?“ No, probably not. It was one of those upscale places where tenants walked toy dogs that ran on batteries for all he knew. The rich were a different species, and he had never suspected them of sanity or humanity. The doorman, with his white gloves and fake gold buttons, had been among these people too long. When he turned to the glass, he did not see the shabby madman crying outside in the cold, banging the door in frustration, trying to save a few lives. No, this man looked right through the bum, then turned his back, well insulated from the sounds of the street, the chill of the night air – the smell of derelicts and smoke.

„Bastard!“

The temperature was dropping, and the homeless man pulled up the collar of his threadbare coat as he ran back to the house next door. The tiny woman sprawled on the steps was rolling on her side. A cell phone fell from the pocket of her dress and clattered to the steps. The derelict grabbed it up to punch in the emergency number that would bring out the fire engines.

And now he was believed.

A small tan car pulled up in front of the house with a screech of brakes, followed by the slam of a door. A long-legged, green-eyed blonde was bearing down on him.

Oh, lady, what cold eyes you have.

In a split second, he identified her as a cop. For so many years he had been kicked awake by cops while huddled in doorways uptown and down, and, no mistake, this woman was one of them.

Big trouble.

He knew what an odd sight he was, a raggedy bum with a cell phone. He held out the phone to surrender it, yelling, „I didn’t steal it, okay? It fell out of her pocket.“ And this was followed closely by a silent prayer that he would not be hurt.

The cop was staring at the dark front windows. No flames were visible, but the reek of smoke was strong. And now she looked at him, actually saw him – spoke to him. „You called nine-one-one?“

„Yeah.“ He looked down at the woman who lay at his feet. „There’s more people in there. An old lady carried this one out, and then she ran back inside. She said to tell the firemen they were all upstairs. Don’t know how many – “

He watched the cop pull a penlight from the pocket of her blazer as she marched up the stairs to the door. A puny penlight. He knew it would be useless where she was going.

He called after her. „I tried to stop the old lady. Then I closed the door behind her. You never wanna feed oxygen to a fire.“

A fireman had told him that.

And now he watched the cop’s back as she disappeared into the house, and he gave her up for dead. He knew the odds against her ever finding her way back. It was the smoke that killed and not the flames. He had learned this the hard way in a flophouse fire, barely escaping with his life, but not all of his hair and skin.

Another smoke alarm went off – loud and piercing mechanical shrieks. Calling out to survivors would be a waste of air and effort. Mallory pulled her T-shirt up to cover her nose and mouth. She entered the dark front room on the run, heading for the staircase, guided by the thin beam of a penlight that lit up a stream of gray fog on the lower floor. She aimed her light at the stop of the stairs. The pathetic beam could not penetrate the thicker smoke flooding the second floor; it only bounced off a roiling, black, boiling upside-down sea, and she was going into it. Eyes tearing, shut tight, she pocketed the penlight and gained the second-floor landing as air exploded from her lungs. She hit the floor and sipped from the inch of air above the floor, then crawled along the carpet. She found the first body by touch, a man by the feel of him, and he was dead. Like a sack of sand, the corpse lacked the yield of an unconscious victim. This flesh was only a bag for meat and bone. And Mallory moved on.

How many survivors? How many rooms in this house?

Lungs bursting, she ducked her head to sip more air from the floor, strained through her silk T-shirt. The smoke alarms were deafening. More of them were going off in sequence as the smoke climbed upward through the house.

And this was happening in seconds that were hours long.

She would never find the others. The alarms were maddening her with their screaming urgency. She wished – they – would – just – stop!

And they did.

The smoke alarms were shutting down one by one. Were their plastic covers melting in the heat? Now she could hear the flames, the crack and dull roar, but not see them. Above her, there was a shriek that was not mechanical – not human.

The pet bird.

That creature could not have lasted six seconds in this lethal atmosphere. Someone had to be sheltering it from the poisoned air. Mallory crawled toward the sound of the screaming cockatiel, and her groping hands met the next flight of stairs. Coughing, choking, she rose to a stand, found the rail and took the stairs three at a time, stone blind, to the next landing. Back down to the floor, crawling again, drinking air from the ground and finding it poisoned. Coughing, coughing. On her right side, a door opened into the hall, slamming into her shoulder, and two bodies tumbled out. Mallory sucked better air from the closet floor as her hands passed over the two women wrapped in one another’s arms – one living, Nedda by the long braid, and one dead, Cleo. Mallory pulled the sisters apart, then yanked up Nedda’s coat to shelter the woman’s face from the smoke. Crawling on all fours, she dragged the unconscious Nedda, feeling her way, following the margin of wood floor between the carpet and the railing.

Which way? Was she turned around? Where was the dead man’s body?

Down below, where the music was.

Someone had turned on a radio. She heard the slurry static of changing channels, and now a saxophone was calling her down, luscious siren notes. She moved away from the rail, dragging her burden with her, and found the first stair. Rising, she lifted Nedda onto her back in a fireman’s carry and made her way down, falling, kneeling at the last step on the second floor. Diving down to the ground again for air, all smoke now, coughing, coughing, choking, starved for air, muscles weakening, then shot. The music swelled up all around her, the stab and jab of horns rising to the high notes. Wake up! Get up! Get up! On hands and knees, she crawled with Nedda on her back. Moving toward the music, she found the landmark of the dead man’s body.

She put her mouth to the carpet and sipped all the oxygen there was, then pulled back the sheltering coat and covered Nedda’s mouth with her own.

She kissed her with a breath of air, then rose to stand, lifting the woman again, so heavy – too heavy. Mallory fell, and Nedda rolled off of her and away. The heat was sapping strength from arms and legs.

It would be over soon. She was already half dead.

The single notes of a clarinet were falling down the scale, laughing, taunting. Trumpets screamed high, and the slap of a bass beat with the rhythm of her heart. A sly trombone sang, Go, girl! The sax was back, luring her away from the heat. This way. Then a shout of horns. This way out! This was the sound of adrenaline. She was rising, lifting Nedda onto her back. Down the stairs. So many stairs. The fire was behind her. She could hear it spit and crack. The heat was at her back. Pitching forward now, and falling. One wild hand found the railing, and she leaned all of her weight against it. This eased the heavy burden on her back. Down-stepping, now, half sliding.

Only seconds going by.

Hours of stairs.

She lost the precious air in her lungs before she touched down on level ground. She fell on her knees, and the sharp pain revived her. The music was loudest here. The most lethal air was above her, but she was drinking smoke from the ground, coughing, choking, lungs on fire. She could not get up one more time. Music all around her, no direction. Up was down, and there was no longer a concept of forward or back. The way out was lost. The door was on the moon. She opened her eyes, stinging, burning, hoping for a sliver of street light from the front windows to orient her position in the room. Instead, she saw the glow of flames, a small fire that lit up the brass knob of the door. A signal fire to light her way? Yes, and she was up on all fours, crawling toward it, the heavy weight on her back pressing her kneecaps down on knife points. Paying dearly for every foot of ground.

Someone turned off the radio.

Seconds passing, listening for footsteps.

The door flew open. Clean air rushed in – and life itself – with the sound of heavy boots pounding toward her, flashlights blinding her. Eyes closing again, her body collapsed. Hands were lifting Nedda’s body off her back, then helping Mallory to rise, feet off the ground, strong arms enfold- ing her, carrying her out. She looked down to see the small fire by the door. It was nested in a hubcap. Another pair of boots sent it flying.

Outside, gulping air, lungs burning, searing, eyes opening, almost blind for the stinging tears. A fireman set her down on the sidewalk, yelling, „Where the hell is that ambulance?“

More firemen were dropping from the truck and running toward the house. And one carried Nedda Winter to the ambulance as it screamed up to the curb. No one but Mallory saw the small ball of feathers drop from the old woman’s coat pocket. The bird thudded to the sidewalk, weakly fluttering its wings. It rolled off the curb and into the gutter.

Slowly, Mallory was bending down to this lame creature, reaching for it, when a fireman gripped her by the shoulders. Unable to speak, she pointed upward toward the door, then found the words, coughing, wheezing, to tell him there was someone else alive in there. Someone had turned off the radio. He shook his head, not making any sense of this, then let her go. Her knees buckled, and more hands were reaching out, breaking her fall, as she slumped to the ground and lay on her side. She opened her eyes to see the bird a few feet away from her face. It was struggling to breathe.

She watched it die.

Mallory was rolled onto her back, and her face was covered with a plastic mask attached to a tank of oxygen.

A raggedy man knelt on the ground beside her. „Sorry about your hubcap,“ he said, as a paramedic covered his shoulders with a blanket.

She recognized him as the derelict who had used Bitty Smyth’s cell phone to call out the fire engines. Beneath the blanket, he was shivering in shirtsleeves. To fuel his little signal fire, he had burned his coat.

The corridor was filled with detectives from Special Crimes Unit. Riker knew that most of them had already pulled a double shift, yet they were pumped, jazzed on coffee and busy hammering firemen and paramedics, doctors and nurses for information, taking statements, doing paperwork and biting down on stale sandwiches from the hospital canteen. They were tying up loose ends and taking care of business – all for Mallory – one of their own. Every single one of those beautiful bastards had responded to the call of an officer down.

But she would not stay down.

Dirty and tired and stinking of smoke, Mallory was still working her case. Detective Janos, a brutal-looking man the size and shape of a refrigerator carton, hovered near her, sometimes stealing up behind her to gingerly replace the blanket around her shoulders each time she shook it off. The rest of the squad was giving her a wide berth. Had she been any other cop, they would be slapping her on the back, swallowing her up in bear hugs, and there would be a disgraceful exhibition of tears in the eyes of grown men. This scene of human warmth, tears and joy, was what Riker had wanted for Mallory.

What a fantasy that was.

One, she had no use for human contact; and, two, she was busy.

The case was all but wrapped. The only enduring mystery of the night was a skinny little bum who roamed the halls, carrying soda cans and bags of potato chips – and wearing Mallory’s leather coat. He never strayed far from her, his only source of change for the vending machines. The bum approached her now, and she mechanically dipped into her pockets to give him more quarters.

Her face was a bare inch from the glass window in the door to the intensive-care unit. Riker joined her there. Together, they watched Charles Butler bow down to the patient on the bed, holding Nedda’s hand so gently as he strained to catch her words. A doctor and two nurses were also in attendance and showing grave concern.

Detective Mallory was persona non grata among these tender caregivers. Never mind that she had walked through fire to save this woman’s life.

That’s my Kathy.

She was always on the outside looking in, but she never whined about her lot, and he had to love her more for that.

In one hand she clutched a paper bag. Mallory called its contents evidence – Riker called it a dead bird. The kid was clearly not herself tonight. She was entirely too patient as she waited her turn at the elderly patient on the other side of the glass.

She faced Riker, asking, „What’s the body count?“

„One less than we figured. Bitty’s father was there all right, but he didn’t die inside the house. Looks like old Sheldon was the first one out the door. What a man, huh? A couple of patrol cops found him a few blocks away. He was dead. Looks like a heart attack.“ Riker held up a yellow pad lined with fountain-pen dollops of ink amid the flourishes of a witness’s old-fashioned penmanship. „We got this statement from an eighty-year-old priest. You’ll like it. It really classes up our paperwork for the night.“

For this special occasion of wrapping a case, he donned the reading glasses that he never wore in public and read the priest’s observations on the death of Sheldon Smyth. „ ‘The poor man was terrified, as if the devil himself was after him. And he even smelled of smoke. Chilled me, it did. So he was running to beat the devil, all in a sweat from hellfire, when he clutched at his chest. His eyes rolled back to solid whites. Blind he was – and dead. I’m sure of it. That was the moment. Yes, it was. And here it gets strange. I swear to you, he was still running – stone dead – maybe three steps before he dropped to the ground.’“

Riker quickly pocketed his spectacles. „It’s enough to make the fire a mitigating factor in his death. So, if you like Sheldon for hiring Willy Roy Boyd, we’re done. We’ve got three dead. Four if we count that little skeleton in the trunk. Bitty loses both her parents and her uncle in one night. I wonder what she’ll do now?“

„Maybe she’ll grow,“ said Mallory.

Riker shrugged. It was a good thing that Lieutenant Coffey had broken the news to Bitty Smyth. Mallory was no good at this part of the job, whether the newly made orphans were forty years old or four.

„There was someone else in that house,“ she said. „You know who it was?“

„No, kid. Everybody’s accounted for. The body count squares with what Bitty told us. Nobody else was in that house.“

„Then who turned on the radio?“

Oh, back to that again. „The firemen never found – “

The ICU door opened, and Charles stepped out into the corridor. One look at his eyes and anyone could see that he was destroyed. Riker turned away. Charles’s strong personal attachment to Nedda was something he had never foreseen.

And the damage of this night just went on and on.

„Mallory,“ said Charles, „she wants to see you. But before you go in… she doesn’t know about Lionel and Cleo. That was my decision. So, please… you can’t tell her they’re dead. It’s just too much, too cruel. Nedda’s already in a world of pain. And I think she knows that she’s dying. She won’t take the morphine until she’s spoken to you.“

Mallory did not have all night to wait for him to finish. The ICU door was closing on her back.

Lieutenant Coffey made room for Charles Butler on the bench by the nurses’ station, then turned back to the chore of editing his senior detective’s report. He drew thick black lines through all the passages that incriminated – damned to hell – District Attorney Buchanan, who had dragged his heels on the protection order for Nedda Winter. The woman was not expected to live through the night; but Riker’s career was ongoing, and Jack Coffey planned to keep it that way. One more line was crossed out, and Detective Riker’s pension was saved.

Mallory’s statement posed a different problem. The arson team had already interviewed her, and so he could not erase the passage about the radio. He added a line about oxygen deprivation. That would fix it.

The lieutenant laid his pencil down on the clipboard and turned to the sorry-looking man beside him. „Charles, you look like hell.“

„I’ve been there.“ The man leaned far forward, elbows propped on his knees, and buried his face in both hands. „Mallory only told me six times that Nedda was in grave danger. I should never have been trusted to look after her.“

„Hey, Charles, if it makes you feel any better, Mallory never trusted you to look after that woman.“

The man’s hands fell away from his face, and Jack Coffey could only describe this naked expression in terms of a slaughterhouse steer stunned with a bat and awaiting the blade that would slit his throat.

The lieutenant rushed his words to explain all the failures of the night, naming the names in Riker’s original, unedited report and describing the precautions taken. „It was our job to keep Nedda Winter alive, not yours.“ He ended this litany with the officer who bungled the last watch. „Bad timing all around tonight, and everybody gets a piece of the blame – except you.“

Nothing said had undone the damage to Charles Butler, for he was hearing none of this. The psychologist’s eyes were fixed on the window of the intensive-care unit, where Nedda, his only patient, lay dying.

The old woman seemed so frail, so tired and older now by at least a decade. And, once more, she had been invaded by high technology. Wires ran from the bandages that taped electrodes to her flesh and connected her to monitors perched on a pole by the bed. Wavy lines charted every function of her body. Tubes ran in and out of her, carrying fluid to the veins of her bruised arm, and other liquids were carried away and emptied into plastic bags. Her eyes opened and closed in long slow blinks.

As Mallory approached the bedside, Nedda asked, „Did the fire destroy the house?“

„No, it’s still standing. Lots of smoke damage everywhere, but the fire was contained on the second floor.“

„Poor house.“ She turned her eyes to the detective. „That night in the park – I always wondered – why did you return my ice pick?“

„I thought you might need it.“

„So you didn’t think I was paranoid, just a crazy old woman.“

Oh, yes, Mallory had believed that this woman had been driven insane long ago, but now she said, „No.“

„You’ve seen the trunk with Sally’s bones?“

Mallory nodded.

„You risked your life to save me tonight,“ said Nedda. „It’s greedy, I know… but I have a favor to ask.“

„Name it.“

„Mercy for Lionel and Cleo.“ Her words were more labored now. „See them as I do… as they were… children with no one to love them. All they ever had was each other. I promise you… they didn’t kill Sally… They could never – “ She coughed up a bit of blood, but stayed Mallory’s hand as the detective reached for the nurse’s call button. „Please, listen… Those three children shared a bond of abandonment… and loss. Can you understand that?“

Mallory understood it too well. She was always losing people. „All right. I’ll never go near them. I promise. I’ll leave them in peace.“

„No, Mallory… I want you to talk to them. Tell them about the massacre… what really happened. And tell them… I didn’t know they survived it.“

The old woman faltered, drawing breath and creasing her face with deepening lines of great pain. What was it costing her to say these words?

She reached out for Mallory’s hand and wound her weak fingers around it. „There’s a metal suitcase under my bed… Maybe it survived the fire. Find it. It’ll help you… make them understand that I never abandoned them… never stopped loving them.“ Her fingers tightened on the detective’s hand. „They’ll believe it… if it comes from you.“

Mallory nodded. Of course they would. She was the one person who would never stand accused of insincere platitudes and lies of kindness. Nedda had chosen her messenger well – but too late. „I promise. I’ll tell them everything.“ The words sounded awkward and false, and she credited this to her lack of practice in her attempt to lie with good intention – to be kind.

And yet she was believed.

Nedda Winter’s mouth twisted between a smile and a grimace. „At least, at the end, I was there for Bitty… My life wasn’t really wasted. And I understand Walter McReedy so much better now… If saving Bitty was all that I had ever done with my time on earth… it’s enough. I finally found out what I was made of… and I was better than I knew.“

The eyes closed, and the muscles of the face relaxed in the absence of pain, years fading off with the loss of agony lines. The lines of life signs on two of the bedside monitors went flat, and a third continued on with its recording of a body function displayed in electric-orange waves of light. But Mallory knew that the technology lied. There was no mistaking death for even the deepest sleep. It was the unnatural stillness that gave it away, that frozen quality of a bird photographed in flight.

Good night, Red Winter.

Mallory’s left hand was slowly rising, closing to a fist – a hammer. She rammed it into the wall above the bed, wanting the pain.

This was not righd It was not fair!

Again and again, she attacked and cracked the plaster as she counted up all of the dead on her watch. She was bleeding when the doctors came to take her away and to mend her broken hand.