„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.