“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 enfolding 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, sear
ing, 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 stunn
ed 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.”
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