Carol O’Connell - Winter House

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.