Watching sheriff Paslowski and his deputy have to break
their way in the old Evans place, Mrs Winkle became more concerned for the Ferris’. But it wasn’t until she heard the further gunfire that she really began to panic and moved indoors herself. Petrified, she stood, peering through her front door curtain at the open door across the street, anxiously waiting for one, if not both men, to exit the house.
With the sheriff and Danny being the only two law enforcement officers this small town needed, and other than 911 and the county sheriff, who’d take at least an hour to get there, there was no one else to call, and until she felt sure she needed to do even that, she’d hold off. The clock hanging to her right said thirty seven minutes past midnight; she’d give it a few more minutes before deciding exactly what to do.
In order to kill those few minutes, Dorothy Winkle also chose to kill a few brain cells in the process, just to calm her nerves. Pulling a well-used wine bottle from a cupboard, she popped the cork, took a good long whiff of its contents and filled a glass tumbler three quarters the way up.
That’s when she realised just how scared she really was, her hands shook, the neck of the bottle, tinkling an unorganised rhythm on the rim of the glass. She opened the icebox and pulled out a steel tray containing the same substance as the bottle, she never used water ice, it only weakened the drink. Raising it to her lips, she couldn’t help but spill some as she tipped the glass, then, after draining it half way, she coughed into the back of her hand before wiping her mouth and chin over the sleeve of her nightgown.
Fortified, although filled with dread, Mrs Winkle looked out at the old Evans place, then down at the phone on the stand by the front door. Lifting the receiver from its cradle with her right hand, whilst still holding her glass in her left, she was about to dial 911 when a sturdy knock on the door rocked her in the unlaced boots she’d had on since following the sheriff’s deputy out across the street.
Placing her glass on the phone stand, and hanging up the receiver, she twisted the door latch.
‘Oh my goodness, sheriff,’ she exclaimed opening the door. ‘I was just about to-’
‘Just about to what, Dorothy?’
‘What … what are you doing here?’
Her visitor smiled a thin, straight line of cracked and fading, pink lipstick. ‘Mitch called me.’
‘He did? Why? I mean …' She frowned. 'He called you?’
‘From his car on his way over here. He asked me to come by, said Helen and Peter had had an argument, and with that terrible thing happening yesterday, he wanted me to come talk to them.’
Mrs Winkle's frown deepened. ‘And did he tell you what’s been goin’ on over there tonight?’
‘He did, he also told me to come here first, just to set your mind at rest.’
‘But what about the gunfire, and the screams I heard?’
‘Noise, that’s all it was, Dorothy. May I come in?’
Mrs Winkle opened the door wider and turned. ‘The sheriff had to break-in, ya know? Then there were more gunshots, and I ain't seen him nor his deputy since. I think somethin' might'a happened to 'em.’ she said.
-
The unexpected visitor stepped inside, closing the door after her. The situation now bordered on unacceptable, too many knew too much, Mrs Winkle being the "Too many", she’d have to rein it in.
‘Yes, I know, but he’s handling it, and I’m sure he has it under control. Now, let’s go sit down and I’ll pop over there after you’ve calmed,’ she said, removing her coat.
Taking her glass from off the phone stand, Mrs Winkle walked into her front room, her loose boots, clumping on the hallway’s wooden floor.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ said the visitor, hanging her coat up. Then watched as Mrs Winkle left the hallway.
Unobserved, she lifted the phone’s receiver and dialled a number before following her through the door. Mrs Winkle had half-filled another glass before topping-up her own. She passed one over and they both sat; Mrs Winkle on her sofa, and her visitor on the armchair facing. As Mrs Winkle was about to speak, a shrill ringing halted her.
‘Excuse me,’ begged the visitor opening her purse and taking the call. ‘Yes it is … hello Mitch. I am … no, Dorothy’s fine,’ she said, looking across to Mrs Winkle. ‘Yes, I will, are Peter and Helen okay …? Oh good, yes, I’ll be over in a minute or two.’ She ended the call, putting the phone back into her purse. ‘See, like I said, Mitch is handling the situation just fine.’
Mrs Winkle half-smiled, but said nothing.
‘So, you said you heard screams and gunfire?’
Sipping her drink, she nodded. ‘Sure did, shoutin’ an’ screamin’ like they were both ready to kill one another!’ she explained. Then, reaching out, she took a half-smoked cigar from a butt-filled ashtray. ‘After that, I heard shootin’, four shots there were … sure of it.’
The visitor knew then there'd be one hell of a mess to clear up at the old house. ‘And that’s when you called Mitch?’
She nodded, putting the two-inch cigar butt to her lips.
‘Did you see the Ferris’, just before all this happened?’
‘Nope.'
'Did you see anyone?'
'Nope ... saw shadows on the bedroom curtain, mind.’
The visitor nodded, taking a sip from her glass, and as she’d remembered it being all those years back, it was still rocket fuel. Perfect. She leaned in that bit closer, shuffling her feet into the pile of the carpet in order to get a firm grip, then looked down at her glass.
Mrs Winkle reached into the pocket of her nightgown, pulled out a book of matches and struck one.
‘I was about to call the county sheriff when you showed up,’ she said, puffing life into her cigar.
The initial flash shot bright-blue billowing flames up to and across the ceiling of Mrs Winkle’s front room. The visitor pushed both her feet hard onto the floor knocking over the chair she sat in to escape the searing heat. She rolled, finding her feet instantly to see Mrs Winkle out of her chair and screaming, her own drink spilling over her and adding fuel to the flames. The sofa, the rug, and anything else she came in contact with, bursting into flames. Before long, the front room had turned into an inferno, with the burning corpse of Mrs Winkle, lying in the centre of the floor.
The visitor sidled carefully around the flames and out into the hallway, the fire’s glow reflecting off every surface that hadn’t yet ignited, including her near-black eyes. Closing the door on the increasing heat, she returned the receiver to its cradle and plucked her coat from off its hook. After putting it on she peered into the mirror below the clock, all the time the raging fire, popping and crackling behind the wall.
Still looking into the mirror, she spoke in a way she hadn’t used for the past five years. ‘A know ya there, son, and a know ya hear me. Y’ain’t comin’ back, boy, cain’t allow it, won’t allow it. Hell’s just where ya belong, son, and with the help o’ the Almighty pushin’ me on, Hell’s where ya gonna stay.’
Closing the front door after her, she started toward the Ferris house. To her right, the street ended with dense pine trees going back over a mile, to her left, a police cruiser with her own car parked behind, beyond those, the next nearest house belonged to the McGreals, an elderly couple, two hundred yards back along the road. Looking back, the fire had already found its way upstairs, a faint orange glow, flickering in the bedroom window. Directly before her, lay her long, slender shadow, stopping barely short of the forced door of her old home.
