The door was unlocked. A billow of smoke engulfed
Judith. Flames licked at the bedclothes just as the fire
alarm sounded and the sprinkler system went off.
Winifred lay awkwardly on the bed, her eyes closed,
her mouth agape. Even as Judith screamed for help,
she braved the smoke, fire, and drenching water to
reach the motionless woman. Coughing, gritting her
teeth, and ever aware that she could dislocate the artificial hip, she grabbed Winifred by the feet and attempted to tug her off the bed.
Despite Winifred’s slimness, Judith could move her
no more than a few inches. The water was pouring
down, dousing the flames but turning the room into a
nightmare of sizzling vapors. Judith gasped, coughed
again, and yanked at a pillowcase to put over her
mouth. She barely heard the pounding of feet on the
stairs or Joe’s shouts as he reached the second floor.
A moment later he was in the room, arms flailing,
trying to push Judith out of the way. He missed. Judith,
with the wet pillowcase protecting her nose and mouth,
caught Winifred around the knees and, with a mighty
wrench, moved her into a sitting position against the
headboard.
At the same time she felt—and heard—an odd
sound in her hip. She collapsed on the floor.
“Don’t move!” Joe yelled as he picked up Winifred
and carried her into the hall.
Dazed, Judith choked, coughed, and shivered in a
huddled mass near the door. The fire, which had spread
to the lace curtains on the other side of the room, was
now sputtering out. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone must have called 911. Again.
“Winifred . . .” Judith murmured as Joe bent down
to put his arms around her shoulders. “Is she . . . ?”
“Never mind Winifred,” he said, his voice husky.
“Can you stand?”
She wasn’t sure. What was worse, she was afraid to
try. To her surprise, Dirk Farrar entered the room. “I
can lift her,” he volunteered.
“We both can,” Joe retorted.
They did, carefully moving her out of the room and
placing her on the settee in the hall. Winifred was lying
on the floor by the door to the bathroom between
Rooms Three and Four. Dade was leaning over her,
once again trying to revive a fallen comrade.
“She’s alive,” Eugenia announced.
Dade looked up. “She’s coming ’round.”
“Thank God,” Judith gasped, then tried to sit up
with Joe’s help.
Vito Patricelli’s customary calm was ruffled; he’d
