The driveway opened into the dooryard of a rambling white farmhouse at least seventy years old. It was three storeys high, with two wings. and a long porch which ran the length of the building. and commanded a fabulous view toward the west, where dim blue mountains. rose in the mid-morning light. This house with its peaceful view had. once housed the Barrett family. and their apple business. and had more recently housed dozens of battered, frightened women, but one look was enough. to tell Ralph that it would house. no one at all come this time tomorrow morning. The south wing. was in flames, and that side. of the porch was catching;.tongues of fire poked. out the windows and licked lasciviously. along the eaves, sending shingles. floating upward in.fiery scraps. He saw a wicker. rocking chair burning. at the far end of the porch. A half-knitted. scarf lay over. one of the rocker's. arms; the needles. dangling from it. glowed white-hot.
Somewhere a wind-chime was tinkling a mad repetitive melody.
A dead woman in green. fatigues and a flak-jacket. sprawled headdown. on the porch steps, glaring at the sky through the. bloodsmeared lenses of her glasses. There was dirt in her hair, a pistol in her hand,. and a ragged black hole in her midsection.