Part 15: Angel's car. She's cruising slowly, scanning every costume she encounters. She stops and dials her cellular phone, nervously fingers her crucifix.
Angel: It's me, Dorie. FBI show up?
Doris, a plump middle-aged woman, is seated at her post.
Doris: No. What's keepin' 'em?
Angel: Did you lock the door? You're all alone. Maybe you better. And don't open it for
anybody you don't know. Have the FBI slide their I.D.'s under the door.
Doris: They'll love that.
Angel: Too bad.
Doris: I'm scared.
Angel: You'd be crazy not to be. Did the boys call in?
Doris: No.
Angel: Ring Barney.
She waits, eying the street and sidewalk.
Doris: He's not in the car.
Angel: Damn.
Doris: Don't worry, honey. He can handle himself. I wish you were around to see him play football. Every girl in town was in love with him, includin' me. Don't ever tell my Harry I said that, though.
Angel: I would've loved to've seen it just to see him show some emotion.
Doris: I don't understand why he never settled down. I suppose it was the war.
Angel: I'm glad he never did. Lock that door, sweetie. I'll call back in fifteen minutes.
Doris waddles to the door, murmuring, and breathes a sigh of relief upon locking it. She tenses as she hears a creak.
Doris: Who's there?
She screams as a mouse scurries past her. Nearby, a cat is perched on a window sill, staring at her, head atilt.
Doris: What're you - on vacation? No more chow-chow for you. You're gonna hafta start earning your keep around here like everybody else.
Meanwhile, Angel is seated in the idling car, thinking, observing. A witch on a bicycle sails past her, humming the witch's theme from "The Wizard of Oz." Angel follows, pulls even with her, rolls down the window.
Samantha, imitating Margaret Hamilton: I'll get you my prit-tee.
Angel: Excuse me. Can you tell me how to get to the Bates- Myers Institute?
Samantha tenses demonstrably.
Samantha: You stay away from me.
Angel: Mary Shelley?
Samantha pulls a can of canned string from her cape and fires at Angel, who hits her brakes momentarily, tears the string away, and pursues. Samantha takes to the sidewalk, finds a shortcut, and puts distance between Angel and she. She turns a corner too fast, however, and falls. She scrambles to her feet and runs.
Samantha: Daddy! Daddy!
Angel's car screeches to a halt. She exits, gun drawn. She didn't hear the cry of "Daddy!" She follows across a lawn. The witch climbs porch stairs. A shotgun blast goes off. Angel is so startled she falls backward and checks herself for wounds. She looks up and sees the Clown pointing a shotgun at her. A waft of gunsmoke hangs in the air above him.
Clown: I got more in here if you desire.
Angel, resting on her elbows, has a flashback of her rapist's stocking-covered face.
Clown: Never killed a woman before.
Angel: I'm with the Sheriff's department.
The Clown smirks.
Clown: Doesn't surprise me.
Angel: That's your daughter, I take it?
Marge emerges from the shadows.
Marge: That's right. And whose daughter are you - the devil's?
Angel: I'm sorry. She fit the description of someone at large.
Marge: Get off our property right now.
Angel rises. Samantha sticks her tongue out at her.
Marge: Come inside and have some cocoa, honey. It's like New York out there tonight.
Samantha: My bike!
Marge: Fetch it, Jim.
As Angel nears her car, Schottsie's nemesis emerges from the shadows.
Angel: Whatta you want?
The dog growls, baring its fangs.
Angel: As if I didn't know. Typical male.
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