Death Mask

by Graham Masterton

  “What was his hair like?” she asked.

  “Reddish … reddish, but turning gray. And cut very short. Bristly.”

  Molly took out her box of pastel colors and went on sketching and shading for a few moments more. A red face, with touches of green and blue to give it depth and emphasis.

  “You didn’t see what color his eyes were?”

  “Like I say, they were slits. All I can think of is black.”

  Molly lifted up her sketchbook up and turned it around so that Jane Becker could see what she had drawn.

  Jane Becker covered her mouth with one bandaged hand. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God, that’s so much like him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Jane Becker peered at the sketch more intently. “Maybe the cheekbones not so sharp. His cheeks were kind of fuller, not so hollow. And his eyebrows were thicker. I remember his eyebrows, because they were bristly and red like his hair.”

  Molly lightened the shadows under the cheekbones and made the face smoother and rounder. She quickly scribbled in some denser eyebrows, too.

  “That’s it,” said Jane Becker. “That’s the man who stabbed me. I can’t believe how you did that.”

  “I listened to you, that’s all,” Molly told her. “You told me what he looked like, and here he is. But you told me—Jane Becker, legal secretary who lives with her parents in Lakeside Park, and that was very important.”

  She didn’t say that she had made the suspect much less aggressive in his appearance than Jane Becker had described him. In spite of her prettiness, she suspected that Jane Becker had some problems relating to men. Probably not serious problems—no more than a lack of confidence, or a recent relationship that had suddenly turned sour. But witnesses’ personal prejudices could dramatically distort their description of a perpetrator’s appearance. Black suspects were frequently described by white witnesses as being much more dark skinned and much more physically intimidating than they actually proved to be when they were arrested. Looking “dangerous” didn’t affect the length of a suspect’s nose, or the positioning of his ears, or the color of his hair.

  Molly had also made the suspect look flushed, rather than scarlet. A witness’s perception of color was always intensified by fear, because it widened the pupils.

  She closed her sketchbook and packed away her pencils and her crayons. “Thanks, Jane. You’ve been very brave and very helpful.”

  “What happens now?” Jane Becker asked her.

  “Right now I’m going over to police headquarters to put some finishing touches to this composite, ready for the media. It should be on the TV news later tonight, and in the papers by tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you think you’ll catch him? I couldn’t bear to think this could happen to anybody else.”

  Molly opened her sketchbook again and looked at the face of Jane Becker’s attacker. “If this sketch is as accurate as you say it is—then yes, I’m pretty sure we’ll catch him.”

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Sure, of course you can.”

  “Where did you find that fantastic necklace? I haven’t been able to take my eyes off it.”

  Molly lifted it up. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? I got it at the Peddlers Flea Market on Kellogg. I don’t suppose it’s worth anything much, but I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. It has everything, doesn’t it? Suns, moons, even little animals.”

  On the way out of Jane Becker’s room, she showed the sketch to the policeman sitting outside. “This is the guy … just in case he tries to get in here and finish the job.”

  “Dead ringer for my Uncle Herman,” said the cop. “Be glad to pull him in for you, on suspicion.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hunt a Killer

  By the time Molly arrived back home in Blue Ash, Sissy and Trevor were sitting in the yard (so that Sissy could smoke).

  “Are you hungry?” asked Sissy. “There’s some hummus in the fridge.”

  “No, I’ll just have a drink, thanks. I’m pooped.”

  “How did it go, hon?” asked Trevor, pouring her a glass of wine.

  “It was sad, as usual. Sad and horrible and pointless.”

  “So how did it happen?”

  Molly sat down. “The girl was going out to get a box lunch, that’s all. She got onto the elevator on the twenty-first floor. She went down to the nineteenth, and this guy from one of the realty offices got on, too. But on the next floor, they were joined by the perpetrator.

  “They went down as far as the fifteenth, and then the perpetrator stopped the elevator and jammed it. He stabbed the guy from the realty office twenty-eight times, all over, including his face. Then he turned on the girl. She tried to fight him off, and then she tried to escape by pulling the doors apart, but the perpetrator stabbed her three times in the back.

  “When she was pulling at the doors, though, she must have dislodged whatever it was the perpetrator had used to jam the elevator. It started to travel downward again, and at some point the perpetrator climbed out of it and escaped.”

  “Jesus, there are some crazies around,” said Trevor.

  “If you can’t even get into an elevator in a crowded office building without being attacked …”

  “Is the girl okay?” asked Sissy. “I mean, considering what she’s been through.”

  “She’s still in shock, but she’s not as traumatized as I thought she would be. Some assault victims can’t say a single word that makes any sense at all … sometimes for weeks. Sometimes never.”

  “Did she know the man who attacked her?”

  “Unh-unh. She gave me a very vivid description, but he’s not the kind of man that you would want to know, believe me. She said he was tall, and kind of blocky, but it was his face that really made an impression on her. She said that his face was very red, almost like he was wearing a red mask.”

  Sissy reached across the table and picked up the DeVane cards. She sorted through them until she found la Blanchisseuse, the Laundress. She passed it over to Trevor and said, “Just as the cards predicted. A red-faced man, high up on a ladder. Of course they didn’t have elevators when these cards were first drawn. A young woman, and a tub full of blood. In other words, a bloodbath.”

  “Coincidence, Momma, coincidence. You’re always reading things into things when there isn’t anything there.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time. Another card predicted that somebody would create a likeness of a man with blood on his hands, and what do you think Molly has been doing this evening?”

  “Was he really so red in the face?” asked Trevor.

  “That’s how the girl described him.”

  “Maybe he was wearing face paint. You know—trying to look like a demon, or Darth Maul out of Star Wars, so that he would scare people more.”

  Molly shrugged. “Maybe. But he didn’t need to put on face paint to scare her. She was scared enough already. She was absolutely sure that she was going to die.”

  “So what do the police think?” asked Trevor.

  “Right now, nothing conclusive. They’re checking out the murdered guy’s background, in case this ‘Red Mask’ maniac knew him and bore him any grudges. He worked in realty, so that’s perfectly possible. CIS are going over the crime scene and asking a whole lot of office workers a whole lot of questions. But there’s not much more that they can do, not tonight.”

  “Are you going to be on TV?” said Trevor.

  “Not me. But my sketch is. Mind you, they’ve put it out on the Internet already.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cicadas Coming

  Over the yard, a three-quarters moon hung suspended, so orange that it was almost crimson. Although it was nearly 10:00 P.M., the air was still thick and warm. Sissy looked up to the sky and said, “Can you feel something stirring?”

  “Oh God, I hope not,” said Molly. “Not yet, anyhow.”

  “Make sure you close your bedroom window tonight, Momma,” Trevor
warned her. “And close it real tight.”

  “They’re only bugs, surely,” said Sissy.

  “Of course they’re only bugs. They won’t harm you and they won’t sting you. But you never came to Cincinnati in cicada season before. They come out in billions, and they fly, and they get everywhere. Why do you think I’ve covered the pool and hung muslin over the peach trees?”

  “You never told me that they were such a nuisance.”

  “I was trying to be stoical, Momma, on account of having a job here and not being able to relocate. But they get caught in your hair, they block up your ventilation, and they get spattered all over your windshield when you’re driving to work. That’s why we never have outdoor picnics in cicada season—they keep dive-bombing the potato salad.”

  “The worst thing about them is the noise,” said Molly. “It’s the males, trying to find a mate. They screech and they screech and they never let up. That’s because they know they only have six weeks to live, max.”

  “Can’t they be exterminated?”

  “Only by digging up the whole of Greater Cincinnati to a depth of nine inches, which is where they brood. No—the only answer is to put up with them, and step on as many as you can. Or take a vacation until they’re gone. Most people make a joke of them. Some people even stir-fry them and eat them with water chestnuts.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that,” said Sissy.

  They took their glasses of wine and went inside, and Trevor closed and sealed the yard door behind them. “By the way, Momma, if you find a couple of cicadas in your bed, don’t panic. They’re only sexually interested in female cicadas.”

  “Don’t talk dirty to your mother,” Sissy admonished him, slapping his arm.

  He switched on the flat-screen TV in the living room and flicked it on to Channel 5, WLWT. “These guys are always good for the crime du jour.”

  They had to sit through a finance commercial for re-modeling your home until it looked like a sitcom set, but then the two news anchors appeared on screen with serious expressions on their faces. Molly’s sketch of the red-faced man was displayed behind them with the subtitle RED MASK MURDER.

  “Cincinnati police tonight are still searching for a knife-wielding attacker who stabbed and killed a forty-one-year-old downtown Realtor and left a twenty-five-year-old legal secretary with serious injuries.

  “The vicious attack occurred in an elevator car on the fifteenth floor of the Giley Building on Race Street. When the elevator reached the lobby and the doors opened, shocked office workers were confronted by what one of them described as a slaughterhouse.”

  There were jiggly, handheld interviews with Jimmy and Newton and the shirtsleeved accountant, as well as other witnesses, with police lights flashing in the background.

  “Dude, the doors opened up, and it was like, oh my God, blood!”

  “—of course I checked the man for any signs of life, but—”

  “—didn’t see nobody leaving the building, nobody suspicious looking, anyhow—”

  “—quiet, hardworking family man, so far as I could tell—”

  “—tragic—”

  From police headquarters, a statement was given by Lieutenant Colonel James L. Whalen, commander of the investigation bureau. He had snowy white hair and a very bronze face, and he spoke in a solemn monotone, with unusual pauses.

  “Despite the best efforts of the thirty CPD officers and dog handlers who attended the scene within a matter of minutes. The perpetrator has still not been apprehended, and we have found no witnesses who saw him either enter the Giley Building or leave it.

  “So far, we have no clues whatsoever. As to who might have committed this heinous act, or what his motive might have been. But the young woman who was badly injured before the assailant made his getaway. Has helped a police forensic artist to create a very striking representation of her attacker.”

  Trevor turned around gave Sissy a look that she didn’t really understand, as if he were disappointed or upset.

  Lieutenant Colonel Whalen pointed to the drawing. “We are giving the suspect the nickname of Red Mask. Because it will be easier for people to recall if they have ever seen him, of if they see him now. His face is very reddened, possibly sunburned, and his eyes are narrow.”

  They were all silent as Red Mask was enlarged to fill the screen. Mr. Boots whined and hid behind the couch.

  “If you encounter this man, do not attempt to challenge him. Or approach him. He is highly dangerous. Do your best not to make him aware that you have recognized him. And call the police as soon as you can. Do not try any heroics, even if you yourself are personally armed. We have yet to discover what his state of mind might be. Or what weapons he might be carrying.”

  Sissy stared at Red Mask’s face on the television screen. In her composite, Molly had deliberately tried to tone down the sense of danger that Jane Becker had felt when Red Mask stepped onto the elevator. He was a real killer, after all, and not a villain from a comic book. But his eyes still looked dead, as if there were nobody behind them. No light, no sympathy, no human compassion. His thin lips were tilted up slightly to the left, as if he thought that his appearance on television was deeply amusing.

  “Scary, don’t you think?” said Molly.

  “He sure is,” Sissy agreed. “But—I don’t know. I have the strangest feeling that I know this face … that I’ve seen it someplace before.”

  “Don’t see how you could have done,” said Trevor. “You were never in Cincinnati before.”

  “Well, I’m an old lady, Trevor. I’ve traveled far and wide and seen many strange and interesting things.”

  Molly went through to the kitchen to finish clearing up. Trevor glanced over his shoulder to make sure that she was out of earshot, and then he said, “Momma … I have to talk to you about this fortune-telling thing.”

  “You want me to read your cards, too? Gladly.”

  “No, thank you.” He paused, and blinked his eyes very quickly, the way he used to when he was a boy and wanted to ask for pocket money. “It’s just that I think they’re really creepy.”

  “Trevor, sweetheart, they only tell us what’s what. Or what’s going to be what.”

  “I don’t care, Momma. They’re creepy, and this is my home, and to be honest with you, I don’t like you reading them here.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “They give me the creeps. They always gave me the creeps, especially when I was a kid. I was scared even to look at them. Gravediggers, clowns, weird people walking through the woods. Strange creatures in pointy hoods, chopping their own fingers off with axes.”

  “You should have said before. I never wanted to upset you.”

  “Jesus, Momma. I’ve dropped enough hints. I don’t like Molly getting involved in this police work at the best of times, especially after what happened to Poppa. I always think there’s a risk of some lunatic trying to take his revenge on her. But this Red Mask thing—”

  Sissy took hold of Trevor’s hand. Although she was over seventy now, her eyes were as clear as his, and she looked at him with intensity and love.

  “Sweetheart, it wasn’t the cards that made this happen. It was going to happen anyhow.”

  “Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Has it ever occurred to you that you and your cards aren’t just foretelling the future, they’re actually changing it? Okay, so maybe this Red Mask character was going to stab these people anyhow. But why did the police have to ask Molly to draw the composite?”

  “They didn’t give out her name, Trevor.”

  “No. But it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to track down the only forensic artist in the tristate who still uses nothing but pencils and pastels. There was an article about her in the Enquirer only last September.”

  Sissy had turned Trevor’s hand over and was delicately tracing the lines on his palm with the tip of her finger. He looked down and realized what she was doing and quickly snatched it away.

  “Ho no
! You’re not going to give me any of your sneaky palm readings! No way! And I don’t want you telling Molly’s future anymore, and especially not Victoria’s! Life is supposed to be unexpected, Momma. Knowing what’s going to happen to you—it’s unnatural.”

  “I don’t agree with you at all. I think it’s the most natural thing in the world. I think all of us could do it—even you could do it—if only we were more in touch with everything around us.”

  “We go to church every Sunday, goddammit.”

  Sissy spread her arms wide. “I’m not talking about church. I’m talking about time, and fate, and the way that God’s days and men’s decisions mesh into each other, like clockwork. The trouble is, we’re too busy concentrating on the little things. We have no faith anymore. We’ve lost our sense of wonder, and we never listen.”

  “Okay. Listen to what, exactly?”

  “To the warnings that we’re being given, sweetheart. When something truly terrible is going to happen, you should be able to feel it coming, like an express train in the distance. The rails start singing, don’t they?” She clenched her bony fist and held it up. “Even the air starts to get tighter.”

  Trevor said, “What are you saying, Momma? That something bad is going to happen to us?”

  “Let’s pray not. But it’s best to be well prepared for it, if it does.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Giant

  Sissy respected Trevor’s wishes that night and left the DeVane cards untouched on her nightstand, although she was strongly tempted to try another reading. She could feel in her bones that the wheels of the world were moving beneath her, and that the next few days were going to see shifts and changes and shadows moving in contradiction to the sun.

  She dressed in her long white linen nightgown and sat in front of the dressing table taking the pins and combs out of her hair, and brushing it out.

  For a split second, in the shell pink lamplight, she saw herself as she had looked when she had married Frank and was sitting at her dressing table in Connecticut, brushing out her hair for her first night in bed with him. She still had the wide gray eyes and the delicate cheekbones, and that slightly fey, otherworldly look that had led Frank to describe her as a mermaid.