Death Mask

He’s using the mirror’s memory. the impressions that he left on its silver backing when he was alive.”

All the same, Sissy could feel George’s presence as strongly as if he were standing right in front of her, although his personality was jumbled and bewildered, and he was still in state of shock. She approached the mirror and concentrated on calming him down.

Steady, George, steady.

“George, can you hear me?” she said. “My name is Sissy Sawyer. I’m a friend of Darlene’s.”

George’s head moved jerkily, and his lips moved, but all Sissy could hear was a distant, strangled sound, like a loudspeaker announcement on a windy day.

“George, I need to ask you some questions about how you were killed.”

More strangled noises — but then, unexpectedly, and very clearly, the word sorry.

Sissy laid her hand on Darlene’s shoulder. Darlene was weeping quite openly now, and she had to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.

“George, can you hear me, George?” Sissy asked him. No matter how distressed Darlene was, she couldn’t allow George to fade away — not yet, anyhow, not until she had talked to him — because she might never be able to call him back. Like so many gone-beyonders, he could well find this contact with his past life so painful that he never wanted to repeat it.

“George, darling,” said Darlene. “George, I miss you so much.”

“ — miss you too — and Kitty, and Amanda — ”

“Oh, George.”

“What happened, George?” Sissy interrupted. “Can you remember the man who stabbed you?”

George’s image suddenly shuddered, but then it came back into focus. “ — it was all so — sudden — didn’t — ”

“The man who attacked you, George. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“ — stabbed me and stabbed me — strange thing, though — I didn’t feel it — didn’t feel anything — ”

Molly stood up now. “George, my name’s Molly.”

George stared at her as if he thought he ought to know who she was.

“I’m an artist, George. If you tell me what the man looked like, I can make a drawing of him and help the police to catch him.”

“ — just started stabbing me — ”

“Was he white? Was he black? What kind of clothes was he wearing?”

“ — couldn’t see too clearly — all I saw was that knife — ”

“George, listen to me,” Molly insisted. “Was he taller than you? How would you describe his build?”

George turned toward Darlene. His expression was one of infinite regret. “I’m so sorry, Darlene — how can you ever forgive me?”

“George, it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

“ — if only I hadn’t — ”

“It wasn’t your fault, George. How were you to know that he was going to get onto that elevator with you?”

“ — not that — she — ”

George’s image in the mirror began to shudder. Darlene said, “No! No, George, don’t go!” and she went right up to the fireplace and pressed her hands and her forehead against the glass. “No!” she sobbed, as her own reflection grew clearer and brighter, and the living room reappeared behind her. “Please, George, we haven’t talked at all!”

Sissy gently put her arm around her. “He’s gone, Darlene. For now, anyhow. It’s as much of a strain for the gone-beyonders to talk to us as it is for us to talk to them. But he won’t be far away, ever. So long as you go on thinking about him and remembering what he was like and how much he loved you, he’ll always be close to you, I promise.”

Darlene turned away from the mirror, distraught. Her two palm prints remained for a moment, like ghosts, and then they faded, too.

“He didn’t have to say he was sorry,” she said. “Why did he keep on saying he was sorry?”

“Well. often a gone-beyonder will feel guilt for having died, leaving his family to fend for themselves. Just like his family will blame him for dying, even though it wasn’t his fault.”

Darlene pulled a Kleenex out of a decorative box on the table and wiped her eyes. “Do you think I might be able to talk to him again?”

“I hope so. Especially since he’s so regretful. But give him some time. If you like, I could come back in a week or so, and we could try again.”

Darlene nodded. “I’d like that. Now — how about a drink? I could really use something to steady my nerves.”

“A little too early for me,” said Sissy. “But coffee would be good.”

Darlene went through to the kitchen, leaving Sissy and Molly still standing in front of the mirror.

“That was incredible,” said Molly. “You actually made him appear. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

“He was desperate to appear, that’s why. Absolutely desperate. He needed Darlene to see how sorry he was.”

“If he’d committed suicide, maybe I could understand it. But sorry for being murdered?”

“Well, you’re right, of course,” said Sissy. She held out her hand with the amethyst ring that used to belong to her mother. The stone was still shiny but it had turned black as a stag beetle. “Our friend behind the mirror was lying to us.”

“Lying about what? He didn’t say very much.”

“Well, let’s think about it. Number one, he said that the stabbing happened really quickly. Number two, he said that he didn’t feel any pain. And number three, he said that he didn’t have a chance to see the man’s face.”

Molly frowned. “Jane Becker said that it happened really quickly, too. And she said that she didn’t feel any pain, not until afterward. But she did see Red Mask’s face, and very clearly.”

“So maybe George saw his face, too, but for some reason of his own he doesn’t want to admit it. Maybe George recognized him. Maybe it wasn’t a random stabbing, after all. Maybe Red Mask killed George deliberately.”

“But if that’s true — why did he go on to kill that young artist guy, and those three cleaners?”

Sissy dropped her pouches of herbs back into her purse and blew out her candle. “I don’t have any idea,” she admitted. “And I don’t think the cards do either. We’re dealing with something really strange here — something that’s way beyond my experience.”

Darlene came back into the living room carrying a tray with three cups of coffee on it. As she put it down, Sissy noticed that one of the cups already contained a large measure of amber liquid. She didn’t blame Darlene at all. For months after Frank had been killed, she herself had opened a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whenever her loneliness became unbearable.

“I’m still shaking,” said Darlene, sitting down and filling up their cups with hot black espresso.

“George is probably shaking, too,” said Sissy. “Being dead, that doesn’t exempt us from feeling any emotion. Love, hate, pleasure — they don’t all stop because we die.”

“Do you think he still loves me. as much as I love him?”

“I think he bitterly regrets that he’s left you.”

Sissy sipped her coffee. As she did so, she noticed that Darlene kept glancing up at the mirror, as if she half-expected George to reappear. Sissy wished that he would. She had so many more questions to ask him. In particular, What are you so darned sorry about, George?