Death Mask

It was only when she caught sight of the two of them in the mirror that she grew quieter, because he was so much younger than her. Twenty-four years had etched their marks around her eyes and around her mouth, and these days she usually wore a silk scarf or a large enameled necklace to hide her neck.

“So what happens next?” asked Frank. “How do I locate these two Red Mask characters?”

“I think the best place to start is the Giley Building,” said Sissy. “That was where Red Mask first attacked George Woods and Jane Becker. Like I told you, I couldn’t sense him at all, and the police tracker dogs couldn’t pick up any kind of scent. But that was where Molly first drew him, and I think there’s a very strong possibility that he’s hiding out there.”

“And if we find them? What do we do then?”

“Summary justice,” said Sissy. “There’s no point in trying to arrest them and put them in jail. They would simply disappear. When we find them, we have to destroy them. It’s as simple as that.”

Frank finished his glass of sparkling wine. “That was good,” he said. “Never tasted nothing like that before. Who would have thought twenty-four years ago that young Trevor would be educating his own daddy in sophisticated tastes?”

Sissy said, “I’m going to start by seeing if you can sense where the Red Masks are hiding. After all, you’re the same as they are, a painting, and you can follow them into places that nobody else can.”

“I’m not psychic like you, Sissy. I never could understand how you knew there was somebody coming to pay us a visit about an hour before they showed up, or how you could tell when something bad was going to happen.”

“I know, darling. But you always had an intuition for hunting down the bad guys, didn’t you? And I think you’ll find that you have new abilities now.”

Frank turned his head around. “I can hear something,” he said. “I’ve been hearing it ever since I got here.”

He stood up and approached Molly’s painting of New Milford Green, with its Colonial houses and its band- stand and its scattering of leaves on the grass. He lifted his hand toward it, and said, “I can feel the wind, Sissy. I can hear the cars going by, and the people talking.”

He turned back toward her, but as he did so he staggered, and his knees gave way. He seized the back of one of the kitchen chairs, but he collapsed onto the floor, with the chair on top of him.

“Frank!” said Sissy, kneeling down beside him. “Frank, are you okay?”

Frank looked up at her. The pupils of his eyes were very small, as if he had been staring into an intensely bright light.

“I’m okay, I think. Funny turn, that’s all. For one second. I didn’t know where I was.”

Sissy took hold of his hand, lifted it toward her lips, and kissed his wedding band. “Wherever you are, Frank, you’ll always be with me. Always.”

She helped Frank into bed and went into the kitchen for two glasses of water. As she passed Molly’s study, however, she paused, and then she went in, setting the glasses of water down on the table.

There lay the sketchbook in which Molly had painted Frank. The page was blank. She touched it with her fingertips, almost regretfully. It had been such a vivid portrait. But of course she had the “real” Frank now — a Frank she could talk to, and kiss, and share so many memories with.

As she was about to leave, however, she noticed the sheet of paper with the painting of the roses on it. She picked it up and examined it, frowning. The rose petals were tinged with brown, and the leaves had turned dry and curly. Not only that, the painting was very much fainter. Now that Molly had cut them, they were dying, and because they were dying, their image was fading. Molly’s paintings took on a life of their own, but it seemed to Sissy that even on paper they could wither and die, and disappear.

She went back to her bedroom. Frank was asleep, and steadily breathing.

She leaned over and kissed his hair. “Please don’t disappear,” she whispered. “I don’t think I could bear it, not a second time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Hide-and-Go-Seek

Detective Kunzel was sitting at the counter in Hathaway’s, the 1950s-style diner with the pink Formica tabletops, forking up a breakfast of scrapple and fried eggs. The waitress had just come up to ask him if he wanted more apple butter when his cell phone played “Hang On Sloopy.”

“Kunzel,” he answered.

“Enjoying your breakfast, Detective?” whispered the harsh voice of Red Mask. “Could be your last, if you’re not careful. The condemned detective’s last meal.”

“What do you want, you murdering piece of shit?” Detective Kunzel demanded, and the elderly man sitting next to him turned and stared at him in alarm.

“It’s not what I want, is it? I’m getting what I want. I’m getting my revenge, in spades. No, Detective, I’m talking about what you want.”

“Go on,” said Detective Kunzel, putting down his fork. Suddenly he didn’t have an appetite anymore.

“You want me, don’t you? You want to see me handcuffed and locked up in a cell, and then hauled up in front of a court and sentenced to death. You want to see me in Mansfield, don’t you, with a needle in my arm?”

“Well, you got that right. But I’m not going to assume that you’re going to give yourself up.”

“I’m not. You think I’m a fool? But justice is justice, Detective. Justice should be fair, and I’m giving you the chance to come after me.”

“Why would you do that?” he asked Red Mask. He waved the waitress away and said, “No, thanks.”

“Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I feel like some sport, along with my revenge. Maybe killing all of these poor innocent folks is getting to be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.”

“So this is about what you want?”

“You don’t have to take me up on this, Detective. But it’s a onetime offer. After this, it’s back to the massacres. No rest for the wicked, remember. No mercy for the innocent, neither.”

“All right, then, Mr. Mask,” said Detective Kunzel. “What exactly do you propose?”

“You can find me at noon exactly, in the parking structure next to the Giley Building. Bring plenty of backup. You’re going to need it.”

With that, Red Mask cut off the connection. Detective Kunzel immediately punched out Lieutenant Booker’s number at headquarters.

They parked across the street from the Giley Building and climbed out of their car. Although it was nearly noon, the street was in shadow and unnaturally chilly.

“He couldn’t have picked anyplace grimmer, could he?” said Detective Bellman, looking up at the eight-story parking structure. It had been built in the late 1950s, and it was due for demolition as soon as the Giley Building itself was vacated. It was made of grimy concrete, with black streaks down the walls. The sides of each floor were open, but they were all covered with rusty steel mesh.

Three squad cars had already parked on Race Street, and twelve more would arrive in the next few minutes without sirens or lights. The CPD had cordoned off a six-block area between Elm and Vine Streets, from Seventh Street as far south as Third Street.

“Here comes the cavalry,” said Detective Kunzel, as two black SWAT vans appeared around the corner, followed closely by three metallic silver cars carrying FBI agents. Off to the northeast, they could hear the flackerflacker-flacker of a police helicopter. There were two police sharpshooters on board, but the helicopter crew had been instructed to stay well away unless Red Mask ventured out onto the parking structure’s flat roof.

Two FBI agents came over. One of them was tall and wide shouldered, with a jutting chin and black slicked-