Death Mask

back hair like a young Jack Lord from the early seasons of Hawaii Five-O. The other was black, with a shaved head, and he had the steel-sprung walk of a man who gets up at 5:00 A.M. every day for a punishing workout.

“Agent Morrison, Agent Greene,” Detective Kunzel acknowledged them.

Special Agent Morrison looked up at the parking structure. “So what’s going down, Detective? Lieutenant Booker said that the unsub challenged you to meet him here.”

“That’s right. He pretty much told me that he was bored with killing defenseless people and wanted a little sport.”

“You say ‘he’ like he’s only one person.”

“I know. But I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who calls me up every time. And he’s adamant that he has no accomplice.”

Special Agent Morrison turned to Special Agent Greene. “Can you believe this? I’ve had to deal with so many schizos over the years who seriously believe that they’re two different people. But this is the first time I have ever come across two different people making out like there’s only one of them.”

“Could be twins,” Special Agent Greene suggested. “Sometimes they have this really highly developed synchronicity. You know — one of them bangs his thumb with a hammer and the other one says ‘Shit!’ ”

Detective Kunzel blew his nose. “Whatever the truth of it is, these guys are illogical, apparently motiveless, and it seems like they’re killing people just for the kicks. But remember what I told you when I first briefed you: however many Red Masks there are, they seem to be able to come and go without being seen, and they have no moral compunction about who they attack.”

“Okay, Detective. Thanks for that. Let’s hope we can wrap this one up for you.”

Two SWAT teams of ten officers each had climbed out of their vans and were gathering around the front of the parking structure. The entrance was low, with a huge concrete beam over it, bearing the letters G LEY BUI D G PAR ING. Immediately inside stood a red and white sentry box in which an attendant usually sat to collect parking fees. Then a concrete ramp curved up to the left, its surface shiny from years of use.

“Why do I have such a bad feeling about this?” asked Detective Bellman, as one of the SWAT teams started to jog up the ramp, their rubber-soled boots squeaking on the concrete. The other team split up and headed to the right — four toward the elevator and six toward the stairs.

“You’re beginning to sound like Mrs. Sawyer,” said Detective Kunzel. “ ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ There’s a logical explanation for this Red Mask character, believe me, whether he’s one perpetrator or two.” All the same, he couldn’t help thinking of Sissy’s last words to him, warning him to be careful: “the hunters could end up becoming the hunted.”

The SWAT team had reached the first parking level. One of them appeared behind the rusty mesh and shouted out, “First level clear!” Immediately, the two FBI agents took out their guns and followed them into the building and up the ramp.

“Are we going in?” asked Detective Bellman.

“No need. Not yet, anyhow. These guys know what they’re doing.”

“Level two clear!” they heard over Detective Bellman’s radio.

They waited two or three minutes. Then they heard, “Level three clear!”

“I don’t think Red Mask is even here,” said Detective Bellman. “He’s probably watching us from some office building across the street, laughing his goddamned nuts off.”

“Elevator — elevator has malfunctioned,” said a different voice over the radio. Then, “We’re immobilized halfway between the sixth and seventh floors.”

Detective Kunzel said, “Shit.”

A minute-long pause, then, “We need a technician to get us out of here. We’ve tried everything, but the emergency switch has been disconnected. All the goddamned wires have been cut.”

Another pause, and then, “The hatch is jammed. We can’t open it. We’re pretty much trapped.”

Detective Kunzel snapped, “He’s in there, Freddie! Red Mask is in there! Come on!”

They hurried across the street toward the parking structure. Before they could enter the building, though, Detective Kunzel’s cell phone rang.

“Kunzel. Is that you?”

“I’m waiting for you, Detective. I thought this was going to be our showdown.”

“I’ll meet you face-to-face any time you like. Just tell me where you are.”

“Sorry, Detective. You’ll have to come find me. High Noon. That’s the name of this story, isn’t it?”

Detectives Kunzel and Bellman entered the parking structure. It smelled of oil and dust and diseased concrete. Inhuman smells. But what surprised them was how silent it was — only the dripping of a sprinkler pipe and the soft flapping of a discarded newspaper.

“Which way?” asked Detective Bellman, crouching down low with his SIG Sauer automatic held in both hands.

“I don’t know. Let’s go up to level two and check it out.”

They climbed cautiously up the ramp until they reached the second level. There were no cars parked here except for a thirteen-year-old Buick station wagon covered in thick sandy-colored dust.

“Maybe we should try the stairs instead.”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t like this one little bit. Why is it so quiet? There are twenty SWAT guys in this building, and it’s like a fricking church.”

Detective Kunzel sniffed. “It could be they have Red Mask cornered, and they don’t want to make any sound in case they reveal their position.”

“You really believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe. But we won’t find out unless we go up and take a look, will we?”

They walked across to the door that led to the stairwell. But as Detective Kunzel opened it, they heard scuffling and shouting from one of the levels up above them. Then a scream. They looked upward, between the dark concrete pillars, and then at each other.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Detective Kunzel. He had heard men scream before when they were shot, or stabbed, or had their arms broken, or when they were doused in blazing gasoline. But he had never heard a scream like this before. It had started off as a piercing, panicky falsetto, like somebody begging please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me, but now it descended into a wide, agonized howl.

There was a last shout of utter despair, and then it stopped.

Detective Kunzel unclipped his radio. “Control? This is Kunzel. What the hell’s going on? We’re inside the building and we can hear screaming from one of the upper floors.”

His radio made a blurting noise, and then he heard, “ — signal, can’t. have to pull back — ”

“Control? I can’t hear you! What’s happening up there?”

“ — see who’s — ”

The radio crackled and went dead. He shook it, and slapped it furiously in the palm of his hand, but it still didn’t work. “Goddamned piece of Chinese crap. Try yours.”

Detective Bellman tried his radio, too. He listened intently, but after a few moments he had to shake his head. “I think I can hear somebody shouting, but they’re much too faint.”

Detective Kunzel said, “Something’s gone shit shaped. We need to get up there, fast.”

“Hey — do you seriously think that’s a good idea? There are ten SWAT guys up there, and two FBI agents. You think they can’t handle a psycho like Red Mask? Or even two psychos like Red Mask?”

“Maybe it’s three psychos like Red Mask,” said Detective Kunzel. “But the point is, we won’t find out unless we go up there.”

All the same, he felt suddenly afraid. The Cincinnati SWAT teams were highly trained, and some of the best in the country. They were armed with Colt carbines and Glock automatic pistols and shotguns that fired tear gas, as well as flashbangs to deafen and blind any adversary and fifty-thousand-volt Tasers. But so far he had heard no radio reports of any arrests. No shots fired. Only that long, drawn-out scream, and then silence.

“We should call for more backup,” said Detective Bellman.

Detective Kunzel tried his radio again. Like Detective Bellman, he thought he could hear some tiny, far-away