Death Mask

“And you have no idea why he wanted to kill Mr. Woods?”

“None whatsoever.”

Sissy felt a prickling sensation in her fingers. She lifted her hand and saw that her mother’s amethyst ring had turned several shades darker. So the probability was that Jane Becker was lying. But lying about what, exactly? That Red Mask was a stranger to her, or that she didn’t know why he had murdered George Woods?

The prickling sensation was caused by more than her mother’s ring, however. It was the kind of sensation she felt when some potent or meaningful artifact was very close. She felt it whenever one of her clients brought her a loved one’s scarf or a pair of gloves, in order to help her to communicate beyond the grave. She felt it whenever she walked into a room and saw a photograph of a gone-beyonder. She always knew they were dead, even without being told.

Molly was saying, “ — anything about his hair, or his skin texture? How about scars? Did you notice any scars? Scars can be a real important clue, because they might have been caused by a sports injury or an occupational accident.”

Sissy turned slowly around and around, trying to locate where the prickling sensation was coming from. Frank held her arm and said, “Sissy? Are you okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine. It’s just that — ”

“I don’t remember anything else about him, except what I told you,” said Jane Becker. “He might have had a scar, but I really don’t recall. I was fighting for my life, remember.”

Sissy said, “May I use your bathroom, please?”

“Oh, sure. Along the hallway, second door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

Sissy left the living room. She walked slowly along the hallway, her ring hand raised, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

It’s here, Sissy. The answer is right here. It’s in one of these rooms.

She passed the dining room. There was nothing in there but a highly polished oak table and eight oak chairs, and it smelled airless, as if it wasn’t used very often. She reached the bathroom, which had a ceramic plaque on it with the legend, “The Littlest Room.” But as she turned the door handle, she felt the prickling on her back. There was another room opposite the bathroom, with its door half ajar.

She hesitated for a moment, listening. She could still hear Molly and Jane Becker talking, and so she pushed the door open a little farther. The room was a study, with a desk and a personal computer and shelves crowded with books. Whoever used this study, they weren’t particularly tidy, because there was an empty coffee mug on the desk, as well as a scattering of pens and CDs and torn-open credit-card bills. The computer’s monitor screen was surrounded by yellow Post-it notes. “Hairdrsr 8!!!” “Call Ken B. re ins. Claim!!!”

On the wall to the left of the desk there was a cork notice board crammed with postcards and Hudepohl beer mats and take-out menus and family photographs. Sissy slowly approached it, and now she could almost hear the prickling sensation as well as feel it, like the effervescence on top of a glass of soda.

Close to the center of the notice board, overlapped by a thank-you letter from a local children’s charity, was a postcard of a giant red-faced figure holding a triangular butcher knife in each hand. A triangular piece was missing from his right earlobe, as if his sculptor’s chainsaw had slipped. The caption read, “Butcher Buck, Borrowsville, IA.”

Sissy took out the thumbtack and turned the postcard over. “Butcher Buck used to advertise the Borrowsville Meat Packing Co., Inc., in Borrowsville, IA. Unusually for a giant roadside figure, he was made not of fiberglass, but a single red-crown oak tree, carved in 1957 by local artist Dean S. Ferndale II. Butcher Buck stood 32 ft. 7 in. tall and was estimated to weigh 6.3 tons. He was severely damaged by lightning in 1974 and removed.”

There was a message scribbled in ballpoint pen, too. “Hi, Rick & Family! Greetings from darkest Iowa! Lonnie says this looks like me when I’ve been lying in the sun too long! See you on the fifteenth! All best, Dave M.”

The card was dated May 12, 1993, so Jane Becker would have first seen it when she was very young. Young enough for it to frighten her.

Sissy went back into the living room. Jane Becker was saying to Molly and Frank, “I’m so sorry I can’t remember any more. All of those murders — they’re just terrible. I wish I could think of something that would help you to catch this guy.”

Sissy dropped the postcard onto the table beside her. “Who does this remind you of?” she asked her.

“Hey — you took that out of my dad’s den!” Jane Becker protested.

“Where I found it, my dear, isn’t important. What is important is who it reminds you of.”

Frank picked up the postcard and read the caption on the back. “Butcher Buck. That’s who attacked you?”

“He had a red face, just like that. Or maybe he had blood on his face. I don’t know. I must have gotten confused.”

Molly looked at the postcard, too. “But. Jane. the description you gave me, this is him, right down to the last detail. No wonder you said his eyes and his mouth looked like slits. They are slits, like they’ve been cut with a chisel.”

Sissy sat down beside her. “Jane, what did he really look like, the man who attacked you?”

Jane Becker’s eyes filled up with tears. “I don’t know! I don’t remember! I didn’t see him at all!”

Molly said, “What? But you were so sure!”

“I know. But when you asked me to tell you what he looked like — I didn’t want to let you down, that’s all! I just described the most frightening man I could think of.”

“So you gave Molly a description of a man who doesn’t exist?”

Jane Becker sobbed, and nodded. “I figured, where’s the harm? He’s not real, so the police won’t be able to find him, so it doesn’t matter.”

“But Jane. if Red Mask doesn’t exist, who do you think has been committing all of these other attacks?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I guess some crazy guys have been making themselves up to look like him. I mean you hear about these copycat killings, don’t you? It’s terrible. It’s really terrible. But it’s not my fault, is it?”

“Not entirely,” said Sissy. “But something very strange happened when Molly drew that picture of Red Mask. Something you might call miraculous.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You may not believe me, Jane. That’s up to you. But the sketch of Red Mask that Molly drew from your description came to life. Red Mask didn’t exist before you accused him of attacking you in the elevator, but he sure did afterward.”

Jane Becker stared at her. “He what? He came to life? Oh, come on! This is some kind of a joke, isn’t it?” She turned to Molly, both hands held out, as if she were appealing for sanity.

Sissy stood up. “Like I said, you don’t have to believe me. But your description of Red Mask came to life and it was that Red Mask who committed the second attack. And when one of the witnesses described who had done it, Molly drew a second sketch, and that came to life, too. So we had two Red Masks. and it was those two Red Masks who committed both of the next two attacks.”

Molly said, “It’s true, Jane. I know it sounds completely unbelievable, but I saw it happen with my own eyes. Yesterday we managed to destroy one of the Red Masks — set fire to him and burn him up — but there’s still one more left.”

“At least we know that there never was a real Red Mask,” Sissy put in. “The real Red Mask was Butcher Buck, and he was probably burned for firewood thirty-five years ago, after they chopped him down.”

Jane Becker pulled a crumpled tissue out of her sleeve and blew her nose. “I don’t believe any of this. I think you’re all insane.”

“I’m sorry, Jane,” said Sissy. “But it’s true. And we need your help to finish Red Mask for good and all.”