“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?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Red Mask Panic
On their way back home they stopped off at the Rook-wood Pavilion in Norwood so that Molly could buy some more crayons and paints from an artist’s supply store called Arts Of Gold and some purple beaded cushion covers from Stein Mart. Then they bought themselves strawberry ice-cream cones and walked through the mall, window-shopping.
“So where do you think we go from here?” said Molly.
“I’m not sure yet,” Sissy admitted. “But I do think that George told us something important. Or rather, he lied about something important.”
“But he’s dead. Why should he lie about anything? What would be the point?”
“People usually lie because they’ve done something that they’re ashamed of.”
“Being murdered is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yes, but why was he murdered?”
They were looking at summer dresses in T.J. Maxx when Molly’s cell phone warbled. She answered it and said, “Yes,” and then, “Yes,” and then, “Oh God, not again.”
“What’s happened?” Sissy asked her.
“Red Mask,” said Molly. “He’s killed seven more people in an elevator at the Giley Building. But it looks like there’s a copycat killer, too. Eleven people were stabbed in an elevator at the Four Days Mall, but at almost the same time.”
“There are two Red Masks?” said Sissy. “That’s just terrible. How can there be two of them?”
“Mike Kunzel says he has witnesses. Three people survived — one at the Giley Building and two at the Four Days Mall. He wants me to go to the hospital and talk to them. He says they all described a red-faced man with two knives.”
“This is just awful. No wonder the cards predicted so much blood.”
“Do you want to come with me?” asked Molly. “Maybe if you sit in while I’m drawing my composites, you might get some kind of insight.” “Sure, yes, I’ll come along.”
They walked back to Molly’s car. The skies had cleared now, and a gilded sun was shining, but the morning was still steamy, and thousands of cicadas were chirruping in the trees that surrounded the parking lot. They drove out of the gates, splashing through the puddles, and headed toward Allison Street.
Molly turned on the radio. On 700 AM, a reporter was talking to Lieutenant Colonel Whalen, the commander of the investigations bureau.
Lieutenant Colonel Whalen sounded shaken. “It’s far too early for us to say exactly who we’re looking for. It could be a copycat killer, yes. But then again, it could be an organization of two or more terrorists. Whoever it is — and whatever perverted purpose they have in mind — they are obviously determined to cause as much panic and disruption as they can.”
“But what would you say to the general public in Cincinnati?” asked the reporter. “What special precautions would you advise them to take?”
“We all need to keep our eyes open. We all need to be aware of what these men look like, and to check out our fellow passengers whenever we step onto an elevator.”
“But if we can’t be sure of our safety in a glass-paneled elevator that’s in full view of two crowded streets and a crowded shopping mall. where can we?”
“Right now, I’d advise Cincinnatians to stay on a high level of personal alert no matter where they’re going or what they’re doing. Riding in elevators, walking in the park, going out shopping — even at home. So far, yes, these men have attacked people only on elevators. But we have no guarantee that they won’t diversify their assaults, and we have no idea when, or where, or even if they are planning to strike again.”
“So you couldn’t even guess at a motive?”
“Not yet. It’s perfectly possible that the perpetrators have an agenda that makes some kind of twisted sense to them. Last year, if you remember, James Kellman shot two innocent children on a bus because he thought they were laughing at his private thoughts. But — no — we have no idea at this time why any of these people were attacked.
“All I can say on behalf of the CPD is that their loved ones have our deepest sympathy.”
Chrissie had survived. Elaine had been stabbed in the face with both knives at once and had fallen backward, with Chrissie underneath her. Chrissie had been stabbed three times in the left arm, and once in the left leg, above the knee — but even though the knife blade had penetrated so deeply that the point had momentarily stuck in her thighbone, it had missed her femoral artery by a quarter of an inch.
She was sedated and confused, and her eyes kept roaming around the room as if she was fearful that her attacker was suddenly going to reappear.
But Molly kept on saying, “You’re safe now, Chrissie. He’s gone, and he won’t be coming back. I promise you.”
“I was so scared. He kept shouting, ‘Wicked! Wicked!’ He was trying to kill all of us.”
“I know. That’s why I need you to tell me what he looked like.”
“His face. His face was so red. It was like he was burned.”
Molly held up one of her Caran d’Ache crayons. “Was it red like this?”
“No. It was redder than that.”
Molly held up another crayon, torch red. “How about this?”
Chrissie nodded. “That’s how red he was. And his eyes. It was like he had no eyes at all.”
Sissy sat on the opposite side of the hospital bed, a little way back. She could feel Chrissie’s fear, as tight as an overwound clock. But, oddly, she had no sense of Red Mask himself, only emptiness. It was just as if Chrissie were describing a figure that she had seen in a nightmare, rather than a real person.