“Looks like rain,” said Molly.
Sissy sat up. “Did you talk to Trevor anymore?”
“I tried, Sissy, honestly, but there was no point. He never really believed in any of your psychic stuff, did he? And when Trevor makes his mind up, that’s it. Stubborn is his middle name.”
Sissy said, “I had another bad dream about Red Mask. Actually, it was a dream about Van Gogh. Two Van Goghs. One was chasing after the other, with knives.”
“It is that necklace that does it, isn’t it?”
Sissy sipped her grapefruit juice and wiped her mouth. “More specifically, sweetheart, I think it’s that ring. Van Gogh painted so many self-portraits, and I’ll bet you that whenever he was wearing that ring, his self-portrait came to life. Chrissie said that Red Mask had a piece missing from his ear — just like Van Gogh.”
Molly shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore, anyhow. I’m not going to paint any more pictures while I’m wearing it.”
Sissy didn’t say anything. All she could think of were the tilted gravestones in the field, with the storm clouds gathering overhead. All she could think of was Frank lying in the absolute darkness of his casket, and how much she needed him.
“Am I being selfish?” she asked Molly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do I want to do this to save people’s lives, or do I want to do it for me?”
“It’s academic, Sissy. It’s not going to happen. Big Chief Trevor has spoken.”
“Even if I beg you?”
“Sissy, no. We never lie to each other, Trevor and me. We never do anything behind each other’s back. And I can understand how he feels. Even if I paint Frank and he doesn’t come to life, that’s just as bad as if he does.”
Sissy thought of Mary the cleaner dying in the darkness of the elevator. She still felt so guilty about that. If only Mary could have seen daylight before she died. She knew what Frank would have thought about Mary, too. Frank had always been so selfless. On the afternoon that he had been killed, Frank had been acting without any regard for his own personal safety.
But of course, that had been his decision, not hers. Maybe Trevor was right. How could she resurrect Frank without knowing if he would be resentful at being resurrected, or angry, even? Maybe the dead preferred to be dead, sleeping their way through all eternity, resting in peace.
“How about you and me going for lunch together today?” Molly suggested.
“What about Trevor and Victoria?”
“Trevor promised to take Victoria downtown to buy her some designer jeans.”
“Designer jeans? She’s nine years old!”
“You think that makes her any less fashion conscious? And she’s getting an iPod, too, for doing so well in her spelling bee.”
“Hmm, okay. But I’m not so sure he should have taken her downtown.”
“I didn’t think it was such a good idea, either. But he said that he and Victoria weren’t going to be using any elevators, and besides, he doesn’t believe that Red Mask will try to attack any more people, not with so many cops around.”
“Maybe not the real Red Mask. but how about the other two?”
“That’s what I said. But he doesn’t believe in them. I mean, he believes in them, but he thinks they’re just two guys with their faces painted red. He doesn’t think that they’re my drawings, come to life.”
She paused, and then she said, “He loves you, Sissy. You know that. But he thinks you’re losing it, and there’s not much I can do to persuade him otherwise.”
“He thinks I’m going senile?”
“He didn’t exactly put it like that.”
“Oh — so how did he put it, exactly?”
“I think he used the word bananas.”
“I’ll give him bananas. I’ll give him bananas where you don’t need Ray-Bans.”
“Come on, Sissy. You know what he’s like. Pragmatic.”
“I guess so. I just hope that he’s careful. Pragmatic or not, he’s still precious to me. And so is Victoria.”
“So you’re okay for lunch, then?”
“Sure, I guess so. What do you have in mind?”
“A huge chicken stir-fry at Through The Garden, with Jamaican glaze.”
Sissy couldn’t help smiling. “Have you ever heard of the phrase, seriously tempted?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Blood on the Skywalk
“Okay,” said Trevor. “How do you spell embarrass?”
“Oh, Dad! You’re not going to make me spell all day, are you? I did enough spelling at school!”
“Just one more word. Impress me.”
Trevor and Victoria were walking along the second-story skywalk that overlooked Fountain Square. On the opposite side of the square stood the Tyler David-son fountain, on top of which stood the nine-foot-high figure of a woman, with water cascading from her outstretched hands. Even though it had been raining, the square would normally have been crowded on a Saturday morning. Today, however, it was almost deserted, with shoppers hurrying across the glistening wet bricks as if they would rather be anyplace else but here.
White squad cars were parked on all four corners, and uniformed officers were gathered in almost every store doorway. Trevor had seen on the news this morning that a twenty-one-strong team from the FBI had been called in to help the CPD, including profilers and experts in serial killings and terrorist activities.
“Two r’s and two s’s,” said Victoria.
“That’s right!” said Trevor. Then he frowned. “At least I think that’s right.”
“It’s easy. You just have to remember ‘she was rosy red with severe shame.’ Two r’s and two s’s.”
“Hey, that’s excellent! And just for that, we can go to Hathaway’s after we’ve bought your jeans, and I’ll buy you a hand-dipped chocolate shake. They’re really good for the waistline, so they tell me.”
They crossed over Fifth Street and followed the skywalk past Tower Place Mall. The bridge that crossed over Race Street into Saks Fifth Avenue was all glassed in, and the windows were still beaded with raindrops. They had to go to Saks because Saks was the only store in Cincinnati that carried preworn, prewashed 7 For All Mankind jeans for preteens, and that was what Victoria insisted on having.
“Look at the state of these jeans,” Trevor complained, as they rummaged through the denim department. “They’re all worn out. They’re rags. This is more like a thrift store.”
“Daddy, that’s the whole point. What do you think of these? Aren’t they the neatest of the neat?”
“My angel, they have a huge triangular hole in the seat. They’re also sixty-five bucks.”
“I can sew up the hole. Please, Daddy. I love them.”
Trevor turned toward the assistant, a white-faced girl in a Marc Jacobs blouse and a pair of jeans with rips in the knees. He smiled conspiratorially, as if to say, Kids, what can you do? But the assistant gave him a wintry look, as if to say, You’re an almost-middle-aged man wearing a brown sport coat, what do you know?
“Cash or charge?” she asked him.
“How about a discount for the hole?”
“You want a discount for the hole?”
“I can ask, can’t I?” Trevor poked his finger through it, and waggled it. “I can’t have my nine-year-old daughter displaying her tush to all and sundry.”