Sissy said, "Even if this necklace isn't genuine, it's a fantastic conversation piece. I'm surprised you didn't want to keep it."
Edwina Branson let the citrine brooch drop. "No," she said. "I don't want to put you off it or anything, but I never liked it. That's why I only wore it once. I felt as if I had dead people hanging around my neck."
"No," said Trevor. "Absolutely not. You're nuts even to think it."
"But it could be the only way," Sissy told him.
"Have you heard yourself? You want to bring Dad back to life? Not that I believe for a single second that you actually can."
"We showed you the roses."
"All right, you showed me the roses. But what kind of proof is that? You could have thrown the real roses away and painted some more."
"But we didn't. They're the same roses."
Trevor clamped his hands over his ears to show that he didn't want to listen to any more of this lunacy.
"I don't care if they are the same roses. You expect me to believe that Molly's two sketches came to life and murdered all of those people? Drawings can't hurt people, Momma. Only people can."
"Those drawings are people. But they're drawings, too, which is why we need your father to hunt them down."
"You're nuts," Trevor repeated, in total exasperation. "I mean, where's your respect? Where's your morality?"
"What difference does it make, if we can't actually do it?"
"It makes all the difference in the world, Momma. Look."
Trevor took a silver-framed photograph of his father from the bookshelf. Thin faced, serious, with that same diamond-shaped scar on his cheek.
"This is Dad we're talking about. My father and your husband. This is the man who loved us and looked after us, and who died in the line of duty. This is not some-some superhero out of a comic book."
"I know that, Trevor. But think of all the innocent people who have been killed already. Do you think your father would have allowed that to happen, if he thought that he could stop it?"
"Momma, read my lips. Dad is dead. Dad doesn't know anything about this Red Mask character, and never will. He's in the Morningside Cemetery on Squash Hollow Road, and that's where he's going to stay. At peace. Undisturbed. Not chasing homicidal drawings all around Cincinnati."
Sissy took a deep breath. Victoria had gone to her bedroom, supposedly to finish her homework, but they could hear her chatting and laughing on the phone to her friend Alyson.
Molly finished wiping the dishes. She said nothing. Trevor was her husband, and Trevor was Frank Sawyer's only son, so if he was adamant that he didn't want his father to be resurrected, there was nothing she could do.
Sissy said, "These Red Masks, they're going to kill many more people, you know that, don't you?"
"So your cards say."
"Yes, they do. And so far they've been absolutely right."
"So far they've been totally confusing. And if you think I'm going to allow you to bring Dad back to life simply because you imagine that you can see his face reflected in some goddamned dish-"
"But you don't believe that it's possible."
"It isn't! How the hell can it be? But it's sacrilegious enough, just thinking of doing it."
Sissy sat down on the end of the couch. "That's your last word, then, is it?"
The television was on, even though the sound was mute. WKRC's 11:00
Colonel Thomas H. Streicher, Cincinnati's chief of police, appeared on the screen. "I cannot deny that there has been a wave of panic throughout downtown Cincinnati. This afternoon, it was virtually a ghost town, with office workers leaving early and shoppers staying well away.
"But at the same time I cannot emphasize strongly enough that my officers are hunting for these murderers round the clock, and I am satisfied that we can not only apprehend them, but that we can protect the good people of Cincinnati before we do.
"So, please. Be vigilant. Be careful out there. But go about your daily business as usual. These Red Mask individuals want to cause as much fear and disruption as possible, and we should not allow them to succeed."
"There you are," said Sissy. "Do your bit for the city's morale. Go out and get yourself stabbed to death by red-faced maniacs."
"You're a cynic, Momma. You always were."
"I'm not a cynic, Trevor. I'm a realist."
"A realist? That's pretty rich, coming from a woman who wants to bring her dead husband back to life by having his picture painted."
Sissy reached for the Cherry Mashes on the table, unwrapped one, and popped it into her mouth. She didn't trust herself to say anything polite, so she thought it better that she say nothing at all.
That night, she dreamed that she was somewhere in the South of France, on a very hot afternoon. The sky was intensely blue and the fields were stacked with bright yellow corn. All she could hear was the sewing-machine sound of crickets in the hedgerows and the cawing of crows as they circled overhead.
She was walking along a dry, rutted road, beside a long stone wall. At the far end of the stone wall there was a gateway, with two dilapidated oak gates. A man was standing in the gateway with his back to her. He had a shock of gingery hair, and he was wearing a red checkered shirt. He seemed to be having trouble with a complicated wooden structure like a deck-chair frame without any canvas.
"Monsieur," she said. "Do you need any help?"
The man finished folding up the deck chair and propped it up against the gate. He turned around to face her and he was Red Mask. His eyes shone like silver ball bearings, and his forehead was shiny with sweat.
"What's done is done," he challenged her. "What's painted is painted."
"You can't escape," she replied. "It doesn't matter where you go, somebody will find you. I can promise you that."
Red Mask seemed to be amused."Even if you find me, child, what can you do? Je suis deux personnes."
With that, he turned and walked away through the archway behind the gates and into the orchard beyond. He reached the corner of a sagging stone barn and disappeared. Sissy waited, but she was reluctant to go after him. She was only seven years old, after all.
She was just about to continue on her way when the same man appeared, walking very briskly. In each hand he was carrying a large triangular butcher knife. Sissy stepped back, frightened, to let him pass.
When he reached gateway he stopped and stared at her as if he had never seen her before."What are you waiting for, child? It's no use waiting. What's done is done, and all we can do is more of the same. No rest for the wicked. No justice for the innocent.
Je suis un fou qui crois qu'il est moimême. I am a madman who believes that he is me."
With that, he stalked through the gateway toward the orchard and disappeared behind the old stone barn. Sissy felt a cold tingle of fear, and she began to run away from the gateway as fast as she could.
Up ahead of her, however, the sky began to grow black, and she saw flickers of lightning. The poplar trees along the side of the road began to rustle uncomfortably and sway. Then, on the horizon, she saw the silhouette of a giant. He was standing beside the road, as if he was waiting for her.
She stopped, panting. She didn't know what to do. She didn't want to go back to the gateway, in case she met the gingery-haired man with the knives. But she was too frightened of the giant to carry on. Perhaps she should run across the fields.
The sky grew darker and darker, and the wind began to whistle. In the field to her left, she saw several gravestones, some of them tilted at odd angles.
Frank, she thought. Frank can save me. He may be dead, but he can save me.
Molly set a glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice on the nightstand beside Sissy and went across the room to pull up the blinds. It was a gloomy morning, with heavy gray clouds. Scores of cicadas were still crawling around the window frame.
"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 stirfry at Through The Garden, with Jamaican glaze."
Sissy couldn't help smiling. "Have you ever heard of the phrase, seriously tempted?"
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 Davidson fountain, on top of which stood the nine-foot-high figure of a woman, with water cascading from her out-stretched 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."
"Daddy!" Victoria protested.
"I'll ask my supervisor," said the assistant. She left the word asshole unspoken.
Ten minutes later they left the designer denim department. Victoria said, "Daddy-sometimes you can be so-o-o embarrassing."
"Two r's and two s's-right? But I got us a seven-fifty discount, didn't I?"
They had almost reached the Race Street bridge leading back to Tower Place Mall when Trevor heard someone hurrying up behind them. Without warning, a heavily built man pushed between them, almost knocking Victoria sideways.
Trevor shouted, "Hey! Watch where you're going!" But the man kept on storming toward the bridge-at least until he reached it, when he suddenly stopped.
There were at least twenty people crossing the bridge, including six or seven children of various ages. Trevor witnessed what happened next, but he could hardly believe it was real.
Another heavily built man had appeared at the opposite end of the bridge. Trevor saw that he was wearing a black suit and a red shirt, and he had close-cropped, brushlike hair. But it was his face that alarmed Trevor the most. It was practically scarlet, with narrow black eyes and a thin black gash for a mouth.
The second man crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them, pulling two enormous triangular knives out of his coat. The first man did the same. The knives made a sliding, metallic sound, and they flashed brightly as the men held them up over their heads. A woman shopper screamed, twice, and a man shouted, "What the hell? What?"
The two men started to walk toward each other, making stabbing gestures in the air. The bridge was only a hundred feet long, if that, and the shoppers and their children were caught in between them. Some of them rushed to the windows and started to bang on the glass, trying to attract the attention of the car drivers who were passing beneath them. Others started crying out and huddling together.
They stood no chance at all. The two men bore down on them from either end of the bridge, chopping at them with such ferocity that Trevor saw fingers flying through the air. There was blood everywhere, a blizzard of blood. It spattered the windows and splashed across the skywalk in long arterial loops. The shoppers dropped to their knees, their hands covering their heads to protect themselves, but the two men continued to stab them, piercing their hands and their arms and their shoulders and their backs.
Nobody shouted or screamed. Instead, they whimpered, like animals. And all the time the knives flashed up and the knives flashed down, and there was the chih! chih! chih! sound of constant stabbing.
Trevor seized Victoria's sleeve and yanked her close to him. He dragged her backward into a rail of summer coats, so that they toppled over, and were buried. Victoria was gasping, "They're killing them, Daddy! All those poor people! They're killing them!"
Trevor was rummaging through his pockets for his cell. "Ssh!" he told her. "Don't you move! Don't you make a sound!"
"But they're killing them!" she protested. She tried to sit up, but Trevor pulled her back down again, under the coats.
"What are we going to do?" said Victoria. "Supposing they come looking for us?"
Trevor punched out 911. "Police? There's another stabbing attack in progress. Right now, yes! The skywalk bridge over Race Street, between Saks and Tower Place Mall. Send somebody fast as you can!"
"May I have your name, sir?" asked the police operator.
Trevor snapped his cell phone shut, and then climbed up onto his hands and knees. "You ready to make a run for it?" he asked Victoria.
Victoria, half hidden under a pink flowery coat, gave him a nod.
"Okay, then, let's make a run for it."