Graham Masterton - Death Mask

“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.”

“What can I do?”

“You can face him, that’s what you can do. You can face him, and you can show him this postcard, and you can tell him that you made him up. He’s alive because he believes he’s alive. He’s alive because he’s convinced that he’s the image of a real person. He needs to be told that he was never real — that he was only a wooden statue, nothing more, and that even that wooden statue doesn’t exist any longer.”

“What?” said Jane Becker. “You seriously think I’m going to go right up to some homicidal nutjob and tell him that I invented him? You’re even crazier than I thought you were!”

“You’re the only person who can do it,” said Sissy.

Jane Becker stood up. “Listen,” she said. “I think you’d better leave.”

Molly said, “Jane! You have to come with us! You have to do this, or scores more people are going to be murdered!”

“If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the cops.”

“I am the cops,” Frank reminded her.

“Well, I’ll call your captain or whoever he is, and tell him that you’ve been harassing me.”

She came toward him, but Frank raised his hand to stop her. “We seriously need your help, Ms. Becker. I know this all sounds pretty darn bizarre — sketches that come to life, paintings that murder people. But there is an explanation for it, and it’s real. As real as I’m standing right here.”

“Are you going to leave or what?” Jane Becker demanded.

But Frank stayed where he was. “Let me ask you something, Ms. Becker. If Red Mask didn’t kill George Woods, then who did?”

“I don’t have to answer that. I’ve already answered that a hundred times.”

“No, you haven’t. You said it was Red Mask, but now you’ve admitted that Red Mask doesn’t exist. So who killed George Woods?”

“I don’t know. It was a man, that’s all. I can’t describe him.”

“I get the picture. Average height, average build, no distinguishing features?”

“That’s right. And he just started stabbing.”

“You said you didn’t know George Woods, didn’t you? Didn’t know the poor man from Adam.”

“That’s right. I never saw him before, ever.”

Sissy reached into her purse and took out one of the receipts from Jones the Florists.

“A dozen roses, every week for five weeks.”

Jane Becker tried to snatch it from her, but Sissy whipped it out of her reach.

“That’s private, you bitch!” snapped Jane Becker. “That has nothing to do with you!”

“Oh, I think it does,” said Frank. “Especially when so many people have been murdered, because of you. What happened between you and George Woods, Ms. Becker? You were having an affair, and the affair went sour? What?”

“An affair ?” Jane Becker was quaking. When she had interviewed her in the hospital, Molly had thought how forgiving she was, how docile, considering what had happened to her. But now her mouth was tight with rage, and her eyes seemed even further apart, like those of a flatfish. “We weren’t having an affair !”

“Okay, then, maybe it was just a fling. ‘Remember the Vernon Manor. when our dreams came true.’ ”

“His dream. My nightmare.”

“What do you mean?”

Jane Becker had to take a deep breath to compose herself.

“It was a weekend seminar, okay? Realtors and lawyers, talking about property law and escrow and all that kind of stuff. George Woods hit on me from the moment I arrived, and he wouldn’t let me alone.”

“So what did you do?”

“I told him to back off, but he wouldn’t take any notice.”

She paused. Now her anger had given way to self-pity, and tears were sliding freely down her cheeks. “I told him to back off but he must have put something in my drink. Rohypnol, maybe. He never admitted it. I don’t remember him doing it, but he took me up to my room and he raped me.”

She took a deep breath, and then she said, “He raped me and he. abused me in every possible way you can think of. When I woke up the sheet was covered in blood. And he was still there, would you believe? He was still there, sitting on the end of my bed with a drink in his hand, smiling like the cat that got the cream.

“He had used a vodka bottle on me. Can you believe that?”