Death Mask

CHAPTER NINETEEN Behind the Mirror

A little after 11:00 A.M., a heavy bank of charcoal gray clouds passed over Cincinnati from the southwest, very low, and a warm rain started to fall.

“At least it keeps the bugs from flying,” said Molly, as they drove along I-71 toward the Avondale turnoff. All the same, when she turned on the wipers, there were enough splattered cicadas on the windshield to smear it with two semicircles of brown and yellow viscera.

Sissy said, “I wish I could shake off this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“I don’t know. It’s not what you’d call a premonition. It’s more like ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’ — as if there’s something out of place, and it’s right in front of my nose, but I can’t see it for looking.”

Molly was wearing a black silk headscarf tied around her head pirate fashion, with small silver coins dangling from it. Sissy thought that she looked more like the young Mia Farrow than ever. Sissy herself had dressed in a long-sleeved crimson dress with large red chrysanthemums all over it. She wore long dangly earrings, which Frank had always called her “chandeliers.”

Molly said, “Don’t tell me. You read the cards again before we came out?”

“I was just wanted an update.”

“Okay. And?”

“They’re still saying the same. The warning, the game of hide-and-go-seek. And the blood card, too.”

“No new clues?”

Sissy shook her head. “I’ve never known the cards be so unhelpful. It’s like somebody saying to you, Don’t go out tomorrow, whatever you do, you’ll regret it, but refusing to tell you why.”

They turned off I-71 and made their way toward Riddle Road. It rained harder and harder, with misty spray drifting across the street in front of them. The windshield wipers were flapping furiously from side to side, but they could barely keep up.

As they reached the Woods house, however, the rain abruptly stopped, and by the time Molly had parked her Civic in the driveway, the sun was beginning to shine through the clouds and sparkle on the cedar trees that sheltered the house on either side.

Avondale was a quiet, old-style neighborhood, and 1445 Riddle Road was a solid, old-style house, with three stories and a long veranda that ran all the way across the front. Molly and Sissy climbed the steps to the front door. It was painted dark purple, and there was a brass knocker on it in the shape of a grinning face — a clown, maybe, or a joker.

Molly knocked and the door was opened almost immediately. They were greeted by a thin, nervous-looking woman with a blond bob and short-sleeved black dress, and a young girl clutching a black toy rabbit.

“Mrs. Woods?” Sissy smiled. “I’m Sissy Sawyer. This is my daughter-in-law, Molly.”

“Come on in,” said Mrs. Woods. “And, please, call me Darlene.”

She led the way into a large living room furnished with two antique sofas and four spoon-back chairs. On the left-hand side of the room there was a handsome antique fireplace with fluted columns and a wide gilt-framed mirror hanging above it. On the right-hand side there was a dark mahogany sideboard with a collection of nineteenth-century silver — jugs and candle-sticks and decorated tankards.

Between the sofas there was a low glass-topped table with magazines and antique crystal paperweights on it, as well as a bronze statuette of a leaping horse. But it was a small pedestal underneath the window that caught Sissy’s attention. It was draped in a black velvet cloth, and on it stood a photograph in a silver frame of a smiling, broad-featured man with a lick of brown hair across his forehead.

All around the photograph tiny seashells had been arranged in flower patterns, as well as multicolored candies and glass beads — the tributes paid by two small girls to their murdered father.

“I don’t really know how much I can help you,” said Darlene.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Sissy told her. “And we can help you.” She looked around the living room, trying to sense any presence of the late George Woods. It wasn’t easy, because she could feel all of the hundreds of people who had lived here since the house was built. She could almost hear them shouting and laughing and singing as the years had flickered by — birthdays, Thanksgivings, Christmases, and weddings. She could also feel the stillness of death.

“Amanda,” said Darlene. “Why don’t you take Floppy upstairs to your room? I have to talk to these ladies for a while.”

“May I have a cookie?” asked Amanda.

“Sure you can, sweetie. But just one.”

“May Floppy have a cookie, too?”

Darlene shook her head. “Floppy can share yours. It’s going to be lunchtime soon.”

When Amanda had gone, Darlene said, “Please. do sit down. I have to tell you that I was kind of knocked off balance when you called me. You know — what you said to me about talking to George.”

“I’m not a con artist, Darlene,” Sissy told her. “I’ve been holding séances ever since I first discovered that I could contact people who have gone beyond. I’ve never asked for money or any kind of recompense, and I never will.”

“You said that you and — Molly, is it? — you said that you were working with the Cincinnati police.”

“I’m a forensic sketch artist,” Molly told her. “After a crime’s been committed, I interview witnesses, and then I try to draw a likeness of the person who committed it.”

“I understand,” Darlene nodded. “I’ve seen people doing that on CSI. But why do you need to talk to George?”

Molly said, “There was only one witness to George’s murder, and that was a young girl who was also stabbed, so she was in pretty deep shock. Red Mask struck a second time — at least we believe it was him. But again there was only one witness, and this witness had already seen my picture of Red Mask on TV, so his recollection could well have been compromised. Witnesses bend over backward to be helpful, but sometimes they’re too helpful, if you see what I mean. They try to tell you what they think you want to hear, instead of what they actually saw.”

“The more witnesses we can talk to, the more accurate Molly’s picture will be,” said Sissy. “That’s why we need to contact George.”

“Is it really possible?” asked Darlene. “My mother used to go to a medium to talk to her older sister. She said she had long conversations with her, but I can’t say that I ever completely believed her. I thought it was no more than wishful thinking.”

Sissy took hold of Darlene’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It is possible, for sure. But let me say this: if it upsets you in any way at all, Molly and I will just get up and go, and you won’t have to see us ever again.”

“Will I be able to hear him?”

Sissy nodded. “More than likely. But you have to realize that not all gone-beyonders want to talk to the people that they’ve left behind — not directly. They’re usually anxious to spare them any more grief. It’s not exactly an easy experience for them, either, to see everything they lost when they passed over, and to talk to a loved one they’ll never be able to hold in their arms again.”

Darlene looked across at the photograph of her late husband on the pedestal by the window. “All right,” she said, at last. “What do we have to do? Hold hands or something?”

Sissy said, “You can, if you think that it will help you to concentrate. But it isn’t necessary. If George is here, if he’s able and willing to talk to us, then he will. All you need to do is to think of him — how you best remember him. Try to remember what he looked like. Try to remember what he felt like. Imagine he’s still with you. Imagine he’s still alive.”

Sissy opened her floppy tapestry bag and took out four small pouches, which she set down on the glass-topped table. “Bloodroot, celandine, chicory, and pennyroyal,” she explained. “I don’t know whether they really work or not, but they’re supposed to help the gone-beyonders to find their way through.”

She took out a red candle, too, in a round stone holder, and lit it with her cigarette lighter. The candle had a strong, cloying scent, like rotting peaches.

“Now, you’re thinking about George, aren’t you?” she asked Darlene.

Darlene nodded.

“Close your eyes if it makes it easier. Try to imagine that he’s here, standing in this room, watching you.”

Darlene closed her eyes. She was silent for a short while, and it was obvious from her tightly clenched fists that she was concentrating deeply.

“George,” she whispered. “George, where are you, darling? Come talk to us.”

Sissy joined in. “George, we need to ask you some questions. Come on, George, Darlene’s here, waiting for you.”

Nearly a minute went by. Darlene said, “Please, George. I miss you so much. The girls miss you so much. I need to tell you that I still love you and I always will. I need to hear you say that you still love me.”

Sissy suddenly saw a distortion in the air, in front of the fireplace. She looked meaningfully at Molly and inclined her head toward the distortion, and Molly saw it, too. It looked as if the fluted pillar on one side of the fireplace was slowly rippling, as if it were under water.

The mirror above the fireplace began to darken. Sissy touched Darlene on the arm and said, “Look.” The reflection of the living room grew gloomier and gloomier, and as it did so, a man’s face began to appear, pale and staring, like a face from a long-forgotten photograph. His eyes were smudged, and the rest of his features were blurred, but Darlene immediately rose to her feet and held out one hand toward the mirror, and her eyes filled up with tears.

“George! It’s George! Oh my God, how did you do that? George!”

Sissy stood up, too. Molly looked up at her in alarm, but Sissy said, “Don’t be frightened. It’s only his image. He’s using the mirror’s memory. the impressions that he left on its silver backing when he was alive.”

All the same, Sissy could feel George’s presence as strongly as if he were standing right in front of her, although his personality was jumbled and bewildered, and he was still in state of shock. She approached the mirror and concentrated on calming him down.

Steady, George, steady.

“George, can you hear me?” she said. “My name is Sissy Sawyer. I’m a friend of Darlene’s.”

George’s head moved jerkily, and his lips moved, but all Sissy could hear was a distant, strangled sound, like a loudspeaker announcement on a windy day.

“George, I need to ask you some questions about how you were killed.”

More strangled noises — but then, unexpectedly, and very clearly, the word sorry.

Sissy laid her hand on Darlene’s shoulder. Darlene was weeping quite openly now, and she had to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.

“George, can you hear me, George?” Sissy asked him. No matter how distressed Darlene was, she couldn’t allow George to fade away — not yet, anyhow, not until she had talked to him — because she might never be able to call him back. Like so many gone-beyonders, he could well find this contact with his past life so painful that he never wanted to repeat it.

“George, darling,” said Darlene. “George, I miss you so much.”

“ — miss you too — and Kitty, and Amanda — ”

“Oh, George.”

“What happened, George?” Sissy interrupted. “Can you remember the man who stabbed you?”

George’s image suddenly shuddered, but then it came back into focus. “ — it was all so — sudden — didn’t — ”

“The man who attacked you, George. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“ — stabbed me and stabbed me — strange thing, though — I didn’t feel it — didn’t feel anything — ”

Molly stood up now. “George, my name’s Molly.”

George stared at her as if he thought he ought to know who she was.

“I’m an artist, George. If you tell me what the man looked like, I can make a drawing of him and help the police to catch him.”

“ — just started stabbing me — ”

“Was he white? Was he black? What kind of clothes was he wearing?”

“ — couldn’t see too clearly — all I saw was that knife — ”

“George, listen to me,” Molly insisted. “Was he taller than you? How would you describe his build?”

George turned toward Darlene. His expression was one of infinite regret. “I’m so sorry, Darlene — how can you ever forgive me?”

“George, it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

“ — if only I hadn’t — ”

“It wasn’t your fault, George. How were you to know that he was going to get onto that elevator with you?”

“ — not that — she — ”

George’s image in the mirror began to shudder. Darlene said, “No! No, George, don’t go!” and she went right up to the fireplace and pressed her hands and her forehead against the glass. “No!” she sobbed, as her own reflection grew clearer and brighter, and the living room reappeared behind her. “Please, George, we haven’t talked at all!”

Sissy gently put her arm around her. “He’s gone, Darlene. For now, anyhow. It’s as much of a strain for the gone-beyonders to talk to us as it is for us to talk to them. But he won’t be far away, ever. So long as you go on thinking about him and remembering what he was like and how much he loved you, he’ll always be close to you, I promise.”

Darlene turned away from the mirror, distraught. Her two palm prints remained for a moment, like ghosts, and then they faded, too.

“He didn’t have to say he was sorry,” she said. “Why did he keep on saying he was sorry?”

“Well. often a gone-beyonder will feel guilt for having died, leaving his family to fend for themselves. Just like his family will blame him for dying, even though it wasn’t his fault.”

Darlene pulled a Kleenex out of a decorative box on the table and wiped her eyes. “Do you think I might be able to talk to him again?”

“I hope so. Especially since he’s so regretful. But give him some time. If you like, I could come back in a week or so, and we could try again.”

Darlene nodded. “I’d like that. Now — how about a drink? I could really use something to steady my nerves.”

“A little too early for me,” said Sissy. “But coffee would be good.”

Darlene went through to the kitchen, leaving Sissy and Molly still standing in front of the mirror.

“That was incredible,” said Molly. “You actually made him appear. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

“He was desperate to appear, that’s why. Absolutely desperate. He needed Darlene to see how sorry he was.”

“If he’d committed suicide, maybe I could understand it. But sorry for being murdered?”

“Well, you’re right, of course,” said Sissy. She held out her hand with the amethyst ring that used to belong to her mother. The stone was still shiny but it had turned black as a stag beetle. “Our friend behind the mirror was lying to us.”

“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?