“Let me into the house, Jimmy Kalmaku,” Daniel said, “or I will kill this fragile creature.”
“You’re not coming in,” Jimmy said firmly.
Daniel tightened his grip, and Steven felt the nails puncture his flesh. He screamed as blood began to flow out of the wounds, freezing as it touched his brother’s fingers.
There was a shot, and Steven saw a small hole appear in Daniel’s forehead. Cracks began to radiate from the hole, and they ran down his face, leaving large fissures like a foot that has trod on new, thin ice. Steven screamed again as his brother’s face fell away, revealing a swirling blackness, a sphere of absolute nothingness that threatened to engulf him with its awful impossibility.
The thing before him shrieked, his voice like shattering glass and the tortured cry of animals who have blundered into cruel and merciless traps, the steel teeth rending their soft flesh.
Steven stepped back, and Stan Roberts slammed into him, sending them both sprawling onto the Slater driveway. Jimmy grabbed each man by the collar and hauled them beyond the demarcation of his shielding spell with surprising strength.
The Faceless One, his anchor in this world dissolving at his feet, shrieked again as he imploded, all of his foul energies withdrawing into a single point of infinite blackness, which then winked out. On the ground, pieces of the face of Daniel Slater oozed and ran, smoking in the summer sun. There was an odor of tainted meat and cloves and the remnants of Steven Slater’s brother were absorbed into the concrete, leaving only a thin red film that slowly turned black.
Steven looked at Stan and saw a man who was gaunt and unshaven, a man who might
have been successful once but was now wasting away in a life on the streets. Jimmy, whose vision was being augmented by the tongue of Otter and the symbols cut into his flesh by Dabo Muu, saw more than this. He saw a man who had spent time in the proximity of The Faceless One. There was an aura about him, a sickly black miasma that seemed to leak from him, like tendrils of ink from a squid. They moved about in the air with feeble undulations. Yet he could see that the man was still strong in his heart. In the deepest part of himself, he was still human. He hadn’t been lost—not yet. Looking more closely, he saw small golden strands that encircled the man, like a delicate web of spun sunlight. One of this man’s gods had tried to give him a measure of strength and protection. Jimmy realized that, without it, the man probably would be dead from the foul touch of The Faceless One.
Stan regarded the two men, sizing up his options now that he was exposed. Their relative calm told him immediately that they had some idea what they were dealing with—neither was a stranger to these events. He had known the figure confronting Steven Slater was not Daniel and had deduced in his short trip across the street that the Big Boss had made use of Daniel Slater’s missing face. He had seen what Steven Slater had not, that his brother’s face was hovering over a dark void, like a life preserver floating on an oil slick. He had used one of his precious bullets to dispel the illusion but he had not destroyed the Big Boss. He didn’t think there was a power on Earth that could do that.
As if in answer, there was a rumble in the distance, as if thunderclouds were gathering in the foothills. But the sky was clear, the summer sun relentless as it beat down on the men in the gravel driveway.
There was a crash then, as if a great hammer had struck the dome of Heaven. It was followed closely by another, and another, great blows that shook the ground they stood on. Accompanying each one was a stroboscopic flash of darkness overhead, coupled with a momentary flash of the golden weave that sheltered the home and property of Steven Slater. Stan realized that the Big Boss was hammering on the field protecting the place, trying to get in, or at least unnerve them.
“Looks like I pissed him off,” he said to Jimmy and Steven.
Steven looked at him, surprised, but Jimmy merely nodded. The thunderous pounding continued for another minute, then stopped abruptly.
It began raining, then, and the drops fell to the ground, ordinary water falling from a cloudless sky.
“Let’s go in,” Jimmy suggested. “He can’t hurt us, but there’s no sense in getting drenched.”
The men started up the driveway. Steven stuck out his hand to Stan, wincing as he did so.
“Steven Slater,” he said.
“Stan Roberts.”
“The New York detective?”
Stan nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I used to be.”
Steven jerked his thumb back toward the street as they approached the house. Stan could see that the young man was growing pale, shock setting in.
“How did you know?” Steven asked.
“I spent some time around that thing. I can smell him.”
He could see Slater was taking him literally. He was about to correct himself when Slater’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the grass. Slater began crying, and the old man, who Stan took to be an Indian of some sort, helped him up gently.
“Let’s go in,” Jimmy said.
Steven wiped his eyes with his sleeve although his shirt was already soaked through from the rain. He nodded, trying to compose himself before they went in.
“Let’s not mention this to Liz or Bobby,” he said to them, knowing that Stan would remember the names of his family. The men nodded, and they entered the small house.
Bobby was at the window. He looked up as his father entered with the others.
“Did you hear the thunder, Daddy? It was superloud!”
“Yes, I sure did,” Steven answered.
“Now it’s raining,” the boy announced, “but there aren’t any clouds. Isn’t that crazy, Daddy?”
“That’s just the word I would use,” Steven agreed. Liz and George were in the living room, sipping coffee. They got up when they saw Stan.
Steven introduced him to Liz, Bobby, and George. Liz recognized his name and shook hands with him although she was clearly distressed by his appearance. George was more open but only because Jimmy had given him a small nod. Bobby had looked at him, then wrinkled his nose.
“You smell bad,” he said.
“Bobby!” Liz said, embarrassed, but Stan just laughed.
“I know, kid, I really reek.”
Bobby giggled, and Stan smiled.
Steven tapped Stan on the shoulder.
“Let’s get you some dry clothes,” he said. He didn’t bother saying “clean” clothes, which Stan thought was pretty classy. Steven grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen. Then they went to the master bedroom, and Steven pulled some clothes out of the closet for each of them.
He handed Stan a clean pair of jeans and shirt along with the trash bag. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said, with a jerk of his head. “I’m going to go bandage this shoulder.”
Feeling weary, Stan clumsily stripped out of his clothes. He then reached into his pants pockets and transferred the contents to the corresponding pockets in the pants Steven Slater had loaned him. Into the front right pocket went keys, change, and Richie’s lucky bullet, now unnoticed and forgotten. Stan was too busy looking at the ravaged survivor in the mirror to pay attention to what was in his pocket. Stan balled up his ruined clothes and stuffed them into the trash bag. Then he tied up the bag, hoping this marked, if not a fresh start, a turning point. He reached into the stall and turned on the water. It was the first hot shower Stan had had in days, and he was grateful for it. He turned the heat up as much as he could bear and lathered and scrubbed until his skin was the bright red of a sunburn. He toweled off vigorously, trying to rub away the events and trauma of the days before. Although the memories of Richie’s death and those of the others weighed on him, he felt somewhat revived by the shower. Then he thought of the little boy he had just met.
Two bullets.
That’s what he had left now. It was enough, but the whole idea seemed easier when the little boy was a faceless victim. Now he was a person, a life that was going to end bloodily unless there was some other way to stop the Big Boss.
Stan didn’t think anyone could do that, certainly not a beat-up cop, a middle-class family, and two old codgers.
Two bullets
, he thought, and sighed wearily.
Two bullets.
He would do it.
He had to.
Stan came into the kitchen after having showered and shaved. He was still gaunt, his skin ravaged from the effects of The Faceless One, but his appearance was more reassuring.
He almost looked like a New York detective again.
The rain had stopped, but Liz was keeping Bobby inside, despite his protests. Now that the masks were completed, he had begged Jimmy to play with him in his room. Jimmy had told him that the grown-ups needed to have a talk. Dejected, the boy had gone to his room with heavy, ponderous steps.
Stan entered to find Steven, Liz, Jimmy, and George gathered around the dining-room table with mugs of coffee. There was an empty chair and a full, steaming mug for him. Normally, hot coffee on a sweltering day would have seemed loony to him, but there was a chill in the air, and the smell was rich and earthy. After his ordeal, it smelled like paradise.
Stan nodded to them and sat down.
“Thanks for the clothes,” he said to Steven. He had wished he had some new underwear, but that was a bit much to ask of another man. The freshly laundered jeans chafed at him, but it was good to feel clean again.
“You’re welcome. Looks like they fit you okay.”
“A little long in the sleeve, a little snug in the waist, but I appreciate it, Mr. Slater.”
“Steven, please.”
Stan raised his cup slightly in acknowledgment, then took a sip. It was hot and strong. Such a simple thing, and yet so full of humanity. Jesus, this whole thing was making him a regular philosopher—or a lunatic.
“So, who’s first?” Stan asked.
The others looked at Jimmy, as Stan guessed they would. The old man wasn’t imposing, really, but he seemed to carry the weight of leadership or some terrible secret, maybe both. There was an aura of importance to him, an air that commanded respect. He wasn’t sure about the other old man, but Stan could tell he was someone who had been around, someone who wouldn’t fuck with you or be fucked with by you. He liked them both right away.
Jimmy told him about The Faceless One. He told him of his people’s history with the entity and his own encounter with it sixty-five years ago. When he told Stan about the role of the
mask in the actions of The Faceless One, Stan had nodded.
“That must be what was in the package for you,” Stan said to Steven.
“What package?” Steven asked.
“It was from your brother’s lawyers. My partner …” Stan stopped a moment, afraid he might lose it. “My … late partner and I intercepted a UPS truck. We were going to take the package back to the precinct. Thought it might give us a clue as to who killed your brother and the others.”
“But you sent it on here?”
“No,” Stan said, his coffee tasting sour in his throat, “I brought it here personally. This Faceless One—I call him the Big Boss.” He looked at the others, embarrassed. “It’s a term I picked up from Richie’s—my partner Richie’s—kids. It’s what they call the main villain or monster in a video game. It seemed to fit.”
If anyone had registered the term “late partner,” they disregarded it in favor of more relevant information.
“So where’s the package?” Liz asked, not quite trusting Stan Roberts.
“I gave it to some old lady,” Stan said.
“Mrs. Nadel,” Steven said, and went to the phone.
The rest sat there, the silence uncomfortable and heavy.
* * *
“How did your partner die?” Liz finally asked.
This was it. The first time he would ever talk to anyone about it. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if he should lie, then his heart took over.
“I shot him,” he said, the terrible tragedy of it easily read on his face. “The Big Boss wanted that package to get to California, and he made me shoot my partner.” He was debating telling them the rest of it, of his time at the Texaco station and at the mobile home, but Liz was already leaning back, away from him, ready to bolt out of her chair and run to her child’s room.
Jimmy put his hand on Liz’s, and her plans of flight stalled momentarily. Jimmy looked at Stan, knowing the gaunt man had not told them everything.
“You bear a terrible weight,” he said.
“No shit,” Stan said hoarsely.
Steven, who had been listening to this short exchange, came in from the living room.
“She wasn’t home, I left a message.”
“She touched the package?” Jimmy asked quietly.
Stan nodded.
Jimmy looked at Steven, his eyes filled with sympathy.
Steven began shaking his head. “No, not her. She didn’t do anything. Besides, what is that, a legend? It’s really bullshit, right? Campfire stories to scare kids.”
No one answered, and George just looked down at his coffee. They knew Steven believed. How could he not when he had just encountered a thing wearing his dead brother’s face?
Jimmy sighed heavily, and they all turned to him.
“When I was performing my ritual of protection, I passed by the old shed at the edge of your property.”
“I keep tools and chemicals there,” Steven said.
Jimmy nodded. “I believe the mask is inside there.”
“How do you know?” asked Steven.
“I felt it. It’s difficult to explain.”
“Not to me,” Stan whispered.
“How did it get there?” Liz asked.
“I can only assume your friend put it there,” Jimmy answered. “Once the mask was in her possession, The Faceless One could exert his influence over her.”
“Then she might be in there as well,” Steven said, turning pale as he visualized his friend broken and bloody among the tools and cans of paint.
“Doubtful,” Jimmy said, “the shed is locked. Besides, The Faceless One loves to play with people. He takes them … elsewhere. There they play out some scenario that echoes their worst fears.”
“He leaves behind the remains, though,” Stan said, then winced, thinking of Steven’s brother Daniel. “Sorry,” he finished lamely.
“If the mask is in the shed, what do we do about it?” Steven asked.