“Nothing,” Jimmy said. “No one can so much as touch it or any box it might be stored in. The shed is locked, and we’ll keep Bobby away from that area. It’s fortunate because this will give me time to formulate a plan.”
“A plan for what?” Steven asked.
“I have to trick The Faceless One back into the mask, then recite a binding chant to keep him there.”
“How did Raven do it?” George asked.
Jimmy smiled ruefully.
“The stories are pretty vague on that point; they just say Raven taunted him. I doubt that I as a mortal have the ability to taunt him into doing something stupid. Besides, he has had several
thousand years to analyze his mistakes, learn from his errors.”
“So,” Steven said, “you have to trick a god back into the mask without touching it, then transport that mask to some secluded spot, also without touching it.”
“Correct,” Jimmy said.
“I hate to use the word ‘impossible,’ ” Steven said, “but this certainly qualifies.”
Jimmy did not answer because something occurred to him. He stared at Stan, as if trying to fathom some unknowable truth. It unnerved Stan to be studied like that. It occurred to him it was just the way he had often looked at suspects, just a quiet, reflective look until they finally cracked.
It’s working
, he thought with a sort of perverse amusement.
“What?” Stan finally asked.
“Everyone who touched the mask or carried it is dead, except you,” Jimmy said with wonder.
“Yeah, I noticed. Hooray for me,” Stan said.
“What does that mean?” Steven asked.
“Maybe he’s still working for that thing,” Liz said, her eyes bright with fear. She glanced back in the direction of Bobby’s room, as if she expected it to burst into flames.
“I don’t think so,” Jimmy said. “Otherwise, he would have already done what he came to do.”
Stan thought of the two bullets in his gun, and the little boy, and said nothing.
“Why do you think he let you live?” Steven asked.
“Because he enjoys suffering,” Stan finally said. “He knew that my work was everything to me, my job as a cop and my reputation on the force. If he killed me, I couldn’t suffer for what I’ve done. Now I’m a disgrace to my shield and probably the focus of a manhunt. Once I’m tried and convicted for my crimes, then the Big Boss has a good laugh.”
“Crimes,” Liz said flintily, emphasizing the plural.
Stan looked at her, his face a conflicting mass of anger and misery.
“Crimes,” he replied, imitating her tone.
“What else have you done?” George asked, stirring his coffee, the cream creating a spiral of white that faded into the caramel liquid that resulted.
Stan looked at Jimmy, as if seeking permission to remain silent. Jimmy nodded.
“I do not think we would be served by hearing what Mr. Roberts has endured,” Jimmy said. “We know that he has been in the grip of The Faceless One. For whatever reason, he was spared, and now he seems to be under my protection with the rest of you.”
George looked at Steven and Liz. Steven looked hesitant but Liz was downright hostile.
“I don’t want him here,” she said firmly.
“Liz,” Steven started, trying to find the most reasonable path through this maddening
landscape.
“Don’t ‘Liz’ me,” she retorted. “This man has done some terrible things, he has admitted that. We also know that this creature is after our son. Now you want me to let the one person who has had contact with this monster stay under our roof, in the same house as my baby? No, I will not.” She looked at Stan, and her face was flushed, her face set. “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Roberts; I understand that you have been through a terrible, hellish ordeal. But I am not about to risk the safety of my child out of misplaced kindness for you. I want you to leave. Now.”
“I understand,” said Stan. He got up from the table.
“If he leaves the confines of this property, he will die,” Jimmy said.
“That’s not my problem,” Liz said, the terrible weight of her decision evident in the tightness of her face.
“Liz, we can’t just condemn this man to death,” Steven said.
“His life is already ruined,” Liz said, “we can’t change that. All we can do is protect Bobby.”
“She’s right,” Stan said. “Maybe if I leave, it will give you folks an opening, some kind of advantage.”
“It doesn’t seem right, turning another person out,” George said.
“What if it were your child?” Liz asked him.
“I’d probably do the same thing,” George replied. “Hell, I’d probably be dragging him down the driveway right now if I were your age. But it seems to me that he’s been delivered to us for a reason. The fact that he has been in the grip of this thing and is now free of it has got to mean something.”
“I agree,” Jimmy said. “Stan Roberts has an important part to play in all this although I am not sure how.”
“You’re all assuming he is free of this thing,” Liz retorted. “How do we know this isn’t all just an act? How do we know he won’t help this thing when the time comes?”
Stan looked at them. The truth was, they didn’t know. Hell, he wasn’t sure himself. He would like to say he’d go down in flames before he’d betray them, but who knew what he might do when the time came? He had gunned down Richie without hesitation. What else might he do, if asked? If he had any balls, he would run to the back and shoot the kid right now. He might die, but he knew the thing’s link to this world would be severed. He willed himself to move, to do what he had to do, but he couldn’t. He had seen too much death, been part of too much horror. How could he inflict any more, no matter what his motivation? If it had been anyone but a child, he might have had the guts. But not a child. God, he wasn’t too far gone to see the evil in that. He realized he could hurt the child only as a last resort. Until then, he was powerless.
Steven looked at Stan, then at Jimmy.
“You have this whole place encased in a sort of force field, right?”
Jimmy smiled. “That’s a little too Star Trek, but the analogy is close enough.”
“And this protective field is over all our property, right?”
Jimmy nodded again.
Steven looked at Liz.
“Why don’t we have Stan stay in the garage, just until we get this all figured out? You or I can keep an eye on Bobby, make sure he is safe.”
Liz was unsure.
“I’ll help you watch him,” George said.
“As will I,” said Jimmy.
Liz was still hesitant. Clearly, she didn’t want to send a man to his death, but she was more concerned with the safety of her family. Finally, she nodded.
“I’ll agree to that if Mr. Roberts leaves his gun with us.”
“Wait a minute,” Stan said.
“I can’t let you stay if you have that gun,” she said. “If you’re unarmed, then it will be harder for you to hurt him.”
“I wouldn’t hurt him,” he protested.
Not unless it was absolutely necessary
, he thought.
“That’s the way it is, Mr. Roberts. Leave your gun or take your chances with that thing out there. From what I’ve heard, bullets don’t mean much to it.”
Stan looked at the others and saw that they agreed with her. It was a reasonable request, given the circumstances. He pulled the gun out of the back waistband of his jeans. Steven and Liz both looked shocked to realize he had been armed the whole time. Jimmy and George seemed less surprised. He put the gun on the table. The sound it made as it came into contact with the wood was low but had the resonance of a great weight falling.
George took the gun and wordlessly put it into his coat.
Stan felt strange without the gun, as if his hand had lost fingers or he had gone blind in one eye. He smiled at them ruefully.
“So, who wants to show me to the garage?” he asked.
“I’ve got some camping stuff out there,” said Steven. “Let’s go get that so you’ll be more comfortable.”
Stan nodded. He looked at Liz.
“Thanks for not tossing me into the street,” he said.
“Don’t give me a reason to,” she said.
He took a last sip of his coffee and followed Steven through a door in the kitchen to the attached garage.
No bullets, now.
Still, if it came down to it, there were other ways to kill someone.
Especially a small boy.
When Jimmy told Bobby that the grown-ups needed to talk, the boy had put on the most pitiful performance he could muster. He hoped that Jimmy would change his mind and come play Star Wars with him, but the old man had not.
He went into his room, wondering why grown-ups always had so much serious stuff to do. When he was a grown-up, he was going to make sure he had plenty of playtime. Part of being a grown-up was being able to do anything you wanted, so he would play and play, and work would just be for sometimes. He picked up Bonomo from his perch on the headboard and began looking for a Star Wars speeder bike and a Nazgul from Lord of the Rings.
The speeder bike was under his bed, but the black rider seemed to be missing. He put Bonomo down and began looking through the mass of toys in his toy box.
As he began to dig through the pile, he heard a bright whistle that he immediately recognized. He stood up and turned, hoping it wasn’t a dream.
The otter stood on his windowsill. It smiled at him, its mustache of whiskers glinting in the sunlight.
“Hi,” said Bobby quietly. He was afraid that, if he was too loud, the adults would come and scare the creature away.
The otter whistled quietly, matching his caution.
“Did you come to play?” Bobby asked.
The otter peered at him with merry eyes, then nodded.
Bobby looked at him. “I’m going to call you Mr. Whiskers,” he said. “Is that okay?”
The otter whistled again, followed by a series of little grunts. He sounded pleased.
“Well,” Bobby said, “we’re playing Star Wars Against the Lord of the Rings. You can be a Jedi Hobbit or Darth Sauron. Which one do you want to be?”
The otter thought a moment, then motioned with his head outside.
“I can’t go outside today,” Bobby said. “Mommy said I have to stay in. But you can come in and play with me.”
The otter shook his head, and his whiskers drooped. He motioned again to the bright sunlight outside and made a questioning whistle.
“I can’t,” Bobby said. “I’ll get in trouble.”
The otter drooped, his whole body a testament to his unhappiness. One large tear dropped from his eye and hit Bobby’s drawing desk with a tiny splash.
“Please don’t cry,” Bobby said.
The otter turned and gave him one last look.
“Don’t go,” Bobby pleaded.
The otter heaved a sigh. It seemed to hesitate, then started to turn back to him. Suddenly, it seemed to lose its balance on the sill. It thrashed for purchase and fell to the ground.
Bobby ran to the window. Although it was only three feet from the ground, the otter lay very still below.
“Are you okay?” he whispered urgently. “Are you okay, Mr. Whiskers?”
The otter let out a small groan, as if it were in a great deal of pain, perhaps dying.
Bobby wanted to cry but made himself be brave. Crying wouldn’t help Mr. Whiskers, and besides, he was a big boy now. He wondered if he should call his parents to help him, but they had seemed busy and upset. They might get mad if he interrupted them. One thing he had learned, adults hated to be interrupted. Maybe he could just crawl outside the window and lift Mr. Whiskers into his room. Then he could put a blanket on him and give him first aid like they did on TV.
He slid the window all the way open and climbed up on his chair. The otter was panting by then, and its eyes were closed as if in great pain.
Bobby climbed up on the sill, careful not to position himself over Mr. Whiskers. Pretending he was Spider-Man, he jumped down to the grass under his window.
Mr. Whiskers lay very still and Bobby approached him cautiously, not wanting to scare him.
“It’s okay,” he cooed, “I’ll help you. It’s okay.”
He stroked the otter, which almost purred as he did. It made him feel good to help the little creature.
Suddenly, the creature leaped up as if burned and ran off, uttering a harsh series of cries. Bobby was frightened that he had hurt it somehow.
The creature hobbled off and collapsed at the edge of the back lawn, just before the tended grass gave way to the tall stalks of the back meadow.
Bobby moved to it slowly. “Please don’t be scared, Mr. Whiskers. I want to help you,” he said gently.
The otter wormed its way into the weeds as if all four legs had been shattered by its fall. It offered up pitiful cries of pain and anguish. Each time Bobby got close, it squirmed away with surprising speed, heading for the maintenance shed near the edge of the property.
When the otter reached the maintenance shed, it suddenly stood on its hind legs with a
joyful chirp.
“You’re okay!” Bobby cried, relieved.
The otter seemed to listen at the door of the shed, then knocked on it with one tiny paw. It listened again, then made a little questioning whistle to Bobby.
“Someone in there?” Bobby asked, a little nervous.
The otter listened again, and once more knocked on the door with its small paw. It then got down on all fours and began sinuously gliding back and forth, making figure eights from Bobby’s legs to the shed door and back again.
“You want me to go in there, Mr. Whiskers?”
The otter stood, nodded, and whistled happily.
Bobby looked at the maintenance shed. His father had told him he couldn’t go in there without permission because there were lots of tools and sharp things inside, and paint thinner and ant poison and rat traps and all sorts of diabolical devices that grown-ups used so casually.
However, gleaming amid the peeling paint and warped wood was a shiny padlock, heavy and impregnable.
“Sorry,” he told the otter, “it’s locked, and I don’t have a key.”
The otter smiled its jolly smile. Bobby heard a distinct click like the tick of a very large clock. He looked up. The padlock was hanging open, swinging slightly like a pendulum. The child looked at the otter, his eyes wide with wonder. “How did you do that?” he asked.