Rose Madder

“That’s right,” the bull said. Its voice was muffled because of the way it was rumpled up on the sides of his face, but Norman had no trouble understanding it. He pulled it down carefully, all the way this time, getting the hem well under his jawline, and it did help; it seemed to hold his face in place like an athletic supporter.

“Yep,” ze bool said. Just think of me as a jawstrap.” Norman breathed deeply as he struggled to his feet, stuffing the cop’s.45 into the waistband of his pants as he did. All’s cool, he thought. Nobody in here but the boys; no gals allowed. It even seemed as if he could see more clearly through the eyeholes of the mask now, as if his vision had been in some way boosted. Undoubtedly just his imagination, but it really did feel that way, and it was a nice feeling to have. A confidence-builder. He pressed himself back against the wall, then sprang forward and hit the door she and her cocksucker friend had gone through. It made his jaw waggle painfully even inside the tight webbing of the mask, but he went again, and just as hard, with no hesitation. The door rattled in its frame and a long sliver of wood popped out of the upper panel. He found himself wishing suddenly that Harley Bissington were here. The two of them could have taken the door in one hit, and he could’ve let Harley have ago at his wife while he, Norman, took care of her friend. Having a go at Rose had been one of the great unexpressed desires of Harley’s life, something Norman did not understand but had read in the man’s eyes every time he came over to the house. He hit the door again. On the sixth hit-or maybe it was lucky seven, he’d lost count-the lock tore free and Norman catapulted into the room. She was in here, both of them were, had to be, but for the moment he saw neither. Sweat ran into his eyes, momentarily blurring his vision. The room looked empty, but it couldn’t be. They hadn’t gone out the window; it was closed and locked. He charged across the room, ru

“COME BACK HERE, ROSE!” he screamed into the closet… which was, strictly speaking, no longer a closet at all.

“COME BACK, YOU BITCH!” Nothing. Only that improbable vista… and a tiny breath of breeze, fragrant with grass and flowers, to prove it wasn’t an eerily perfect optical illusion. And something else: the sound of crickets.

“You stole my bank card, you bitch,” Norman said in a low voice. He reached up and grabbed one of the coathooks jutting out of the board wall, looking like a straphanging commuter in a subway car. Beyond him was a strange, moonlit world, but any fear he might have felt was buried in outrage.

“You stole it and I want to talk to you about it. Right… up… close.” He stepped into the closet and ducked under the bar, knocking a couple of coathangers to the wood floor. He stood where he was for just a moment longer, looking into the other world he could see stretching before him. Then he went forward. There was a sense of stepping down a bit, the way you sometimes had to do in old houses where the floors of the various rooms were no longer quite matched, but that was all. One step and he was no longer on boards, no longer in anyone’s second-floor room; he was standing on grass and that fragrant breeze was hushing all around him. It slipped into the eyehole (yes, there was only one of them now; he didn’t know how that could be, but after the step he’d just taken it didn’t seem all that strange), refreshing his bruised and sweaty skin. He grasped the sides of the mask, meaning to slip it up for awhile so he could treat his whole face to a taste of that breeze, but the mask wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t budge at all.

IX. I REPAY

Bill looked around the moonwashed hilltop with the careful gaze of one completely unable to credit what he is seeing. One hand went to his swollen throat and began to rub it. Rosie could already see bruises unfolding there like fans. A night breeze touched her brow like a concerned hand. It was soft and warm and fragrant with summer. There was no foggy dampness in it, no dank tang of the great lake which lay to the east of the city.

“Rosie? Is this really happening?” Before she could think what sort of answer she might give to that question, an urgent voice-one she knew-intervened.

“Woman! You, woman!” It was the lady in red, except now she was wearing a plain gown-blue, Rosie thought, although it was impossible to be sure in the moonlight.

“Wendy Yarrow” was standing halfway down the hill.

“Git him down here! No time to waste! T'other be here in a minute, n you got things to do! Important things!” Rosie still had Bill by the arm. She tried to lead him forward but he resisted, looking down the hill at

“Wendy” with alarm. Behind them-muffled but still horribly close-Norman roared her name. It made Bill jump, but didn’t get him moving.

“Who is that, Rosie? Who’s that woman?”

“Never mind. Come on!” She didn’t just tug his arm this time; she yanked on it, feeling frantic. He moved with her, but they had only gone a dozen steps or so before he doubled over, coughing so hard his eyes bulged. Rosie took the opportunity to rake down the zipper on the jacket he’d loaned her. She stripped the garment off and dropped it in the grass. The sweater followed. The blouse under it was sleeveless, and she slipped the armlet on. She felt an immediate surge of power, and as far as she was concerned, the question of whether that feeling was real or only in her mind was moot. She grabbed one quick look back over her shoulder, half-expecting to see Norman bearing down on her, but he wasn’t, at least not yet. She saw only the pony-cart, the pony itself, untethered and cropping at the moon-silvered grass, and the same easel she had seen before. The picture had changed again. The back-to figure in it was no longer a woman, for one thing-it looked like a horned demon. It was a demon, she supposed, but it was also a man. It was Norman, and she remembered seeing the horns jutting up from his head in a brief, bright gunflash.