The Mask

spunky and strong and sweet, but she wasn’t rough, not like Carol had been at her age. What would institutional living do to her if she had to endure it for more than a day or two? If she was simply dropped in among kids who were street-smart, among kids who had drug and behavioral problems, she would most likely be victimized, perhaps even violently. What she needed was a real home, love, guidance—“Of course!” Carol said. She grinned.
    Hannaport looked at her questioningly.
    “Why can’t she come with me?” Carol asked.
    “What?”
    “Look, Dr. Hannaport, if it’s all right with Paul, my husband, why couldn’t you recommend to the court that I be awarded temporary custody of Jane until someone shows up who can identify her?”
    “You really better think twice about that,” Hannaport said. “Taking her in, disrupting your lives—”
    “It won’t be a disruption,” Carol said. “It’ll be a pleasure. She’s a delightful kid.”
    Hannaport stared at her a long moment, searching her face and her eyes.
    “After all,” Carol argued as persuasively as she could, “the only kind of doctor who might be able to cure Jane’s amnesia is a psychiatrist. And in case you’ve forgotten, that’s what I am. I’d not only be able to provide a decent home for her; I’d also be able to treat her rather intensively.”
    Finally, Hannaport smiled. “I think it’s a grand and generous offer, Dr. Tracy.”
    “Then you’ll make the recommendation to the court?”
    “Yes. Of course, you never can be sure what a judge will do. But I think there’s a pretty good chance he’ll see where the best interests of the girl lie.”
    A few minutes later, in the hospital lobby, Carol used a pay phone to call Paul. She recounted the conversation she’d had with Dr. Hannaport, but before she got to the big question, Paul interrupted her. “You want to make a place for Jane,” he said.
    Surprised, Carol said, “How’d you guess?”
    He laughed. “I know you, sugarface. When it comes to kids, you’ve got a heart the consistency of vanilla pudding.”
    “She won’t be in your way,” Carol said quickly. “She won’t distract you from your writing. And now that O’Brian won’t be able to present our application for the adoption until the end of the month, there’s no chance we’ll have two kids to take care of. In fact maybe the delay at the agency was meant to be—so we’d have a place for Jane until her folks show up. It’s only temporary, Paul. Really. And we—”
    “Okay, okay,” he said. “You don’t have to sell me on it. I approve of the plan.”
    “If you’d like to come here and meet Jane first, that’s—”
    “No, no. I’m sure she’s everything you’ve said she is. Don’t forget, though, you were planning to go to the mountains in a week or so.”
    “We might not even have Jane that long. And if we do, we can probably take her with us, so long as we let the court know where we’re going.”
    “When do we have to appear in court?”
    “I don’t know. Probably Monday or Tuesday.”
    “I’ll be on my best behavior,” Paul said.
    “Scrub behind your ears?”
    “Okay. And I’ll also wear shoes.”
    Grinning, Carol said, “Don’t pick your nose in front of the judge.”
    “Not unless he picks his first.”
    She said, “I love you, Dr. Tracy.”
    “I love you, Dr. Tracy.”
    When she put down the receiver and turned away from the pay phone, she felt wonderful. Not even the gaudy decor of the visitors’ lounge could get on her nerves now.
     
----
     
    That night, there was no hammering sound in the Tracy house, no evidence of the poltergeist that Mr. Alsgood had warned Paul about. There was no disturbance the following day, either, and none the day after that. The strange noise and the vibrations had ceased as inexplicably as they had begun.
    Carol stopped having nightmares, too. She slept deeply, peacefully, without interruption. She quickly forgot about the flickering, silvery blade of the ax swinging back and forth in the strange void.
    The weather improved, too. The clouds dissipated on Sunday. Monday was summery, blue.
     
    Tuesday afternoon, while Paul and Carol were in court trying to obtain temporary custody of Jane Doe, Grace Mitowski was cleaning her kitchen. She had just finished dusting the top of the refrigerator when the telephone rang.
    “Hello.”
    No one answered her. “Hello,” she said again.
    A thin, whispery, male voice said, “Grace…”
    “Yes?”
    His words were muffled, and there was an echo on the line, as if he were talking into a tin can.
    “I can’t