The Unquiet

doable with makeup and prosthetics. Nothing that would allow the person wearing it to see clearly, speak, or laugh the way the wit described.”
    “Keep at it anyway, because it is doable, as it was done.”
    “What if he’s some kind of freak?”
    “Peabody.”
    “I didn’t say demon or monster. Like a circus freak, you know? A contortionist or a freak show type. He looks like this—or something like this and he just pumped it up.”
    “Circus. That’s an angle. I’ll work that at home. Not bad, Peabody.”
    “You’d kick my ass if I said monster.”
    “Keep that in mind if you become tempted,” Eve warned, then headed out.
    She thought of makeup, freaks, altered appearances as she drove—and had a brainstorm. “Contact Mavis Freestone, pocket ’link.”
    Contact initiated.
     
    “Hey, Dallas!” Mavis’s pretty, happy face filled the dash screen. “Say hi to Dallas, Bellorama.”
    Instantly, the baby’s chubby, grinning face replaced her mother’s. “Das!” she cried with absolute joy, and pressed her wet lips to the screen of the pocket ’link.
    “Yeah, hi, kid. Kiss, kiss.”
    “Slooch!”
    “Right. Smooch.”
    “Make the sound, Dallas,” Mavis said offscreen.
    Eve rolled her eyes, but complied with a kissing sound. Bella squealed with yet more delight.
    “Playtime.” There was some shifting, giggling, then Mavis came back on behind the film of Bella’s slobber. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Dallas?” Mavis demanded.
    “I didn’t have time. It was—”
    “We’re going to chit some serious chat about this.”
    “Okay.” With Mavis, it would be okay. “But later. I need you to—can you wipe your screen off? You look like you’ve been licked by a Saint Bernard.”
    “Oh, sorry. So what’s the up?” Mavis asked as she whipped out a cloth and polished the screen.
    “I’m going to send you a sketch, and I need you to get in touch with Trina, show it to her.”
    “Why don’t you just send it to her?”
    “Because I’m busy.”
    Mavis angled her head. Her hair, a curling mass of gold-streaked red today, bounced. “Coward.”
    “I’m a busy coward. I don’t want her giving me grief because I didn’t rub some shit on my face, or in my hair. Or listen to her tell me I need my hair cut or whatever. I’ve got something hot, and she might be able to help.”
    “Give me the goods. So I finished my gig on the vid,” she said as Eve ordered the sketch accessed and sent.
    “What vid?”
    “Nadine’s vid—your vid. The Icove Agenda . It’s mag to the nth they wanted me to play myself. And the chick playing you? Man, they made her a ringer. I got wigged when I—Holy shit on a flaming stick!”
    “Shit,” Bella echoed happily in the background.
    “Oh hell—hello,” Mavis muttered. “I swore in front of the baby. But holy you know what, this is too totally scary. I’m scheduling my nightmare right now.”
    “Sorry. I need to know what it takes to make somebody look like this.”
    “A pact with Satan?”
    “With makeup and prosthetics, and that stuff. Trina knows that crap.”
    “I’ll be passing it on—and getting it off my ’link just in case it has the power to materialize.”
    “Come on. Other angle. You did some carny work.”
    “Back in the day, sure. Always plenty of marks at a carny.”
    “Ever see anything like this? Freak show–wise.”
    “I saw plenty of mega weird, but nothing like this. You wouldn’t ask unless it—he—whatever—killed somebody. He looks like he’s born to kill. Jes—jeepers,” she corrected. “I got bumps of the goose all over. I’ll tag Trina now, so I don’t have to wig alone.”
    “Thanks. Let me know.”
    Eve pulled over at the curb in front of the crime scene.
    She unsealed the door, used her master. And stood inside, left the lights off. Not as dark as it would’ve been, she thought. But there was a streetlight, enough for some backwash.
    Still, he’d had to know which mattress each vic slept on. He’d moved with purpose, with a plan despite the ferocity.
    She moved straight through to the back, opened the window, climbed out.
    And yeah, the building across the street had a good view of the window, the sidewalk, the recycler. Eve imagined the killer dancing and spinning in the spot of the streetlight, laughing.
    Spinning and dancing up the street, Cynthia had said. So he didn’t care about being seen. A vehicle nearby? Or a hole to crawl into. His own place?
    If he’d taken a cab,