Excerpts: Minos

Minos admired his work. The scar was still there, if you looked closely, and yes, a thin line ran up from his partially closed eye, across his forehead. But now, there was the birthmark, a scarlet bloom, covering part of his left cheek. The way he did it, the birthmark was darkest in the center where it covered his scar. That way, the scar tissue was not so noticeable under the deep-purple inkblot, staining his cheek from lip to brow. He studied the bottles on the long table, dabbing his swabs in one, then another. Like a painter, Minos made adjustments on his palette before extending the birthmark downward.

He applied the eyeliner, then the shadow. These he used because it pleased the Master. Minos thought he looked fancy, even gaudy, but that was fine if it made the Master happy. The Master found beauty in unlikely things.

Minos smiled into the mirror. Remembering a poignant story of how Zeus, Minos the Bull King’s father, had created humankind gave him new energy and increased the intensity of his dancing. Minos liked his dance, it reminded him who he was and what he was capable of.

As he danced, his body changed. The heaviness and the worries lifted. Then, he was loose. Out from under. Riding the wave. He danced his silent dance, watching in the mirror, until the change was complete. When he was satisfied, Minos framed his face with his forefingers again. He bowed slightly, then adjusted his posture, stooping, just a little, so his shoulders disappeared. Minos affected a slowness, a tentativeness to his movements. He tilted his head down, just barely, so he wouldn’t make eye contact. He practiced his walk, bowing after, like a street performer, then put on his long, black leather greatcoat over black pants, a black turtleneck and his favorite black suspenders. It was almost time, he knew, but Minos checked his pocket watch anyway. He liked the feel of it in his palm. His father had carried this same silver watch on its tarnished silver chain. Yes, it was time to leave.

He stood in front of the mirror, still. When he was ready— when he felt just so — Minos turned off his Skytron Halogens, his Remcraft Baci mirror, and shuffled out into the world.

More from Minos

“I need you down here at Volunteer Park. Something you should see.”

She knew she’d never get anything more from Lou on the phone. “On my way.”

Ten minutes later she was driving her black pick-up off Prospect, past the water tower, around the reservoir. She parked in front of the Seattle Asian Art Museum, finding a space between two double-parked police cars. Police business was usually easy to find, and Corey followed its brazen signs, walking west toward Federal, coming down to the crime scene. The police had gathered around a clump of trees, easily accessed from the street below.

She saw her friend Lou coming up the hill to meet her. He’d recently made lieutenant and lost a little weight. Still, he was built like a pear, and his ever-present tie was almost always too thin. “This is lousy,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Okay,” Corey said, bracing herself. “Why am I here Lou? Topic sentence please.”

Lou rubbed the bald spot on his head. “He had your phone number in his wallet.”

Her pulse quickened and her stomach tensed up, taking orders from some part of her brain that she couldn’t control.

“I want to see,” she followed him down the hill.

Lou took her down the hill, to the body in the bushes. The man was lying on his back. His hands were beside his head, fingers spread, as if he’d been posing for a picture. The knuckles were swollen, battered and bruised. He had the battered, scarred face of an aging boxer after a recent fight. His nose had been broken, long ago. His ears were misshapen, his face was cut and bruised, and his eyelids and brow were layered with scars. The man had a thin black mustache, and a prominent scar that went from his cheek over a partially closed eye then rose onto his brow and forehead. He had black, curly hair. Corey leaned in closer, saw that his face had been very skillfully made-up, and the curly black hair was actually a top-of-the-line wig. This was a boy’s face, artfully made to look like an older man. “How?” she asked.

“The makeup? Who knows. He used a fancy makeup appliance.” Lou pointed out the edge of the foam latex appliance. It blended seamlessly with his skin at his brow. “I’d say he OD’ed, though. Can’t tell for sure. There’s no sign of a struggle. Even the knuckles, that’s make-up.”

Corey kneeled beside the hand. It too, had been skillfully worked on. The bruises and twisted knuckles weren’t real.

“Another weird thing.” Lou wore latex gloves. He gently opened the man’s mouth, lifted his tongue. There was an old silver coin under the dead man’s tongue.

“Jesus,” Corey whispered. “What’s that about?”

“No idea. It must be part of some ritual.” Lou shrugged. “Yeah, I’m betting he OD’ed, that the coin and the make-up are part of some kind of screwy ceremony gone bad. We’ll do an autopsy.” He adjusted his thin tie. “The makeup’s really expert … top drawer … figure that …” Lou cracked a knuckle. “You know him?”

She looked closer. It was hard to tell under the elaborate make-up. It began with the skillully-crafted mask, then the make up was layered on, every line, every feature its own project. It was, she realized, both gaudy and grotesque. She lifted a chain, hanging from the boy’s neck. It carried a small silver stallion. Jesus. Oh shit. Her face went white. “Oh, no. Oh God.” She felt Lou’s arm around her, keeping her up.

“One of yours?” he asked, quiet.

“Uh-huh. Agh. His name’s Snapper — No, no … it’s Bud, Bud Parker.” Corey stared at Snapper’s once-handsome face, and she began to cry.

More from Minos

The entire group was laughing, exchanging high fives, and generally enjoying themselves when Maisie walked over from the coffee counter with a latte. They’d been so engrossed in Amy and Billy’s story that they hadn’t seen her come in.

She’d been at the memorial service, but kept to herself at the back edge of the group. When she set her latte down at their table, Billy stood to give her a big hug. She responded warmly.

“Hey guys,” Maisie said to the others, then she sat.

“Good to have you back,” Randy offered. Alex nodded agreement. Amy squeezed her shoulder.

“Took a while, but yes, I really am back. And I’m okay.” Maisie had been kidnapped on Thanksgiving, less than a year ago, by Teaser, a brilliant, diabolical predator on a mission of vengeance. He’d taken her to punish her father, his former cellmate. When Corey and Abe rescued her, in the eleventh hour, she was so traumatized that she couldn’t talk. Abe had been her therapist when she was kidnapped, and he’d been seeing her four, then three times a week, since she was rescued. Maisie had taken a year of home schooling and worked with Abe to get to where she was now. This was her first time out by herself.

“Sara, I thought what you said about Peter was very moving. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Maisie raised her latte. “To absent friends.”

Everyone joined in, cups raised, “To absent friends.”

Sara watched Maisie, who seemed poised, even happy with herself.

Billy watched them both, realizing that these delightful young women were here, thriving, because of his mom and dad. His parents had sensed that Maisie was in danger long before anyone at Olympic would listen. Then when Maisie and Aaron were kidnapped, his mom and dad had got them back. And his dad had hung in with Sara when nobody else would listen. He’d believed in her and, between them, they’d saved Randy’s life. And now, Sara — who had chosen to be an outcast, who had set fire to an Olympic restroom while trying to reach the Delphic Oracle — was turning into this striking, fascinating young woman, in spite of her terrible losses. Amy said she was becoming a true friend.

Billy was distracted when Sarah leaned in, whispered something in Maisie’s ear. They conferred privately, then Maisie nodded, yes, smiling enthusiastically.

Maisie turned to Billy, “Please don’t be embarrassed by this.” Billy frowned, confused. Sarah raised her cup again, as did Maisie, then together they said, “To Dr. Stein.”

Then together, “Dr. Abe Stein, the rumply shrink who brought two shit-outta-luck, half-dead gals back to life.”

Everyone raised their cups high. Amy squeezed Billy’s hand under the table.

Maisie went on, “Yes … and to Corey Logan, an example for those of us who hope, when the day comes, to be brave women.” She set down her cup and held hands with Sara and Amy.

They all rose.

Billy was more than a little uneasy. It wasn’t good for your friends to like your parents. Un-unh. He knew that much. They were, after all, parents. Still, he could feel his heart swelling with pride.