The Minotauress (26 page)

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Authors: Edward Lee

BOOK: The Minotauress
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"Damn if he ain't got good eyes," Dicky said, studying a bow window with his flashlight. "It
does
 look brand-new." He squinted at the corner. "Some winder company named Lexan."
The Writer laughed. "It's not a company, it's a composite material—bullet-proof glass, in other words. It's indestructible, which proves even more curious. Lexan windows are as effective as iron bars, and
very
expensive. The owner of this property obviously wants people to
think
it's not worth breaking into, yet he installs Lexan to insure that they
don't.
"
Balls muttered, "Indestructer-able?" and then the Writer jumped back and Cora shrieked when Balls pulled the big Webley pistol from his belt. "Ain't nothin' indestructer-able if'n I say it ain't!"
BAM!
Everyone jumped an inch, and Cora shrieked even more annoyingly loud. When the smoke cleared...
"Dang," Dicky muttered, scratching at the window pane. The big bullet barely scuffed the surface.
"Looks like the Writer's right," Balls admitted.
Then Cora shrieked again.
"Shut up, girl!" Balls yelled.
"L-look! There's a face lookin' at us in the next winder!"
They walked over, if a bit cautiously. Balls shined his light.
"Ain't no face. It's a—"
"A bust," the Writer said.
"Bust?" Dicky scoffed. "Ya mean like titties?"
"No, no... "
The curtains of every window in the house had been drawn but this one sported an overlooked gap, and in the gap, indeed, a face peered out. A marble face.
"Think of it as a statue head," the Writer said. "It's propped up behind the window, for decoration." When he looked closer, he went "Hmmm... "
"What'choo, hmmin' about?" Balls demanded.
"It appears to be
Italian
 marble. Very expensive."
"Well hot dog!" Balls hooted. "Tooler
weren't
 lyin'!"
The Writer said, "But even more curious is the brass plate beneath the bust. It says Phillipe Marquand, 1674-1728. Marquand, if I remember correctly, was a famous French medium who is said to have been able to communicate with the dead."
Balls, Dicky, and Cora all gaped at him.
"And this, over here," and the Writer led them up the front steps onto the ruined porch. "I almost didn't notice it, due to the torn screens. Shine your light up there, sir."
Balls did, and almost gasped.
Above the front door was a half-circle composed of ornate stained glass.
"It's called a tympanum. See the face?"
They all squinted further.
"Well, dang if'n he ain't right," Cora said.
"Don't that beat all?" Dicky added.
The mosaic formed a face below which ornate letters read ALEXANDER SETON.
"Who the fuck's he?" Balls asked.
"The most notorious of all alchemists," the Writer explained. "In 1604, Seton is said to have turned lead into gold."
"Bullshit," Balls scoffed, but after another moment of staring at the puzzle-piece face, he turned away.
The Writer smiled, amused. "Looks like the house you gentlemen picked to break into... belongs to a dedicated occultist."
"Occult?" Dicky asked, a spike in his voice. "You mean, like, devil-worship'n shit like that?"
"Um-hmm... "
"Fuck this, let's leave!" Cora shrieked again. "And, Balls. Come on! Untie my hands!"
"I'd appreciate the same," the Writer said.
"Stay here, both'a ya," Balls ordered, and took Dicky down off the porch out of earshot.
Dicky's bulbous face was pink with stress. "Shee-it, Balls, this caper's gone
all
 fucked up."
"Tell me about it, Dicky. Just our luck to rip off a fuckin' U-Haul that's gots two people in it who can identer-fy us."
"And this fuckin' house, man. What's this guy talkin' 'bout devil-worshipers' turnin' lead inta gold'n shit? I cain't make heads'ner tails'a this."
"Neither can I, Dicky." Balls rubbed his hands together. "But at least we'se gonna make a score. You heard that Writer dude.
Italian
 marble," but—oh, goodness, he'd pronounced the word Italian as "Eye-taller-un." "Bet Crafter's house is et up with it, so's we'se gonna take it off his hands, and shit knows what else's in there."
"Yeah, man, shore, but—" Dicky cast a fretting glance toward the porch. "What we gonna do with them two?"
"Well, I reckon we'll make 'em help us load the U-Haul, and then I reckon we'll kill 'em."
(IV)
The Writer found his existential resolve being tested, yet at the same time he found he had passed the test. The fact was, by the greatest fluke, he'd been accidentally commandeered by two redneck thieves in the process of committing a criminal act; hence, his future looked rather dim, for more than likely once the criminal act was completed, these two characters would have little choice but to dispose of him.
On spiritual grounds, the Writer was... okay with that, for he'd lived a full and aesthetically enriched life. His only regret?
I'll never be able to finish
White Trash Gothic
...
"Those two crackers are gonna up'n
kill
 us," Cora whispered to him.
"Believe me, miss. Even the most brief reflection has illuminated me to that probability."
Suddenly, the skinny wreck of a girl looked doleful. "Ya know? I gotta step sister turns tricks up in bumfuck South Dakota where the meth is all over the fuckin' place and cheap. She tolt me I could come up there'n turn tricks with her'n we'd have a great time, man. But I never went." She looked around, more at the predicament than the location. "Shore as shit wish I did."
"Let's look at the glass as though it were half full, not half empty, Miss," the Writer advised.
"Whuh—
what
 glass?"
The Writer sighed. "Let's not give up hope. We may be able to get out of this."
The skinny girl frowned. "What we gonna
do?
"
"It seems logical to me that for as long as we make ourselves useful to them, we extend our lives, and in that time... an opportunity for escape may strike."
She fidgeted in place. "Aw, man, I fuckin' hope so 'cos if I don't get me some crystal soon, I'll start throwin' up my brains... "
The comment shocked the Writer. "Let's, uh... hope that doesn't happen."
"That's what jones-ing from meth feels like, man. Ya start upchuckin'‘n it feels like yer brains're gonna fly out'cher mouth, and ya wish they would 'cos it's so bad, ya wish ya could just up'n die."
"Ah... how regrettable... "
As the Writer tried to think of a possible solution, something nicked his attentions: the door-knocker. It had been mounted on the ornate door's center stile, an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. He at once considered the potential literary symbol:
Man, human features eroded by a corrupt universe, leaving him speechless. The existential mask...
 
"And who was that awful guy who knocked us out in the first place?"
The Writer blinked away the abstraction, feeling spiritually drained. "Oh, the old man at the bar, ‘Lud? He's a Christian phenomenalist, if you can believe it."
"Huh?"
"Shhh. Here they come."
The one called Dicky trudged up the porch steps, poker-faced, while the one called Balls... came bearing a long, stout piece of polished wood.
"Step aside, Writer. I'se gonna bust that front door down with this here hickory pick-handle. It's one'a the few thangs my shit-head Daddy left to me that weren't worth less than a rummie's shorts." Balls poised the handle with authority. "Oughta have that door open in 'bout two swipes."
Forty swipes later, and after an undo cacophony, the door finally split down the middle. The Writer winced at the noise, then winced harder when he noticed tufts of hair sticking out of Cora's armpits. He couldn't decide which was more annoying.
"Jaysus!" Dicky exclaimed. "That's one tough door!"
"Shee-it," Balls muttered. He sat down against the porch rail, to rest after the exertion.
"More of the same," the Writer offered. "The deception of appearances: a security door on a house that looks worthless." The Writer looked directly at Balls. "You might want to pause to take heed."
"What'cha mean?"
The Writer shrugged. "Expensive windows and an equally expensive security door? The owner may well have
more
 precautions waiting inside."
"Ya mean like maybe a security guard or somethin'?" Dicky's pea-brain speculated.
"Sure. Or some other counter-measure."
Balls wasn't affected by the possibility. One hand hefted the pick-handle, the other hefted the pistol. "Here's yer counter-measures, Writer. Now... Inside. You two first."
The Writer and Cora led on, Dicky and Balls backing them up with flashlights. One of them flicked a wall switch but nothing happened.
"Shee-it. Crafter must'a had the ‘leck-tricity turnt off."
Flashlight beams crisscrossed over the ornate foyer and sitting room, carving slices of more statues and busts, and brooding faces that seemed to scowl at them from framed paintings.
"This place is creepy as shit!" Cora whined. "And... I need some meth!"
"Shut up," Balls told her.
"There are plenty of candles," the Writer observed of the many globed candle sticks along a spacious fireplace mantle and various wall sconces.
"Daggit!" Balls complained. "I ain't got a lighter."
"Me's neither," Dicky admitted.
The Writer sighed through a cringing hope. "Well, it just so happens that I do and, Mr. Balls? I would be forever in your debt if you'd cut my bonds. Naturally I give you my word I won't try to escape. I'd be more than thrilled to light all these candles and—to be perfectly honest, sir?" The Writer's shoulders slumped. "I'm
dying
 for a cigarette."
Evidently Balls appreciated being addressed as "mister" and "sir." He snapped open his Buck and cut the Writer's lashes.
"You have my unflagged gratitude."
Balls grinned, showed the pistol again. "Any funny business and I'se'll blow a hole in yer back bigger than Dicky's head."
The Writer nodded. "I have virtually no doubts as to your credulity."
"I like the way he talks, huh, Dicky?" Balls noted.
"Dang straight. Must'a gone ta collerge."
"Harvard," the Writer elucidated. "Not just
any
 college." He lit a cigarette, then proceeded to light the candles about the sumptuous room.
"Do mine now, please!" Cora pleaded. She was hopping up and down with her back to Balls, showing her lashed wrists. "Please,
Mr.
Balls, sir!
Pretty
 please!"

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