And now, Minos could see it—crystal clear—in his head. A death mask to send the Snapper to the underworld. The Cretan Bull, a likeness. He pictured the Cretan Bull then, trapped in the underworld. Tormented by the furies in Tartarus, a prison of eternal suffering. He felt a chill, a frisson. Yes, it was just right. Perfect. Even poetic.
Yes, the Master would be pleased and proud.
***
Randy went from table to table, snapping pictures. It never occurred to Randy that he might be intrusive; he simply marched to the beat of his own devil-may-care drum. At times, Randy was reckless, or had an attitude; and often, he was not quite as prepared, or as smart, as he needed to be. They all remembered when Randy had hitchhiked to LA on a whim and run out of money. No problem. He sold uppers to an undercover cop to pay his way back. “Sara thinks she’s protecting us,” Randy added, an afterthought.
“Weird. From what? What kind of danger?” Billy asked. Something about this made him uneasy.
“She says there’s this beast—yeah, that’s what she calls it—anyway this beast kills people. He’s rising—I think that’s like waking up. She thinks he’s going to kill again.”
“How could she know that?” Amy wondered.
Randy shrugged. “She says she just knows.”
“That’s pretty crazy,” Alex weighed in softly.
“This is getting too serious,” Randy interrupted. “Sara’s just Sara. Since she was little she had her own made-up ideas about things. There’s nothing we can do about the way she is. She’s pretty much in her own zone.” He shrugged again, scratching his head through long red curls. “When Peter gets back, it’ll be better. He’s the only one who understands what she’s talking about.” And, they all knew, the one who’d most often kept Randy out of trouble. When Randy would casually tempt fate, as if that was no big thing, Peter was usually there to bail him out. Since he left, Alex had stepped up, but so far, he didn’t have Peter’s flair for great escapes.
“When’s Peter coming back anyway?” Billy asked. He’d met Peter and heard stories about him, but he didn’t really know him.
“He doesn’t really have a plan. You know what he’s like. Sara says she got a postcard from Amsterdam. That he’ll be back this summer.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Ten months, more or less. He left last summer. He’s got the whole year before college. When he’s ready, he’ll be back. Anyway, he’s the only one who can make sense of her stuff.”
That didn’t seem quite right to Billy, but he let it go. “It’s Thursday. I’ve got a ton of homework,” was all he said.
“Me too,” Amy added. “Come to my place and we can work.”
Billy put his arm around her slender waist as they rose to leave. She was as tall as he was.
Randy reached in his backpack, took out a book and handed it to Amy. “For the architecture project,” he said.
Billy noticed that Dave was watching Amy.
“Thanks,” she stuffed it in her pack. When she saw Dave staring at her, she rested her hand on Billy’s backside.
Outside, Billy saw a man hunched over in a doorway across the street. The man was dressed entirely in black, and he seemed to be shuffling back and forth, staring at the sidewalk. He was on something, or just weirded out, Billy thought. Something about the way he was moving back and forth—you couldn’t really tell how old he was. Billy kept his eye on him, liking his long leather coat. He watched the man light a cigarette—inhaling deeply, deliberately, like it was a special treat, then blowing the smoke into the air. That’s when the man glanced up, for just an instant, and Billy saw the purple birthmark on his face. The man’s left eye twisted shut when he smiled.
Billy thought he was smiling at him.
***
At the corner of 19th and Galer, on Capitol Hill, five streets came together in what Sara thought of as the “Italian intersection.” The southern tip of Interlaken Park, just a finger, reached up to close the northern edge of the circle. It was below Volunteer Park, a straight shot down Galer from the cemetary where Bruce Lee was buried. Sara sort of smiled, remembering that, as she carried her things down Interlaken, the street that wound into the park. Before long she was passing the Hebrew Academy, a lonely little outpost on the hillside, then turning down again into the wooded area. Her spot was more than a hundred yards from the road, hidden in a small stand of firs. She scrambled down the hill, out of sight. She knew just where she was going. This time of year, there was never anyone down there during the day. At night, there were some drug dealers, or so she’d heard, but she’d never seen them. Surrounded by her trees, Sara began unpacking her bags. In addition to her canvas shoulder bag, Sara had a black duffle bag filled with the heavier things she needed to reach the Oracle.
After chanting over the salt and the water, then sprinkling the mixture around her magic circle, making it safe, Sara set the little iron cauldron on her tripod. She double-checked, making sure it sat right in the center of the large circle.
Today, she said an extra blessing as she made the sign of the cross on her forehead. She was careful to keep her first and second fingers extended, and the third and fourth bent toward her palm with the thumb on their nails. She’d recently read in a book on psychic defense that that was the way to do it. Satisfied, she continued unpacking her bags. From her canvas shoulder bag she took olive oil, wine, and milk, pouring a splash of each into the cauldron. Beneath the cauldron she lit a propane fire, then she added herbs, rock salt, and finally, a lock of hair. From her black tote bag, she took her candles and set them at each of the five points of the star in her circle. Sara lit the candles and said another prayer.
She raised her Athame high, chanting, “I call on the Oracle of Delphi, servant of Apollo, the lord of the silver bow.” She added more wine. Sara closed her eyes, drinking wine Ambrosia now from a soft plastic bottle, moving slowly around the cauldron, which was beginning to bubble. “Hear me great Apollo, serpent-slayer. I summon your Oracle.” Her movements were a little faster. Wine Ambrosia ran down her chin. “I must find Theseus. There is great danger. Help me now.” Sara stared into the bubbling cauldron. Hands in the air. Watching, waiting. “Give me a sign. Hear your priestess. Secret sister of Theseus. Oh mighty Apollo, God of truth, hear me now. Poseidon has been scorned. The Beast is rising.” She slowed, raised her Athame high, still staring at the boiling potion in her cauldron. She swayed back and forth, summoning the Oracle, eyes on the boiling potion. And louder, “Nothing. You grant me nothing. Then there must be blood. The gods must dance in blood.” Sara stiffened, and with one fluid motion, she brought her Athame down, slicing across her forearm. “Accept my offering, great Apollo, keeper of light. And to you, Poseidon, earth-shaker, I offer again to you, to appease your anger.” Sara sliced again, letting her blood flow down her elbow and into the bubbling cauldron. “Hear me. Hear me now. Bring me Theseus. Show me his sign.” She raised her arm again, watching the blood swirling in her potion. In the cooling shadows of the spring afternoon, Sara raised her Athame high and danced lightly around her simmering cauldron.
CHAPTER FOUR
On Tuesday morning, Sara saw Abe at 10:00. This was her second Tuesday, and as far as she was concerned, they were stuck. He wasn’t mean or anything; he just got in the way, took up valuable time. And now—time was running out, so every minute counted.
