Sherry Ficklin - Losing Logan

Logan gives me a doubtful look, but Carlos just tosses me an armful of clothes.

“Here. Go get ready. We can go to the library, and grab something to eat on the way.”

Saluting him I dash off to the bathroom and change. When I get back Carlos is talking to himself. Or to Logan, probably.

“What are you two talking about?”

Carlos hands me my messenger bag. “What? Nothing. Let’s go.”

I glance over at Logan who puts his hands in the air like he has no idea what I’m talking about. Fine. Whatever.

I follow Carlos through the house and as I pass the kitchen I notice a huge bundle of flowers on the table.

“Oh. Those came this morning,” Logan says, his voice dry and unimpressed. “Your mom brought them in before she left.

I veer into the kitchen and pull the tag out of the flowers.

Thanks for the best first date ever.

Love, Kyle

I stick the card in the back pocket of my jeans before Carlos can see it and start asking embarrassing questions I don’t want to answer. I turn and Logan is literally looking over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

I roll my eyes and step through him, following Carlos out to his car.

As soon as we open the door I see it. Across the street, standing in the stark daylight, it’s brown robe billowing gently. Logan sees it too, stepping in front of me.

“Get in the car,” he orders. “Head to the library. I’ll meet you there.”

“What are you going to do?”

He shakes his head, “I’m going to try to get some answers.”

“You coming, Zoe?” Carlos asks from his car.

I grab Logan’s arm, solid only for a moment. “Be careful.”

He leans back, kissing me quickly on the cheek. “I’m always careful.”

I sigh, climbing into the car. “Says the dead guy.”

The library is filled with screaming toddlers. Kids story time, I remember as I wade through the horde of midgets. My dad used to bring me when I was little. Luckily, the study area is off to the back, far beyond the kids section and down the stairs. Taking the first left into the bowels of the library we head for the computers, and take seats opposite each other. Logan appears before I can even launch the internet.

“He vanished before I could get any answers out of him.”

I nod, not wanting to freak out Carlos, and begin my search. An hour later and all I have to show for it is a stiff neck, blood shot eyes, and the beginnings of a nasty headache.

“Does it have wings?” Carlos asks across the table.

He’s staring at the computer so hard it looks like he’s trying to figure out how to climb inside the monitor.

“No,” I answer.

“What about a scythe?”

“Nope.”

He frowns, clicking the mouse. “What about a trident?”

I raise an eyebrow, “Really.”

He nods.

“No, no trident. What are you looking at?”

“Online catalogue of death figures,” he says as if it should be obvious.

Because, duh, I totally should have expected that.

“Okay, no…no. No…”

“You’re talking to yourself Carlos.”

He shushes me.

“Here, how about this? The Mintle. It comes from ancient Samaria, a sort of death omen. It says they appear with a white or brown robe, and they don’t cause death so much as witness it. The ancient Samarians believed the Mintle was responsible for leading the dead to the afterlife. There’s even a picture. Sort of.”

I get out of my chair and round the desk, looking over his shoulder. Picture is a deceptive word. A crudely drawn sketch would be more accurate. Basically, it looks like any generic person in a long hooded cape.

“Maybe. Any other references?”

He shakes his head. “None that fit. But there’s a footnote with a reference. A book from the late 60’s.”

“Great. Give me the number and I’ll see if it’s in the catalogue here. If we get lucky, they might have a copy.”

Going back over to the main catalogue computer I type in the numbers as he calls them out. Zero in stock. Of course. So I decide to try a general sweep and type in Mintle as a subject and keyword. One hit. But there’s no shelf number.

“Crap. I’m gonna go see if the librarian knows where this book is. I’ll be right back. But keep digging, just in case this isn’t what we’re looking for.”

He salutes and returns to typing and I head for the Information Desk where a slender brunette is talking on the phone. She hangs up.

“Can I help you?”

I hand over the slip of paper I’ve written the title on. “Yeah, I found this in the catalogue, but there’s no shelf number.”

She types it onto her computer, lowering her glasses from her head onto her eyes.

“Let’s see. Okay, well this is in the archives. It’s not on the shelf.”

I frown. “Oh, well, how does one go about getting a book out of the archives?”

She stares at me like I must be joking.

“It’s important. History assignment.”

She huffs, looking completely put out. “The archived books are all in the sub-basement.”

She points to the stairs. “Look for the shelf labeled reference. The boxes will be in alphabetical order by author.”

Nice, way to send me to a rat infested basement on my own you crappy excuse for a librarian. The phone lights up, indicating a call. She hands me back the paper and quickly answers it.

Stuffing the paper in my back pocket I head for the elevator at the far end of the room. I tap Carlos on the shoulder as I walk by.

“Hey, I have to go play Where’s Waldo for this stupid book. If I’m not back in five, send in the National Guard.”

“Can do.”

The sub-basement is brighter than I expected. Rows of overhead lights flicker on as soon as I step off the elevator. Of course it stinks like stale cigarettes and old books. It’s a large, concrete room with rows of grey metal shelves and white boxes. At the front of each row is a small sign. Fiction, Non Fiction, Audio, and Reference. Making a bee line down the reference aisle I start scanning for books, looking for the S shelf. Saunders is the author’s last name.

The lights overhead buzz with electricity and somewhere I hear the tell-tale squeaks of a mouse. Or with my luck, an army of mice. With rabies. And knives. Yep, rabid, ninja mice. That would be my luck. I finally find the S boxes. A whole freaking shelf of them. I decide to start at the top and work my way down. Grabbing the first box off the shelf I let it fall to my feet and pull the lid off. A moth flies out and I let out a nervous shriek.

“Hey, let’s go down to the creepy ass basement. That sounds like a great plan,” I mutter to myself feeling like a complete wuss.

Worst. Plan. Ever.

It takes me all of three seconds to realize this isn’t the right box and return it to the shelf. Grabbing the next box I repeat the process. Finally, three boxes later, I hit the jackpot. Pulling the ancient, tattered book out of the box I fold myself cross legged onto the cold floor and open the book up in my lap. The pages are musty and faded, even the glue binding the spine is failing, and loose pages out of order are stuffed haphazardly inside the cloth cover.

I examine the pages carefully, looking for any mention of the Mintle. Finally, I see it.

“The Mintle…blah, blah, blah, death spirit. Blah, blah, blah. Usually depicted as a female with hollow eye sockets and skeletal features. Ugh. Can rotate head completely around. Eeew. That’s just unnecessary. And…always accompanied by a large black dog. Sorry Mintle, you aren’t my ring wraith.” I slam the book closed with a dusty puff and return it to the box.

I’m making my way back to the elevator when I feel it. A chill air blows past me like someone’s switched on an air conditioner. I turn slowly, praying that it’s just Logan, even though I know it isn’t. Logan, despite being very, very dead, still somehow smells like rain and water. I don’t smell that now.