The Fearsome Firebird

by Lauren Oliver

  “Did anyone else—?” he started to say.

  Before he could finish his sentence, someone seized him from behind and squeezed. All of the breath went out of him in a whoosh. It was no ordinary someone, either: the arms felt like ten-ton steel belts cabled around his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t get his arms up to fight.

  Suddenly, everyone was shouting. Sam saw a figure moving in the shadows. Before he could cry out, a lasso spun through the air and yoked his three friends together.

  Then the overhead lights snapped on.

  Just inside the doorway, one hand on the light switch, stood Howie.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like you’re all in a bit of a bind, aren’t you?”

  “Very funny,” Thomas spat. “How’d you snake your way in here?”

  Howie raised an eyebrow but addressed his words to Tiny Tex, the Texas Fatboy, who was struggling to keep a grip on one end of the rope restraining Thomas, Pippa, and Max. “You’ll want to keep an eye on that one in particular,” he said, jerking his chin in Thomas’s direction. “He’s a wiggly one.”

  “You’re going to pay for this.” Sam at last managed to draw a breath. But try as he might, he couldn’t break free of the hairy arms that encircled him. He realized, to his shock, that he was immobilized.

  A foul breath blasted his ear.

  “You strong for a boy,” said a voice in a low growl, even as the grip tightened around him, so Sam felt as if even his organs were being squeezed. “But Trogg stronger.”

  It was the strongman they’d seen at the Coney Island show, the beast who was nearly seven feet tall. And Sam knew, with a welling sense of hopelessness, that Trogg was right—Trogg was stronger.

  “Let us go, you creep,” Max cried.

  “Oh, I’ll let you go,” Howie said, making a show of examining his fingernails, which were buffed and newly clipped. “We’re just going to take a little stroll first. The Bowery is lovely this time of night, as long as you steer clear of the muggers. And of course, it’s the perfect place for a makeover. I’m thinking matching crew cuts. Might as well burn those rags you’re wearing, too. Mr. Dumfrey always wants publicity, doesn’t he? Let’s see what kind of publicity he gets when his prize freaks are parading home in their birthday suits.”

  “You’re out of your mind.” Sam was practically shouting. They didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have time, period. If they didn’t get to Staten Island to stop Rattigan, thousands of people would die. “Let us go, or—”

  “Or what?” Howie came forward suddenly, his face contorted with fury and triumph. “You’ll call for your precious Mr. Dumfrey to save you?” He barked a laugh. Sam had, in fact, been about to cry out—then he remembered, with a sinking feeling, that Mr. Dumfrey hadn’t even returned to the museum. And really, what would Mr. Dumfrey do? “I’m not scared of you, Samson,” Howie said. “And I’m not letting you go, either. Not until you pay for making me look like an idiot.”

  “Please, you don’t need our help for that,” Pippa said, tossing her hair and doing her best to look dignified despite being trussed up like a turkey. “You do a great job of looking like an idiot all on your own.”

  “And you deserved it.” Max’s eyes were narrowed to slits. Sam couldn’t believe he’d ever been jealous, believing that Max still liked Howie. She hated him. “You and all your Mr. Superior stuff. All along you’ve been the biggest fraud of all.”

  “I didn’t know about Alicia,” Howie snarled. “But better a fraud”—he reached out as if to touch Max’s cheek—“than a monster.”

  Max lunged for him. Pippa and Thomas, lashed together, stumbled forward with her before Tiny Tex managed to rein them in, jerking the rope backward so Max was left wheezing.

  Sam’s vision went red. Fury pulsed through his body, thrumming in his head. He took a deep breath and, as he felt Trogg relax his grip, flexed and threw his right elbow toward Trogg’s face. Trogg, startled, lost his grip on Sam’s arm. Howie backpedaled quickly with a small, startled yelp as Sam swung for him. But before Sam could make contact, Trogg had wrestled his arm behind his back again and Sam doubled over.

  “Nice try.” Howie bent forward. His face hovered only inches from Sam’s. “The truth is painful, isn’t it?”

  Sam was so angry it felt like being inside a stew—something roiling and hot was eating him up. Rattigan would win. Rattigan would kill—all because of Howie and his hatefulness. “The only monster in this room is you,” he snapped.

  “We’ll see about that.” Howie straightened up. “You know, you should all be grateful to me. Did you ever think about what would happen if everyone in New York found out about Rattigan’s little science experiments? You’d be thrown in a cage. You’d be zoo animals. That’s if the mob didn’t get to you first.” His smile was cruel. And worse, Sam knew he was right. “So I suggest you play along, if you want your little secret to stay safe.”

  They had no choice but to do as Howie said. Tex took the lead, hauling a struggling Max, Pippa, and Thomas forward. Trogg moved Sam forward next, keeping Sam’s arms wrenched so far behind his back Sam thought they might tear out of their sockets.

  “A fine little parade.” Howie wore the same gloating expression that made Sam want to peel off his face. “Just think. If you hadn’t—”

  He broke off suddenly, holding up a hand for silence, as a noise sounded from the shadows. Sam heard it, too—a faint mechanical click. Trogg froze. Only Tex was still moving forward, straining on the rope, his face red from exertion, huffing loudly.

  “Shut up, you idiot,” Howie whispered. Above him, the pterodactyl creak-creaked on its thin wire, swaying faintly back and forth, as if it were really flying. Tex at last stopped moving. “Did anyone hear—?”

  Crack.

  A rifle shot echoed through the room. Tex cried out and dove for cover, as with a clean hiss the thin metal wire keeping the pterodactyl tethered to the ceiling snapped neatly in two—and sent the monstrous, winged creature crashing toward the ground. Howie dove to avoid getting buried, throwing Sam and Trogg off their feet. In the confusion, Trogg loosened his hold on Sam, and Sam shoved him off. With one quick wrestling move, Sam took hold of Trogg’s wrists and rammed a knee in his lower back, so Trogg’s cheek was squashed flat to the floor.

  “You’re pretty strong,” Sam panted. He was still dizzy from pain and the chaos of shouting and dust. Who on earth had fired the rifle? “But looks like I’m stronger.”

  Thomas had already freed himself from the lasso. Now, as Howie struggled to climb to his feet, Thomas dove and pinned him to the floor again.

  “Let go of me,” Howie snarled.

  “I don’t think so.” It was Thomas’s turn to smile. The sound of the shot must have woken the other residents, and already Sam could hear footsteps pounding on the stairs, and Miss Fitch crying out, “What is it? For heaven’s sake, what’s happened now?”

  The air was still cloudy with dust from the pterodactyl’s spectacular fall. The once-magnificent model lay scattered in splinters, bones jutting from within the wings of heavy canvas, beak pointed to the ceiling as though crying out for help.

  A moment later, Miss Fitch appeared on the landing in her nightgown, her hair neatly slicked into its usual bun. Lash was close behind her, scrubbing his bleary eyes.

  Then Mr. Dumfrey, dressed in a neat black suit and carrying a vintage Winchester rifle over his shoulder, emerged from between exhibits. “It’s all right, Miss Fitch,” he said cheerfully, surveying the scene with detached curiosity—as if Tex, Howie, the broken pterodactyl, and Pippa and Max, still struggling to disentangle themselves from the rope, were all part of a tableau he was considering adding to the museum’s Hall of Wax. “Just some unwelcome intruders. It’s under control.”

  Sam stared from Mr. Dumfrey to the rifle on his shoulder to the fine wire, hardly wider than a pencil line, that the bullet had severed.

  “But . . .” He found he could barely speak. “That shot . . . it�
�s impossible . . . how did you ever manage . . . ?”

  On the stairs, Lash snorted a laugh. “Good to see you still got it, Horatio.”

  Mr. Dumfrey waved a hand. “Oh, well. Some things stay with you, I suppose.”

  Lash came down into the lobby and made quick work of disentangling Max and Pippa. “Back in the day, Dumfrey was known from coast to coast as a crack shot,” he explained as he curled the rope in his hand. “Could thread a bullet through the eye of a needle at fifty yards. Oh, no you don’t.” This last bit was directed at Tiny Tex, who’d begun crawling for the door. With a quick flick of his wrist, Lash lassoed him backward. “Just like tying up a steer,” he said.

  “So that’s your big secret,” Pippa said wonderingly. “You’re a sharpshooter.”

  Mr. Dumfrey actually looked embarrassed. He clucked his tongue. “Was a sharpshooter. Now I run a museum. Speaking of which”—his eyes fell on Howie—“can someone explain to me what on earth is going on?”

  Sam and Thomas exchanged a look. Sam knew that they couldn’t explain why they’d been out of bed—not here, anyway, in front of everybody. More and more of the museum’s residents had gathered in the lobby and on the staircase, straining to get a view of the action. And they were in a bigger rush than ever.

  “We heard a noise downstairs,” Pippa said quickly. “We came down to make sure everything was okay. And then . . .”

  “We got ambushed,” Max finished, still glaring at Howie. “They must have broken in.”

  “We didn’t break in,” Howie said. Despite the fact that Thomas was keeping him pinned, he still managed to look superior. “The kitchen door was unlocked. Some idiot must have left it open.”

  “That idiot was me,” Mr. Dumfrey said calmly. “I knew I’d be returning late and wanted to make sure I didn’t disturb anyone. Either way, you’re trespassing on private property. Lash, please stay with our new friends while I ring up the police from my office.” He handed over the rifle, which Sam now recognized as the one typically on display in the Hall of Worldwide Wonders and having supposedly belonged to Buffalo Bill. “Take this, just in case anyone is stupid enough to attempt a quick getaway.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. D,” Lash said, grinning as he took up the rifle. “Course, I’m not such a crack shot as you. Might blow off a knee or an elbow without meaning to.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” Howie hissed, sitting up as Thomas climbed to his feet and then quickly rearing back when Lash took a step toward him. “This isn’t over.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps you should aim instead for his mouth,” Mr. Dumfrey said to Lash, raising an eyebrow. “Max, Pippa, Thomas, Sam. In my office, please.”

  “But Mr. Dumfrey—” Sam began to protest.

  “In my office,” Mr. Dumfrey said, in a tone that clearly meant no arguments. “Now.”

  Sam’s stomach turned heavy again. They would never get out of the museum now. He stood up, leaving Trogg still groaning on the floor. He sidestepped the giant and deliberately avoided so much as glancing at Howie. But Max stopped directly in front of Howie, with a strange expression on her face that reminded Sam somewhat of a cat trying to cough up a hair ball.

  Howie’s cold eyes glittered. “What do you want?”

  Max said nothing. Instead, she wound up and clocked Howie straight in the face—so hard that his head spun completely around and then, like a watch mechanism unwinding, ticked slowly back around to its correct orientation.

  “That,” she said with an angelic smile. And Sam had to stop himself from dancing.

  The knuckles of Max’s right hand still stung from where they had connected with Howie’s jaw as she and the others made their way upstairs. But it was the most glorious pain she’d ever known.

  “Close the door,” Mr. Dumfrey said as soon as they were all crowded inside his office. He didn’t even bother to sit. Instead, he pivoted to face them, with a look as stern as any Max had never seen. “As you’ve just witnessed,” he said, and though his voice was steady, it held a fine edge of warning, “although I may be getting older, my eyesight is as good as it ever was. And what I see just at this minute is that you haven’t told me the truth. Out with it.”

  So Thomas told him, and Max, Pippa, and Sam filled in the gaps where they had to: about the relationship of Mallett and Erskine’s deaths to Rattigan, and about the dirigible filled with poisonous gas and Rattigan’s terrible plan for the city. As they spoke, all the light and color drained from Mr. Dumfrey’s face, until he looked almost like one of the wax figurines in the chamber of horrors: pale and hard and terrible.

  “So you see,” Pippa finished, “it’s up to us. We have to stop him.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mr. Dumfrey said immediately.

  Max gaped at him. “But Rattigan—”

  “It’s far too dangerous,” he said, raising a hand to cut her off. “My half brother—as much as it pains me to say—has demonstrated again and again that he will stop at nothing and spare no one to achieve what he wants. I hope you’re wrong,” he added. “I pray that you are. But we can’t take any chances. This is a matter for the police. I won’t risk your involvement.”

  “What if the police won’t listen?” Sam said.

  “They’ll have to,” Mr. Dumfrey said. But he sounded unconvinced. “Now to bed. All of you.”

  “You said that we were growing up,” Thomas argued. “You said we had to look after one another.”

  Mr. Dumfrey removed his glasses and stared at them each in turn. “I said there would come a time when I wouldn’t be there to protect you,” he said. “Fortunately, that time is not today. You heard me. Upstairs and into bed and no arguments. I’ll handle the police.” And with that, he pushed the kids out of his office and slammed the door closed behind him. It felt as if he took all of the air with him, too. Max was left with a breathless, frightened feeling.

  She shook the hair away from her face. “What do you want to bet the cops take the whole thing as a joke?” she said. “No way are they going to believe Rattigan’s going to pull a stunt this big. Not when half the force has been looking for him for months.”

  “They’ll have to do something, won’t they?” Pippa turned to Thomas.

  “I don’t know.” He put a hand through his hair, making it stand like a head full of exclamation points. “I hope so.”

  Sam shook his head. “We can’t risk it,” he said in a fierce whisper. “What if they don’t? What if they just laugh?”

  “Sam’s right,” Max said. “There’s too much at stake.”

  “All right, then.” Thomas nodded. “We’ll stick to the plan and head to Staten Island ourselves.”

  They couldn’t sneak out the front. The doors were no doubt locked for the night, and only Gil Kestrel had the keys. Besides, Lash was still standing guard over Howie and his band of creeps in the lobby. Instead, they retreated as quietly as they could down the performers’ staircase, glided through the hall, ducked into the special exhibits room, and made their way down the set of old wooden stairs that led down into the basement. In the kitchen, faint moonlight came through the narrow windows, illuminating corners and edges, drawing the familiar furniture in broad painted strokes. They moved in a line toward the door that led out to the sunken courtyard where the garbage cans were kept and Farnum’s fleas had been buried. Max couldn’t believe that had been three days ago: so much had happened.

  Pippa reached the door, released the dead bolt, and yanked on the handle. Nothing happened.

  “Oh no.” She turned, her eyes wide in the dark. “Mr. Dumfrey must have locked up after he came in.” There was a second lock, rarely used, that required a key. Mr. Dumfrey kept a copy in his desk.

  “Anyone know how to pick a lock?” Thomas asked hopefully.

  Max realized that both Pippa and Thomas were looking at her. She sighed. “You got a bobby pin?”

  “I have a better idea.” Sam stepped forward. He placed a hand on the door and leaned. There was a small groan, and the door popped off its
hinges neatly, like a cube of ice out of a metal tray.

  “After you,” he said, and Pippa giggled.

  “Now that’s what I call breaking and entering,” Thomas said.

  “Breaking and exiting, you mean,” Max said. They passed out into the night, pausing only so that Sam could pop the door back in place.

  They reached the ferry dock at a little after two o’clock, and found the ticket office closed. A little sign announced that the next ferry departed at exactly 5:30 a.m.

  Max kicked the closed door, ignoring the pain that shot through her foot. “Five thirty? That’s too late.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to wait.” Thomas pointed to a series of weather-beaten fishing boats bobbing in the shallows.

  Max nearly choked. “You want to steal a boat?”

  “Please,” Pippa said, already scrabbling down the gangplank toward the rocky beach. “Now isn’t the time to sprout a conscience. Didn’t you used to pick pockets for a living?”

  Max scowled. “Only in the case of emergencies.”

  “Well, I think this counts as an emergency, don’t you?” Pippa hopped into one of the boats and began to untie it from the moorings. “Besides, we’ll bring it back. Now come on.”

  Max had never before been out on the water and found herself gripping her seat as Thomas piloted the boat away from the shore.

  “You’re sure you know how to drive this thing?” she cried as the boat hit a wave and nearly threw her overboard.

  “Sure!” Thomas called back. “Read a book about it once!”

  Sam groaned and closed his eyes.

  The air stung Max’s cheeks and she clutched her seat. Her stomach rolled with every wave and she felt a little like a popcorn kernel in danger of popping right into the water. But after a minute she grew less terrified and began to enjoy the up-and-down motion of the waves and the look of lights reflecting off the inky surface of the bay as they drew closer to Staten Island. Thomas maneuvered them successfully into the harbor, and they climbed onto the dock, securing the boat to a moss-coated piling.