Mr. Barlow nodded as if he understood, then reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip, and started counting out a stack of bills. “That bull won’t appear in any of my shows,” he said. “You have my word.”
The sheriff scowled. “Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Barlow?”
“Just want to say thank you for your service here today,” Mr. Barlow said. “Your quick action saved a lot of lives and we’re grateful for it.” He held out the money.
The sheriff looked at the ground a moment, hiked up the belt of his pants, then took the bills and shoved them in his pocket. “I was planning on bringing the twins to the show tomorrow,” he said. “They been looking forward to it for a week and the last thing I want to do is disappoint my girls.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Mr. Barlow said. “And to show you how much I appreciate your support, there’ll be free tickets for you and your family waiting at the ticket booth.”
The sheriff wrinkled his brow. “Free tickets or not, I’m not going to be happy if I see an elephant with patched bullet holes in the ring.”
“Of course not,” Mr. Barlow said. “That elephant is a workhorse from now on, nothing more.”
“You better be telling the truth, or I’ll shut you down and run you out of town for good.”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Barlow said. “Taking that risk wouldn’t be a good business move. And if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s being a smart businessman. I meant it when I said I’ll kill that bull myself if necessary.” He extended his hand.
The sheriff shook Mr. Barlow’s hand, then left. Mr. Barlow moved closer to the stock car and fixed hard eyes on Lilly and Cole, eyes that said, This is your fault.
* * *
That night, Glory took care of Phoebe while Lilly and Cole slept in the stock car with Pepper. Hank had pulled the bullets out of Pepper’s hide and, to ward off infection, applied a thick coating of zinc ointment to the wounds. Lilly lay next to Cole in the straw, awake and silently weeping, trying to grasp the nightmarish reality that JoJo was gone, Pepper had killed Merrick, and now, somehow, Pepper was going to pay for following her natural-born instincts. Just thinking about someone taking Phoebe made Lilly’s heart cramp with panic and her stomach churn with fear. No wonder Pepper went wild. Lilly would have too. The difference between her and Pepper was that no one would shoot her for trying to save her baby.
She could only imagine the terror and grief Pepper must have felt when the Rowe & Company handlers took her son, and the pain she must be in now, not only from the her physical wounds, but from her shattered heart. How was she even breathing? At least Mr. Barlow didn’t let the sheriff kill her. But what was going to happen to Pepper now? Was Mr. Barlow going to make her a workhorse like he said, or would he try to sell her? Or even worse, would he shoot her and feed her to the cats?
Then Lilly pictured JoJo, alone and afraid in the boxcar on the other train, and her tears started all over again. She knew that horrible, heavy ache of homesickness in his chest, that helplessness of being ripped from everything familiar, that all-consuming terror of imagining what was going to happen next. Was JoJo wondering why she and Cole and Pepper let strangers take him? Did he think they had gotten rid of him on purpose? The thought of JoJo feeling unloved and discarded was almost more than she could bear. She closed her flooding eyes and prayed for exhaustion to overtake her, to release her into sleep. Hours later, when it finally did, she slept in fit and starts, alternating between dreams of being locked in her old attic bedroom and riding Pepper in the grand parade.
The next morning, the stock car door slid open and sunshine cut like a knife through the gloomy interior, hay chafe and dust floating in the yellow light. Someone entered and Lilly looked toward the door, rubbing her swollen eyes and expecting to see Hank. When she saw Glory standing over her, she bolted upright, fear gripping her throat.
“Where’s Phoebe?” she said.
“Still sleeping,” Glory whispered. “Don’t worry, she’s fine. Penelope is with her.”
Cole blinked and sat up, his face puffy with sleep. “What’s going on?”
“What are you doing in here?” Lilly asked Glory. “And why are you whispering?”
Glory edged closer and knelt in the straw. “I came to warn you,” she said. “Alana said a group of local officials paid a visit to Mr. Barlow last night. Seems the town leaders of the next eight stops on our route threatened to cancel if we have Pepper with us.”
“But Mr. Barlow assured the sheriff she wasn’t part of the show anymore,” Lilly said. “He said she’s a work animal now.”
“That doesn’t mean they believe him,” Cole said.
“Cole’s right,” Glory said. “The rubes can’t tell one bull from another. Mr. Barlow could put Pepper back in the ring and they’d never know the difference.”
“Then that’s what he should do,” Lilly said. “She’s not dangerous. She was protecting JoJo.”
“You and I know that,” Cole said. “But no one else will believe it.”
“Mr. Barlow will never put Pepper back in the ring,” Glory said. “It’s too big a risk. If word got out, it’d mean certain ruin.”
“Then what are you saying?” Lilly said. “What did you come to warn us about?”
“Penelope overheard Mr. Barlow and Viktor talking outside Mr. Barlow’s car. Viktor wants Pepper to pay for killing Merrick, and Mr. Barlow said no one will book us with a rogue bull in the troupe, even if she’s not in the show.”
“And?” Lilly said. Her legs and arms started to vibrate.
Glory’s eyes grew glassy. “Mr. Barlow said there’s only one way to prove Pepper is no longer part of The Barlow Brothers’ Circus.”
Lilly’s breath grew shallow and fast. “How?”
“They’re going to . . .” Glory’s chin trembled and she took Lilly’s hand with cold, shaking fingers.
Lilly thought she would scream before Glory told her the rest. “They’re going to what? Tell me!”
“They’re going to kill her, Lilly. They’re going to kill her, and they’re going to do it in public.”
“Oh my God. No!” Lilly cried. She put her hands over her mouth, certain she was going to be sick. Cole put an arm around her and she stared at Glory, tears burning her eyes. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Glory said.
“When?”
“As soon as they can get the word out. Probably tomorrow, after the afternoon performance.”
Lilly shook her head. “No.” She looked at Pepper lying on her side and watching them with sad, wet eyes. “No, I won’t let them.” She crawled over to Pepper and leaned against her, one arm around her front leg. Pepper let out a long, shuddering sigh, lifted her trunk, and draped it across Lilly’s shoulder.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do,” Cole said softly. “Mr. Barlow will have you arrested, or worse, if you try to stop him. I’m so sorry.”
Lilly turned her head to look at him, her face soaked with tears. “Of course there’s something I can do. I can get her out of here. And you can help me.”
CHAPTER 28
JULIA
In the shadow-filled attic of Blackwood Manor, Julia stood frozen, shining her flashlight at the third door on the other side of the second section of the vast space. At first glance, the door looked set in an outside wall, as if it might lead out to a balcony. But there were no balconies on that side of the house, or any other part of Blackwood Manor for that matter. Besides, unlike the rest of the walls, this wall was made of brick, not wood. She directed the flashlight at the nearest dormer. It looked like all the rest, with a moldy, watermarked window. But the placement seemed odd. It was too close to the brick wall. Which meant the wall might have been added later, and there could be more space on the other side of the door.
“My God,” she said to herself. “How big is this attic?”
Shivering with anticipation, she started across the second section. Then she suddenly stopped, shoulde
rs hunched, every sense on high alert. Maybe this part of the attic was walled off and empty because the floor was rotten. She cast the flashlight over the floorboards, looking for cracks or signs of decay. There were none. She pressed one foot into the plank in front of her. It felt firm. She took a deep breath, then carefully crept across the attic, testing each step until she reached the third door.
The door was padlocked
“Shit,” she whispered.
She swept the flashlight along the floor and wall to look for the key, scanning the brick and mortar for a hook or hiding place. She searched above the doorframe, her fingers blindly feeling the narrow lip, and came back with nothing but dust. She sighed heavily and tried to think. If she couldn’t find the key, maybe she could break the door down. After all, it was her house, she could do whatever she wanted. She rammed her shoulder into it several times. The hasp and padlock rattled, but the door didn’t budge. It was like trying to move the brick wall.
“Damn it all to hell and back!” she said.
She rubbed her shoulder and frowned at the door. Maybe she could bust it open with an ax. Maybe Fletcher could do it. Or maybe he was strong enough to break the lock. With that thought, she grabbed the padlock to examine it closer. It had been put back in the flange, but the shank had not been pushed into the body. The door had been unlocked the entire time.
Berating herself for not checking the padlock sooner, she removed it from the hasp and opened the door. Then she shined the flashlight inside and nearly sank to the floor in astonishment.
Her light revealed a cramped, narrow bedroom, complete with a dresser, armoire, and a rusted iron bed beneath a wallpapered nook. Paper flowers hung from the walls and ceilings, their faded petals droopy and gray. The bed looked recently slept in, with a head-shaped indent in the pillow and the red, dust-covered duvet pushed to one side. Across from the bed, cobwebs shrouded a white wicker table, a rocking chair, and a short bookcase. Next to the rocking chair, a dollhouse filled with dead bugs and miniature furniture sat on a wooden chest near three porcelain dolls in a wicker pram, their grimy faces cracked, their hair tangled beneath hoary nets of dirt and spider webs. One looked back at Julia with a drooping eyelid, frozen mid-wink.
Julia stood there, staring and too stunned to move. Why was there a bedroom hidden behind three locked doors in the attic of Blackwood Manor? Who in the world had slept there? And why?
Judging by the toys, it was a child. A little girl.
Icy shivers crawled up the back of Julia’s neck. How could anyone do this? How could anyone lock a child in an attic bedroom? And why? It was unimaginable and creepy as hell. Then she noticed the cloth-bound Bible on the nightstand and the cross on the wall, and she knew. Mother had something to do with this.
“Dear God,” she whispered.
The words in her father’s journal flashed in her mind:
We have buried our firstborn. May she rest in peace. God speed her soul to heaven. And may God help us for what we have done.
A sickening knot of disgust and anger twisted in Julia’s gut. Her father’s entry said they buried their firstborn, not their newborn. It could have been an older child. A child old enough to play with dolls and make paper flowers. Old enough to read. It could have been my sister, Julia thought. Her knees went weak. What in the world had her parents done? Had they kept their own child locked in this room? Had she died right here in this little bed? And why had they kept her hidden? Was she sick? Deformed? Illegitimate?
Another memory came to Julia and she put a hand over her stomach, suddenly nauseous. Mother always said bad things would happen if she didn’t behave. Is that what happened to her sister? Had Mother locked her up for misbehaving? Who would do such a thing? She shook her head. No, that couldn’t have been it. It had to be something else. Mother was strict, but she wasn’t that strict. Was she? And Father wouldn’t have gone along with it. Then she had another thought. Maybe that was why her father drank, to bury his guilt.
Overcome with the feeling that she didn’t know her parents at all, Julia started to tremble. She had wanted answers about her unhappy childhood, and now she was finding them. All this time, Mother had blamed her for Father’s drinking and death, but something else had been going on inside Blackwood Manor, something that seemed straight out of a nightmare. And now, no matter how awful it was, Julia was going to get to the bottom of it. Whether she wanted to or not, there was no going back now.
She steeled herself and entered the room, casting the flashlight into dark corners. The fusty smell of old wood and warm dust filled the air, stronger and more concentrated than in the rest of the attic, along with an underlying rancid odor that reminded her of finding dead mice in Big Al’s Diner. She crept over to the bed, moving slowly out of fear or astonishment she wasn’t sure, and tried the lamp on the bedside table. The knob clicked, but nothing happened. She shined the flashlight up and down the bedcovers. Brown and yellow blotches stained the wrinkled sheet and pillowcase, overlapping at different points in varying degrees of light and dark.
She went into the dormer and tried to look out. Black patches of mildew mottled the glass, but she could make out the hulking barn through the rain, the gray scudding clouds above its gabled roof. She imagined a little girl, her sister, standing where she stood, looking out and wondering what else lay beyond this grimy window. Goose bumps rose on her arms. The longer she was in the room, the more nauseous she felt. Pain and despair fell around her like a weight.
Something clunked behind her. She spun around and swept the flashlight around the bedroom, her heart racing. Maybe there weren’t rats in the attic after all. Maybe it was her sister all along, making the noises in the ceilings and walls. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
“Hello?” she said.
The only sounds were the creak and sway of the house, and the rain filtering through the leaf-choked gutters.
“Is someone there?”
Nothing.
Shaking harder now, she slowly got down on her knees and looked under the bed. The flashlight beam jittered over cobwebs and dust, but no living thing looked back. She stood, took a deep breath, and tried to slow her thundering heart.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she whispered. “There’s no one up here but you.” Unless your sister is surviving on rats.
She pushed the image away and swept the flashlight around the room again. Nothing moved. She gritted her teeth and edged close to the armoire. The door was open a crack. She opened it all the way and shined the flashlight inside. Moth-eaten dresses and yellowed blouses hung from the clothes bar, and several pairs of little girl’s shoes lined the bottom. But they weren’t toddler shoes. They looked big enough for a seven- or eight-year-old. My God, how long was she up here? All her life? Or only after she had grown old enough to misbehave?
What looked like a white dress lay crumpled in the bottom corner of the armoire. She reached in to pick it up, then let out a screech and jumped back. A small skeleton lay on top of the dress, its dusty brown spine curled against the inside wall. She stared at the armoire, breathing hard and trying to pull herself together. If the skeleton belonged to a child, she didn’t know what she would do. Scream? Throw up? Call the police? She held her breath and peered in again. The flashlight beam illuminated tiny brown ribs, an elongated skull, sharp teeth, and a segmented tail. It looked like a cat. She exhaled and straightened. Thank God it wasn’t a child, but finding the remains of a cat was still upsetting. Had the poor thing been left alone up here to starve? Who would do such an awful thing?
The same people who locked a little girl in this attic, her mind screamed. Your parents.
She pictured a little girl reading in the rocking chair, or having a tea party at the wicker table with her dolls. She could see her in the little bed, curled up with her beloved cat, trying to understand why she felt so lost and unloved. Suddenly, a profound sense of loneliness and misery overwhelmed her, as if every emotion absorbed by the bedroom walls had been released a
ll at once. Either that, or her sister’s ghost was in the room with her.
It was more than she could take. Overcome by the feeling that she was stuck in a nightmare or horror movie, she rushed out of the room, shut the door, and made her way across the divided attic. After going through the second door, she scurried through the maze of dusty books and boxes and shelves toward the hidden staircase, panic growing in her mind. What if the little door at the bottom of the steps was closed and locked? What if she was stuck up there forever? The idea was absurd, but when she saw the dim light glowing through the opening in the floor that led to the stairway, a flood of relief washed through her. The door at the bottom of the steps was open. With one hand against the gritty wall for support and the other gripping the flashlight, she went down the steps, which somehow seemed steeper and narrower than before. At the bottom, she closed and locked the door, fully aware there was no reason to lock it, at the same time a small, frightened part of her imagined her sister still living in the attic, sneaking out the door in the middle of the night. And after all those years alone up there, she had to be insane. It was a crazy, ridiculous notion, but then again, she never thought she’d find a hidden bedroom in the attic of her childhood home. Without bothering to roll down the tapestry or return the claw-foot table to its original place, she left the little room and hurried downstairs to the first floor.
In her father’s den, she picked up his journal off the desk and flipped to the first page with trembling fingers. The entry marking the death of her sister was 1940—Julia had been two years old. She sank into the chair, her mind racing and her insides churning. While her sister had been locked in the attic, she’d been downstairs playing with toys, laughing, and taking naps, oblivious to the horrors being committed a few floors up. There were no rats in the walls of Blackwood Manor. Just a little girl hidden in the attic.
It was horrible and inconceivable and unreal.
The Life She Was Given Page 31
