The Screaming Statue

by Lauren Oliver

  Thomas shook his head. “No. I mean yes. I mean go on.” He could hardly contain his excitement. His insides were buzzing. Rachel van der Water. RVW—the letters he had noticed on the brown paper backing from the broken picture frame in Eckleberger’s studio. At one point, there had been a picture of a young Rachel in that frame. What had happened to it? Had it been taken by the same person who had killed Eckleberger? But why, then, were the other photos left?

  And what did it have to do with Eckleberger’s murder?

  “Ah, forget it.” Bumstead scowled again. “All this talking about the past. What good does it do me? That’s all done now. Now I’m just some used-up bum, like all the rest.” He raised his arms as if to embrace all the people transformed by the darkness into faceless shadows. He dropped his arms again. “But I didn’t kill Eckleberger. You can bet your boots on that. Eight years in Sing Sing’s plenty for me. I’d never risk doing anything to land me back in that hellhole.”

  “It’s okay,” Thomas said. “We believe you.”

  “We do?” Max turned to him in surprise.

  “Sure,” Thomas said. “Like he said. He doesn’t have the nerves for it.”

  “No.” Bumstead shook his head sadly, as if having failed to commit murder were in itself a crime. “No, I do not.”

  “Sorry about your frying pan,” Sam said sheepishly.

  Bumstead flushed a deep red. “Oh, er, that’s all right,” he said. “I might have—well, I might have exaggerated a little when I said I couldn’t steal a tulip from a garden. Not saying I stole it, mind you, since it was just sitting there. . . .” He trailed off.

  Pippa sighed heavily. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bumstead. Sounds like you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  On the way back to the museum, Thomas told Pippa, Sam, and Max about the empty photo frame he’d found at Eckleberger’s apartment, and the scrap of brown paper inscribed with what he was sure were Rachel Richstone’s former initials.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Pippa said. “Why would someone steal an old photograph of Rachel Richstone from a frame, but leave a pile of photos next to it, untouched?”

  “Sounds like one of those stupid riddles,” Max mumbled.

  “There must have been something secret in the photograph,” Thomas said slowly. Closing his eyes, he could still see the chaos of Eckleberger’s studio, the drama of it, as if someone had been staging a break-in for a movie. “Something the thief didn’t want anyone to see. With all the other stuff knocked around, he probably thought no one would notice a missing photograph.”

  “Or she,” Max said.

  “What?” Thomas looked at her.

  “Or she,” Max repeated, shrugging. “The thief could have been a woman.”

  Thomas stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Okay, he or she probably thought no one would notice.”

  Everyone was silent for a bit. They’d left Central Park behind. Above them once again the city buildings rose, silent and spectral in a mist sweeping in from the river.

  “I still don’t buy it,” Sam spoke up suddenly. “Who’d want to steal a photo of someone who’s already dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Pippa felt that she’d barely closed her eyes before Miss Fitch was calling for everyone to wake up. Morning sun was streaming hard into the attic, and the other performers were grumbling about having to get up.

  It had been four days since they’d tracked down Sticky Fingers in Central Park, and the week was moving at a crawl. The city was in the grips of a heat wave and even with all the windows open, the museum felt like an armpit. By seven o’clock, the hour of the evening performance, everyone was in a rotten mood. Caroline and Quinn were talking about breaking up their act. Caroline, in particular, was no longer content to be one half of the albino sisters, and wanted to go off on her own. Goldini flew into a panic when he discovered his magic wand had been broken in two, and Smalls recited a dull poem about perseverance until everyone wanted to strangle him.

  No one noticed that the alligator boy was missing until the finale, which typically ended when Caroline and Quinn cartwheeled into the arms of the alligator boy and Smalls the giant, respectively. At the last second, Goldini ran onstage to keep Quinn from tumbling straight into the audience. Luckily, there was hardly anyone there to witness it. Only three people had arrived to see the nightly performance, and one of them had spent the evening chin-to-chest, snoring loudly.

  Quinn was in tears in the kitchen after the performance. “How could he?” she screeched. “When I see him, I’ll tear the scales off his face, one by one!”

  “Now, now,” Lash said, patting her shoulder. “No need to get so riled up.”

  Quinn promptly threw herself at him and began sobbing into his chest. Caroline was purple with fury, and Miss Fitch glared so hard, Pippa was afraid that her eyeballs would pop out of her head and roll across the floor.

  “Quel désastre,” Monsieur Cabillaud said, throwing his gloves down emphatically on the kitchen table. “Sree people! Sree people to see our show! Zat makes only a dollar fifty—barely enough to keep ze roof over our heads.”

  “And what about getting paid?” Danny grumbled.

  “And what about eating real food, for once?” Goldini said, poking at the pile of watery oatmeal that would be their dinner.

  “Just a little bit of patience, dear friends,” Mr. Dumfrey said. He had joined them for dinner to reassure them, and also to tell them the latest piece of news: that Andrew had decided to take a short “sabbatical” from the museum. At least, that was how he phrased it, but everyone knew that meant one thing only: the alligator boy had quit. “Remember—it’s from the rockiest shores that grow the greatest diamonds! Our luck will turn any day now. This is Dumfrey’s Dime Museum of Freaks, Oddities, and Wonders—the greatest collection of rarities in the whole known world! And I have one or two ideas up my sleeve—some of my finest work yet.”

  No one, however, was much reassured. It was clear to Pippa that unless something was done—and soon—Mr. Dumfrey would have a full-on rebellion on his hands.

  The only two people who seemed unaware of the tension in the room were Max and Howie. Max, uncharacteristically, had brushed her hair and tied it with a ribbon, which had so startled Pippa that at first she had mistaken Max for someone else—until Max had threatened to poke her eyes out with a fork if she didn’t stop staring. She and Howie were sitting elbow to elbow, and every time Howie said something, Max actually giggled. It was obvious to Pippa that Max had gone as stupid for Howie as Miss Fitch had for William “Lash” Langtry.

  On the one hand, Pippa could understand why. Howie was the best-looking person she’d ever seen. Certainly Sam, with his pimply forehead and his narrow nose and his look of a dog that had recently been kicked, couldn’t compete. And yet Howie was too perfect, too brittle-looking—like one of the porcelain pieces in the museum’s collection of priceless, ancient Chinese statuettes. And Pippa hated how he turned his head on his shoulder blades to watch her pass, eyes glittering, as though sizing her up from 360 degrees.

  Then, there were the comments—small things, like the way he was careful to emphasize that everyone in his family was born with the same talent; and how he leaned in when Pippa came offstage during a particularly bad performance, at which she’d failed to think her way even into the pocket of a man’s overcoat, and whispered, “Just not coming naturally, is it?”

  Almost as if he knew what she was—what they all were. But of course, he couldn’t know. What Rattigan had done to them in his lab . . . nobody knew, except for Dumfrey and Miss Fitch—and, of course, Rattigan himself.

  Most of the performers huffed off to the attic right after dinner, and Max and Howie disappeared together, while Sam stared miserably into his untouched oatmeal. Finally, only Mr. Dumfrey, Pippa, Thomas, Sam, and Lash were left in the kitchen.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do,” Mr. Dumfrey said, sagging back against
his seat, like a balloon drained all at once of air. Pippa realized he’d been trying to put on a brave face for the others. “Unless business picks up, I’m afraid we’ll have to close our doors for good.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Dumfrey,” Pippa said. “You’ll think of something.”

  “You always do,” Thomas said.

  But Mr. Dumfrey didn’t look comforted. “This time, I’m afraid you might be wrong.”

  There was a moment of depressed silence. Then Lash cleared his throat. All this time, he had been fiddling with one of the kitchen shelves, which was loose, making a big deal of sorting through his tools and testing each one against the screw—and, Pippa was sure, eavesdropping closely on the conversation.

  “I been thinkin’, Horatio,” he said with forced casualness, wiping his hands on a rag, “how about I give the old bullwhip routine a shot? That was always a crowd-pleaser. Brought ’em in like flies to honey.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Dumfrey. How about it?” Thomas said.

  “That’s a great idea,” Pippa chimed in enthusiastically, She’d been dying to see Lash’s old routine since he’d arrived at the museum and started telling them about it. Even Sam smiled for an instant.

  But Mr. Dumfrey cut them off. “I—er—appreciate the offer, Lash. Really, I do. But I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” He coughed. “We aren’t as young as we used to be, you know. Not sure the old acts are up to the gold standard.”

  “Some of us old dogs got the best tricks,” Lash said. “I’m steadier than I was at twenty.” Lash held out a hand as if to prove it. Pippa was pained to see that his fingers were trembling very badly. Lash stuffed his hand quickly back into a pocket. “Well, anyway. The offer stands.”

  “Thank you, Lash.” Mr. Dumfrey stood up and laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “That’s very nice of you.”

  Lash wouldn’t meet Mr. Dumfrey’s eyes. He just nodded. As soon as Mr. Dumfrey left the room, Lash hurried out after him, mumbling something about cleaning up the exhibit halls.

  Pippa felt sad and anxious. She knew it wasn’t fair to blame Howie. But since he’d arrived, everyone was fighting all the time—just when they should have been sticking together. She’d thought that with Rattigan safely gone, everything would return to normal—as normal as they ever were at Dumfrey’s, anyway. But things were worse than ever, and she didn’t feel as safe as she should. She kept thinking of all those families they’d seen living out in Central Park, and wondering whether she, too, might have found herself there if it weren’t for Mr. Dumfrey. If the museum shut down, what would happen to her? Where would they go? She’d been wondering all this time about her real parents, but she didn’t have the first idea about how to find them. Even if she could track down her family, she knew deep down that there was no guarantee they’d want her back.

  When she’d at last worked up the courage to ask Mr. Dumfrey whether he knew anything about her life before Rattigan got to her, he had practically choked spitting out a no.

  “Are you okay?” Thomas laid a hand on her shoulder. She’d been so lost in thought, she hadn’t realized that she and Thomas were now alone in the kitchen. Sam had stalked off somewhere. That was another thing that was going wrong—they had only just started to become friends, but for the past few days he’d hardly spoken except to growl.

  “Yeah,” Pippa said, even though she wasn’t sure. “I just feel . . .” She trailed off, uncertain how to describe what she felt.

  Luckily, Thomas seemed to know. “Squinchy,” he said. “Like when you accidentally step on a snail barefoot.”

  Pippa turned to him. Thomas’s green eyes seemed to pin her momentarily in place.

  “Squinchy,” she repeated, nodding, and then managed a small smile. “You should have been the mind reader.”

  They sat in silence for a bit. Pippa was surprised that she had grown so comfortable with Thomas in such a short time. For years they had lived side by side and barely spoken except to quarrel. But something had changed after the shrunken head was stolen, after the murders began, after Rattigan. They were joined, all of them—Sam, Max, Pippa, Thomas—whether they wanted it or not. They were connected.

  She didn’t mean to speak, but suddenly she was saying, “Remember the time Freckles dressed up like Santa Claus, and tried to surprise us by coming down the chimney—”

  “And Miss Fitch thought it was a giant rat, and insisted we light a fire,” Thomas chimed in. “And he was howling like a maniac until Dumfrey threw the eggnog on—”

  “And afterward he sat with us all night, with his trouser bottoms completely burned away,” Pippa finished, breathless with laughter, remembering Eckleberger sipping tea in front of the still-smoking fireplace, with his false beard hanging at an angle.

  Thomas was laughing, too. “Crazy old Freckles.”

  “Wonderful old Freckles,” she said, and then felt a shooting pain deep in her chest, which drove the rest of the laughter straight out of her body. Freckles would never see another Christmas.

  Thomas grew serious also. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, fidgeting a little on the bench, “about the photograph I found. Or rather the one I didn’t find. I think—”

  But just then there was a rustling from the courtyard outside, and a bang as something heavy tumbled into the trash bins. Pippa and Thomas both jumped to their feet. Thomas put a finger to his lips, and Pippa nodded. They listened.

  The kitchen door led to a small sunken courtyard where the museum placed its trash bins. It was unused except by stray cats and, occasionally, by the performers when they wanted to escape the museum undetected; from the courtyard, a small stone staircase led up to Forty-Fifth Street.

  Someone was out there now.

  There was another metallic clang, then the sound of muffled cursing. Thomas’s eyes widened. Pippa gestured to the shelves behind him. He understood her immediately, and eased two heavy cast-iron pots down from the wall, passing one to her, and gripping the other like a baseball bat.

  They took up positions on either side of the door. Pippa’s hands were sweating, and the cast iron was so heavy that her arms trembled. If only Sam hadn’t gone upstairs. What if a burglar were trying to break in? They would scream; someone would have to hear.

  Another fear seized her, like a tight fist closing its hand around her lungs. What if Rattigan had come back . . . ?

  No. Rattigan was in Chicago. And he would be caught any day.

  There was a scratching sound just outside the door. Pippa’s heart was pounding, as if a pair of heavy boots were stomping around inside her chest. The person outside was picking the lock. The door handle rattled. Thomas nodded to her. When the door opened, Pippa would have the first, and clearest, shot. The doorknob rattled again, loose and loud, like an old man trying to cough out phlegm. She felt like she might throw up. Any second now.

  There was a click. Then, slowly, so slowly, the knob turned and the door swung open.

  Pippa hefted the pan into the air. Fear made the edges of her vision go dark; a face appeared and she swung.

  “No, Pippa. No!”

  Thomas lunged for her and grabbed her wrist. At the last second, just before she connected with Chubby’s terrified face, the pan clattered to the ground.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Chubby was shouting.

  Pippa, still shaking, could only stare. “What’s the matter with me?” she cried. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Be quiet, both of you,” Thomas whispered.

  But it was too late. Sharp footsteps sounded in the hall. Thomas shoved Chubby under the table just as Miss Fitch appeared at the top of the kitchen stairs.

  “What’s going on? I heard shouting.” Her black eyes glittered dangerously. “Why is the door open?”

  Chubby was cowering under the table. If Miss Fitch came down the stairs, Pippa knew he would be discovered.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “It was . . . it was . . .”

  “A rat,” Thomas said. “A big
one. It was trying to get in.”

  Miss Fitch’s mouth curled in disgust. “Did you catch it?”

  Both Pippa and Thomas shook their heads. Chubby had pulled his knees to his chest, and was making himself as small as possible.

  “Disgusting things,” she said. “Ought to have their heads snapped off, every one of them. Lock the door. And wash your hands, for Pete’s sake. Those vermin carry all kinds of disease.” Then she turned and spun around, stalking back into the main hall, and closing the door behind her.

  With Miss Fitch gone, Chubby scuttled out from underneath the table and stood up. Their lie hadn’t been all that inaccurate. Chubby did look a bit like an overgrown rat. His face was smeared with dirt and crusted bits of things Pippa didn’t want to think about. His cap was gone. Lanky dark hair was plastered across his sweaty forehead. His clothes were filthy, and he looked even skinnier than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” Pippa demanded. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “You nearly turned him into a pancake,” Thomas pointed out.

  It was as though Chubby hadn’t heard. “I’m in trouble,” he said, pacing the narrow kitchen like a condemned man. “Big, big trouble.”

  “Slow down,” Thomas said. “Start at the beginning.”

  Chubby took a big gulp of air. Now he really looked like a rat—a drowning one. He exhaled slowly.

  “Better?” Thomas asked, and Chubby nodded. “Okay, then. Why did you run from the cops the other day?”

  He worked the hem of his shirt agitatedly. “I don’t know. When I heard Eckleberger was dead I must’ve lost my top.” He looked suddenly green. “I could never stand any of that stuff. Blood and guts and . . . and ghosts.” He shivered.