Was I still scared? Yes.
“‘But no more than I was to be born,’” I quoted. And I meant it.
I think.
When I stepped out of the stinky, hot port-o-potty, it was seven-forty.
Here we go.
The park was now crawling with families and the ticket line snaked all the way down the street. Babies cried and kids played in the grass. A clown on stilts stood by the road, holding a sign upside down that said Circus Tonight! Some kids threw dandelions at him.
I knew I’d made a good choice with the face paint—almost every face under ten years old had been painted like some sort of animal or other. My flames were by far the coolest, which helped make up for the fact that I was obviously too old for face paint.
I hadn’t ventured very far into the crowd when I felt Matilda moving again. Like before, only more frantic.
Uh-oh.
Suddenly, my hope that Matilda would stay calm during the show seemed incredibly stupid. I mean, the success of my entire plan depended on the mood of a monkey-thing. If she gave me away, I was toast. As if to illustrate my point, she chose that very moment to release a series of short, unhappy screeches. And people definitely noticed. Two little kids stared, mouths open. A man, lugging a whining toddler, paused to listen to the noise.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I ducked behind a funnel-cake stand, away from the people. Despite the crowds, our little spot was out of sight. Retreating as far behind the booth as I could, I shrugged off the backpack, hoping Matilda was just bored and not, well, angry. I got out an apple slice, hoping it would calm her down.
“Hey, Lemur, what’s happening—”
I never got to the last part of that question.
I’d unzipped the pack the tiniest fraction of an inch when she burst out like she’d been shot out of a cannon. In two seconds, she’d raced up my arm, leaped off my head, and scrambled up the funnel cake stand.
Oh, man. I smacked my forehead. She was so quick, I never saw it coming!
I watched as she scampered up a wooden pole, about twenty feet above me. She’d been so slow and calm before! I never even thought about what to do if she tried to escape. Why hadn’t Zeda warned me? Just carry her in your sweatshirt! Great idea.
“Matilda!” I hissed, but she didn’t even blink.
How was I going to get Matilda back to Zeda now? I was crazy to have made that promise. I’d probably just doomed Matilda to her death, being loose in this park in the city.
“Matilda!” I spoke louder. Still no reaction. She just looked down at me, serene as can be.
I held out the apple, hoping to tempt her, but nothing. The thought of calling Zeda, and how her voice would sound when I told her what happened…well, the thought actually hurt.
“Matilda!” I finally shouted. Matilda tapped the wooden pole, then casually licked a bug off her finger.
I stood there, panicked. I was already late to meet Lloyd. I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered Mom pressing her forehead to mine. I had to go.
“I’m so sorry, Matilda,” I whispered, deciding. “I’ll come back. I promise. I won’t leave you for too long.”
I put apple slices on the grass and wondered if she would stay where she was or if she would accidentally scramble out into traffic before I could come back?
I had no idea. I sighed heavily.
Coming out from behind the booth, I made a mental note where I was. After the circus. Maybe she’ll still be here after the circus…
I was still looking up at her when I heard it.
“Spartacus!”
I turned to see who was calling my name, even though I knew who it had to be. There he was, looking twice as big as I’d remembered. Lloyd Lloeke (a.k.a. Dan Lloeke, a.k.a. “The Cue”) strode directly toward me.
Chapter Fifteen
Spartacus!” Lloyd’s voice boomed over the squawking children. “Whatcha looking at up there? A squirrel?”
“Oh, hi,” I said, surprised again just by the sheer size of him. I turned away from the funnel cake stand, hoping he wouldn’t keep looking up there. “Uh, yeah, big squirrel up there.”
“Huh. Well! It’s good to see you again!” he said, giving me a hearty pat on my back. “Great face paint. And that suit again. Very dapper.”
“Er, thanks.” He must have mistaken the look of terror on my face for simple surprise, because he kept grinning.
“Mom, this is the boy I was telling you about. Spartacus, this is my mother, Beverly.” He was gesturing to an elderly woman standing beside him and my throat tightened.
His mother? Why did he bring his mother?
“Nice to meet you,” said the small, elegant woman, offering me a bejeweled hand. I shook it, trying to hide my shock behind a nervous smile.
“We were about to head to a movie when you called,” Lloyd explained.
I nodded, but it didn’t answer my larger question: Could I still use him as a diversion in front of his mother? Have him arrested in front of his pink-cheeked, smiley, elderly mother?
Without hesitation, I knew the answer. Yes. Yes I could.
I was a horrible person.
“So…” I said, trying to smile a real smile. “How’s everything? How was Boise?”
“Good, yes. The lecture went well. But, more importantly, how are you? I mean, after the funeral and all?” He seemed so genuine—not at all what you’d expect from a murderous fugitive. I wondered if his mom knew he was a killer?
“Doing good,” I answered shakily. We got in line and Lloyd looked around us in a searching way. Was he looking for cops?
“You here with your dad and that bully older brother you told me about?”
“Nah, they couldn’t make it,” I shook my head. “I mean, they’re coming late,” I added. I didn’t want him to think I was here by myself. “We had some…some family stuff, you know, come up.”
“Nothing bad, I hope,” Beverly said.
“No, no, nothing bad,” I said. We’d reached the ticket booth and as I reached for my wallet, Lloyd pushed in ahead of me.
“Hey, don’t worry, I got it,” he said, handing money over my shoulder to the ticket seller, who had tattoos of spiders on her face. I don’t know if I imagined it, but it seemed like she was staring at me as she pushed us our tickets.
“Be sure to switch your phones off and place them in your pocket or purse before entering the tent,” she said sternly. “Any phones seen inside the show will be confiscated and they will not be returned.”
So that explains why there aren’t any photos from inside the tent.
“How will I live Tweet this without my phone?” Lloyd joked, fiddling with his phone.
“Enjoy the show, folks,” she said blankly, ignoring Lloyd.
“Thanks for the ticket,” I said to Lloyd.
“No problem,” he said, gesturing to his mom and me to go in ahead of him. He really doesn’t seem like a murderer, I thought for the umpteenth time. He was just so…nice. Not that that’s any reason to trust someone. But still.
“Lloyd tells me he gave you a ride on his bike from Sisters to Boise. Is that right?” Beverly asked. We were walking up a long, curving ramp in a dark hallway that led around the outside ring of the tent. Red glowing markers on the floor pointed the way. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Yeah,” I said absentmindedly, trying to concentrate on how the tent was laid out. There were more concession stands all along the front area—popcorn, corndogs, nachos.
“I love Sisters,” she was saying. “Lloyd took me there once—it was such a treat!”
“You go hiking often?” Lloyd was asking.
“What? Oh, sure. The whole family does,” I said. I didn’t know what I was talking about.
We followed the curved enclosure for a little w
ay before finding our entrance. At the top of a short flight of metal stairs, we met the big top.
It was like stepping into a kaleidoscope: bright red, indigo, and grass-green curtains draped the walls while hidden, pulsating lights made all the colors swirl together before my eyes. A strange, pink fog rolled across the stage in waves, drifting into the front rows. A light in the rafters made stars circle above us. Even though there was music swelling and the audience was bubbling with chatter, it all felt so silent in my head that I held my breath.
I had arrived. I was really there.
“This is impressive,” Lloyd said.
He didn’t have to tell me.
Bartholomew had turned the inside of the tent into an exotic place. Most circuses I’d seen in movies had a middle area surrounded on all sides by the audience. Bartholomew’s was set up differently, though, with the three rings near the back of the tent, and the audience seated in a half-circle, facing the rings. That meant there was a whole backstage area we couldn’t see—which is exactly where I needed to go when intermission arrived.
The tent must have had room for a thousand people, at least. Maybe two thousand. I’d been expecting some bleachers on the grass, more like how the sideshow had been set up.
Checking our ticket stubs, an attendant in a red sports coat led us to seats that were only five rows or so back from the stage. We were so close we’d probably be able to smell the animals.
So close that Bartholomew might be able to recognize me. Great. I wished I had my hat with me. I hadn’t worn it because I thought it wouldn’t go with the suit and would draw attention to me.
Says the guy in the suit and the fire face paint, Will would have snorted.
All around us, families filed in. Parents were laughing and pointing out interesting things while clowns wandered through the audience, riling up kids with balloon animals and tripping over people’s feet. Lloyd flagged down a vendor and bought cotton candy for us. The fluffy pink goodness turned to grainy sugar on my tongue. I had to admit that, despite everything that was about to happen, eating cotton candy made me feel a little better.
“Nice seats,” said Lloyd and his mother nodded in agreement.
“Amazing,” I chimed in, trying to sound normal. I was worried. What if the lady gave us these seats on purpose? So Bartholomew could keep an eye on me?
“Spartacus? Are you okay?” Lloyd asked.
“Hmm?” I said, but I panicked, thinking maybe he’d been talking and I’d missed something he’d said. Was that suspicion or concern in his eyes? He was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“Yeah. I guess I’m just really anxious to see my mom,” I said, remembering how easy it was to lie by telling the truth.
“What does she do again?” asked Beverly.
“She’s the Human Cannonball,” said Lloyd. “The Amazing Athena.”
I cringed, hoping no one around was hearing this.
“We saw her bus outside!” she exclaimed, nudging Lloyd. “I bet you never get tired of seeing her perform.”
“Actually,” I admitted. “This will be the first time.”
“You’ve never seen her perform?” she exclaimed.
“She hasn’t been in the circus that long—just since the end of last summer, so this will be the first time.”
And hopefully the last.
I put some more cotton candy in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to say anything more.
Lloyd smiled gently at me. “That’s gotta be rough, never seeing your mom,” he said sympathetically.
I nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt at Lloyd’s words. He was a killer, sure—but he was also, in a way, my friend. And I was going to get him arrested by the SWAT team right in front of his own mother. Could I betray the guy who’d encouraged me to stand up for myself and told me it was okay to embrace my ridiculous name?
The lights began to dim, as if to say that these questions didn’t matter anymore.
There was no turning back.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, friends and animals of all ages!” a voice boomed in the blue darkness. “You are about to experience the most marvelous, prodigious, miraculous, stupendous show to ever visit the Pacific Northwest. Welcome to Bartholomew’s World-Renowned Circus of the Incredible!”
The audience burst into wild applause and a live orchestra at the front of the stage started playing. At the same time, there was a loud BOOM and the spotlight appeared, shining on a cloud of red smoke. A tall, slender, and elegant man in a red suit and a black top hat stepped out from the fog, a cane raised over his head. I narrowed my eyes.
Bartholomew.
I was sitting so close I could see his pale, smooth skin and the light glinting off his red hair. My blood began to boil, just seeing him looking all smug and important. And to see the audience respond to him like they thought he was so great! They had no idea what he really was. The Count from who-knows-where who forced people to perform against their will, who stole from museums, who may have sold his soul to the devil so he could do black magic…
Okay, so that last stuff was a long shot, but still.
Boy, they wouldn’t be applauding him for long.
What followed was a huge fanfare of performers around him. He stood still in the middle of it, directing it all while a line of animals and a whole slew of clowns and performers marched and jumped around the ring.
“Clowns freak me out,” Lloyd leaned over and whispered. “You can never tell what they’re feeling.”
I nodded. Same with murderers, I thought.
I scanned the performers for my mom, but didn’t see her. At the end of the little parade, Bartholomew pointed his cane at a box on the stage and flames suddenly shot out of it, followed by four tumblers.
“Behold, the phenomenal, sensational, spectacular, and wholly singular magic of the human body!” his voice boomed, filling every corner of the tent.
We watched what looked like nine-year-old quadruplet contortionists twist their bodies into knots while balancing on chairs and each other.
After that, we “beheld the magic of the flame” while a man breathed fire (snore), and watched “the magic of gravity” while a woman juggled while using a trampoline to run up a makeshift wall. After each performance, clowns came out and did funny skits for the little kids.
Mom still hadn’t come out.
The scariest was Sharkman’s routine, which was just before intermission. Even though I’d seen him before (and yes, hit him over the head), him being there really freaked me out.
They introduced him as a bizarre, baffling, bewildering, perplexing, and peculiar fluke of nature. But I remembered what Nero had said about him—it was mostly plastic surgery. He was muscular in a shiny gray bodysuit, his dorsal fin sticking out and his gills flexing with each breath. They’d somehow attached a fake shark nosepiece to his face. Even though I knew he was just a man in a permanent costume, knowing he might be backstage when I was trying to find my mom was terrifying.
His stunt was diving. There was a large, clear tank of water with a couple of small sharks, and a ladder and high dive above it. Just seeing the high dive gave me horrible flashbacks.
“That guy’s a real piece of work,” Lloyd whispered to me, interrupting my thoughts. I nodded and we clapped politely as Sharkman did some okay dives from really high up, like the stuff you see at the Olympics. The sharks in the tank didn’t seem to care whether he was in there or not.
But honestly, Will could probably do better.
As the first half wound down and the circus broke for intermission, my heart thumped like a drum. It was time to make the phone call. Time to ditch Lloyd and his mom. Time to get the real show on the road.
“Some circus, eh?” Lloyd said loudly, leading us through the noisy crowd to the concessions.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s really good.”
“I especially like the tumblers,” Beverly was saying as we got to the front. “Say, when is your mom—?”
“I waited way too long to pee,” I blurted out. “Gotta find the restroom!” Without saying anything more, I dove into the crush of people before Lloyd or his mom could follow.
Let’s do this, I told myself, trying to psych myself up as I shouldered my way to the entrance.
The sun had gone down since the circus started and I left the grounds under the cover of…well, I guess Eli wouldn’t call it dusk. It was too late at night for that. Twilight, maybe.
I went to the phone booth I’d staked out earlier, just across the street a ways. I looked over my shoulder, making sure Lloyd hadn’t followed, that he wasn’t going to eavesdrop on the call…
…and take out a knife from his jacket and…
I shook my head. Couldn’t think about that. Must not think about that. I let out a shaky breath, picked up the receiver, and dialed.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
I hesitated for a long moment before I spoke. Once I did this, it couldn’t be undone.
“I want to make an anonymous tip,” I finally said. “I just saw this guy—the murderer from the wanted posters. Lloyd—I mean Dan Lloeke. He’s at the circus tonight.”
There was some clacking on the keyboard. “And how sure are you that it’s him?” the man asked.
“One hundred percent,” I said with confidence. “He has the Rolling Stones tattoo, right forearm.”
“Where are you located?” he asked.
“Bartholomew’s Circus of the Incredible, near the park downtown. The intermission is ending, so you should probably get here fast.” And with that, I hung up the phone.
My body felt heavy. I’d done it. It was out of my hands. Things were going to start happening now. I could feel it.
Better hope this works, Spartacus.
With this cloud hanging over me, I raced back to the circus. I stopped at the edge of the concessions, spying on the place where I’d last seen Lloyd. Luckily, there was no one left there except for the concessions people. No Lloyd. No Beverly. They must’ve gone back to their seats.
Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible Page 22
