So far so good.
The popcorn lady saw me and called out, “It’s about to start—hurry up!”
“Oh, no!” I yelped, faking concern as I sprinted by her and down the hall.
But I wasn’t going back to my seat. It was time to find Mom, and then wait for the fireworks.
I rushed along the curving hallway. This time, all the audience entrances had curtains drawn across them—and oddly, there wasn’t a soul in sight. The music had begun and Bartholomew was announcing the next act.
I got to the end of the corridor and skidded to a stop in front of a swinging door marked:
Stay Out! Circus Personnel Only.
I’d planned on slicing through the canvas again, but—here was a door, completely unguarded.
Is it a trap? Is it—
I didn’t have time to think about it, though, because I heard someone coming from behind me.
Here goes everything, I thought, barreling through the door.
I found myself in an even darker corridor, and right next to me—was a security guard. Her face was glowing green in the light of her phone screen.
“How’s it going?” she asked, not looking up from the text she was writing.
Don’t hesitate, Spart. Don’t stutter.
“Great,” I grunted, not missing a beat, not slowing my walk.
“Break a leg,” she murmured as I sped away from her. And that was it. I was in.
How am I in? Is my suit actually working? Or do the security guards not know what they’re guarding? Either way, I couldn’t believe my luck; finally, something was going right!
Inside, the floor was a steel ramp that spiraled up and around the side of the tent, back behind the stage. At first, I could hear the circus going on to my left, the audience laughing and oohing and ahhing as the music rose and fell. But the ramp jigged and jogged; I went up one set of metal stairs and down another. It wasn’t long before I was all disoriented.
I was about to lose my nerve, but I stopped and took a deep breath.
Don’t panic, I told myself. You can do this.
Finally, I heard people ahead. I crept along the curve to see a stage entrance on my left. Clowns and performers bustled up and down a ramp to my right. Some were changing costumes as they raced down the hall; others had on headsets and were cuing entrances and lights and effects.
It would have been pretty cool to watch—any other time, that is.
I could have turned back to find another path, but I already knew what was back there: nothing. If I wanted to find my mom, I would have go through them and find out where the people were coming from—and go through like I belonged there. But standing at the edge of the activity, I felt a nauseating wave of déjà vu. My forehead broke out in sweat under its face paint.
It’s just like sneaking into the sideshow, I reminded myself. I have nothing to worry about. There are a hundred performers here. The sideshow had only had twenty and I’d blended in. If I just acted like I was supposed to be there… Besides, with my face painted, even if they discovered me, they wouldn’t know I was me.
So I closed my eyes and counted to three. When I opened them and saw the first gap in the foot traffic, I merged into the chaos.
Just keep moving. Just keep moving.
What with the circus music and jostling amongst the performers and the tech people, the moment felt surreal—it was like I didn’t exist. Everyone was so focused on the show that I didn’t even get a glance as I hustled past the stage entrance. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Bartholomew in front of the audience, but I immediately ducked my head and pushed on.
Then, in what felt like a few seconds, everyone suddenly thinned out. It was like I’d just swum through a school of fish and they’d all darted away. I looked around in alarm, only to see the performers had scrambled to take their places onstage—some were even climbing the scaffolding above. A giant security guard leaned against the wall, but he simply nodded back as I went by.
My plan is working! Thank goodness he couldn’t hear my heart pounding over the music.
As I sped down the ramp on the other side, I met a couple stragglers straightening their green tutus as they hustled for the stage, but neither even glanced in my direction. The ramp curved down until I was walking on grass, in another long corridor of canvas. With all the performers hurrying from this side of the tent, I knew I didn’t have far to go.
The sides of the corridor were lined with colorful doors a few feet from the ground, metal stairs leading up to them. I scratched my head for a second before I figured out that they were entrances to the tour buses arranged around the outside of tent.
The performers’ buses.
I was almost there!
I tried not to run as I passed by them, looking at the names next to the doors. I saw one labeled Dr. Heisler. The plastic surgeon maybe? Scary. I hurried past.
The fourth door I passed said Bartholomew in big gold letters. And the very next one said Athena.
Mom.
Heart pounding, I glanced around to make sure I was still alone. Then, I knocked on the door.
I waited for all of about three seconds before pulling it open and throwing myself inside.
I hate to admit I cried when I saw her, so I won’t.
“Mom, I know it’s a surprise to see me—” I began, but Mom jumped up from a chair before I could even close the door behind me, smothering me in a hug.
“Oh my god! Spartacus!” she said into the top of my head, squeezing me tight. I think I was as shocked as she was.
“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, pulling back to look at me. Relieved, I saw immediately that this was Mom and not Charlene. She looked at the orange and red makeup smudges I’d left on her black shirt. “What’s that stuff on your face?”
“I had to see you,” I said, forgetting my speech and suddenly so overwhelmed that my voice was trembling. I couldn’t believe I’d made it. She was there. She was real. She was all right. She wasn’t handcuffed or beaten up or anything.
“Oh, come here, my baby,” she said, pulling me back and holding me again, not seeming to mind the paint.
After a minute she let me go and walked me over to a big, sleek black couch—I almost forgot we were on a bus. We both sat down and I looked around. It was awesome, with a kitchen and a bedroom. There was even a large walk-in closet, stuffed with colorful costumes.
“Look at you in that suit,” she said in that adoring way that had always embarrassed me. Hearing her now made me realize how much I missed it. “You’re growing into such a young man, and it’s only been a few months.”
“It’s been ten months,” I murmured, not looking at her.
“Has it?”
I was looking at the closed door that must have led to a bathroom when Mom gently turned my face toward her.
“Spartacus,” she said, pausing to breathe and then starting again. “Your dad got a message to me, telling me you’d run away and I didn’t know what to think. I—well, I was afraid you’d been kidnapped.”
I almost laughed out loud, but instead I just sputtered.
“You were afraid I’d been kidnapped?” I said, maybe too loudly. But she didn’t know about Will, about the postcards. I didn’t even know if she knew about the museums—maybe she wasn’t involved at all. But Mom interrupted my thoughts.
“How could you have done this?” She looked at me with her dark eyes in that way that always made me feel like I’d done something wrong.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean—” I started to explain, but she cut me off.
“Spart, if you wanted to come see me so much, we could have planned it out,” she said, scolding me. “You and Will could have come up to see me together.”
“How could we have planned something when nobody could
get in touch with you?” I asked.
“Your dad could have reached out to me any time he wanted,” she said. “He just…honey, I think he’s still hurting. That’s why we never talked. He won’t take my calls.”
I stared at her, blank-faced.
Any time he wanted. Dad could have—
Then I shook my head. This was no time to play the role of the angry child. I leaned in close to her so that no one could hear through the door or the walls.
“I came here to get you out,” I whispered. “I know you’re the one who was kidnapped.”
“Me?” she said, and then she was laughing.
“Shh!” I said. “With the house the way you left it, and Will sending, well, sending these postcards—” I paused. This was going to take too long. I changed my angle, telling her everything in a flood. “Look, I know Bartholomew won’t let anyone leave once they’re in the circus. I know that he’s stealing from museums.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom said in her normal-volume voice, pulling away. “The mess at the house was obviously from my audition. I didn’t get a chance to—”
“Keep your voice down,” I flinched. “I know about Santa Fe. I know about Prizrak and how he got locked in a safe and died in Chicago. I know about the streetcar and Abraham Lincoln’s china.”
Mom stood up, eyes widening, and shaking her head. “Who told you this? How about we get that makeup off you and—”
“I figured it out. Mom—I know about everything. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She crossed over to her vanity, pulled out some wet wipes, and sat back down next to me. She looked nervous, with that crazy kind of smile she’d sometimes get when Dad would go on one of his angry rants. Maybe these were the signs of Stockholm syndrome? Maybe she was afraid to admit that she needed help.
“Pretend?” Her laugh was thin and tight, as she tried to wipe my face. “Let’s stop talking like this and—”
“Mom!” I interrupted, pushing her hand away. “Look, maybe you don’t know about it. Maybe they’re doing the jobs without you.”
“‘Doing the jobs!’” she exclaimed. “You—you are so nutty. Whoa, look at this bruise, honey. What happened?” I pulled the wipe out of her hand and threw it on the floor.
“Mom, you have to come with me. Now.” I was so angry I was shaking. “Even if you don’t believe me. Just trust me.”
I got to my feet, slow and determined and held out my trembling hand. Frustrated tears welled up in my eyes. I’d known it was going to be hard, but I was totally unprepared for finding her like this. Why wasn’t she listening to me? She was just sitting there, shaking her head, mouthing the word no over and over again.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but please just trust me.” I took hold of her hand and tried an encouraging voice. “Maybe you’re scared. But you don’t have to be. I’ve called the police. They’re going to show up and then you can tell them what you know.”
“The police?” she said in a low, low voice.
“Yeah. I told them everything.” It was a little white lie that I thought would help. If she did have Stockholm syndrome, this might help her feel safer.
“What do you mean, everything?” came a man’s voice from inside the room.
My heart sank as a tall, pale man stepped out of the bathroom. In his hands was a large top hat.
Bartholomew.
Bartholomew stood a moment in the narrow hallway, letting his presence—and what that meant—sink in.
He’d been there the whole time.
But wasn’t he just onstage? Somehow he’d snuck into the bus before I’d found it!
Bartholomew came over and stood right next to my mom. She didn’t shudder, didn’t shrink away. In fact, she didn’t even seem to be scared at all…
“I, I—uh,” I had no words. I was dumbfounded. I was speechless.
Bartholomew up close was much scarier than Bartholomew in the ring. He really did have a smooth face, like they said. Smooth, shiny, and ageless, pulled tight like a fish. I couldn’t even guess how old he was. He could have been twenty. He could have been as old as my grandparents.
“Pleasure to meet you, Spartacus,” said Bartholomew, with a half bow and now a wide, easy smile on his face. But it was a clown’s smile, almost like he’d painted it on. I didn’t think for a second that it was real—it didn’t reach his eyes. And his accent was different than his performing voice. It was a strange accent I’d never heard before. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I stayed quiet. Bartholomew leaned down, studying me closely.
“Tell me,” he said in a calm voice. “Did you honestly call the police, Spartacus?”
“Yeah, I did. They’ll be here any minute.”
“What exactly did you tell them?”
I stared him in the eye, trying my hardest to look confident, like someone who had just called the police and had nothing to worry about. Then Bart stood up and looked at my mom.
“No,” he said to her, shaking his head. “He didn’t.”
I thought I saw my mom relax and let out a big breath. Then Bartholomew laughed a big laugh, with my mom laughing a smaller one.
“Spartacus, I remember what it was like to have so much imagination,” he said in his deep, melodic voice. “I truly do. When you’re young, it seems like everything is big and mysterious and everyone’s plotting something, doesn’t it? But Spartacus, we’re not stealing anything and nobody was kidnapped and nobody in my circus is trapped. Your mom is staying here because she wants to be here. She’s an amazing performer and we’re glad to have her. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
I glared at him.
“Sweetie,” said Mom. “It’s true. I shouldn’t have run off without talking to you first. I’m sorry, I was impulsive. But no one is trapped. No one’s holding me against my will. I can leave anytime I want.”
“Fine,” I said. She was either completely in the dark about the museum stuff or else she was too afraid to say anything in front of Bartholomew. But I couldn’t stop my stupid mouth. “What about him stealing museum art? Did he tell you about that?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Bartholomew, that painted-on smile back on his face.
“You know. The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. And all of the other places. The streetcar? Abraham Lincoln’s china? That dinosaur skeleton?” And then, just to see if there was any reaction, “The gold scarab from Mexico?”
Mom blanched, but Bartholomew laughed. “I heard about the O’Keeffe museum. I don’t know the other ones. But what makes you think we were involved with any of that?”
“Every time you visit a city, something gets stolen.”
“Trust me, Spartacus; we haven’t stolen anything,” he said. The tone of his voice sounded so reasonable that I blushed. “You’re over-reacting. Things get stolen in big cities all the time and you never hear anything about it. Just because we’ve been to some cities and they’ve had a few things go missing isn’t proof of anything.”
I knew I should just keep quiet, but I couldn’t help talking back to him. “But what about the woman who looks just like Mom?” There was no way he could explain that. “I saw her in Albuquerque.”
“Albuquerque? You mean Charlene? We do look alike,” Mom said, her eyes and voice soft. “But maybe you just wanted her to be me so badly that you imagined we looked more alike than we really do.”
Was it possible I’d made a mistake about that? There was no way. She’d looked just like Mom. Hadn’t she?
“But what about Zacharias Prizrak?”
“You know how rumors are, Spartacus,” he said. “Prizrak used to work for me. But he was a criminal. He got in trouble and, yes, he had an accident while he was committing a crime. I know people have blown that out of proportion. But trust me that it was entirely
his doing, not mine. I can’t be blamed for the actions of everyone who works for me.”
Bartholomew had a way of looking at you that made it hard to look away. Those small, blue eyes set in that pale face were almost…mesmerizing.
I shook my head and took a step back. “Mom, they say he’s violent. He’s vicious. He stole the circus. He even fixed the Tour de France!” I practically shouted this out, just releasing all my suspicions in one stupid rush.
Bartholomew smiled like he felt sorry for me. “Have you been visiting IHateBartholomewsCircus.com?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, he just nodded and smiled. “That’s a fun website, isn’t it? Would it surprise you to know that I put that website up myself? Would it surprise you to know that we make those rumors up? For some reason, people like to believe in mysterious, dark things. And that’s what our circus is all about. Giving people what they want.”
“It’s true, Spartacus,” said my mom. “That’s just a thing to get people interested in the circus and make it all seem more mysterious than it is.”
I felt like I was sinking slowly, slowly into quicksand. Not that I’d ever been in quicksand, but that’s exactly how I thought it would feel.
Bartholomew looked at his watch, then glanced at Mom. “We do have to get onstage in a second, so we’ll have to continue this conversation after the show.” He and Mom exchanged a strange look. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking.
“And surely, Spartacus,” Bartholomew continued in a calm voice, calm as a clam, “you have to admit it all does seem a bit strange, doesn’t it? You have to admit that maybe you’ve been a little immature about all of this, Spartacus. We all want to have a big adventure once in a while, but surely, Spartacus, the world isn’t as big a place as you think it is. It’s a calmer place. It’s a much more boring place, really. It’s a much more peaceful place, really, Spartacus.”
There was something about the way he talked. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He kept saying my name over and over and his voice had a weird, lulling quality that made me think of my mom when she used to read to me in bed.
Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible Page 23
