The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium

by F. Paul Wilson

  Bramble sighed. "And I suppose you want me to steal it."

  "There’s no other way. And we both know you can—you’re a pro."

  George stared at him. Bramble? A thief?

  Bramble shook his head. "Those days are done."

  "One more time. Consider this your swan song. And I want George to go along."

  Me? A burglar? No way.

  Before George could speak, Bramble placed a coarse hand on his shoulder.

  "Don’t take this personally, kid, but I work alone. Always have." He looked at Oz. "You know that."

  "Take him," Oz said. "He needs to feel part of the troupe."

  George shook his head. "I’m fine. And my feelings aren’t hurt."

  He didn’t want to tag along when he wasn’t wanted, and sure as hell didn’t want to risk getting caught. Damn that bonus. If he didn’t need the money, he’d blow the show with Ginger. But who’d hire a freak and a high-wire performer out there?

  Oz ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on Bramble. "You owe me, John Henry, and I’m calling in my marker."

  George saw Bramble’s branchlets contract beneath his dashiki, as if balling into angry fists. He seemed about to say no, then put his head back and looked at the stars. The fists relaxed.

  "Shit."

  My sentiments exactly, George thought.

  6

  "No hard feelings, kid. I mean about not wanting you along."

  George started Oz’s car and glanced over at Bramble in the passenger seat.

  "None taken. I wouldn’t want me along either."

  Bramble laughed. "You’re all right, kid."

  They drove in silence a few minutes, heading across the field toward the nearby town of Monroe. Bramble rambled about how the Emporium stopped here every tour and set up on old man Haskins land, and how he liked the town because it gave him a comfortable feeling, blah-blah-blah.

  George held back as long as he could, but finally had to ask: "Oz said you were a pro. A professional thief?"

  A nod. "Yeah. Good one too. Second-story man."

  "Who always worked alone."

  A wry smile. "Not exactly."

  He pulled off his dashiki and reached up to his left shoulder. George heard a soft pop and saw Bramble wince as he snapped off one of his branchlets. It left a bloody, dime-size pock. He placed the branchlet on the dashboard.

  "Sometimes I had help."

  It began to move.

  More than move. The branchlet walked . . . like a spider . . . like a woody tarantula.

  George, fascinated and maybe a little grossed out, watched it scuttle back and forth on the moonlit dashboard.

  "Hey!" Bramble yelled.

  George looked up and saw the car veering toward the curb. He yanked the wheel and they swerved back onto the straight and narrow.

  "It’s . . . it’s alive?"

  "Sort of. I can control them for a while—long as they live, anyways. They need a blood supply, and if they don’t reattach in time, they die. I can always grow others, but it saddens me to lose even one. They’re almost like children, you know . . . flesh of my flesh, and all that."

  "But how—?"

  "How did they help? On rare occasions, if I had visual contact and could see what I wanted—and if it was small enough—I’d send one or two in to bring it to me."

  "Like a jewel?"

  "Never seen a diamond or ruby lying around, kid. But rings, light bracelets, yeah—the branchies were good gofers for those. Mostly I used them to scout out alarm systems before I went in. If a system was too tight or elaborate, I’d pass. One time, though—outside Omaha—I got fooled and wound up in the pokey. The papers had a field day with my looks. Made the front pages at first, then spent a whole week as a fixture on page three. Oz was touring through at the time, spotted one of my photos. Found me a lawyer who got me off on some kind of technicality. Gotta love those technicalities."

  George noticed the branchlet’s spiderlike runs back and forth across the dash seemed to be slowing.

  "So Oz convinced you to go straight?"

  "No, two weeks in jail straightened me—scared straight, as the expression goes. The jailbirds they locked me up with beat the crap out of me every day."

  "Why?"

  "You have to ask? Because I’m me. I’d gathered they were at each others’ throats before I showed up. One look at me and suddenly they were best buds, united against the freak." He grinned and patted his bark. "Lucky I’m not thin skinned."

  George faked a laugh.

  Bramble wasn’t buying. "Yeah, I know . . . bad joke."

  He pulled out a pair of reading glasses, settled them on his nose, and unfolded the directions Oz had given them.

  "Okay, we’re almost to Shore Drive. Next right, next left after that, and we’re there. Look for number three-sixty-seven."

  George made the turn and pointed to the inert branchlet on the dash.

  "Looks like he’s a goner."

  "Not yet."

  Bramble snatched it up and replaced its base in the bloody pock he’d plucked it from. It hung limp and motionless. George figured Bramble had been too late, but by the time he’d made the second turn, the thing had perked up and started to move again.

  Shore Drive seemed pretty ritzy. George eased along, looking for street numbers. Big waterfront houses—some looked like mansions—looking out over the Long Island Sound. Big and old, with brownstone walls. He saw a brass plaque on a brick gatepost. It read: Toad Hall.

  He kept rolling. All the places seemed to have well-tended lawns—all except the one they were passing now. No grass, just wildflowers . . . thousands and thousands of wildflowers. Kind of creepy and ugly in the dark, but he bet they looked fabulous in daylight. Fabulous, that is, unless you were a stuffy neighbor. And he bet the area was lousy with stuffed shirts who thought a front yard should look like a billiard table, not a meadow.

  Then George spotted 367 on the meadow-lawn’s mailbox. He slowed, remembering what Oz had said about the place and its owner.

  He’s an eccentric, a man who lives in the past. He owns an English manor-style home he refuses to modernize.

  George thought maybe he could like this guy.

  "Keep going," Bramble said. "We’ll park around the next corner."

  George pulled to a stop in a splotch of deep shadow under a tree. As he turned off the engine and reached for the door, Bramble grabbed his arm.

  "You wait here, George."

  "But Oz sent me along to—"

  "To what? Back me up? I don’t need a bagman. You’ll only get in the way. Oz will have his Piece because I will get it for him—but I’ll get it alone."

  He grabbed the little black doctor bag he’d brought along—"my tool kit," he’d called it. Clad only in his loincloth and sneakers, he stepped out of the car and slipped off into the night.

  George felt a pang of uneasiness as he watched him go, but that was leavened by a splash of relief that he wouldn’t be risking jail again. He remembered what Bramble had said about his short stay behind bars and feared he might have an even worse time.

  He settled back to wait.

  7

  Bramble knelt by one of the ground-floor windows, inspecting the hole he’d just cut in the pane.

  So far, so good. Oz had said no dog, no sign of an alarm system. But Oz was no expert. Bramble needed a little more assurance.

  He snapped off a branchlet from above his right knee—not much pain, no more than a needle prick—and dropped it through the opening.

  Closing his eyes, he sensed its "feet" in the tips of his fingers. He sent it skittering across the floor toward the back door, just a few feet to his right. Since the branchlet had no eyes, it couldn’t see for him, but it could feel for him. When it reached the molding he sent it up, making it climb along the gap between the door and its frame, over its hinges, up, up, around, and down. No sign of wiring or contacts. That didn’t eliminate the possibility of a plunger within the frame. Oz had said the guy was ec
centric and lived in the past. Maybe that meant no alarm system at all.

  Bramble hoped so. Because the backdoor lock was an old-fashioned skeleton model, probably here since day one when the house was built. A cinch to open, which was why no one used them anymore.

  He broke off another branchlet from near his left elbow and fitted two of its six legs into the big keyhole. He angled them and rotated the branchlet counterclockwise. The latch retracted with a satisfying clink.

  He felt a hit of pride.

  Still got it!

  Funny how old skills don’t die. Like riding a bike.

  He waited, listening. No sound from within, no sign that anyone had heard the latch. He returned the branchlet to its home, grasped the knob, but didn’t turn it.

  He wanted to savor the moment, revel in the pounding of his heart, responding to the adrenaline infusing his bloodstream. He felt more alive at this moment than he had in years. Maybe he shouldn’t have given up the boosting life.

  Then he remembered his jail experience and decided, yeah, maybe it was a good thing he had. Even worse than his school days back in the Maritimes when all the kids wanted to know if he ever got a woody, or wanted him to bark like a dog. Ha. Ha.

  Little fucks.

  Finally became so intolerable he dropped out and headed south to Boston where he educated himself. Lots of good libraries in Boston. Did a pretty damn good job too, if he said so himself. And he did. No one else would.

  But he had no degree, not even a high school diploma. Hard luck led to petty theft, and that led to a more skilled, systematic level of thievery.

  Until he’d gotten nabbed.

  Taking a breath, he turned the knob and pushed. As the door swung open he waited for the wail of an alarm. All silent. But that didn’t mean a signal wasn’t on its way to a monitoring service. He checked the inner surfaces of the doorframe. No plunger. He stepped into a small utility room and ran his flash beam over the rest of the frame. No contacts. A quick check of the walls and ceiling revealed lots of crucifixes and icons, but no motion detectors.

  The place was bare naked.

  Hard to believe. Like leaving your car unlocked with the motor running.

  He could feel life fading from the branchlet he’d sent inside—almost a goner now—so he scooped it up and plugged it back into its old home.

  "There you go, little guy," he whispered.

  He felt the rootlets sink under his skin, sensed the blood beginning to flow. As it perked up he lost his link to it.

  From there he moved through the kitchen and the dining room, allowing only one-second flashes of his penlight to help him find his way past ancient appliances, huge antique oak and walnut furniture, and crosses—big, small, plain, ornate—everywhere.

  The high, circular front hall stunned him. He felt as if he’d entered some sort of reliquary. The walls on all sides and winding up the semicircular staircase well were studded with every religious artifact imaginable. Many Christian, but also Hindu and Islamic and Buddhist, and others he couldn’t place.

  Gave him the creeps. All right: Find this damn Piece and get the hell out of here.

  Oz had said it was in a cabinet in the center of the main room to the right of the front hall. Bramble found a pair of massive oak doors. He eased one open and looked around.

  He blinked his flash and almost jumped out of his skin, thinking he’d just stepped into a crowd. If the front hall had been a reliquary, this was a museum, a statuary—if there was such a word. He recognized Christian saints, but also numerous Buddhas—or would that be Buddhae?—along with the Hindu pantheon of Ganesha and Shiva and Kali and many, many others. Even a gold-cased Torah on a pedestal. All stood in concentric circles, all facing the ebony cabinet resting in the heart of the room.

  Oz had said he hadn’t seen the Piece—Eldridge had refused to show it to him—but he’d sensed it in this cabinet. He’d told Bramble he’d be able to sense it too.

  But Bramble sensed nothing.

  Still, if Oz said it was in there, that was where it had to be. Because Oz knew those sorts of things.

  At least he seemed to.

  He’d said it was supposed to be the size of a golf ball but was much smaller. Oz hadn’t explained, stating simply that he’d know it when he saw it.

  Bramble stepped over a coil of rope—what was that doing here?—and started tugging on drawers. Out of habit he began at the bottom in a technique every burglar either learned or was taught: Pull out the bottommost, search it, then leave it open and move to the one above; once that’s searched, move up again. Starting at the top necessitated closing one drawer before moving to the one below it. That took effort, took time, and made noise. And with all those closed drawers left behind, you could never be absolutely sure you hadn’t missed one. Bottom-up, always.

  Some of the drawers were locked. He’d save those for last.

  8

  George’s nape began to tingle. He looked up and around. Was he being watched?

  He thought he saw movement in the bushes bordering the nearest house. He watched, waiting to see it again, but the foliage remained still, unstirred by the mild evening breeze.

  But he felt . . . watched. That was the best way he could describe it. He stepped out of the car and did a full three-sixty scan but saw nothing.

  Still, the feeling persisted.

  He got back behind the wheel and was just getting comfortable again when the passenger door flew open. He jumped and yelped in shock as a man leaned in and pointed something at his face. When his eyes focused he found himself looking down the barrel of a snub-nose revolver.

  9

  Bramble kicked the cabinet. He’d searched all the unlocked drawers and come up empty, then he’d sprung every locked drawer with the same result.

  Nada.

  "Damn me!"

  And then, in that instant, he sensed the presence of the Piece, knew it was here in the room, but not in the cabinet.

  "I’m sure you will be," said a voice behind him.

  As he whirled, the lights came on, revealing a gaunt, almost cadaverous old man. Eldridge . . . this had to be Eldridge.

  He was dressed chin to ankles in a black coverall and wore a black knit cap. A thin scar angled from the center of his forehead down through his left eyebrow, and picked up again on his left cheek. The eyeball in the socket was milky white with no iris, no pupil.

  Eldridge wasn’t alone. He had a gun, and was pressing its muzzle against George’s right temple. The kid’s face was dead white, his skin beaded with sweat. He looked ready to pee his pants.

  Bramble felt his branchlets go rigid in response to his shock.

  "And please don’t abuse that cabinet," Eldridge said. "It’s more than seven hundred years old."

  Bramble raised his hands. "Let’s not get carried away here. We didn’t come to hurt anyone. We just wanted to—"

  "I know exactly what you want! Last night, when I rejected Satan’s offer a second time, I knew he’d try to steal it."

  "Satan?" Bramble said.

  "Don’t play dumb with me. I thought he’d return himself, but instead he sent two of his deformed worshippers to do his dirty work."

  Satan . . . he had to be talking about Oz. Oz had said Eldridge was loony, but Bramble had never expected a complete nut case. Had to find a way to talk him down.

  "Look, mister, we don’t know what you’re talking about. We work for ourselves, not Satan. And think about it: If whoever you talked to last night was really Satan, why couldn’t he have just struck you dead then and taken whatever he wanted?"

  Eldridge grinned and gestured around at his statues and icons. "Because of these—holy artifacts from all the world’s religions, great and small. He was powerless here. That’s why he sent you."

  This guy had an answer for everything.

  "Listen. You’ve got to—"

  "Enough!" He pushed George forward, saying, "Use those blasphemous excuses for hands to tie up your friend. Do a good job. I’ll be
checking the knots. And don’t try anything stupid." He waggled the pistol and pointed to his milky left eye with his free hand. "See this? After I purchased a Dzunabi fetish in the jungles of Borneo—it’s now fixed to the rear wall of this room—the village shaman decided he wanted it back. Tried to kill me to get it. Almost succeeded. But I’m here now and he became fertilizer for the jungle. So don’t think you’re dealing with a timid, harmless old man. Try me and I’ll shoot you dead without hesitation, without qualm."

  Bramble believed him.

  10

  Bramble struggled with his bonds but couldn’t budge. On his first attempt George had done a crummy job—purposely, he assumed—but, true to his word, Eldridge had checked the knots and found them wanting. He’d clubbed George with his pistol and told him to fix them. Then he’d bound George himself.

  So now the two of them sat side by side before the cabinet, looking up at Eldridge as he loomed over them.

  "There. That’s better."

  He slipped his pistol into one pocket and produced a dark blue golf ball from another.

  No, not a golf ball. The same size, maybe, but its surface was smooth instead of dimpled, and its color . . . Bramble had never seen that shade of blue.

  But the most disturbing thing about it was the way his thumb and forefinger sank into it up to the nail beds.

  "Was this what you were looking for?"

  Yeah, the thing fit Oz’s description, but Bramble wasn’t about to admit that to this demento.

  "What on Earth is that?" He turned to George who looked scared witless. "Georgie, you ever seen anything the likes of that?"

  Not entirely witless. The kid, bless him, shook himself out of his funk and barely missed a beat.

  "You kidding? I couldn’t even dream up something like that. What is it?"