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 way 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.
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.
That was it. His voice made me tired. Or maybe I was already tired. I had been awake a long time and I suddenly felt all of those hours I’d been up.
My mom started to say something—“I’m really happy here, Spartacus, you have to—” but Bartholomew shushed her gently.
“Maybe you need a nap, Spartacus,” said Bartholomew. “A nap would truly be good for you. After all you’ve done. All you’ve traveled. A nap in this comfortable place that your mom finds very comfortable, too. When we get back, we’ll talk about this a little more, but right now I imagine sleep sounds very good, don’t you agree?”
Yes, I did. He was right. I wasn’t sure why I’d been so angry and upset a few minutes ago. Taking a nap seemed like a reasonable idea. I would wait for them to get back and we could figure things out then. It was silly to get so upset.
I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. My head was swimming. How could Bartholomew and the circus be doing all the stuff I thought they were? It didn’t make any sense, did it? I’d gotten it all wrong from the start. Will had written the coded postcards, not Mom. Mom had wanted to come here. She was happy here. I had been so stupid to think she needed rescuing. I’d been very silly the whole time.
But then Zeda’s face floated into my mind. Like one of those real-life pictures that you get in your head right before you drift off to sleep. Zeda’s pretty face. Telling me that nobody trusted Bartholomew. Zeda and Nero and Remmy and Zeda’s dad—they all hated Bartholomew, didn’t they?
Zeda. I promised Zeda I’d help Matilda. Matilda. Where was she again?
My mind wasn’t working right. I didn’t know why, but I knew I needed to snap out of it. I did something that always worked in the movies. I hauled off and gave myself a big cracking slap across the face.
“Aaah!” I cried out, sitting up. That did the trick. I was fully awake.
What the heck had happened?
Mom and Bartholomew were gone. I didn’t even remember them leaving. One second I was standing there, listening to Bartholomew defend himself, and the next I was waking up on the couch.
Strange. I went to Mom’s vanity and wiped the rest of the paint off my face, thinking about absolutely nothing at all—until the roar of the audience outside brought me back.
Did Bartholomew hypnotize me?
I stared at my bruised and scratched face in the mirror and felt the remaining fuzziness disappear. I’d read rumors online that Bartholomew had the power to do that to people—but that was on the IHateBartholomew website, which he and Mom insisted was fake.
I shook my head, my brain feeling thick and slow. I put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples. I didn’t know what to believe right then. It really did seem absurd that a circus would be involved in the museum robberies.
But all those places had stuff stolen while The Incredible was in town. That was too big of a coincidence, wasn’t it? And the scarab. Eli and I knew the scarab was stolen. Mom had even looked funny when I mentioned it.
Another cheer from the audience.
Time was passing and the circus was still going—but for how much longer? Lloyd and his mother were still watching, probably wondering where I was, if I was okay. And the cops would be here any moment to arrest Lloyd.
I only had one choice. I had to get to the police and tell them everything I knew about the museums and Bartholomew. If it wasn’t true and I had been wrong about everything, they could sort it out. If it was true, they could help me save my mom.
When I went to the door, though, it was locked.
I shook the handle, fiddled with the lock, and tried the handle again. It wouldn’t budge. I should have been able to open it from the inside—I mean, it was a bus door. But it was stuck shut, which meant they had locked me in from the outside. If they were innocent, why would they lock me in?
They?
Yes. They.
I could just barely remember it, but right before they left, I’d caught a glimpse of Bartholomew taking Mom’s hand to lead her out. Bartholomew and my mom, as thick as thieves.
I barely made it to the toilet before I threw up.
I felt cold and clammy as I paced the length of the bus like a caged animal, trying to find a way out. There wasn’t a mobile phone anywhere to be found. It wasn’t long before I picked up the chair and tried to break the windows. They didn’t break, though, just as I’d thought. It’s like they were made of shatterproof glass. Maybe bulletproof? Figures a criminal mastermind would have those in his girlfriend’s tour bus—just in case she snapped out of it and got the idea to leave him.
Girlfriend. That’s what the situation was, wasn’t it? Bartholomew and my mom were a couple. Together. “An item.” She was with him and knew all about everything. But then again, there was also that trick with the hypnotizing. I was breathing hard through my nose. There was still that teeny chance, that last shred of hope, that Mom wasn’t a criminal. That she had been hypnotized by him. That she was still my mom, the one I remembered.
I shouted loudly in frustration and kicked the wall. What now? I thought. What’s left? Just wait until Bartholomew comes back and puts me in a bank vault? Wait until—
Just then the door swung open silently. I had just enough time to dive in the bathroom to hide, thinking it was Bartholomew again, or maybe Sharkman. No one came inside, though. A few seconds later I heard—
“Ryan?”