by Laura Quimby
“Yep. That’s it.”
“Maybe we can get some more,” T-Ray said, slipping his fist into one of the cuffs. Jack closed the cuff around his wrist and T-Ray’s eyes widened. “Hey.”
“We’re going to have to. The act has got to be good. The dead have very discerning tastes,” Jabber said. “What do you really want? Mussini can get you anything.”
Jack pulled the Houdini picture out of his pocket. “What about these?” He pointed to the length of handcuffs that encircled Houdini’s wrist. There were seven vintage handcuffs total, beginning with the Russian manacle and ending with the Berliner. Jack didn’t expect that Jabber could really get them. Maybe he could dig up a Darby-style cuff somewhere. Maybe even one of the dead was still wearing it, locked around his guilty wrists. He suspected that a few of the criminal kind were among the dead in the forest.
Jabber and T-Ray stared down at the photograph as T-Ray still struggled to get the handcuff off of his wrist. “Those look impossible to get out of,” T-Ray said. “That’s a good act if you can do it.”
“A little ambitious, don’t you think?” Jabber asked.
“You asked me what I wanted. Can you get the handcuffs or not?”
“There’s nothing Mussini and I can’t get. I suppose you want the keys, too.”
“Of course I’ll need the keys. It’s not like I’m going to wave a magic wand to get out of them. The act is all one big trick, like Mussini said: half skill, half lie.”
“You should start with just a few. Maybe just one or two, and one of those easy ones that you brought.” Jabber motioned to Jack’s handcuffs. “We don’t want you falling on your face the first time onstage.”
T-Ray held up his manacled wrist. “Someone get it off of me.”
“Will you need anything else for your act?” Jabber asked.
“I’ll need a black box with a hole in the top and a curtain on one side.” Jack unlocked the handcuff attached to T-Ray’s wrist.
“How big should the box be?” Jabber asked.
“Big enough for me to fit inside.”
“You mean like a coffin.” Jabber smiled devilishly.
“Real funny, Jabber.”
As night fell, they packed up the wagon. Only one tent was left up for the boys to sleep in, while Violet slept in the wagon. Up ahead, Mussini, dressed in his long black traveling coat and black boots, slipped the gold mask of a hawk over his face. Half man, half predator, Jack thought as he watched Mussini sweep out into the night.
“Where’s he going?” Jack asked.
“He’s going to check out the next town. We’ll catch up with him in the morning. You better get some sleep. Tomorrow starts early, and the real fun begins.”
It was early morning when Jack rolled over to the sound of the wagon being closed up, and it felt like he had just fallen asleep. Still groggy, Jack leaned up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The camp had been broken down, the chill of morning hung in the air. Violet handed Jack a biscuit wrapped in a handkerchief before she disappeared into the back of the wagon. Stuffing the biscuit into his mouth, Jack ran his hands through a bucket of water that had been left on the ground for him to wash up.
“Better hurry. We’re leaving in few minutes.”
Jack washed his face and changed his clothes. He tossed his duffel bag into the back of the wagon and stared around at the misty campsite. It was as empty as if they were never there at all. Climbing up, Jack sat next to Jabber as he jolted the reins and the horses pulled the wagon to a slow crawl. He rubbed his arms to warm up a little and looked over his shoulder as the carriage rolled along, Mussini ahead of them, the wall behind them, and the Death Wranglers beneath.
The wagon ambled toward the town like a prehistoric mammoth. The wheels groaned as the painted beast lurched along the beat-up road. Ahead, the town sprouted up in the trees like a wild bunch of mushrooms. The buildings seemed to have come directly from different times in history, a patchwork of eras pieced together. Medieval thatched huts gave way to stone cottages and brick-and-mortar taverns. No two buildings were the same. Jack marveled at the surroundings, and how even in the Land of the Dead, people gathered together and held on to a sense of normalcy.
As the wagon ambled along, Jack watched the dead. They seemed just like ordinary people, until he looked a little closer. Then he could see the telltale sign of death in their hazy bluish skin, as if they were dusted with a thin coat of ash. It was kind of like they were disintegrating right before his eyes, the way stone statues melt from the force of wind and rain. The residents of the town all dressed in clothes from various times, as if they had been plucked from different slots on a time line. The dead stopped and gathered in tight knots, whispering and gawking as the wagon went by.
Mussini, wearing his golden hawk mask, appeared as a flash of gold moving through the crowd. Without a word, Jabber snapped the reins. The crowd parted as the golden hawk advanced, clearing a path for Mussini. A few people cast their eyes down or gave a nod or a slight bow to the hawk. Jack felt a tingle of pride at the respect Mussini was shown, although it might have been respect out of fear. Goose bumps multiplied on Jack’s arms. The air crept up behind him and rubbed his shoulders, and he jerked his head around to make sure no one was there. Jabber must have sensed his nerves.
“Don’t worry. We’re almost to the theater. You’ll get used to the dead. Soon you might even like it here.”
“‘Like’ is a strong word.”
Finally, the wagon came to a sudden jerky halt at the bottom of a crude wooden platform. A wheel must have broken, Jack thought, because this couldn’t possibly be the place. The stage was a dismal barren slab of wood set at the bottom of a clearing. Rows of butt-numbing wooden benches stretched out from the stage until the worn and dented hillside took over. It was not exactly the ideal locale for a show, and not even a good place for a picnic. Boxer threw back the curtain, jumped out of the wagon, and started to unpack their gear.
“We have arrived,” Jabber said with a grin. Smiling, he looked almost alive.
“This is it? There isn’t anything here, just a wooden stage and benches,” Jack said, not budging from his spot on the wagon.
“Were you expecting the life of a thespian to be glamorous?” Jabber asked.
“Not fancy or anything. Just not so … pathetic.”
“It’s a little sparse, perhaps, but full of potential.”
“Potential disaster.”
“All it needs is a little spit and polish.”
Jack jumped down and followed Jabber, who was clearly delirious if he thought this was the place to put on a show. At the very least, Jack expected the theater to be indoors.
“Was a roof too much to hope for?” Jack asked.
“It’s called alfresco, doofus,” Runt said as he sprang from the back of the wagon and leaped around the stage like a spring-loaded toad.
“Is that Italian for ‘we can’t afford a roof’?”
Jabber adjusted his hat. “Just wait and see. We might surprise you.”
Setting up the theater was a sweaty, blister-raising, labor-intensive challenge. Bolts of deep-red canvas were unrolled and pitched high above the stage on tall poles. Pulling and heaving, they raised the fabric like hoisting the sails of a ship on spindly masts. Yards of velvet, draped over the top, created a curtain. Runt lined the lip of the stage with elaborate paper lanterns and dropped a candle down into each one.
After hours of work, Jack rested his back against the leafy hillside. He wiped sweat from his forehead. As the sky darkened, the luminaries cast an eerie glow on the theater that they had transformed from an ugly slab of wood into an enchanting, man-made illusion.
The next day, Jabber brought Jack a box and some vintage handcuffs with the keys as requested. He tossed the heavy steel onto the ground at Jack’s feet: two Darbies and a Russian manacle. Cool. Jack lined them up on the ground, inspecting each one in turn. The metal was blackened and worn, smooth in his hands. Rusted old joints, probably stif
f. He hoped the locks still worked. Slipping the key into each lock, it felt like he was loosening the shackles of a tin man. But they worked. The keys fit.
The Darby was the easier of the two handcuffs to maneuver due to the link of chain that hung between the two cuffs. The Russian manacle was a different story; two great loops were connected with a large lock that hung like a clock face. It was heavier, and there was no play between the two thick metal bars that held his wrists. But, as Houdini would say, it wouldn’t be a challenge if it were easy. For the rest of the day, Jack practiced with the handcuffs and planned out his act.
Then he was ready for his dress rehearsal. Jabber sat in the gallery and watched as Jack stood on the stage and practiced his tricks.
“It’s not what you can do, but what you make the audience believe you can do. It’s called showmanship,” Jabber yelled up to him.
“I know what it is.”
The soul of Houdini, now that was the soul of a showman. Jack admired that about him. But unlike Houdini, Jack would rather face a firing squad than a room full of people staring at him, especially if they were dead. He wasn’t a center-of-attention kind of guy. Jabber was making him nervous, so Jack wandered off alone to practice with his new cuffs.
The problem was that Jack wasn’t sure he could do it. He always imagined himself in the midlands of success, the number three or four guy down—the bronze medal winner. He always wondered about those people who really believed in their guts that they were number one, the top dog, the king. Were they born knowing, or did they just decide one day? Mussini was like that, and Houdini believed obsessively in his own great destiny. Jack wanted to believe he had a destiny. Maybe performing for the dead would force him to find out.
Darkness on opening night brought a clamor of activity backstage. Jack paced back and forth, rehearsing his act in his head. He peeked out from behind the curtain. An emotional soup of nerves, excitement, and dread stirred up in him as he watched. Young and old, the dead found their seats and eagerly slipped on their masks, ready for the show to begin.
Dressed in a suit and bowtie, Runt strode onto the stage with his chest pushed out. He roared into the megaphone, a lion in a boy’s body. Ready or not. Jack wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. The red velvet curtains swung back in a jerking motion as T-Ray pulled on the rope and suddenly all eyes, behind the glittering masks, were on Jack. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His voice caught in his throat, and he coughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Runt bellowed into his megaphone and glanced at Jack. “I present: the Kid!”
T-Ray carried out a painted board that read, simply: The Kid. Great. It might as well have read: Goat or Pig or Loser. No one made a peep. Jack’s stomach growled loudly. A dead guy sitting a few feet away laughed. They all waited. Jack feared that at any second he would throw up on the entire front row.
“Um, good evening,” Jack stammered.
“We’ll tell you how good an evening it is when you’re done!” an audience member yelled up at him.
“My assistant here is going to shackle my wrists with these handcuffs.”
Jack held up the vintage handcuffs and two of his own. At that moment, he wished he wasn’t using his handcuffs at all, so he could focus on one challenge. The crowd settled a bit. Then some guy in the back yelled, “Check his pockets to make sure he doesn’t have keys!”
“Yeah, check his jacket and his shoes!” someone else yelled.
“The crowd’s a feisty one tonight,” Jabber whispered as he placed a pair of handcuffs on Jack’s wrists.
“Don’t put them on too tight,” Jack whispered.
“I know.” Jabber tightened the cuffs. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine. Now pat me down and pull my pockets inside out.”
With dramatic flair, Jabber showed the crowd that Jack had nothing up his sleeves or nothing concealed in his pockets. Jack had the keys hidden right under his shirt at his collarbone, so if anyone from the audience insisted on patting him down, they wouldn’t feel the keys, yet he could reach them with his mouth if he had to.
“And now I will enter the box.” Jack nodded toward the box, but when he raised his hands, the metal twisted around his wrists—the string of cuffs was heavier than he thought, the weight pulling him forward. As Jack stared into the sea of masks, his stomach churned. Jabber pulled the curtain back, Jack stepped inside the empty black box, and Jabber closed the curtain behind him.
Immediately, Jack snatched the key from his collarbone and went to work on the handcuffs. His heart raced. He felt like he was back inside the cart on the night he first arrived—a captive of his own trick. He panicked and went out of order. He was going to undo his cuffs first and then the vintage cuffs in order of difficulty, but he was too nervous and screwed it up. He got one of the Darbies off quickly and tossed it out of the curtain and onto the stage. Laughter exploded from the crowd—not a good sign. His act wasn’t supposed to be funny, but watching a box was only interesting for about a minute, tops. The dead shuffled in their seats, whispering and coughing. The box was suffocating, and his collar was too tight. His sweaty fingers slipped on the metal. It was taking him too long to get the cuffs off. Jack sensed the crowd’s restlessness, now plummeting into a state of boredom, hallmarked by raucous laughter sprinkled with chatter, catcalls, assorted snorts, boos, and other lowbrow grunts.
Runt peeked under the curtain, and then shimmied inside the box next to Jack. “Just so you know—you’re bombing big-time.”
“Thanks for telling me, because the deafening boos didn’t tip me off.” Jack tried to focus on the lock and not his impending fiasco on stage. “It’s my first time. The crowd can’t be that bad.”
“They’re throwing stuff, if that’s any sign. Pretty ingenious that you put yourself into a box, so you didn’t get hit by the garbage.”
“The dead are throwing garbage?”
“Mostly rotten vegetables. I barely missed getting beheaded by a rotten cabbage. Don’t let it get you down. We all bombed our first time.” Runt patted his shoulder. “It’s much more fun to watch you bomb instead of it being me.”
“I’m glad my failure makes you feel good about yourself.” Jack tried twisting the key in the lock, but had to use his teeth to turn it.
Runt held his forearm over his face. “I’m headed out. Cover me.”
Long moments later, the last cuff was off. It was almost over. Jabber poked his head inside the box.
“You better do something and quick. I’ve never seen the dead like this before. I heard whispering of a lynching.”
“A lynching just because they don’t like my act?”
“Tough break, kid.”
“You’re going to let them lynch me?”
“Showbiz is a heartless calling. I’m not about to risk my neck.”
“But your neck is already dead. It won’t matter if they lynch you.”
“Jack, I still have feelings.” Jabber touched his neck. “You better come up with something. What would your friend Houdini do?”
“We aren’t actually friends. I just like him.”
“Why?” Jabber asked.
“For one, he made escape seem easy.”
“Ah, but it’s not, is it?” Jabber nodded.
“No. It’s hard. If they only knew how hard it was, they wouldn’t be so smug.” And then Jack got an idea.
“If you survive, chap, we’ll all be hiding backstage waiting.” Jabber ducked out of the box.
The jeers and boos escalated, if that was even possible. Grudgingly, Jack threw back the curtain and bounded out of the safety of the box. The stage resembled a salad—a dead, rotten salad. Heads of lettuce and cabbage were scattered among rotten potatoes, crushed pumpkins, and squashed tomatoes. Runt was right; it was a good thing he had been in the box. The dead were ruthless.
“Be quiet!” Jack yelled. “Be quiet and listen! Listen to me!”
Jack held up the great Russian manacle that only seconds bef
ore lay discarded on the stage.
“Does anyone know what this is?”
A hushed silence fell over the crowd, and again all eyes were on him.
“Come on. Anyone?”
Jack walked down into the crowd. “You, beautiful lady. Can you guess?” The woman shied away from Jack, shaking her head and giggling behind her sparkling mask. Jack turned to a man a row back. “What about you, sir. You look like a worldly, intelligent man. Know what this is?”
But before the man could answer, a voice yelled from the throng, “A handcuff!” A few choked laughs followed, but the crowd kept their eyes on Jack, who jumped to the edge of the stage and held the manacle up like a prize.
“None of you seem familiar with it, and that shouldn’t surprise me, because if you were familiar, and I mean really familiar with this, the Russian manacle, you wouldn’t be here watching the show. You would most certainly be roasting in hell with some of the most ferocious and heartless criminals who ever dared march across the steppes of Russia.” Jack paused for effect and held the cuffs up. “It’s kind of shaped like a heart, isn’t it? It replaces the one the vile murderers were born without. The manacle was saved for only the vilest, most heartless of beasts. It’s considered impossible to escape, or so you should hope, unless the wearer loses a hand or two. And you laughed at me. Maybe I earned this cuff. Did you ever think of that?”
Jack jumped down onto a small bit of space on the bench in the front row. The dead gasped. But Jack just tossed the cuffs to Jabber, who, with a nod from Jack, threw him one of the Darby-style handcuffs.
“But wait, look at this one.” Jack held one cuff in each fist, and he pulled on them, rattling the chain in between. “This, my new friends, is the Darby. Scotland Yard slapped it on the wrists of their most treacherous murderers. They would have put these same manacles on the butcher Jack the Ripper. That is, if they had ever caught him. Maybe he’s here now, tonight, watching the show and waiting. I challenge bloody Jack the Ripper to escape these cuffs I have tonight. But I don’t think he’s got the guts to try them on, do you?”