Everywhere they went, bad news followed. The tiger mauling and the trapeze “accident” were the only tragedies that made the papers, but the rest lived on IHateBartholomewsCircus.com. Pages and pages of rumors. Some seemed real, others made up, but all were pretty scary.
For example, two guys running the spotlight went missing mid-show and were never found. There was an explosion that took out the entire exotic birds tent, singeing all the hair off the bird-keeper. And once, a group of kids found a finger in an empty field where the circus had just performed.
Just a finger.
Of course, none of these stories were proven. But still, it sounded pretty bad when you looked at it all together. And the weirdest stuff—even weirder than fingers appearing and people disappearing—was about Bartholomew.
No one could find anything about the guy. No family members, nada. Like he was a myth that just came into existence. Wikipedia couldn’t even figure out his age. And Bartholomew didn’t have any wrinkles on his face. Not a line when he furrowed his brow, not a crinkle when he smirked. His skin? Completely smooth.
All the pictures Eli and I found backed this up.
Everything about Bartholomew was neat and elegant in an old-timey kind of way. He was a tall, lean, pale man with a wide, smooth forehead and small, expressionless blue eyes like ball bearings. He wore his wavy red hair combed and waxed into a modest, gleaming pompadour and dressed only in slender-cut, black-and-red suits. In the few photographs of him, he held his willowy hands crossed gently over one another, as though he were patiently waiting for someone to finish speaking—before he destroyed them.
“So what, you guys think Bart has magic powers?” Will asked me and Eli once, leaning in with a mocking sneer on his face. Eli and I looked at each other, and then I snorted maybe a bit too loudly. Because when you put all the cards on the table…who knows? Who really knows?
Only Bartholomew.
They say Bartholomew kept a plastic surgeon on staff—an old doctor who used to do work for the royal family in Bart’s homeland. Some people thought that was why the bird keeper who’d been burned in that explosion was able to perform just a few weeks later, without a mark on her body. And why his clowns all looked alike.
I told you Barthlowmew’s story was crazy.
And even though he was the ringmaster and spoke forty-three languages, Bartholomew never spoke outside the ring to anyone who wasn’t in the circus. He didn’t speak in public; he didn’t do interviews. Articles were written about him, of course; several reporters swore they’d overheard him say he hated children.
But Bart never said anything to clear the air.
And yet—despite all of this, crowds came in droves to watch Bartholomew’s World-Renowned Circus of The Incredible. They adored it. Even those who hated him, people who’d lost family members to strange circus accidents, admitted that Bartholomew’s show was…unforgettable. It made adults feel like kids again. It made children and old people cry when it was over. Sometimes people in the audience spoke in tongues, like they were at a tent revival.
Some say that Bartholomew’s fog machine pumped nitrous oxide into the tent—as in, laughing gas, the stuff the dentist gives kids that makes your body feel like a lead weight while your brain feels all fluffy and nice. Others say it’s just the way Bartholomew talks to the crowd, hypnotic and trance-inducing.
When you really looked at all the information, it was overwhelming. Bartholomew and his circus were an unstoppable, dangerous riddle.
As I dozed in the truck, I dreamt my mom’s kidnapping was just another rumor from IHateBartholomewsCircus.com. In my dream, I showed the story to everyone, but no one would listen. Not even Eli. I was rescuing her alone, but I couldn’t find my clothes and all I had was a motorcycle to ride, and when I got there, there were fifty identical clown guards looming over me and Mom was tied up in a tiny box…
When I woke up, I had forgotten where I was until I saw Hailey sitting in the driver’s seat. It was dark out and there was a puddle of drool on my arm. We were parked at a truck stop.
“What time is it?” I yawned.
“Almost one a.m.,” she said. “I’m gonna pee and get some food. And caffeine. You want somethin’?”
“I’ll come in with you,” I answered, wanting to stretch my legs.
Inside the convenience store, bright lights buzzed and made me squint after being in the dark truck for so long. Hailey used the bathroom and then got a cup of coffee and a box of crackers. I got some Sour Patch Kids and a soda with Will’s money (which felt pretty good). Then we wandered the truck stop. There were public showers, places to nap, even a few computers (though I checked and the internet wasn’t working).
We were standing together, looking at the public notice board, when I saw the poster. It was partially hidden. I moved a flyer out of the way so I could see it clearly. The poster had a photo of Lloyd—big, bald Lloyd. Only the name wasn’t Lloyd and he wasn’t smiling. I gulped and read the details:
Dan Lloeke, a.k.a “The Cue”
Considered Armed And Dangerous.
Wanted in Four States for Burglary, Theft, Assault, and Murder.
Wanted in Connection with the Deaths of Three People.
Has Rolling Stones Lyics Tattooed on Right Forearm.
I wish I could tell you that I stayed calm when I saw the poster. That I took it in stride. That I bravely stared down Dan Lloeke’s wanted photo and just shook my head in disappointment.
Anyway, that’s what I’d like to tell you.
Instead, I threw up in a garbage can and slid down to the floor.
I had just become BFFs with a serial killer.
After Hailey helped me to my feet, I stood in front of the poster. The sweat on my forehead had nothing to do with the stuffy hallway.
“You gonna tell me what just happened?” Hailey said, looking between the poster and me. I told her the truth, that this guy had just given me a ride a few hours before. She hugged me tight in a way that almost made it all worth it.
Almost.
We took down the poster and headed back to her truck.
How close had I been to death? I wondered. And not an imaginary death, like dying from embarrassment after the pool incident—but real death?
I felt clammy.
“Should we call the cops?” I asked.
“You can once you’re in Albuquerque.”
“Why wait—” I was about to ask why wait so long, but Hailey cut me off as she kept walking.
“I don’t mess with cops.”
Once in the truck, I gulped my soda to get the vomit taste out of my mouth. As Hailey put the truck into gear and pulled back out on the highway, I stared at the wanted poster and thought about death.
“Look, I like you,” Hailey said at last. “But I don’t want to get mixed up in whatever—whatever it is you got going on. That’s why I don’t want to call the cops. They wouldn’t just try to get that guy on the poster. They’d take you in, too. And then they’d talk to me. And I sorta don’t want to be found, you know?”
I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway.
“Things aren’t all fun and games on the road,” Hailey said. “You gotta to be real careful. When you’re a runaway, you ain’t got no one lookin’ out for you but you.”
I told her again: “I’m not a runaway.”
“Mmm, okay, Brodie,” Hailey said, mocking my name again.
I ignored her and changed the subject. “I can’t believe he was a serial killer.”
“Now, you know he isn’t technically a serial killer,” she said.
“What do you mean? It says it on here: ‘burglary, theft, assault, and murder.’”
“Just because someone’s a murderer doesn’t make them a serial killer,” she said. “I mean, a serial kille
r is doing a lot of planning, killing multiple people over time. But this guy? He’s probably just takin’ out people who get in his way.”
I goggled at her.
“You said you guys got along fine?” she asked, and I nodded. “Then you don’t have nothin’ to worry about. Sure, this guy’s a criminal, but he’s not killin’ random kids for fun.”
“This all makes me feel so much better,” I said, sinking lower into my seat.
“I’m just trying to give you some education about killers,” she said simply. “Not tryin’ to scare you.”
“Look, this is a one-time thing. I’m not ‘out on the road.’ It was just one ride.” My voice started to sound a bit pinched and squeaky, so I cleared my throat. “I mean, how was I supposed to know?”
Hailey paused, considering. “Did you get that sinkin’ feelin’ in your stomach when you saw him?” she finally asked.
I thought about my instinct to run when Lloyd pulled up.
“Well, yeah.”
“Did your Mistake-o-Meter give you some sort of alarm?”
“My what?”
“You know,” she said. “Your ‘Mistake-o-Meter.’ Everybody’s got one. You gotta pay attention to it while you’re ‘on the road.’”
I glowered at that, but I also thought about it. She was right. I did have a Mistake-o-Meter, and I’d ignored it with Lloyd. I’d even ignored it when Will taught me to dive.
I was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. Just thinking about my Mistake-o-Meter made it go crazy. Worse, it was telling me that what I was doing was crazy. What am I doing in this truck? Who did I think I was, rescuing my mom alone?
I started hyperventilating.
I was just a kid, and I could have died. Like, really died.
I tried my mom’s Instant Calm Breath Method.
Breathe in for four counts. Hold it for four.
It didn’t help.
I probably would have started crying—maybe even real, snot-dripping bawling—but luckily, Hailey saved us both. She put her small hand on my arm and gave it a little squeeze.
“Let me tell you about the tools you got,” she said. “So you won’t be so vulnerable.”
I hated that word. Vulnerable. I straightened up in my chair, pretending I was okay.
“So first you got the Mistake-o-Meter—it goes up to five. If you feel a one on the meter, be ready for anything. You get a two? Map your escape plan. Three? Use that escape plan and don’t look back.”
“And what if it’s at a four or a five?” I asked.
“You should never get yourself into a four or five unless you wake up tied to a railroad track. If you even suspect something’s that bad? Get the heck out of there.”
“He was so nice, too,” I said, resting my face against the cool window. “I don’t get it.”
“Perfect transition to the other tool you got: Mistrust.”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked.
“Yeah, when you use it right. And you should be using it a lot out here. Don’t trust anyone but yourself. People will try to get you to trust them and you just mistrust them right back. Don’t trust anyone until they’ve earned your trust, you see? You can trust your brothers or sisters or friends or parents, but that’s it.”
Maybe not brothers, I thought.
“When you’re on the road,” Hailey continued, “your only friend is yourself. I know it sounds cruel, but that’s how you gotta do it.”
“You don’t trust me?” I asked.
“Not on your life.” She lifted the corner of her shirt to show me a knife in a sheath on her hip.
“Whoa,” I whispered.
“I just met you. Sorry, Brodie.”
“It’s…it’s cool,” I managed.
After that, we drove in silence.
It all seemed pretty clear: I was in way over my head in the deep end of a big, dark pool.
As we rolled on through the night, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I pulled out the golden scarab Mom had sent me. I held the little piece of metal in my hand. It sounds silly, I know, but it made me feel calmer, just having that small connection to my mom.
So I sat there and thought.
I thought about Lloyd—I mean, Dan the Killer—out there on the loose. I could call the number on the poster and report him, but Hailey was right. The cops would want to question me, then maybe hide me somewhere he couldn’t find me. They’d probably send me off to live in Alaska in the Witness Protection Program. I’d have to change my name and always look over my shoulder and learn to sleep with a gun and—
Actually, it was starting to sound kind of cool, especially following the pool incident.
But they’d never let me go without Dad and the Jerk. I might have been down with the whole witness protection thing if I wouldn’t have had to take them along.
Besides, if I called the cops, I’d never get to the circus.
I decided to write a letter to the cops after I got mom home. Then I wondered if it was selfish to wait. What if Lloyd—Dan—killed somebody else? Would it be my fault?
I snuck a peek at Hailey’s face, barely visible in the dashboard lights. I was too afraid to ask her.
Instead, I watched the dark sky out the window. I thought about Eli, how he’d almost gotten me killed with his ride choices. He’d have to start being more careful about who he talked to online.
Eventually, I dozed.
It was morning when got to Santa Fe, New Mexico. This was the real desert. I’m talking cacti and houses made out of clay. Everything was so wide open and flat, you could see forever. Hailey said it hardly ever rained in New Mexico, but there were a few dark storm clouds on the horizon. The rest of the sky was a brilliant, clear blue.
“Land of Entrapment,” Hailey muttered as we crossed the state line.
She dropped me off at the edge of town, where I could catch the bus to Albuquerque.
“Wish I could take you all the way there, but my boss tracks the miles I drive and I can’t go over,” she said, coming to a stop. “Stay by that bus stop, right over there. Should be here on the half hour.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I said. “And the help with Lloyd. I mean Dan.”
She held out a few dollars for the bus and when I tried to turn it down, she stuffed it in my sweatshirt pocket. When she hugged me, I felt this warm glow all over. I awkwardly hugged her back.
“Don’t think about him. It’ll turn out okay,” she said. “Listen to your heart. When things get weird, you get out of Dodge, okay?”
“Right,” I said. “Mistake-o-Meter at the ready.”
I jumped out of the truck with my backpack and suitcase and looked up at her.
“What’s your real name?” she called down.
I thought for a second, about trust and mistrust. Hailey had earned enough for a little truth. “Spartacus,” I told her, and then cringed. Why did I tell her that name?
But she didn’t even bat an eye. “And where are you goin’?”
“To see my mom.”
“Well,” Hailey said. “Tell her I said ‘Hey.’”
Then I blurted out the sappiest goodbye ever. I don’t know what I was thinking—it just came out. “I won’t forget you.”
“Likewise, Spartacus. Stay cool.”
I slammed the passenger side door shut and the truck lumbered off down the road. Hailey hit the horn twice, and then she was gone.
She liked me. She called me cool.
It started to sprinkle and I didn’t even care.
The circus was just twelve hours away. Half a day. The most dangerous part of my journey was within sight. I was pumped.
Cars blew by and I stood back away from the road under a skimpy tree. I waited for an hour, but the bus didn’t co
me. When I finally crossed over to the bus stop sign, I saw a small sticker across the face of it.
The Santa Fe/Albuquerque bus is no longer in service. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Oh, man.
I looked down the long road, then at the speeding cars.
Oh, man.
I couldn’t walk, but I could always hitchhike.
Eli and I had originally agreed hitchhiking was totally out of the question. It was too dangerous. But then again, look how Eli’s rides had turned out.
And the show was tonight.
I stood there, but couldn’t put my thumb out. My arm was dead at my side. I started remembering everything I’d heard about hitchhiking. All the stories I knew were about the hitchhiker being crazy, not the driver. Eli told me how his cousin’s friend’s dad had picked up this guy who—
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a car horn blared right behind me.
I hadn’t even put my thumb out.
Chapter Nine
Iturned to find a very tanned, white-haired lady behind the wheel of a white Lincoln big enough to have its own area code. In the passenger seat sat another old woman with enormous glasses and blue hair pulled back in a bun so tight she looked like she was forced to smile whether she was happy or not. Blue-Hair waved excitedly at me.
“Where you headed, young man?” White-Hair asked, leaning over Blue to speak to me.
I smiled, relieved to see that they were old. And that neither woman had a hook. Scary hitchhiking stories always start with a hook.
“Albuquerque,” I answered, putting on my best smile in hopes of covering up the I-just-ran-away-from-home-to-rescue-my-mother look. It must have worked because Blue leaned back and unlocked the door behind her.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Hop in before the po-po see you!”
I got in, heaved the door closed, and settled into the velvety backseat. It then struck me that what she had just said was pretty strange. Po-po? I’d heard Will use that word before. Was she talking about the police?
And in a place where it never rained, the sky opened up and it poured.
“Good thing we have the cover of this storm,” said White. Blue grunted in agreement and I raised an eyebrow. Without looking, White pulled the boat of a car out onto the highway, causing a smaller oncoming car to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting us. Neither Blue nor White seemed to notice.
Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible Page 9