Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible

by Elwood, Molly;

  “Treasures,” Mom would always correct me.

  The park was downtown and ran along the river that went right through the city—in fact, Mom, Will, and I had gone to a carnival in this same park the year before. The carnival hadn’t been anything big like Bartholomew’s, just a few rides and live music and fair food. Will and I had shared an elephant ear and I threw up on The Zipper.

  That was the last time we took a trip together—and the last time we’d left Brenville since Mom disappeared. I sighed. Dad must have been pretty depressed with Mom gone. He hadn’t done much of anything since she left—we didn’t even get a Christmas tree.

  I thought I remembered Mom taking us to a big library downtown. I was in luck—I found a huge tourist map mounted on a lamppost and it showed the Central Library only a few blocks away. I made my way down the busy streets to the huge brick building with an arched entryway, and not one person recognized me from the posters.

  Once inside, I found a computer that someone hadn’t logged off of and sat down, propping the backpack gingerly at my feet. Matilda was still calm as a clam in there, moving around a little bit, but not making any noise. I hoped she’d stay that way. I didn’t want this library trip to end the way the last one had.

  I checked my email and saw that Eli wasn’t online. There were two emails from him, though. I opened the newest one first. It was from that morning. A small wave of panic came over me when I read it.

  Joe: They got to me. They only know about Las Vegas. Don’t contact me—I can’t blab what I don’t know. Sorry and good luck.

  – Peter Parker

  I resisted the urge to email him back. Eli was right. If he didn’t know where I was, he couldn’t spill the beans. But poor Eli! I felt terrible. Helping me run away was pretty much the worst thing he’d ever done, and his parents weren’t the type to punish with grounding or no TV or something. Instead, they might make him do something horrible like read some old, seven-hundred-page novel and write a report on it. His summer was basically ruined.

  But I couldn’t dwell on it there in the library. Sure, not having a moment of silence or something felt cruel, but James Bond wouldn’t abandon the mission over something like this. Eli was what James Bond would call collateral damage. Eli would be okay—but I’d have to be extra nice to him when I got back. And besides—once it ended, we’d be heroes.

  At least they didn’t know I was in Portland.

  Except…

  Except if Eli told them I was following the circus, it wouldn’t be too hard to track me down. Even though Bart’s website didn’t have the Portland performance listed, it would just take a quick internet search to bring it up, the way Eli had.

  That’s when it hit me: it was tonight or never.

  My heart pounded as I opened the second message from Eli.

  Joe: Probable cause to abort mission. Open forwarded email.

  – Peter Parker

  I scrolled down and found an email from Will attached. It was from yesterday.

  Dear Eli,

  I know you’re at camp but I’m sure you know Ryan went missing on Friday night. I know you think I’m a jerk, but I need to ask you if you’re helping Ryan. If you’re in touch with him, please let him know that I wrote all the postcards from Mom, saying she was kidnapped. I didn’t know I’d gone too far until he was gone. Please tell him I’m sorry and ask him to come home.

  – Will

  The first thing that came to mind was, Wow, he must feel terrible.

  The second was, Good.

  I hadn’t run away to make Will sorry, but maybe an eensy bit of me hoped he would be—and that was even before I found out about the postcards. Then an evil smile spread across my face, wide and bright. Man, he was going to be in so much trouble when Dad found out.

  Now that was something to look forward to.

  Next, I did a search for “Portland Bartholomew Incredible” and found a news blurb about it right away. The show started at eight p.m. That was just two hours away. Then I remembered what Bartholomew’s truck’s driver had said about silverware. I typed in “Portland Oregon silverware museum.” The first result: The Portland Art Museum. I clicked on it. Oldest art museum in the area, blah, blah, blah…and…Ah-ha!

  Bingo.

  Just a month ago, the museum had received a gift from an anonymous donor—an extensive collection of European silverware from the 1500s.

  One of the few collections of its kind. Sounded like a pretty boring thing to steal—not nearly as impressive as the streetcar or the dinosaur bones. But it did sound like it would be worth a lot of money. Not only that, the museum was only a few blocks away—within easy reach of the circus.

  This is it, I thought. I’d found Bartholomew’s target.

  I scrolled through the pictures of the silverware collection, feeling weird—guilty, even—for looking, knowing it was about to be stolen. It wasn’t hard to imagine Mom rappelling down from the roof and swinging through one of the windows.

  I stopped, mid-thought, and shook my head. Nothing was going to be stolen. Mom would be there with me. And Bartholomew would be at the police station.

  Anyway, it was time for the next part of The Plan. The dangerous part.

  I carefully shouldered my backpack and then hurried over to the payphone I’d spotted in the library lobby. I pulled a slip of paper out of my pocket, pumped a couple quarters in the slot, took a deep breath, and dialed the number on it.

  “Be brave,” I told myself, even though my hand had already started sweating.

  It rang twice—and then came the answer.

  “Lloyd here.”

  

  I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Just hearing Lloyd’s voice made my heart race and my hands go clammy.

  Remember. He’s not a serial killer—just a regular killer.

  Somehow Hailey’s words of wisdom didn’t relax me.

  He spoke again, “Hello?”

  Say something!

  “Hey, Lloyd! It’s…it’s Ry—it’s, uh, it’s Spartacus,” I finally forced out. I couldn’t even remember which fake name Eli had given him.

  “Spartacus!” he roared (happily?). “How are you?”

  “Okay. Well, uh,” I stammered before saying all in a rush, “I remembered you said you lived in Portland. Well, uh, my mom’s show—I mean, The Incredible is in town tonight and I—”

  “No way!” he whooped into the phone. “You didn’t tell me that before.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said, picking at a taxi advertisement sticker on the wall. I didn’t know what to say. “They change their plans a lot. It’s hard to tell where they’re going next.”

  Half lie, half truth.

  “That’s good news,” Lloyd said. “You seemed kinda down before. I hope everything’s okay.”

  I nodded into the phone. “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. I wanted to—well, I wanted to see if, well…” I trailed off. This was worse than asking a girl out. Not that I’d ever actually done that. “Would you want to go? I mean, you said you really liked the circus.”

  All true, so it was easy to say. So far so good.

  “Well, absolutely! Did you want to meet up for dinner beforehand?” he asked.

  “Uh, no! No, this is kind of last minute. It actually starts pretty soon—at eight p.m. I’ll just meet you in front, huh?”

  I put my hand up to my face. My voice was almost shaking as we confirmed the details—we were going to meet at the ticket booth at seven forty-five.

  Okay, so you probably want to know why I invited Lloyd the Killer to the circus.

  The way I saw it, I couldn’t just sneak Mom out like I’d originally planned. I’d left behind the suitcase, and The Incredible was too big, too organized for that kind of child’s play, anyway. Plus, they might know I was coming. What I needed was chaos. What I needed was a diver
sion—a big, bald, scary diversion.

  That’s where Lloyd came in.

  My plan went like this:

  First off, if Bartholomew was looking for me, he’d be looking for a kid who was alone, so I’d use Lloyd to help me blend in—and maybe even use him as muscle, just in case. If Lloyd turned on anyone, I wanted to believe he might protect me from Bartholomew. It was kind of like having a wild dog on a leash.

  I’d sit with Lloyd for the first half of the show, then slip away to call the cops at intermission—apparently, kidnapped mothers weren’t enough to get attention, but maybe an FBI’s most-wanted murderer was. Most importantly, I wanted them to arrive before the end of the show. As the ringmaster, Bartholomew would be so busy, he wouldn’t see it coming—and he couldn’t slip away.

  After calling, I’d sneak backstage to find Mom and let her know that cops were coming—maybe even the SWAT team (Lloyd was an incredibly dangerous fugitive, after all). So as the cops closed in on Lloyd, I predicted that Bartholomew would think they were coming for him, and chaos would break loose. With cops all over the place, Mom and I could escape with one of them to safety. Once out of harm’s way, Mom could tell the cops about Bartholomew—the kidnapping, the stolen artwork, and whatever else he’s been up to. The cops would arrest Bartholomew, and throw him into the back of a squad car, right beside Lloyd.

  Simple, really.

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t ideal. Everything had to go just right—and I had to explain the lemur in my backpack to the wanted felon I was about to betray—and explaining the lemur was going to be the easiest part.

  So, yeah, I wouldn’t say that the plan was flawless. I’d said such things before and been very wrong. But even though I was terrified by all the dangerous wheels I was setting into motion, it was what I had to do.

  And besides, what had Lloyd said before? Fortune favors the bold?

  If anything, my plan was bold.

  

  Before leaving the library, I ducked into an empty bathroom—luckily it was private, with its own room and door.

  I opened the backpack to let Matilda out for a minute—but she just yawned and then winked sleepily at me from the bottom of the bag.

  “Come on, lazy,” I said, nudging her. “It’s a rest stop.” I even tried coaxing her with a piece of watermelon, but she only sniffed it and then closed her eyes again.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, giving her a light pat. I just hoped she’d stay this calm once we were inside the circus. If she started making noises or moving around too much, she could blow my whole plan. But Zeda had said she was nocturnal. Maybe that would help me out.

  Next, I changed into my dark suit and tie. When Eli and I had planned this out, he’d thought I’d blend in better backstage if I dressed nicely. I’d initially thought it was stupid, but I’d seen it work when I sneaked into the sideshow.

  Next, I put my pocketknife and screwdriver set in one jacket pocket, and the small torch and bottle of paraffin in the other. Finally, I touched up my freckle with beige face paint. It was funny how much that freckle made me who I was—without it, I didn’t look like me at all. I could have been anybody.

  As I buttoned my cuffs, smoothed my hair, and straightened my clip-on tie in the mirror, I felt very James Bond. Very Secret Agent Man.

  I practiced my scowl in the mirror.

  Not bad, Spartacus. A few more bruises and cuts and you’ll look like an action hero.

  I checked inside the bag, where Matilda was snoozing. She was even making a little nose whistle, and she didn’t seem to notice me zipping the bag closed on her.

  “It’ll just be a few hours,” I whispered. “I promise.”

  

  I wanted a chance to case the joint and plot all the major escape routes, so I got to the circus about an hour before I had to meet Lloyd. It was buzzing with activity, with the action spilling out into the park. Kids were everywhere. Most of them were trying to get a look beyond the waist-high fence that kept them back.

  I hoped I would blend in, but I was older than all of them and taller by a foot—that, and I was wearing a suit. That was starting to seem like a bad idea. The suit might help me blend in when I got backstage, but it wasn’t helping me out front. I even saw a lady nudge her friend and secretly point at me.

  Just stay confident, I told myself. They don’t know who you are. Maybe you’re the kid of some rich family.

  So I kept staring straight ahead, ignoring everyone. Inside the fence, men and women in dark blue shirts bustled in and out of booths stocked with food and souvenirs and kids’ stuff, like face-painting and balloon animals. I wondered if they were in on the robberies too, or just a few chosen henchmen. I studied them for a bit, but no one looked particularly sinister. Then I walked the length of the tent, hoping to get a glimpse of the side that faced the river.

  I’d just reached the far end of the low fence when I saw them: Bartholomew’s giant tour buses, just rolling in.

  “No way,” I said, under my breath.

  I mean, I knew Bartholomew was an upscale circus, but tour buses? They looked like something movie stars would travel in. They were painted with giant, vibrant murals of tumblers, trapeze artists, magicians, tightrope walkers, contortionists, lions, tigers, elephants—all in shades of bright green, red, and orange, and all larger than life.

  As the buses pulled in beside the tent, a flood of cheering kids surrounded me, chattering excitedly and pointing. I stood there, heads above them all, scowling, knowing how Bart paid for those buses. Dirty money. And what if what Puck and Zeda said was true, that the performers were stuck in the circus for life? There were probably bars behind those painted windows.

  I snorted and shook my head at the horribleness of it all. Three girls, a little bit younger than me, stood beside me watching the vans. One turned when I snorted.

  “It’s all fake,” I blurted out to them. She and her friends giggled, and I looked back at the buses, my face burning red. They didn’t care if the circus was evil or not—they just wanted to be entertained. It wasn’t their fault.

  That’s when the last bus pulled in. I knew it was hers, without even reading the side of it. But there it was, in scrolling red letters: The Amazing Athena.

  The mural was a close-up of her face. They’d painted her to look like a superhero, in deep blues and reds and a crown of stars, with her black hair changing into rolling hills, and camels and elephants walking along her dark locks. When the bus turned, I saw the other side. She stood next to a white cannon, a helmet under her arm and a wall of flames behind her.

  “Holy moly,” I said under my breath.

  I hate to admit it, but it’s true: there was the teeniest grin on my face. Even though Bartholomew’s was a front for a crime ring, even though my mom and all her fellow performers were basically kidnapped—Mom was still the star. I knew she was amazing. She’d be able to leave Bartholomew’s and find a better circus. She had all the potential in the world—if she could only get free.

  We’re almost there, Mom.

  I heard the girls beside me whispering. I turned to see them staring at me. Wide-eyed.

  “Um, your backpack is moving,” said one of them.

  Matilda!

  And it was. I could feel the lemur digging into the canvas like she was trying to escape.

  “Oh,” was all I said before turning on my heel and speeding back toward the park.

  “Hang in there, Matilda,” I said, reaching back and patting the side of the bag. The pressure of my hand seemed to calm her and I slowed down.

  I checked my watch. I had thirty more minutes until I had to meet Lloyd. I felt that familiar panic rising in my chest.

  Breathe, Spartacus.

  Lloyd wasn’t going to kill me. Not in front of all these people. All these people who kept glancing over at me. People who had seen the Missing Child posters…


  As I watched the ticket line form, my fear flip-flopped between Lloyd and Bartholomew and being a runaway. I started to feel extremely—well, conspicuous. Could I really get inside the circus without Bartholomew’s people or anyone else recognizing me?

  If only I had a mask…

  That’s when I got the idea.

  

  It wasn’t hard to find a port-o-potty. Taking a deep breath, I went inside. It was hot and smelly, but it would have to do. When I opened the backpack, Matilda darted out and clung to my waist, suddenly looking a lot more alert—and nervous—than she’d been before.

  “Easy, Matilda,” I said, handing over a banana and then petting her, which seemed to calm her—but she didn’t climb down. So, with Matilda hanging on me, I put the toilet seat down and got out my face painting kit. Using the plastic mirror on the port-o-potty door, I painted my entire face with flames. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. I stepped back and admired my work in the mirror.

  Not too shabby.

  And it wasn’t. Not only would I blend in a bit more with all of the rest of the kids (suit aside, of course), but no one would recognize me as Ryan the Runaway, or Spartacus, Son of Athena. I hardly recognized myself in the scratched-up mirror.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said stoically to my reflection before laughing. I didn’t know how to introduce myself anymore.

  I’m Ryan. Poop Lip. Spartacus. Guess my name.

  I continued thinking about Lloyd as I put Matilda back in the bag (and she was not as easygoing this time). What was that movie quotation Lloyd had told me again? Someone asks Spartacus if he is afraid to die, and he says something like, Not any more than I was afraid to be born.

  Sure, freeing some circus folk wasn’t exactly the same as leading a slave revolt or anything, but I was still afraid. As I straightened up, I checked my face paint in the mirror one last time.

  “How about it, Spartacus? Are you afraid to die?” I asked myself. And suddenly, saying the name out loud, I felt it. I mean, I really felt that name meant something. I looked myself in the eyes, trying to decide how it felt to be Spartacus.