Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible

by Elwood, Molly;

  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?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The voice sounded familiar. I peeked out over the couch.

  It was Will!

  “You got the door open!” I exclaimed.

  “Ryan!” he blubbered, running to me and collapsing like a giant, stubbly, after-shave-soaked baby. “Ryan, I thought you were dead! I thought that I’d killed you.”

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” I exclaimed, patting him on the back. “We’ve got to get out of here.” I tried to pull away, but he just kept hugging, kept sobbing.

  “I did it. I sent the postcards. It was just a joke—I never thought you really believed it.”

  “I know all this,” I pleaded, pushing him away so he’d look at me. “I figured it out forever ago. But you have to believe me. We need to get out now!”

  But he just kept talking.

  “I saw this morning that the circus was in Portland and thought this was my only chance to get to you. I sold my iPhone to get bus fare and—”

  He wasn’t stopping. And, in an instant, all the anger about the postcards and the pool and his general awfulness boiled up inside me. I knew it wasn’t the right time, but I couldn’t help myself. Mid-sentence, as he burbled away, I hauled off and slugged him right in the mouth.

  Even though it felt good, one look at his shocked, sad, crying face and I knew that this was all the revenge I would ever need.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, rubbing my stinging fist.

  “I deserve it,” he said, calm now, putting his hand to his jaw. “I deserve much worse. Pretty good punch. Wait…why were you locked in here? And why are you wearing your suit?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it—but first, we have to get out of here, okay?”

  I ran down the bus steps, Will right behind me. Will showed me the “lock,” which was a large crowbar they’d jammed into the doorframe.

  I shivered.

  Nobody normal uses crowbars. People only use them when they’re serious about breaking something—or hurting someone.

  I was done playing around. It was time to get out of this funhouse hall of mirrors. Mom didn’t want to come with me. I wasn’t going to save her. Not tonight. I had to make it to the cops and tell them what I knew.

  We headed for the back of the circus.

  “So where’s Mom?” Will asked, huffing beside me. “I was looking for her when I found you. Why were you locked in? And why are we running away?”

  “No
time for that,” I panted. “Just know that you can’t trust anyone here. They all—”

  But I didn’t get a chance to explain.

  Two dudes wearing security guard shirts stepped out of the shadows, directly in front of us. I was a few steps behind Will, but Will didn’t have time to stop.

  “Oof!” Will bounced right off them and fell on his back, confused. Will was a big guy, but these guys were much, much bigger. One guard immediately pinned Will down.

  “Hey, get off me! My mom works here!” Will yawped, surprised.

  That won’t help at all, I thought grimly.

  The other guard took a few steps toward me. I had no choice but to run.

  “I’ll get help!” I shouted as I took off.

  The security guard was right behind me, breathing hard, coming at me like a freight train.

  I raced past the buses again, sprinting toward the curtain and a group of performers standing in a huddle. They were getting ready to go onstage—and in the middle of them was Sharkman.

  The performers’ eyes widened—while Sharkman’s narrowed—as I barreled toward them at full speed, the guard right on my heels. No one dared shout out in alarm, seeing how close we were to the stage. Instead, they crouched for impact.

  “Stop him!” hissed the guard.

  Sharkman lunged, but I zoomed to the right, just out of his reach. I was running alongside the heavy red curtain—the one that bordered the stage. I tried going back the way I had come, parallel to the stage, but there was a bunch of metal scaffolding in my way. I spun around and saw the security guard and Sharkman inching toward me.

  “Don’t worry, we’re not going to hurt you,” Sharkman said—which I did not believe for a second.

  I was officially cornered.

  I didn’t have any choice.

  With my heart pounding in my ears, I got down on the floor and rolled right under the curtain—and onto the stage.

  

  Other than the spotlight centered on Bartholomew, who was sitting astride a big white cannon a few feet away, the stage was dark. I recognized the cannon immediately as the one my mom used in her act.

  Bart glanced at me and he froze for all of one-sixteenth of a second—it was so quick that no one else noticed, but I sure did. I didn’t dare back up because I could hear Sharkman cursing right behind me, on the other side of the curtain.

  I froze. My breath stuck in my throat.

  This wasn’t good.

  I didn’t think anybody in the audience had seen me yet, since I was on the very edge of the spotlight. All the focus was on Bartholomew, who continued to speak as though I weren’t there.

  “I would like to present to you the most awe-inspiring, stupefying, petrifying, horrifying, electrifying, and death-defying event of the evening. This act will amaze, astound, and astonish you. You’re about to behold an unbelievable, unimaginable, unutterable, miraculous, spectaculous, and all around cracktaculous feat of wonder!”

  Are those even words? I thought. But I sensed that Bartholomew was stalling, giving me the chance to go back under the curtain. But I wasn’t going anywhere, not with what was waiting for me on the other side.

  That’s when I noticed something a few feet away. It was a small, orange megaphone, the kind you could yell through to make your voice boom. It must have just been for show, though, because Bartholomew had a microphone.

  That’s when I got an idea. And if you can’t go back…you might as well march ahead.

  

  I stepped deliberately forward into the circle of light, toward the megaphone and the middle of the ring. I could sense the audience notice me, but I couldn’t see them because of the lights in my eyes.

  I could see Bartholomew, though.

  He looked down at me from his perch on the cannon and fear flickered in his eyes. Just that tiny flash made me feel more comfortable. If I hadn’t seen it, I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to face him like I did.

  I picked up the megaphone and then planted my feet, glaring up at him.

  “I say,” boomed Bartholomew. “If it isn’t the newest member of our performance troupe—and the son of our own Human Cannonball, Athena! Young Sir Spartacus. Let’s have a round of applause for him, shall we?”

  The crowd clapped politely.

  They all thought that this was part of the show! Wow. Bart didn’t miss a beat, did he?

  “Were you scared for your mom?” Bartholomew asked, still playing his role. “It’s only two hundred feet. I promise, on my honor, you will not become an orphan!”

  The crowd tittered at this.

  “What do you say—should we bring out the Flying Athena?”

  The crowd began to cheer, and that’s when I put the megaphone to my lips. I didn’t even know what I was going to say.

  “Excuse me. Before you start,” I said, my amplified voice making me jump. I turned toward the audience. “I’d like to tell everybody what kind of things Bartholomew does in his free time.”

  “Oh, dear, now, child, don’t… uh—don’t go sharing that information,” he said, scrambling off the cannon and moving a few feet toward me. But I was ready. I dropped the megaphone and pulled out the paraffin and torch from my pocket. When Bart took another step forward, I lit the torch and then blew a huge fireball toward him. I thought it might have burnt his eyebrows, it was so big. Zeda would have been proud.

  The audience cheered and Bartholomew balked and ducked back behind the cannon.

  “Is this the roast of Bartholomew?” he quipped.

  The audience laughed.

  That infuriated me. My torch was still burning as I grabbed the megaphone again.

  “No, it…it’s a game,” I stumbled.

  “I like games,” he said, peeking from behind the cannon. “Can we play hide and seek? You can hide first.”

  “No. We’re—we’re going to play Truth or Dare.”

  “Is this family friendly?” he asked, and everyone laughed again.

  “Depends,” I said, speaking slowly and loudly through the megaphone. I had to make sure everyone heard this. “Do you think stealing from museums is ‘family friendly’? How about hypnotizing people? Or locking kids up in buses?”

  There was scattered, confused applause from the audience and one person shouted out, “I hate Bartholomew’s Circus!” Others chuckled.

  These idiots! They thought this was part of the show! What could I possibly say to make them believe me? It all sounded so ridiculous when you said it out loud.

  But Bartholomew’s eyes blazed.

  “I think somebody’s broken out of the loony bin,” he said pointedly.

  “Truth or dare?” I shouted.

  There were some snickers from the audience. I happened to look out and catch Lloyd’s eye, in the fifth row. He didn’t seem to be laughing. He was leaning forward in his seat, like he was watching a very close tennis match that he had money on.

  “Oh, dare, I guess,” said Bartholomew after hesitating.

  “I dare you to come out from behind that cannon,” I said, my torch’s flame still flickering.

  “Truth be told, I’m afraid you’ll toast me like a marshmallow.”

  “No, I won’t do that. Not if you stay away from me.”

  I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and saw that there were police officers in the audience. There were four of them in navy blue suits and flat-topped caps, edging up the aisles.

  They’d actually come for Lloyd!

  As long as they were around, nobody could hurt me or Will. This might work out after all.

  I looked back to Bartholomew as he stepped out from behind the cannon and faced me from ten feet away. The orchestra gave a large ta-da! that made the audience clap.

  “That was an easy dare,” he said. “Now your turn. Before they come and ta
ke you away. Truth or dare?”

  What was he talking about? Take me away?

  He was still stalling, trying to distract me. The cops had already passed by Lloyd’s row, though—and were moving toward the stage. Maybe they had seen the security guards grab Will and were coming to intervene.

  “That’s not how my game works!” I said, with renewed confidence. “True or false—you stole Abraham Lincoln’s china?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” he laughed, looking nervously at the cops. “Are we playing Clue now, too? You have the rules all wrong.”

  I sniggered a little myself. He was trapped and he didn’t even know it.

  “What about a dinosaur from Philadelphia?” I shouted. Even though my knees were shaking, I took a few steps toward him. “Did you take that, too?”

  Now that I was closer, something about him looked a bit odd. His hair wasn’t as red as I remembered. And his eyes—his eyes didn’t have that same hypnotic effect that they had in the tour bus. I thought about Not-Mom and something clicked.

  “You seem to have lost your steam, child,” he said, eyeing me as I eyed him. “Have the voices in your head turned off for a second?”

  “No. It’s just—I don’t think you’re the real Bartholomew,” I said. Because he wasn’t. This man was a good six inches shorter. There were wrinkles around his eyes. His skin wasn’t as smooth as it had been in Mom’s bus.

  “You know what happens when you stop believing in Bartholomew,” he said and, with a snap of his fingers, the band started to play a distorted version of “Stars and Stripes Forever” and the cops sprinted up onstage.

  But they were after me.

  One glance was all it took for me to see that these weren’t real cops after all—their mime-painted faces and green hair proved it.

  I dropped the megaphone and moved away from them. Three more clown cops joined the original four, creating a dark wall of blue between the audience and me. But I didn’t hesitate. I got my paraffin and torch ready. Then the clowns rushed me. I found myself running around the stage, blowing fireballs at them while the orchestra blared zany marching music. Every time I tripped or a cop ducked, a cymbal crashed.