The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel (25 page)

“What happened to him?” the audience member asked.

“Who did this to him?”

Jack’s eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. His face was paler than a ghost’s, and his hair was a matted nest on his head. Groans rose from his chest. He stumbled on the stage and fell to his knees.

“This boy you see before you isn’t the Kid. True, he
looks
like the Kid and seems so much like him in manner and grace. At first, even I thought it was him when he stumbled into camp. But the real Kid must have gotten lost in the woods at night.” Violet twisted her hankie.

The audience groaned. “Oh no, poor boy.”

“Not the woods at night.”

“The dead of night,” Violet continued, stroking Jack’s hair as he kneeled on the stage in a mad stupor. “We all know what lives in the woods at night. The horrible creatures that lurk in the darkness.”

“He was such a nice kid, a good kid,” someone said from the first row.

“Creatures so lost and aching they search for souls, and they hunt the lost boys who wander into the woods. Last night they found the Kid, and they plucked out his soul, and look what they left us with,” Violet said to the distressed audience.

“He’s gone mad.”

“The Amazing Mussini took pity on him. He will let him stay in our camp and live here in this very theater,” Violet said.

“Mussini is a great man! A great and gracious man!”

“But wait!” Violet held up her hanky to silence the crowd. “There was a condition to Mussini’s kindness, as there always is.”

“What? What was the condition?” an audience member yelled. The audience was on the edge of their seats, breathless with anticipation. Behind their glitter and fur-covered masks, they looked like a pack of make-believe animals, eager for the story of which they were a part. Jack looked at them with unfocused eyes. The act was
going even better than he’d planned. Violet winked at him and raised her arm.

“The condition is that he can never take off the jacket!”

“The jacket!” the crowded yelled. A spotlight focused on Jack. The crowd gasped. For the entire time Jack was on the stage, stumbling in near-darkness, he had been wrapped up tightly in his straitjacket. His arms were securely twisted around his own body, the buckles done up the back. Violet eased her way toward Jack, tentatively pulling on the jacket to show the crowd how tight the binding was. Of course, being the great assistant that she was, Violet had left Jack just enough wiggle room to work with.

“Oh, I assure you, he cannot get out. Mussini locked him up himself. It is the finest straitjacket available—no one has ever escaped from it. Not even one of the dead.”

The crowd nodded with assurance. Violet paused dramatically and then continued, “But whatever you do, do
not
let him out of the jacket. I can only imagine what he might do if he were to escape! For whatever it was he saw last night in the forest, it has certainly driven him mad.”

“We won’t let him out.”

“The poor boy’s gone mad with fear!”

A frightful laugh rattled Jack’s body. Violet stumbled away from him. Jack rose to his feet and stumbled around the stage yelling, “You can’t hold me! Nothing can hold
me!” Jack violently wrenched his arms side to side, trying to free himself from the straitjacket. This was the hardest part for Jack. He had to get enough slack to get his arms free. He didn’t need to act this part, because it was a real struggle. Violet raced around the stage.

“Help! Someone help! Please stop him before he hurts himself!”

That was Boxer’s cue to pull the rope. Jack fell to the floor and wiggled around in the jacket as if trapped in a tight cocoon. There was a rope fastened around his ankles and when Boxer yanked on it from behind the stage, the rope hoisted Jack up into the air so that he dangled perilously high above the stage.

“No one go near him!” Violet yelled. “It’s for his own good.”

Jack had gotten enough slack while wiggling around on the floor, and with the help of gravity from hanging upside down, he was able to get his arm up and over his head. Jack gasped, finally able to catch his breath. The blood rushed to his head. He swayed from side to side and had to rest for a second to get his bearings. Jack wondered, as he stared down at the stage, what it had been like for Houdini when he had dangled above the hard cement of New York City. The crowd had swarmed below him, undulating like a black river of suits. Did they look like insects, craning their necks to see the great Houdini dangled forty-five feet above
them from a steel girder, only the tender loops of rope to hold him up?

Boxer anchored the rope so it didn’t sway too far from side to side. Luckily the theater was in the woods, and they were able to use a branch of the oak tree to throw the rope over and hoist Jack up. (It also helped having a really strong friend.) Raising Jack’s weight was not hard for Boxer at all, so they didn’t need help from Jabber, who sat in the audience and instigated the excitement and mutterings of the crowd. Each member of the audience stared up to get a glimpse of Jack. Even Mussini was standing on his feet.

Jack was nearly free. With his arms already free, all he had to do was slide them under the jacket and unbuckle the strap between his legs and then pull it over his head, and then the jacket would crash to the floor to the gasps of the crowd.

And then something strange happened.

A beetle flew into Jack’s face. Then one fell into his hair, and then another, jerking Jack’s attention up the rope. A barrage of insects raced to the edge of the branch and down the rope. Swarms of ants and spiders crawled toward Jack: a confetti of bugs plummeted to the stage below. Jack wiggled and jerked his legs. He swatted at the bugs and swung back and forth on the rope. Where were they coming from? Before he could steady himself,
a burning smell filled the stage and bits of ghostly ash fell from above. Jack swallowed. This was not part of the plan.

Screams filled the theater, followed by a crack and a pop, and then suddenly the tree that held the rope was engulfed in flames. Fire and smoke filled the night air. The audience rose to its feet. Jack had only seconds to unfasten the buckle. First he did the one between his legs, and then he pulled and yanked until he reached under the jacket and shimmed it over his head. Finally, Jack wrenched the jacket from his body and threw it to the ground. But his ankles were still tied to the rope hanging from the tree. He pulled himself up and madly tugged at the knot that Boxer had tied to his feet.

“Lower the rope! Lower the rope!” the crowd chanted as smoke filled the theater. But the rope was already burning. Boxer ran out onto the stage just as the twine closest to the branch ignited and burned to charred shreds. Jack fell headfirst toward the stage. He closed his eyes before Boxer’s massive arms caught him. It was a perfect catch—they couldn’t have planned it better. The audience erupted in applause.

Mussini rose from his seat and snapped his fingers. The fire disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Boxer set Jack down on his feet. Both of them were shaking and covered in sweat.

Trying to keep the show moving, Violet ran up to them and put her arms around Jack. “Take your bow,” she whispered into his ear.

Jack stumbled out to the edge of the stage. The audience jumped to their feet. Cheers and applause filled the theater. Masks flew through the air. Jack was a star. But no matter how perfectly he planned a trick, Jack would never be able to control one thing: the Mussini factor. The tree igniting into flames was pure sabotage, and it was
just
Mussini’s style.

Jack exited the stage after his third bow and collapsed onto a pile of burlap sacks. Violet hurried backstage and brought him a glass of water, just in time for Runt to grab the glass out of her hands and splash the water in Jack’s face.

“He’s fine. He’s fine, people. Jack’s a professional,” Runt said, as the water ran down Jack’s face and shirt.

Boxer and T-Ray crowded backstage with the others. “That was amazing!” T-Ray yelled.

“That wasn’t in the plan. You had me worried for a second.” Boxer helped Jack to his feet.

He steadied himself against Boxer’s arm as the stage seemed to sway beneath him. “I’m just glad you caught me.”

As if attracted to the noise and energy of the night, the Amazing Mussini pushed through the curtains, clapping his massive hands.

“Bravo! Bravo! I couldn’t have planned this night better if I tried.”

Everyone went silent and turned to watch what would transpire between Jack and Mussini. Jack’s shoulders slumped, and with a calm voice he said, “But you did plan this. All of it. You could have killed me.” But Jack knew that was the plan—to kill him.

“That was the point. I had to see for myself what you’re made of. The handcuff tricks could have been luck. And make no mistake—you are lucky. I needed to know if you have the drive, the guts to live when all around you is dead.”

Jack’s eyes burned with anger. “Sorry I screwed up your plans by living.”

“I’m still proud of you—alive or dead. Tonight you are a
star
. They loved you. How does it feel to be
really
loved?” Mussini gestured to the stage, where they could still hear cheers for the Kid. “That was my gift to you tonight. So hate me if you have to.” He smiled. “You’ll come around.”

Mussini was always a step ahead of him. Pushing him, shoving him harder and harder. Nothing was ever good enough. Jack stormed out of the theater. He didn’t want to look at Mussini for one more second.
Proud of him
. Was he nuts? Was he proud that Jack didn’t get his brains bashed in, falling from the burning rope? The fact that the crowd loved the act was little consolation.

With nowhere else to go, Jack wandered back to the campfire. He needed to blow off some steam. No one
was around to bother him, so he kicked at the smoldering log in the campfire, and a volcano of sparks erupted into the air. The sparks lit up the dark figure standing near the back of the wagon. At first Jack thought it was Jabber, but Jabber was still at the show. Jack took a few steps toward him. The figure moved.

“The show’s over. You can’t be around here,” Jack said, walking faster over to the figure, his anger at Mussini bolstering his confidence. The person turned and fled, heading toward the town. Instantly Jack reacted and raced after the figure and out into the dark streets. He could use a little cat-and-mouse game. The stranger was quick, his body zipping around corners, but Jack matched him stride for stride, keeping him in his sight. After being chased plenty of times in his life, for once, it felt good to be the one doing the chasing.

Jack darted through the streets of the town, sticking to the intruder’s trail. He shoved his way past the dead pedestrians who lingered in the streets after the show. There were no stars out, no moon to lighten the midnight sky—only pale gaslights illuminating the dark stone-slick streets. The cold night air clung to his throat, but he kept his eyes locked on the quick figure.

Was the person one of Mussini’s spies sent to figure out Jack’s tricks? But if he worked for Mussini, why sneak around the campsite, why not walk around in the open? A flicker of hope flared up in him—could it possibly be someone who could help him get out of the forest? The farther they ran, the narrower the streets became. Jack shifted around a corner, trapping the person down
a dead-end alley. The figure skidded to a halt and froze with his back to him.