outside.
“Out here! Someone killed the Professor!”
“Look! This freak’s got blood on him!”
“No!” Wild Boy said. “It wasn’t me! Listen!”
Mary Everett squinted at Wild Boy, and the crust of white makeup cracked across her face. “I can’t hear,” she said. “Come closer.”
“Please,” Wild Boy said, scrabbling forward. “I saw what happened. . . .”
“That’s close enough,” the ringmaster said.
Wild Boy knew then that he’d been tricked, and his heart broke. He tried to slide back, but he was too late.
Mary Everett swung her shotgun and smashed him in the face.
A blinding white light filled his eyes, and then everything turned red as blood trickled down his face. He saw blurry crimson visions — of the circus crew crowding around him, of Clarissa watching from her high wire, of Mary Everett peeling one of his long hairs from the barrel of her gun. Through the haze of blood, the ringmaster’s powdered face looked like a raging ball of flames.
“Gather the boys,” she said. “Tell them we caught the killer.”
And then everything went black.
W ild Boy woke in the dark.
He heard heavy, rumbling breaths. Confused, he reached out a shaky hand, feeling wooden planks beneath him and then a cold metal shaft in front. He tried to focus, but his head whirled with dizziness. He tasted blood in his mouth, panic rising in his throat. Where was he?
Yards away, something growled. He heard the soft padding of . . .
paws.
He slid forward but iron bars blocked his escape. He slid back but there were bars all around. To his horror he realized he was in a cage.
A shaft of light broke the dark. Wild Boy flinched away as the light grew into the roaring flame of a torch.
A ghastly face glared at him from the gloom — charcoal-lined eyes and crusty white makeup. Mary Everett limped closer on her crutch, holding the crackling torch in her other hand.
“What’s happening?” Wild Boy demanded. “Let me out!”
A smudge of charcoal ran like a black tear down the ringmaster’s powdered cheek. “Thought you’d feel at home with the animals, freak.”
She swept her torch through the dark. Its arc of flame lit a row of cages raised on wooden carts around the side of the big top. These were the homes of the circus’s wild beasts — a family of cowering chimpanzees, a pair of grinning hyenas, and a Bengal tiger curled against the bars, its amber eyes glinting in the torchlight.
Around Wild Boy’s cage, more and more torches crackled to life. A dozen circus porters stepped from the dark. He could smell the booze on their breath, and see it in their bleary eyes.
He shuffled forward and clutched the bars. “Listen to me,” he said. “There’s been a murder. . . . Professor Wollstonecraft —”
“He admits it!” said one of the porters.
“No, it weren’t me!”
“Then who was it?” Mary Everett said.
“I . . . I never saw his face. He wore a mask.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the porters. The hyenas joined in, drool trickling from their shiny fangs.
“Enough!” said Mary Everett, and everyone shut up — even the hyenas. “You were seen running from the Professor’s van,” she said. “But so was someone else. Who’s your partner?”
“I ain’t got no partner, I swear. It was the hooded man. Listen to me, he walks funny and he —”
The ringmaster jabbed her torch at the bars, causing a burst of sparks. Wild Boy cried out and tumbled back as the fire singed the hair on his hands and face.
Mary Everett used her torch to light a cigar. She took a long drag and blew smoke through the bars. “No, you listen to
me,
freak. You were seen running from the Professor’s van. And you got blood on your hands.”
Wild Boy had never been so scared. He thought of Clarissa — she knew about the letter, she could tell them why he was in the Professor’s van. But he feared her mother was crazy enough to put her on trial too. Clarissa was no friend of his, but he
“Out here! Someone killed the Professor!”
“Look! This freak’s got blood on him!”
“No!” Wild Boy said. “It wasn’t me! Listen!”
Mary Everett squinted at Wild Boy, and the crust of white makeup cracked across her face. “I can’t hear,” she said. “Come closer.”
“Please,” Wild Boy said, scrabbling forward. “I saw what happened. . . .”
“That’s close enough,” the ringmaster said.
Wild Boy knew then that he’d been tricked, and his heart broke. He tried to slide back, but he was too late.
Mary Everett swung her shotgun and smashed him in the face.
A blinding white light filled his eyes, and then everything turned red as blood trickled down his face. He saw blurry crimson visions — of the circus crew crowding around him, of Clarissa watching from her high wire, of Mary Everett peeling one of his long hairs from the barrel of her gun. Through the haze of blood, the ringmaster’s powdered face looked like a raging ball of flames.
“Gather the boys,” she said. “Tell them we caught the killer.”
And then everything went black.
W ild Boy woke in the dark.
He heard heavy, rumbling breaths. Confused, he reached out a shaky hand, feeling wooden planks beneath him and then a cold metal shaft in front. He tried to focus, but his head whirled with dizziness. He tasted blood in his mouth, panic rising in his throat. Where was he?
Yards away, something growled. He heard the soft padding of . . .
paws.
He slid forward but iron bars blocked his escape. He slid back but there were bars all around. To his horror he realized he was in a cage.
A shaft of light broke the dark. Wild Boy flinched away as the light grew into the roaring flame of a torch.
A ghastly face glared at him from the gloom — charcoal-lined eyes and crusty white makeup. Mary Everett limped closer on her crutch, holding the crackling torch in her other hand.
“What’s happening?” Wild Boy demanded. “Let me out!”
A smudge of charcoal ran like a black tear down the ringmaster’s powdered cheek. “Thought you’d feel at home with the animals, freak.”
She swept her torch through the dark. Its arc of flame lit a row of cages raised on wooden carts around the side of the big top. These were the homes of the circus’s wild beasts — a family of cowering chimpanzees, a pair of grinning hyenas, and a Bengal tiger curled against the bars, its amber eyes glinting in the torchlight.
Around Wild Boy’s cage, more and more torches crackled to life. A dozen circus porters stepped from the dark. He could smell the booze on their breath, and see it in their bleary eyes.
He shuffled forward and clutched the bars. “Listen to me,” he said. “There’s been a murder. . . . Professor Wollstonecraft —”
“He admits it!” said one of the porters.
“No, it weren’t me!”
“Then who was it?” Mary Everett said.
“I . . . I never saw his face. He wore a mask.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the porters. The hyenas joined in, drool trickling from their shiny fangs.
“Enough!” said Mary Everett, and everyone shut up — even the hyenas. “You were seen running from the Professor’s van,” she said. “But so was someone else. Who’s your partner?”
“I ain’t got no partner, I swear. It was the hooded man. Listen to me, he walks funny and he —”
The ringmaster jabbed her torch at the bars, causing a burst of sparks. Wild Boy cried out and tumbled back as the fire singed the hair on his hands and face.
Mary Everett used her torch to light a cigar. She took a long drag and blew smoke through the bars. “No, you listen to
me,
freak. You were seen running from the Professor’s van. And you got blood on your hands.”
Wild Boy had never been so scared. He thought of Clarissa — she knew about the letter, she could tell them why he was in the Professor’s van. But he feared her mother was crazy enough to put her on trial too. Clarissa was no friend of his, but he
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