The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel (21 page)

The handcuffs at Shepard’s shop reminded Jack that he needed to work on his act so there’d be no more surprises onstage. Jack wanted to prove that he could be a real showman. Mussini let Violet continue doing the wolf act with Jabber, but she didn’t bother with the singing act, so that gave them a lot of time to practice. Each town they traveled to had a performance area for the show, and the current theater even had a roof over the stage. With a few shows now under his belt, Jack was starting to relax. Runt, T-Ray, and Boxer reclined in the stands and watched Jack’s practice. The guys were teaching him the ropes, practicing relentlessly to catch Jack up on the ins and outs of how the tour worked.

Talk about a tough crowd. They didn’t let Jack off the
hook for any tiny mistake—no stumbling over his words when he made the speech about all the ghastly criminals who’d worn the handcuffs, and definitely
no
fumbling with the handcuffs.

“Cool as a cucumber,” T-Ray said.

“And no sweating onstage, either. The dead can smell sweat a mile a way.”

“And they can smell fear like a pack of wild dogs.” T-Ray threw his head back and snorted. “A pack of wild, dead dogs.”

“No they can’t,” Jack said, throwing an acorn at T-Ray. For the first time, he felt like people wanted him to succeed, and he wanted to make them proud. Or, at the very least, not embarrass them.

The large black ghost house was the biggest obstacle for Jack onstage. That was what Houdini called his black box. A long time ago, fake séance conjurers used similar tricks to dupe clients to thinking ghosts were real. One side of the box, where Jack entered, was made of a black velvety fabric. A hole was cut in the top of the box for Jack’s head, so that the audience could see he was still inside, with the rest of his body concealed behind the curtain. In a way, it was a relief to be inside the box while trying to get the handcuffs off; while his body was hidden, Jack could use every means possible to get out of the handcuffs without the audience being any the wiser.

Jack concealed keys all over his body. T-Ray let him
use his Scotch tape to hide keys under his pants legs and in his armpit—he even made pockets out of flesh-colored fabric and taped them to his thigh or inside bicep. He also used the seam of his pants and the backside of his leather belt to hide keys. Using his clothes and body to their fullest potential to hide the keys was crucial because once onstage, he was subjected to the inspection and cynical eyes of the dead.

The challenge part of the act seemed simple enough. Anyone could bring in a pair of working handcuffs, and Jack would escape from them. Mussini loved getting the dead involved in the show. Jack had the feeling that Mussini didn’t care if he got humiliated onstage or not. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Jack if Mussini secretly
wanted
him to fail, to flounder in front of the dead, unable to free himself.

To avoid that humiliation, Jack took precautions to ensure the show went smoothly. Boxer inspected any cuffs brought up by the audience and made sure that they worked. He was also the “heavy” in case any wise guys tried to bring up damaged cuffs. Boxer, Violet, and Jack developed a secret way of communicating while onstage, sort of like the way a third-base coach gave signals in baseball, just not so obvious. They had to be subtle: A raised eyebrow meant suspicious, and a half smile meant a good choice. A wrinkled nose meant something stunk about someone.

As his assistant, Violet was onstage the entire time, so it was important for her to get used to handling the handcuffs and remembering which keys went to which cuffs. Violet’s memory was practically photographic. Soon she knew each key and each lock by heart. The box was dark, so they needed to know which key went in which lock by touch alone. They practiced reaching into a bag, holding the keys in their hands, and guessing which lock they opened. Violet also made her own costume with glittery gossamer wings sprouting from her back and a small black mask that rested just across her eyes. She looked like a cross between a fairy and a bandit.

Jack had waited a few days to give Violet her combs, not wanting them to seem like a bribe for helping him. He handed her the brown paper package with the nice bow on top.

“What’s this?” she asked, and her face narrowed in mock suspicion.

“Just a present.”

Her face brightened. “I love presents.” She ripped the paper off like she hadn’t received a present in a hundred years. “Oh, they’re so perfect. Stars! There aren’t any stars here, just clouds. I love them.”

Violet’s face lit up the same way the gang of dead kids’ faces lit up when Skimmer showered them with gaudy rings. Then he remembered Jabber handing over the papier-mâché mask to the Death Wrangler. In the
world of the dead, beauty was more important than wealth or influence. Jack realized that whatever he traded to the Death Wranglers didn’t have to cost much, but it had to be beautiful—something special.

Jack leaned against the tree and stared out into the street, watching the dead walk by. Through the crowd he thought he saw Mussini, with his scruffy beard, wild hair, and long black coat, milling through the crowds of people. Yep, Mister Amazing all right, out for a Sunday stroll.

“Hey, where’s Mussini going?”

“To town. He likes to drum up excitement about the show himself.” Violet twisted up her hair and shoved the combs in over and over until she got them just right. “Promotion is a big deal in show business.”

“So he’ll probably be gone a while?” Jack asked.

“He’s usually gone for at least a couple of hours.”

Just the lucky break Jack needed if he was going to break into Mussini’s tent and
borrow
his book of magic tricks. The book was the only thing he could think of worth enough to trade the Death Wranglers for passage out of the underworld. With the magical tricks inside, the Death Wranglers could create as many beautiful illusions as they wanted. T-Ray told him that Mussini kept the secrets to his tricks inside his tent in a locked box. All Jack had to do was to sneak inside the tent and find the box. Easy.

“Hey, I’ll catch up with you later. I’m going to practice with some of the handcuffs that I left in my tent.”

“You practice too much. Have some fun.”

“Right. A regular old party with the dead.” Jack waved to Violet as he headed back toward the tents.

After making sure the coast was clear, Jack ducked inside Mussini’s tent. He was surprised to find the interior completely different than the last time he’d been inside. All the exotic fabric was gone, leaving the tent barren and empty. Every step Jack took reverberated on the floorboards. Mussini’s golden hawk masks lined row after row of shelves, and a battered collection of knives and pipes sat on his dressing table next to his bed. Jack paused, soaking in the thrill of being in Mussini’s tent, spying on the master magician. His fingers hovered over the knives, but he pulled his attention away and focused on his task. A desk and a worn-out leather armchair were the only other furniture in the tent.

Jack found the trunk under Mussini’s bed (definitely not the most original hiding place). He dragged it out and ran his finger over the lock. He shrugged and tried to lift the lid. Jack almost laughed when it opened immediately without a key. Either Mussini was incredibly confident or ridiculously crazy not to lock up his valuables, and from what Jack could tell, Mussini was anything but crazy. He probably didn’t think any of the kids were smart enough to perform his magic tricks or nuts enough to steal from him.

Jack heaved open the lid and there it was—Mussini’s
magic book. Lifting the book out of the box and setting it on his lap, Jack opened the cover and flipped through the wondrous pages filled with magic tricks and their secrets. It included all the shows and all the magic Mussini had performed from the time when he was not much older than Jack to the present. He had been a magician his entire life; the book was his legacy. Jack’s attention raced across the pages, his gaze dancing over the spectacular tricks—treasures of Mussini’s amazing imagination. He admired the meticulous detail of the tricks, like an architect constructing a house made of magic. This book showed commitment and the kind of dedication only a few possessed. It reminded him of Houdini.

Absorbed in the tricks, Jack’s head jerked when he heard a rustling noise outside of the tent. Someone was coming. He slammed the trunk closed and threw himself under the bed, pulling the trunk in behind him. Crammed under, he clutched the book to his chest and held himself perfectly still. Thick-soled boots tromped across the floor.

“What’s wrong with you lately? Where’s your head?” The tone of Mussini’s voice was somewhere between concerned and annoyed.

“I’ve had things on my mind,” Jabber said, defensive.

Jack slowed his panicked breathing. One of the tent supports pinched against his side. He winced and tried not to lean against the wood for fear of bringing the whole tent down on top of them. Jack turned his head
enough to glimpse Mussini’s black boots positioned in front of the dresser.

“Out with it then. No use keeping it bottled up.”

“You promised that I would inherit the show.” Jabber’s voice was harsh. “I’ve been here the longest and I know the ways of the underworld better than anyone.”

“If I recall correctly, I said that
if and when
I decide to move on and leave the forest, the best performer would inherit the show.”

“I’m the best performer. I always have been. Jack doesn’t come close to matching me with showmanship. He’s an amateur.” Jabber sat down on the bed, which pressed the thin mattress against Jack’s face. He gasped. Beads of sweat broke out across his neck. The pressure and heat were suffocating.

“Is that a hint of jealousy I hear in your voice?” Mussini asked, amused.

“Jealous of that kid? Not in a million years. What you hear is my faith in your word dwindling.”

“Jack’s got spunk. He’s fresh, and the dead like that.”

“The dead won’t have anything to like if he escapes. He’s tried once and he’ll try again. You can’t trust him.”

“I have a plan to make his escape meaningless.”

“What are you going to do?
Kill him
?” Jabber snorted.

Mussini scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic. Death is natural. We know that better than anyone. It’s going to
happen sooner or later. But in Jack’s case, it might just happen sooner.”

“But it’s not his time to die. You can’t do that. Not even for the act.” Jabber rose from the bed, relieving the weight from Jack’s body, but the weight on his mind stayed firm.

Mussini planned to kill him to keep him in the forest forever.

“You’re not going soft on me, are you? A second ago you were ready to get rid of him yourself. I just want a little insurance on my investment. I hate to do it. The dead love to watch the living perform, but he has enough star power to keep their attention, so being dead might not matter.”

“But if he’s dead and such a
star
, then you’ll probably make him a permanent member of the show.”

“Right.” Mussini laughed. “It’s still my call and my show.”

“That doesn’t change things with our arrangement. I want your word that I will inherit the show, not Jack.”

“You know I can’t give you that. So you have a little competition. Let the best man win. Plus, it will still be a long time before I leave. You two will have plenty of time to fight it out. Now come on. Time to drum up some excitement.” Mussini’s boots scraped across the floor, the flap fluttered back, and they were gone.

The tent was quiet. Jack let out the breath he was holding. A wave of claustrophobia overwhelmed him. He pushed the trunk from under the bed, crawled out, and shoved everything back in place before rushing out into the cool air. With Mussini’s magic book concealed under his shirt, Jack stumbled back to his own tent and dove into his hammock before anyone could see the hard outline the book made through the cloth. He slipped the book out and hid it under his blanket.

“What’s up with you?” Runt asked. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

“I’m fine.” Jack edged off his hammock and sat on the floor.

“What’d you do now?” Boxer asked.

“Yeah, you’ve got ‘guilty’ written all over your face,” T-Ray said.

The victory of taking Mussini’s magic book was marred with the news that Mussini planned on killing Jack, but he didn’t want to dwell on that. “I just got our ticket out of this place.”

“Brother, not this again. Escape, escape, escape. Is that all you think about?” Runt asked, perched on the edge of his hammock.

“Yes! We need to get a plan. I wasn’t ready the first time, but this time, I’m not going to screw up,” Jack said, his voice frantic.

“What did you get?” T-Ray asked. He shivered despite a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“I got us something to trade to the Death Wranglers to secure our safe passage through the gate and out of the forest.”

“No way!” Runt yelled. “What is it?”

“I’m not saying just yet. I need to know if the three of you are prepared to leave with me and make a plan to get out together.”

The three of them exchanged glances. T-Ray answered, “We’ll go. But we need an airtight escape plan. We don’t want any Death Wranglers sneaking up on us like last time. Sorry, Jack. It’s not that we don’t trust you. We just need to be sure this is going to work.”