Wild Boy (15 page)

“Are there any clues in that book?” Clarissa said.

“I dunno. . . .”

“What about that worm thing? Is that a clue?”

Wild Boy banged the jar down. “Stop asking so many questions, will you?”

As he spoke, a spark of electricity shot from the eel jar and hit the cage. Clarissa pulled Wild Boy back as a faint blue light crackled around the silver bars, growing brighter. And then —
whoosh
— the light shot into the cage. Wild Boy and Clarissa watched, amazed, as all of the wires began to glow. Electricity rushed along them and into the brain. For a second the oozing organ shone bright blue, lit from inside. Then it began to twitch, shaking the cage on the table.

And then the light cut out.

Silence. Darkness.

“Let’s get out of here,” Clarissa said. She rushed back along the chamber and jumped through the open painting.

Wild Boy stuffed the Doctor’s notebook in his coat pocket, as another crackle of electricity shimmered around the rotten surface of the brain. “What the hell’s going on here?” he whispered.

He turned to follow Clarissa, but stopped.

There was a light in the museum.

“Clarissa?” he said.

No reply. The light flickered.

Wild Boy glanced to the window, thinking he should escape while he could. But what about Clarissa? They were in this together now, and he still owed her for saving him at the fair. He couldn’t just leave her.

His hands trembled as he edged closer to the hole in the wall. “Who’s there?” he called. “If it’s you blasted coppers, then you’d better run. Cos I’m a cold-blooded killer and I’m coming out!”

Still no reply. Slowly he stepped into the museum, and immediately he wished he hadn’t.

An oil lamp sat on one of the cabinets. The police
were
here. An officer lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor between the shelves. A tall cloaked figure stood over him. It was the hooded man. His gloved hand clamped around Clarissa’s neck, lifting her several inches from the floor.

He looked up at Wild Boy and dark eyes glinted behind his porcelain mask. “The Wild Boy of London,” he said. “You are just in time to watch your friend die.”

T
he hooded man’s fingers tightened around Clarissa’s throat. A bead of sweat dripped from the long birdlike beak of his carnival mask. Clarissa’s pale face had turned dark red. She struggled and kicked, but the killer’s grip was too strong, crushing the life from her.

“One squeeze,” the hooded man said, “and she is gone.”

Anger took control of Wild Boy. Before he even knew what he was doing, he leaped over the unconscious police officer and charged at the hooded man, screaming in rage.

But the killer simply raised Clarissa higher. “It is almost as if you wish for it to happen.”

“Don’t!” Wild Boy cried, stopping and stepping back. “What do you want?”

“You found the Doctor’s secret laboratory. There is something I need from that room.”

“Tell me and I’ll get it,” Wild Boy said. “Just let her go.”

“The Doctor’s notebook,” the hooded man replied. His hand tightened around Clarissa’s neck. “You have ten seconds. If you are not back in that time, I will end Miss Everett’s life and throw her from that window.”

Wild Boy felt the Doctor’s journal in his pocket, but stopped himself from bringing it out. He and Clarissa had come here to look for clues to catch the killer. And here he was. Perhaps he could find a way to trap him.

Clarissa’s eyes rolled. Her red face began to turn blue. She couldn’t register what was happening anymore, and Wild Boy was almost glad. He knew she wouldn’t like his plan.

“Five seconds,” said the hooded man. “Do not think I am joking.”

“Wait!” Wild Boy said. “I put it behind you.”

The killer’s hand eased on Clarissa’s neck.

“The book,” Wild Boy said. “I hid it so Clarissa wouldn’t see it. I was gonna take it and leave her.”

The killer’s hand tightened again. “I do not believe you.”

Wild Boy stared at the shrouded figure, refusing to back down. “Well then, you’ll just have to kill her, won’t you?”

For a dreadful second he feared that he’d gone too far. But the hooded man’s hand relaxed, and Clarissa gasped a desperate breath. “Which jar?” the killer demanded.

“That one with the eyeballs,” Wild Boy said, pointing to the jar that Clarissa had picked up before. “See where the dust’s moved at the bottom? I hid the book behind there.”

The hooded man moved back, walking with those same awkward, lurching steps that Wild Boy had noticed at the fair. Keeping one hand on Clarissa’s neck, the killer reached the other toward the shelf.

“Wait,” Wild Boy said. “Just tell me why.”

“Why?”

“Why kill those people? Just for some machine?”

And then, from behind the mask came something that caught Wild Boy by surprise — a laugh. A deep, booming laugh so loud it shook the jars on the shelves. “Some machine?” the hooded man said. “No, not just some machine.
The
machine. If you knew what it was, you would think it worth killing for too. You of all people.”

“Me? What is it? Tell me!”

The dark eyes narrowed behind the killer’s mask. “It is a very powerful machine. It is a machine that changes you. Imagine that, Wild Boy of London. Imagine a machine that could make you normal, like everyone else.”

Wild Boy was too stunned to reply. What the killer had said wasn’t possible, was it? He could never be normal. No, he couldn’t think about that. He had a plan and he had to stick to it. He edged closer, watching the hooded man lift the jar of eyeballs from the shelf.

The killer looked behind the jar. “I am disappointed,” he growled. “What exactly did you hope to gain by that charade?”

“
This!
” Wild Boy yelled.

He launched forward and slammed his side against one of the cabinets. The impact sent a bolt of pain up his wounded arm, and a cry roaring from his mouth. But it worked. The cabinet swung down, straight at the hooded man.

T
he cabinet crashed over the hooded man, and the killer fell back, letting go of Clarissa. Glass jars smashed on the floor. Stinging vapors swirled into the air, and golden preserving fluid washed across the museum, sloshing with slippery organs.

Wild Boy rushed to Clarissa. He feared that he was too late, but she was breathing — hurt, gasping, but breathing.

She turned, looking groggily around the shattered shelves. “Where is he?” she groaned. “Where did he go?”

The hooded man had gone, but there was no time to worry about him now. The police outside would have heard the crashes.

Wild Boy wrapped an arm around Clarissa’s shoulder and helped her stand. They began to shuffle toward the door, but several jars fell from the shelves in front of them. Clarissa screamed and they staggered back, but now more jars shattered to the ground behind. Acid liquid splashed up, soaking Wild Boy’s hair and stinging his eyes.

A black shape streaked behind the shelves — the hooded man. Another cabinet toppled over, colliding with the next, falling like dominoes.

Wild Boy gritted his teeth, trying to fight the pain, to think. They had to get out of here but the path to the door was blocked by fallen shelves. They’d have to take their chances with the window.

“This way!” he cried as another cabinet smashed down to their side.

He gripped Clarissa tighter, leading her to the secret room.

“The copper,” she said.

Wild Boy looked back and cursed. The police officer still lay unconscious on the floor. One of the shelves could fall on him at any moment.

It ain’t your problem,
he thought.
Leave him.

But he knew he couldn’t. He swore again, and kept swearing, as he rushed to the officer and dragged him away from the chaos. As he ran back to Clarissa he glimpsed the hooded man dart behind another cabinet, just yards away. He heard Clarissa yell a warning, saw the cabinet swing down. . . .

Wild Boy threw himself to the side, trying to dive out of the way. But he was too late, too slow. He hit the ground and cried out as the cabinet slammed onto him, showering him with glass and body parts. The killer’s lamp fell to the floor and set fire to the preserving fluid. A wall of flames roared up around the museum.

Wild Boy tried to move, but his long coat was caught under the shelves. Flames licked across the floor. The hair on his face crackled with heat.

Clarissa staggered to him and tugged his coat, but she was still too weak to tear it free.

“Run!” Wild Boy said. “Get out of here!”

Then another voice spoke. “Give me the book.”

The hooded man came closer, walking in those awkward, jerky strides. The tattered leather trail of his cloak caught fire as it swept over the wreckage of the museum. The flames must have scorched his legs but he didn’t make a sound as he reached down and took the Doctor’s notebook from Wild Boy’s pocket.

And then he brought out a knife.

“No!” Clarissa screamed. “Leave him alone!”

With a powerful sweep of his arm, the killer shoved her away.

Dark eyes glinted behind that mask. For a moment, Wild Boy thought he recognized them — he couldn’t see their color, but he knew he had seen them somewhere before.

The killer’s knife shone in the firelight as he held the weapon closer.

Wild Boy gritted his teeth, stopping himself from crying out. If he was going to die, he wouldn’t give his murderer the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

But the hooded man didn’t kill him. Instead, he swiped the blade and cut Wild Boy’s coat from the shelves. Then, in one quick movement, he leaped into the Doctor’s secret chamber.

Wild Boy grasped Clarissa’s arm as she helped him stand. His wounded shoulder bled onto his coat, his hair was scorched, and his lip was bloody. But it wasn’t pain he felt — it was anger.

“I never asked for your help!” he yelled at the killer. “I don’t owe you nothing!”

The hooded man looked back. The fire lit his white mask bloodred. “Soon, Wild Boy,” he said, “you will owe me
everything.
”

In a smash and a shower of glass, he jumped through the window.

Wild Boy charged after the killer. The hairs crackled all over his body as he pulled his coat up over his head and burst through the flames. He leaped into the secret chamber and rushed to the broken window, certain that he’d see the hooded man lying injured in the yard below.

“No!” he yelled, slamming his hand against the wall.

The killer was gone. Wild Boy didn’t understand — it was twenty feet down. How could he have jumped that without breaking his legs?

“Wild Boy!” Clarissa yelled, climbing into the chamber. “The police!”

More officers appeared in the museum doorway, shielding their faces against the blaze. Through the fire they saw their fallen colleague on the floor, and Wild Boy and Clarissa in the secret room. “It’s him!” one of the officers yelled. “It’s the Wild Boy of London!”

“It’s both of ‘em!” another said. “I claim the reward!”

“Go!” Wild Boy cried, urging Clarissa through the window.

She climbed through and jumped. The drop was no problem for her, even onto stone. She landed in a roll, sprang up, and set off running down the alley. “Hurry!” she called. “I see the killer!”

“Clarissa, wait!”

Wild Boy clambered out onto the ledge. For a moment he feared he might slip. He pressed himself back against the wall. He wasn’t an acrobat — he couldn’t jump this.

The police were getting closer.

Jump,
he thought.
Jump!

His coat snapped through the fog as he fell. He landed on top of the outhouse, but his feet plunged through as the shed collapsed. Pain roared from his injured shoulder as he crash-landed in the broken wood.

“There! There! He’s down there!”

Policemen’s truncheons thwacked onto the ground. Wild Boy rose and staggered to the alley. He saw Clarissa in the distance and went after her as fast as he could. His side throbbed from the impact of the cabinet, but fear and adrenaline kept him moving as he followed her across the street and into another alley.

And then he stopped.

Clarissa leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard. “I nearly caught him,” she said.