Wild Boy (23 page)

“I am afraid, Wild Boy, that it
is
happening,” the killer said.

“This is ridiculous,” Marcus shouted. “How on earth do you expect to escape?”

The hooded man’s voice came back, fainter now, moving away. “Watch and see, Mr. Bishop. Watch and see.”

Marcus drew a pistol from inside his jacket. He loaded the gun’s plate and issued orders to the other Gentlemen to seal doors and guard exits. But as he spoke, another sound rang around the hall.

A loud, bloodcurdling shriek, like a pig being slaughtered. Somewhere, a door slammed. Then another, and another, as the screeching grew louder. Wild Boy turned, listening, confused. He could hear now that the noise was a laugh. No — it was several laughs, coming closer.

“No,” he gasped. “He can’t have. . . .”

“What the devil is that?” Marcus asked.

“The prisoners!” Wild Boy cried. “He’s released the prisoners!”

B
lack clouds swirled over the White Tower.

The stone keep rose from the center of the courtyard, its pinnacled turrets snarling up against the rain. Ravens hopped about the walls, untroubled by the rumbling thunder as they pecked the cobbles for scraps.

All at once, the birds flapped into the air.

A door burst open.

Marcus Bishop limped down the Tower’s wooden steps and into the courtyard, barking orders to the men who followed. “Load your weapons, Gentlemen, they could already be outside. Mr.Beauchamp, seal the west gate. Mr. Rawlins, guard the river dock; make sure the boat is secure. Not one prisoner escapes.”

Wild Boy raced behind them. “Clarissa!” he yelled. “Clarissa!”

He pushed one of the Gentlemen out of the way, but the man shoved him back, sending him tumbling onto the stone ground. The other Gentlemen didn’t have time to search for his friend. They had troubles of their own.

One of the escaped prisoners burst from the side of the tower. Chains rattled around the man’s shackled wrists as he fled for the perimeter wall.

“Mr. Cullen!” Marcus called.

The prisoner froze. Wild Boy saw that it was the man who had grabbed Clarissa through the hatch of his cell. The fugitive held his hands open in surrender, smiling to reveal a set of black and brown teeth. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he said.

Marcus nodded. Then he shot the man in the head.

The prisoner crumpled in a crimson mist.

“Gentlemen,” Marcus said. “Here they come.”

The keep’s door flew open. Prisoners charged down the steps and into the rain. The Gentlemen ran after them, firing rifles and pistols. Another prisoner collapsed in a spray of blood. Ravens squawked in the air.

Another prisoner fell, then another. The others ran like fury around the side of the tower, committed now to their flight — escape or die.

“Forget them!” Wild Boy screamed. “Look for Clarissa!”

But they weren’t listening, and didn’t care. He had to find her himself. He tried to ignore the mayhem around him, to focus his mind on the killer. He didn’t think the hooded man was free yet. He would need another distraction, something even bigger than this to escape the castle walls. In a flash of horror, Wild Boy realized that there was only one thing big enough to do that.

He turned and charged back toward the White Tower. “He’s inside!” he cried. “The killer’s still inside!”

Only Marcus heard. Reloading his pistol, he limped after Wild Boy toward the keep. “That makes no sense,” he said. “He knows our machine doesn’t work. Why would he have gone back?”

Wild Boy’s reply was drowned out by a loud groan that came from inside the tower, a sound like twisting metal. Around the courtyard, the Gentlemen turned. Even the fleeing prisoners looked back as the noise grew louder, echoing off the Tower’s walls.

“We’re too late!” Wild Boy said.

And then —

BOOM!

A sound like cannon fire shook the courtyard. The cobbles rattled. Several of the Gentlemen fell to their backsides.

BOOM! BOOM!

It was coming from inside the White Tower. A burst of blue fire lit the ancient fortress from inside, so powerful it shattered the narrow windows. Blocks of stone crumbled from the walls and crashed to the ground.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Wild Boy stumbled and fell as the impacts sent a tremor along the ground. He rolled away as another huge stone smashed down yards from his head.

“He’s using the machine!” he said.

“Let him,” Marcus replied. “It will kill him.”

“No! He’s using it to
escape
!”

Now Marcus understood, because now it happened: an explosion of stone and steam and brilliant blue light. The side of the White Tower caved in as giant sections of machinery exploded through, flying in every direction. Pipes slammed into walls, cogs crashed into stables, and a steaming piston collided with the tower’s chapel, shattering its stained-glass window. Gentlemen dived aside as one of the machine’s massive wheels rolled wildly across the courtyard, spitting and sparking. It careened over and slammed against the perimeter wall in a cloud of dust and steam.

Wild Boy scrambled up, struggling to see through the haze. “There!” he yelled.

The hooded man was escaping over the rubble. The killer moved awkwardly, with those heavy, limping strides. Clarissa hung over his shoulder, her fiery hair draped down the back of his cloak.

“Clarissa!” Wild Boy cried.

He raced after them, leaping piles of broken stone. Around the courtyard, the sparks had set fire to the stables. Over the roar of the flames, Wild Boy heard gunshots coming from the Tower’s dock.

“Stop him!” someone shouted. “Don’t let him get away!”

But they were too late. As Wild Boy ran closer, a belch of steam rose into the rain, and a steamboat chugged out onto the Thames. The hooded man stood at the controls. Behind him, Clarissa lay on the deck. She looked up, dazed and bleary-eyed, blood dribbling from the wound on her head. For a second, she and Wild Boy locked eyes. And then she was gone, as the boat disappeared into the drizzle.

Another block fell from the Tower and smashed into a pile of crates beside the dock. But Wild Boy just stood still, staring at the river. There was an empty feeling of dread in his belly, like hunger gnawing at his guts.

“Clarissa,” he said.

A sheet of paper swept over the broken crates. It was her list. Wild Boy picked it up and stared at the messy writing. The clues she’d written seemed to swirl on the page. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think of anything but the look on her face when he’d hurt her.

Marcus came up beside him, grimacing from the pain in his knee. He plucked the golden eyeball from its socket, dripped its liquid contents onto his coat sleeve, and inhaled deeply.

“Who is he?” he said. “Who is the hooded man?”

“I don’t know,” Wild Boy said. “I can’t think. . . .”

“Now is the time
to
think. Your friend’s life is at stake.”

Wild Boy whirled at him, crumpling the page. “You think I don’t know that?” he yelled. “These clues don’t make sense! How could the killer have survived that jump? How could he vanish in an alley with only rats and . . . and bloomin’ boxes!”

He turned to kick one of the crates, but stopped. He stood still, staring at the broken boxes.

“The crates,” he whispered.

At that moment, a great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders and float away. Suddenly it all made sense, and Wild Boy knew
everything.
He knew the location of the killer’s machine, he knew how to save Clarissa, and — at last — he knew the identity of the hooded man. He knew it, but he could barely believe it.

He looked at Marcus as storm clouds swirled overhead. “The fair,” he said. “You and me gotta go to the fair.”

W
ild Boy closed his eyes.

He breathed in deeply, scrunched them tighter. But still he saw Clarissa staring at him from that balcony, her eyes glaring and accusing.
We were partners,
they seemed to say.
We could have caught the killer. But you betrayed me, and now look what’s happened.

The hooded man had stolen the Tower’s steamboat, and it had taken vital minutes for the Gentlemen to requisition another from a passing waterman. Marcus Bishop had selected his five best men and they’d set off in pursuit. Wild Boy feared they were already too late.

Rain lashed against him as he stood at the front of the boat. It was the middle of the morning but the sky was as dark as night. Gaslights blinked on the riverbanks, and thunder rumbled overhead.

He wiped wet hair from his eyes and scanned the river for the Tower’s vessel. There were dozens of ships on the water — steam ferries, coal barges, and trading clippers moored side by side, their tall masts creaking and swaying. Moving between them all was frustratingly slow. Wild Boy wanted to yell at the Gentlemen, but he knew they were doing everything they could. Three of the men shoveled coal into the furnace, and brown smoke belched from the steamboat’s funnel.

Marcus came up beside Wild Boy. His golden eyeball glinted in the boat’s lantern. “This would be easier if you told me who we are after,” he said.

Who we are after.
At least Wild Boy knew
that
now. But he couldn’t tell Marcus the killer’s identity. He didn’t know for sure if he could trust him. Was the Gentleman’s main concern saving Clarissa, or finding the killer’s machine?

“I’ve just realized that I never asked your name,” Marcus said.

“It’s Wild Boy.”

“No, I mean your real name.”

His real name.
He remembered all the times he’d dreamed of being someone else. But not anymore. He knew now that he wasn’t just a freak. He was different, and for the first time ever he was glad to be.

“My name’s Wild Boy,” he said firmly.

Marcus smiled. “Well then, Wild Boy, we have a killer to catch, a friend to save, and your names to clear. Are you ready for it?”

He was ready, all right. In the hectic few minutes after the hooded man escaped, Wild Boy hadn’t only solved the mystery of the killer’s identity; he’d also devised a plan to save Clarissa. It was risky, dangerous. But his friend was relying on him.

The boat’s funnel lowered as it slipped under the sleek stone arches of London Bridge. Through the rain, he saw Saint Paul’s Cathedral squatting like a monster over a sprawl of lanes and alleys that ran from the river. Beyond, a bright orange light flared into the sky, as if a huge bonfire were raging in the heart of the City.

“Bartholomew Fair,” Wild Boy said. “That’s where the killer’s gone.”

It hadn’t been hard to work
that
out. The hooded man knew him, or at least knew of his abilities. The killer had known Professor Wollstonecraft too, so he must have lived with them at the fair. That also explained one of the clues on Clarissa’s list.

Marks on killer’s hood
—
lives in a place with low ceiling.

The hooded man lived in a caravan.

They drew closer to the riverbank, and a jetty crammed with steamboats taking people to the fair. Fights had broken out among the captains jostling for space.

“Sir,” one of the Gentlemen called. “Look!”

Docked among the boats was the Tower’s steamship. A golden letter
G
shone on the vessel’s side — but the boat was empty.