Murder Under Her Skin by Stephen Spotswood

Author:Stephen Spotswood [Spotswood, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2021-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

About twenty feet of the canvas fencing was on fire, as were the backs of the wooden booths behind it. A bucket brigade was already forming, carrying water from the big tank near the animal cages.

Hart & Halloway rehearsed for this as diligently as any performance. In a traveling city of canvas and wood, fire was a top-five fear. Clown, contortionist, or candy butcher—everybody slung water when they heard the alarm go up.

At the speed people were moving, they’d have the fire out in minutes. Figuring to add my hand to the effort, I went to fill in a gap and almost ran into Paulie, who was stock-still and staring up at the center of the flames.

“Ray!” he cried out. “Anybody got eyes on Ray?”

The reptile keeper was nowhere in sight. Then I realized what had Paulie panicked. The House of Venomous Things was dead smack in the center of the conflagration. While the main body of the converted train car hadn’t caught, the whole backside of Ray’s upper loft was in flames.

Before anyone could stop him, Paulie darted through a gap in the burning canvas and into Sideshow Alley.

And before anyone could stop me, I followed him.

Together, we ran around to the front of the old train car and inside the reptile house. Paulie grabbed a stool, placed it under the hatch to the loft, and climbed on it.

The glass cases were a flurry of scurries and slithers, their occupants sensing the danger.

“Ray! Ray, you up there!” the clown yelled.

He pushed against the hatch. It shifted some but he couldn’t get it open.

“Ray’s bed is a fold-up,” he said. “I think it’s on top of the goddamn hatch.”

Which meant Ray was up there, in bed, and for some reason he wasn’t answering.

We ran back out. While we’d been inside, the fire had crept up onto the roof of the loft and was making its way around the sides. Soon the whole thing would be engulfed.

The side of the loft we were facing—the one that had the tiny window set in it—was still mostly clear. The window was open, but I didn’t see anything moving inside.

“We need buckets over here!” Paulie yelled.

Someone shouted a reply from the other side of the fence, but I didn’t catch it. Paulie and I shared a look and I knew he was thinking the same thing. They weren’t going to get here in time.

In desperation, he leaped up and got his fingers around the burning edge of the trailer roof. The old wood tore off in his hands and he landed rough.

He stumbled halfway to his feet, twin lines seared into his palms.

Seeing him in that position—crouched, hands out—gave me a terrible idea.

“The number three!” I yelled.

“What?”

“Give me the number three. Extra sauce!”

To Paulie’s credit, he didn’t dither. He immediately laced his fingers together and made a cradle for my foot.

Back when I was with the circus, I did a stint training with the clown crew. To poke at the aerialists, who had

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