"What are they, Oz?"
"Your heritage. Your ancestry. Your future."
"I don’t get it."
"You will. You will. That is why I brought you along, George. You still think you’re part of them—people like Father Putney and his followers. You’re not."
George coiled and uncoiled his left arm in the air between them.
"Think I don’t know that?"
"Yes, but they see you as less than they, whereas in truth you are more than they can ever hope to be. Yet you still harbor the vain hope of joining them, of becoming part of their world. But you can’t, George. Not because they’ll never accept you, but because they don’t deserve you. You belong with us, George—with the troupe. We’re your family."
George didn’t—couldn’t—buy that for a second. He didn’t want to spend his life in this incestuous knot of freaks. The whole world awaited. He wanted to see it, taste it, touch it. And damn it, he would.
He changed the subject.
"What if the priest had decided he wanted to keep the Piece anyway? Would we have stolen it then?"
Oz nodded. "Of course. Right after I strangled him."
Crockett County, TN
1
"It's not fair," Ginger said, biting her trembling lower lip. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. "I won't do it."
Her uncle had called her to his trailer; she’d expected to find him alone, but someone else was there—that big ugly man with the lank hair who ran the freak show. The one they called Oz.
"I thought you were a trouper," Uncle Joe said, puffing hungrily on his pipe. "You wanted to be in my circus, I got you in, and now the first time something goes wrong, you want to blow the show. What kind of gratitude is that?"
What was wrong with him? This wasn't the Uncle Joe she'd known all her life. Didn't he realize that this wasn't just some tiny mishap? Carlo—her partner, her aerial soul mate—had a broken shoulder. She was devastated and her uncle was treating it like she'd stubbed her toe or something.
The Fugazi family did another series of acts in the show under the name of the Amazing Armanis. Carlo's bit as an Armani was to ride a motorcycle on the highwire. He'd started when he was twelve and could do it with his eyes closed. But last night the front wheel had come loose in mid-wire and he'd fallen, cycle and all. A freak accident . . .
Freak . . . that seemed to be the word of the day. That handsome but sinister character from the freak show, the one called Tarantello, had been hanging around the Fugazi corner of the lot lately, and now her Uncle Joe wanted her to do her act with one of the freaks, that one with the tentacles—Octoman.
"It has nothing to do with gratitude, Uncle Joe. I just don't want to cheapen my act by adding a freak."
"If it's okay with the Fugazis, why shouldn't it be okay with you?"
Ginger was stunned. "Papa Fugazi said okay?"
"Of course—right after I told him what I'm telling you: You do as I say or you'll never work any circus, anywhere, ever. And I can back that up. I get it around that you blew my show on the first leg, and no one'll want to risk taking you on."
"Wh—why are you doing this?"
"Because it'll make for a great show. You up there flying through the air toward that guy with no hands—you'll have the crowd on its feet every time."
"But . . . but . . ." She was at a loss for words, desperate for some way out. "He's not qualified."
"George Swenson is an excellent athlete," said Ozymandias Prather in his deep voice. "He had a full scholarship to Florida State as a gymnast before the other schools in the conference changed the rules to exclude him."
Ginger felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She looked to her uncle one last time, hoping he'd respond to the plea in her eyes.
"Uncle Joe . . ."
"I've said all I'm going to say on this, Ginger. Now you get over to the Fugazi trailers right away. Oz's man is already there. Papa Fugazi will begin coaching the two of you this afternoon. We've got no time to waste."
Fighting the tears, Ginger turned, stormed out the door, and almost tripped going down the steps. Tarantello, who seemed to be Oz's shadow, was waiting outside. He grabbed her elbow and steadied her as she stumbled. His touch was cold, like death. He smiled. A beatific smile in a pale, handsome face, yet without the slightest trace of warmth. She yanked her arm free and continued on her way.
She stopped a moment later. On her way where?
To her trailer and then home to Momma like a spoiled child? Like a loser? Or grit her teeth and go over to Fugazi country and get on with it?
The show must go on . . . and all the rest of that bullshit.
What had Oz said his name was? George Swenson?
She shuddered at the thought of touching those boneless, fingerless arms. Like touching snakes. But she'd show Uncle Joe and the rest of them. Ginger Cunningham didn't choke.
She smiled to herself. She might throw up, but she didn't choke.
She headed for Fugaziville.
2
"You handled that well," Oz said as Ginger left.
Peabody looked up at him. "You think I was too rough on her?"
"Not at all." Oz glanced at Tarantello as he entered the office trailer. "It's for the good of the show. We all have to make sacrifices. Look at poor Carlo Junior. He broke his shoulder for the show." Oz caught Tarantello's fleeting smile. "The least your niece can do is cooperate with the replacement you've chosen for him."
"Yes," Joseph said, nodding and puffing. "The least she can do."
As Oz led Tarantello out of the office trailer, he lowered his voice and said, "You're sure George will fall for her?"
"Positive. You should see his face when he watches her perform. He's already infatuated. And she loathes him."
"Excellent."
A shame, Oz thought, to have to bring pain to one of his brothers, but George had to learn who was his true family. And speaking of family . . .
"How's Delta?"
"Recovering well. She's tough. We're all tough."
He’d sent Delta Reid—better known as Serena the Snake Girl—to a nearby farm to retrieve a Piece from beneath the barn. Her sinuous shape perfectly suited her to the task. She’d been discovered by the farmer, however, and severely beaten with a rake. But, bruised and bloodied, she’d held onto the Piece.
The day is soon coming, Delta, he thought, when you will do the beating and bloodying.
Oz lowered his voice even further. "That farmer . . . do you think he’d provide an addition to your collection?"
Tarantello smiled. "I’m sure I can find something."
"Good. Tonight, after the show, see that he makes a contribution to our Fuel supply."
The thin man nodded. "Will do. And to my collection as well."
Tarantello had the most fascinating collection of body parts. But Oz was interested in what Tarantello would distill from the farmer.
"And when we reach California," Tarantello said, "I may find something for your collection."
"I'm counting on it," Oz said.
Yell County, AR
She was almost used to his touch now.
Ginger remembered how she'd gagged and come within inches of hurling that first time they practiced the catching grips. Not that the freak's skin was slimy or anything. In fact, it was warm and soft and smooth and dry, just like anybody else's. Maybe even better. But the way the ends of his arms coiled and locked about her wrists had filled her with a trapped, manacled feeling that nearly sent her on a screaming run to her trailer.
But almost being used to something didn't mean she looked forward to it. No way. Her gorge didn't rise at his touch anymore but still she hated to get out of bed every morning knowing she'd have to practice with Octoman.
The other performers were giving her a hard time as well. Ginger had crossed one of the lines of the circus world's caste system. There were performers, there were musicians, there were bosses, there were workers, and there were sideshow freaks. Each had its own caste. No one
except for musicians mixed between those castes. And even the musicians—the sober ones, at least—steered clear of the freaks. The only outsider who stayed near the freaks was that artist Caniglia with his ever-present sketchpad. He seemed immune to their creepiness.
The dirty looks from the others weren’t fair. This wasn't her idea. She hadn't wanted to bring a freak into her act. But none of the other performers seemed to appreciate that it was all her Uncle Joe's doing.
And now because of Uncle Joe she was here on this platform forty feet above the soggy ground, waiting to swing out, do a release, and let the freak catch her. God Almighty, how had she gotten herself into this?
"Please, Ginger," said Papa Fugazi from below. "We haven't got all day."
Okay, okay!
She wanted to scream at them to leave her alone. Just let her be. What did they know about how she felt? She wasn't merely practicing grips now. This wasn't a practice trapeze a few feet above the safety net. This was full height. Sure, the net was still there, but this time she was going to have to hold onto those freaky arms for real—really hold onto them. And there were few embraces more intimate than those between people suspended forty feet in the air.
She looked across the void in the freak's direction. Without making eye contact, she nodded.
"Go."
She watched him swing out, build up his arcs, then flip so he was hanging from the bar by his knees. He was good—limber, graceful, excellent timing and balance. If only he had real hands.
Okay, Ginger, she told herself. Now or never.
When his backswing reached its high point, she dropped off her platform and swung toward him. Papa Fugazi had set the trapeze ropes long so that she and the freak practically bumped when they swung together over the middle of the safety net. Ginger matched her arc to his, then reversed herself into the knee-hang position. Nothing fancy here—no flying, no free-fall, no flips or spins or somersaults like she'd been doing with Carlo before the accident. A simple catch and transfer, nothing more. She'd grab his arms, he'd grab hers, then she'd unhook her knees from her bar, and they'd swing in tandem from the freak's trapeze.
Kid's stuff.
"Okay," Papa Fugazi said from below. "On the next swing."
Ginger swallowed, arched her back, and headed into her final swing. The freak was swinging toward her, his arc perfectly timed. She straightened her knees to release them from the bar, reached out her arms as he extended his—
She saw those tapered, fleshy, snakelike things stretching toward her, the tips coiling and uncoiling in anticipation of grasping her—
No!
At the last second her hands pulled back, seemingly of their own accord, and she was falling.
Ginger knew what to do. She'd fallen countless times before. She turned, tucked, and landed on her back in the springy mesh safety net. When she rolled out of the net, Papa Fugazi was there to meet her.
"Ay, what happens?"
"I can't do it," Ginger told him. "I just can't."
She heard a weight hit the net behind her, then saw the freak rolling out and landing on his feet. She turned to him.
"Sorry."
"Yeah. You're sorry." His eyes looked hurt, his voice bitter as he turned and walked away. "What a jerk I was to think this might work."
Ginger suddenly hated herself. She took two steps after him.
"Look, I said I'm sorry."
He whirled on her and now he was all anger.
"That doesn't cut it. You're sorry? You've got two normal arms and you're sorry?" He held up his tentacles. "How'd you like to grow up with these?"
And suddenly Ginger saw it all. Toys, doorknobs, utensils, appliances, even pencils—nothing recognized his particular deformity. And school—what kind of hell had recess in the schoolyard been for a kid with tentacles instead of hands?
She realized he had a lot more guts than she did, and that she was letting this stupid thing get the best of her. Ginger never had backed down from anything before and she wasn't going to start now.
She forced her own hand to reach out and grab his arm as he turned away again.
"We'll try again."
"Don't do me any favors. I don't need this kind of humiliation."
Now it was her turn to get mad.
"Hey, give me a break, okay? I haven't known you that long and you take some getting used to, in case you haven't noticed. I mean, how long did it take for your folks to get used to you?"
He looked at her and in that instant, in the bleakness of his stare, she saw the answer.
Oh, God. They never did.
"So it’s going to take me a while," she said quickly. "One more try. If I screw up again, we call it quits for good."
He hesitated. "Okay. One more try."
Ginger headed back toward her pole and steeled her gut as she climbed. This wasn't going to be easy but damn it she was going to do it.
Nacogdoches County, TX
Oz stood in his tiny kitchen and swirled the rose-colored liquid in the little onyx container, speeding the melting of the last bits of ice. He’d removed it from his freezer an hour ago, but the Fuel was slow to melt. Only he and Tarantello knew the secret of its extraction, a secret they could not share with anyone else. For each aliquot was distilled from a human life.
Oz swirled the liquid again and smiled. Here was all that remained of the Tennessee farmer who had attacked Serena.
He carried the cup to the tiny room at the rear of his trailer. Two pieces of furniture there: a small table and a recliner, crowded among sagging bookshelves. Oz seated himself before the table. Atop it sat a square black wooden platform, two inches high, two feet wide. His collection of Pieces rested in the platform's copper-lined depression.
He was satisfied with the progress of the tour so far. He had eight Pieces now—two of which actually fit together—and that put him almost halfway home.
But collecting the Pieces was only part of the task. The real challenge would be assembling them. He had old photos and even x-rays taken of the Device by his father when the thing had been intact, but its very nature and its link to the Otherness made photographs unreliable.
Oz remembered many times as a boy when he'd sit and stare at the thing for hours. Even in real life, with the Device sitting in front of him, he had not been completely sure what he saw when he’d looked at it. Cock his head this way and it had one shape; cock his head that way and it seemed to change; and as it turned on its stand, parts of it seemed to fade in and out of view—perhaps out of existence. Sometimes it glowed and flashed unearthly colors.
Then his father discovered the truth about the Device—what it could do, what it had already done. He'd tried to destroy it but learned he couldn't. The Device was indestructible. It couldn't be smashed, it couldn't be melted. But it could be disassembled. And so Jacob Prather had taken it apart and made one final tour of the country, scattering its components as he went.
Then he’d killed himself.
But he left behind a journal detailing how he had disposed of the Pieces and what he’d learned about the Device. But not all he had learned. After countless readings Oz reached the conclusion that his father had withheld a secret about the Device, something he felt he could entrust to no one, not even his son.
Or perhaps especially not his son.
Oz had tracked down the strange texts his father had mentioned and pored through them until he had found the ultimate secret, the one his father had feared to share: the secret of the Fuel, and what it would enable the Device to do.
The same secret that had terrified Jacob Prather inspired his son Ozymandias.
For him it was an answer . . . the answer.
He noticed that the Fuel had completely melted. He dribbled it over the Pieces. The liquid fumed a little, but that was it.
He sighed. Maybe this search was nothing more than a wild hope, a mad fantasy, an exercise in futility.
No. It's too early yet, Oz told himself. I need more Pieces. I need them all.
Bernalillo County, NM
1
They were a hit.
George looked down at the crowd of sweltering New Mexicans fanning themselves with hats and programs and anything else that could make a breeze. But the fanning was automatic. They’d forgotten the heat. George and Ginger had seen to that.
No denying that his tentacle-like arms had something to do with it, as did Ginger's teeny bikini. But the plain truth was he and Ginger were good. Especially Ginger. Once she'd gained some confidence in his strength and his timing, once she knew she could rely on him always being there to catch her, she'd cut loose. She'd begun launching herself into great gliding, soaring leaps, dizzying spins, triple and quadruple flips, all with no apparent effort. Even Papa Fugazi was amazed.
And the crowds . . . George knew the crowds were mesmerized. They’d never seen, never imagined anything like this. In a matter of weeks George and Ginger had become a star attraction. A beautiful girl, all shapely curves and damn near naked, flying through the air and being caught by a guy with no hands. Even though they still did their act with a safety net, people must have thought it was pretty neat, because the second-night crowds were always bigger than the first—a sure sign of good word of mouth.
The top was packed now. George tried to cap the excitement bubbling in his chest as he stood on the trapeze platform and waited for Ginger to start. To his amazement, he'd found he liked being the focus of the crowd's attention—from a distance. As Octoman in the freak tent, the scrutiny had been too close, the noxious comments too audible. Where he had been passive before, an object, here he was an active participant. His deformity heightened the attraction, but what he was doing was more important.
And what he was doing was catching Ginger, allowing her to look and be the best that she could, and then being there on the spot, in the precise space-time locus to catch her when she came out of her move. She was so beautiful to watch, George was afraid that sometime in the future, when they did away with the net, he'd become so engrossed in the wonder of her that he'd forget to catch her. And then she'd fall and be hurt or maimed or worse and George would have no alternative but to let go of his own bar and plummet earthward to join her in death.