High Wire (6 page)

“That mongrel is
still
here?”

“Whitney's about to take him away,” I assured Sorelli.

But not yet
, I thought.
She can't
leave yet
.
Not before I tell her that I
—

Care about her?

I wondered if I could get the words out. Me, a simple ranch kid from Alberta.

The cops were barging into another trailer. Meanwhile, Whitney emerged from hers with her suitcase and the cloth bag. Pooch trotted after her. I watched him through the window, sniffing at the bag.

Every once in a while, Pooch forgot his stomach and glanced around. I guessed he was wondering about me. He couldn't understand why I'd abruptly vanished from his life.

Whitney saw me in the window. She hesitated, unsure whether to wait. Then, with an apologetic shrug, she started walking to the big top. She'd arranged to meet her mom inside.

Just then, Cubby came out of the big top. He put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers at Pooch.

Pooch just stared at him, astonished.

From here, I could read Cubby's lips.
Wait
, he told Whitney.

Cubby sprinted to our trailer. A moment later he ran out, brandishing the pink leash and collar. He dangled it above Pooch, just a little too high.

Pooch had been sniffing at the cloth bag again. Now he started jumping, trying to clamp his teeth around the collar.

Quite the sense of humor Cubby had.

But I wasn't so concerned with Cubby's personality at the moment. I was more interested in the collar that he was waving around.

Behind me, Sorelli slammed his palm down on his desk. “You're not listening to me, Zachary. Maybe your ears need de-waxing? I'm telling you that your theory isn't enough. We need proof.”

“Yeah,” I agreed absently.

As Cubby waved the collar above Pooch, I watched how the sun caught on the big, round metal medallion.

The big, round,
hollow
metal medallion.

Chapter Twelve

Cubby could have stolen the necklace—and stashed it inside the medallion. The perfect hiding place.

When the cops searched our trailer, they wouldn't have paid attention to a dog's leash and collar.

That would explain why Cubby was so calm about the search. He was a hundred percent sure no one would crack open the medallion and check inside.

Images spooled through my mind. All of them starred Cubby, and none of them were pleasant.

Cubby resenting the ringmaster and vowing revenge. Cubby being hostile to me from day one.

Cubby shoving his clown face with its garish paint up close to Pooch. Scaring Pooch.

I smiled at that. Pooch had scared Cubby right back with his angry barking. Pooch sure didn't like Cubby.

At that thought, a light switch flicked on in my mind. I saw Cubby through Pooch's eyes, and I understood.

Outside, Whitney started walking toward the big top again. Pooch followed, still sniffing the cloth bag.

Cubby stuffed the leash and collar back into his sweatpants pocket. He headed for the gate that led to the public area.

I had to act quickly. If I didn't, the thief would escape the circus grounds with the diamond necklace.

I charged out the door.

I ran toward Cubby. The other performers and crew members, standing around while the police did their searches, watched me in astonishment. Their heads swiveled as I ran, as if they were following a ball in a tennis game.

The cops, who were exiting another trailer, saw me too. Instantly they were suspicious. “Hold on there, sonny,” one of them called.

I knocked against Cubby. He leaped back, rubbing his arm.

“Hey, what's the big idea?” he demanded.

I didn't reply. I kept going.

“
Whitney
.” I grabbed her by the elbow. I pulled her behind the big top, out of everyone's view. If I could just have a minute alone with her. A half-minute.

“What are you doing, Zack?”

She didn't get that I'd figured it out. She set her suitcase down and smiled at me. Her dark eyes were warm and trusting.

I urged, “You still have a chance. Go to Sorelli, now. Give him the necklace. We'll work something out with him. Somehow we'll manage it. No one will know.”

Shocked, she hesitated. I saw the doubt in her face.

Then the warmth went out of her eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

I heard footsteps pounding the grass behind us. The cops were almost here.

“Please, Whitney.
I know you stole
your mom's necklace
. You said it yourself: if there was no Circus Sorelli, your dad would find a way to get you to Olympic training.”

Pooch was sitting, looking happily up at me. His tail wagged.

Whitney wrenched her arm free. “Don't be stupid. It's Cubby who has the grudge against Sorelli.”

The two police officers bounded up behind us, followed by Sorelli. Performers and crew crowded up behind.

Talk about a circus.

“That doesn't prove I took my mom's necklace,” Whitney insisted.

“Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I have other proof.”

Sorelli flapped his hands at the performers and crew. “Show's over, everyone. Get out or you're all fired.”

They trickled away reluctantly.

The cops were scowling—at me, not Whitney. One of them warned, “You're interfering with an investigation, young man.”

I kept looking at Whitney. “The
DVD
of last night's performance,” I said. “There was something about it that bothered me. At first I thought it was Cubby. Then I watched it again and realized it was you.

“You were clumsy on the beam. Perfect you. Something had to be making you nervous.”

“Everyone was nervous,” Whitney protested. “After my mom screamed, we were all off.”

I nodded. “Sure we were—those of us who were on after your mom screamed.
But you came on before
.”

The cops swung their gazes to Whitney.

I said, “You were jittery because you were about to steal the necklace. You weren't sure you'd get away with it. You had the thief's version of stage fright.”

Whitney's grip tightened on the cloth bag. Pooch, who'd been sniffing at the bag some more, sat back and looked at her curiously.

“That still doesn't prove anything,” she said and turned to the officers with a hard little smile. “Does it?”

Their expressions were unreadable. I guessed they were trained not to show reactions.

“You searched my trailer,” Whitney reminded them. Her voice was gaining confidence now. “You found nothing. I can go.”

She hoisted her suitcase.

The cops glanced at each other. They exchanged the faintest of shrugs.

They stood back, allowing Whitney to pass.

“Just a minute,” I said.

Before she could stop me, I grabbed the cloth bag from her hand.

“While searching Whitney's trailer, you checked this out?” I asked the cops.

“Yeah,” one shrugged. “Bunch of dog-food tins.”

“Value-added dog-food tins,” I said.

Chapter Thirteen

I turned the cloth bag upside down and dumped the tins on the ground.

Whitney's dark eyes were blazing. She was scared and angry.

“Four tins,” I said. “That's what I gave you earlier today. Four
unopened
tins of dog food.”

I bent down and picked up an opened tin with plastic wrap around the top.

Whitney dropped her suitcase and started to run. One of the cops side-stepped, blocking her. “Not so fast, miss,” he said pleasantly. “Let's see what our junior detective has to show us.”

I stuck my hand into the cold, wet goop of dog food in the opened tin. I drew it out again.

Even with globs of dog food covering it, the diamond necklace winked and glistened in the afternoon sun.

One of the cops finally reacted. His jaw dropped. “Well, I'll be durned. This young fella really is a junior detective.”

“Not me.” With my other hand I pointed to Pooch. “He was the one who gave Whitney's hiding place away. He kept sniffing at the bag. It was a tip-off to me that not all the cans were sealed.”

“Right up to the end, I thought Cubby was the thief,” I told Sorelli. “I was so
sure
. He was bitter over losing the wire job. He was hostile to me. Then there was that stupid pink collar with the hollow medallion—the perfect hiding place…”

The ringmaster and I were sitting in his office. The police were questioning Whitney at the station. Nobody thought Mrs. Boothroyd would press charges, so Whitney probably wouldn't have to face a judge.

On the other hand, we had all got a taste of Betty Boothroyd's explosive temper when the necklace was stolen. Whitney would have to face that, which was maybe a worse punishment for her.

I sighed. “I didn't like Cubby. I couldn't accept that Cubby might have been trying to
help
Pooch. But, in his goofy way, he liked my dog. Even if, most of the time, Pooch didn't like him.”

Sorelli nodded. “Cubby told me he'd borrowed the leash and collar from the storage trailer. Once he saw you weren't interested, he was going to return it. That's why he was carrying it around.”

The ringmaster arched a thick black eyebrow at me. “Erm, Zachary…did I hear you say,
my
dog?”

I glanced at Pooch, who was asleep on the floor beside my chair. I shook my head. “Slip of the tongue, sir. I've had a text message from Aunt Ellie. She has a friend who wants a dog. Pooch would be the perfect companion for her. So”—I shrugged—“it's all taken care of.”

“That's great, Zachary. Because you've got big things ahead of you. Like I always say, the circus has to be everything.”

Then he scowled. The guy's moods were like a mixed sky: part sun, part storm clouds. “No more of this detecting stuff. No more crushes on girls—yes, I noticed you had a thing for Whitney. And no more pet dogs.”

Wearily, I explained for the millionth time that Pooch hadn't been my idea. Sorelli held up a hand. Mood change again—now he was beaming.

“Gonna be a big night tonight, Zachary. The capture of the thief has been all over the news. We've been rushed off our feet with calls for tickets. We're already setting up the cattle guard.”

Cattle guard
meant temporary low seats set up in front of the regular seats to accommodate an overflow audience. “That's great,” I said.

“And, I got word that a talent scout from Ringling will be here. He's heard about you.”

“That's great,” I said again.

Sorelli looked at me. “You gonna be okay tonight? I know you took this Whitney thing pretty hard.”

I thought of Whitney's so-dark eyes looking up at me. Trusting and warm, then cold and blank. I had no chance to tell her that I still cared, no matter what.

Yeah, I'd taken it hard.

But what else could I have done? If I hadn't revealed what I'd figured out, Whitney would have got away with the theft. Worse, suspicion might have fallen on Cubby.

I slumped back in my chair. No wonder I liked the wire so much. Up there, you escaped these kinds of complications.

“If only life were as simple as the thin black line,” I muttered.

“What's that?” Sorelli leaned forward. “Speak up, son! You gonna be able to walk the line tonight?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Yeah, I can walk it, sir.”

He sat back, satisfied. “That's my boy. That's my Zen Freedman talking.”

I was on next. I waited by the black curtain. When the unicyclists finished, I'd go into the ring.

Cubby stood behind me, waiting with the other two clowns. He whispered, “So now you're a thief catcher as well as a wire star.”

The guy was
still
needling me.

I whipped around.

But, in the midst of his painted-on face, his eyes were friendly. He asked, almost shyly, “How's Whitney?”

I relaxed. “I dunno. I've tried calling, but she doesn't want to speak to me. Surprise, surprise.”

Cubby nodded. “Sorry, Zack. I know you liked her.”

From the other side of the black curtain, the packed audience burst into applause. It was just about my cue.

There was something I wanted to tell Cubby first. “Hey, Cub. Earlier today I was thinking about how Pooch sees you.”

He looked down at his oversized clown shoes. “Not very favorably. Guess he just doesn't like me.”

“No. Listen. Pooch doesn't like you when you're wearing that clown guck. But when you're cleaned up, he plays with you. He jumps for that pink collar.”

The unicyclists pushed through the curtain. I needed to go on.

But Cubby was watching me, his eyes half dubious, half hopeful. “I don't get it.”

“I finally figured it out,” I told him. “Pooch has
coulrophobia
. Fear of clowns. People get it. Why shouldn't dogs?”

Chapter Fourteen

The cheering started when I climbed the ladder. I heard my name called over and over. That
Sun
story was building a rep for me.

I grinned. I basked in it. I got why people sweated out the hours of practice, the close quarters and having no life of their own. There was nothing like audience adoration.

I stood on the ledge. I took deep breaths.

I thought of Philippe Petit and his walk between the Twin Towers. The Towers weren't there anymore, but Petit's walk lived on in documentaries, books and paintings.

The police had warned Petit that the wire walk would be illegal. That didn't stop him. In fact, when he saw the police waiting for him at the other side, he jumped and danced on the wire to taunt them.

The guy was a rebel. He wrote a book about himself called
The Square
Peg
. In other words, someone who doesn't fit in. Who does the unexpected.

Maybe that was what I most admired about Petit.