The Minotaur’s hand left her shoulder and went up the back of her neck. He fondled her long hair, letting it flow through his big fingers like water. His hand slipped down her back, caressing her like a kitten, lingering on her hip, down the back side of her thigh, leaving a wake of goose-flesh. When his hand started back up her thigh, under her skirt, she looked down and grabbed at his hand with hers.
What she saw made her forget his hand, forget everything. The only thing in the world, the only thing in the universe, was his loincloth. The fabric arched outward, pulling completely away from his stomach, straining to the point of splitting, only an inch from her body.
Francine whimpered and tried to pull away, avoiding the touch as if it were molten, almost feeling the heat scorching her skin. His other hand fell softly over her mouth, covering it like a pillow, so large his fingers and thumb almost touched at the back of her neck. She screamed into his palm, but it was no more than a muffled whine. She clawed at his hand and arm, pulling and tugging desperately, feeling the darkness closing in, the island of light around the Minotaur growing dim, but his flesh was as immobile as granite.
His hand left her thigh and fumbled at his waist. The catch on the loincloth parted. The fabric flew back and settled around his hoof.
His heavy phallus fell against her stomach, searing her with its heat, knocking the breath from her with its weight. She looked over the mountains of his knuckles; she hadn’t known, hadn’t imagined.
Sensation rushed back over her like a thunderclap. The crickets shrieked. The calliope bellowed. A pebble in her shoe cut into her foot like broken glass. An inchworm crawled on her ankle, leaving a trail of fire.
The Minotaur’s hand went back to her thigh. He pushed her skirt around her waist and tore away her step-ins like tissue paper. His touch was gentle and caressing; his large liquid eyes were soft and loving; his smile was sweet.
His huge hand cupped her buttock and lifted her to him. She screamed again into his hand when she felt his hot flesh between her legs. Then there was a pain too great for screaming.
20.
The applause broke around Louis, crashing until the tent seemed to bulge with the sound. Louis smiled broadly, opened his mouth and laughed, flashed his teeth, raised his arm like a matador. It was always better the second night, he thought, when they know what to expect, when they aren’t scared out of their union suits.
Tiny Tim bowed and looked up at Louis. He snorted and re-entered the doll house. He grabbed for support as the roustabouts rolled the table to the rear of the stage and the curtain closed. They rolled the table into the wings and Tim walked out through the open backside of the doll house. He watched them roll on the electric chair and worried. He felt sure something out of the ordinary was going on, but he didn’t know what it was. There was a nervous tension in the air. Louis had been in and out of Haverstock’s wagon several times before the show started, something he seldom did. The roustabouts were edgy, whispering among themselves, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
One of them took off his shirt and shoes and slipped the black hood over his head. He stood waiting while Louis tried to settle the audience. Louis attempted to begin his Electro the Lightning Man intro several times before they let him say the first sentence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there are many instruments used in the world to execute criminals and murderers. In France they use the guillotine…” The words came through the curtain.
A hand grasped Tim and picked him up without warning. He yelled and looked up the arm. “Hey!” he squeaked in tiny fury. “Take it easy before I skin you and hang your hide in the wind.”
“Haverstock wants to talk to you,” the roustabout said without interest. Tim didn’t know this one’s name, nor most of the others’ for that matter. The young men came and went so quickly, and seldom socialized with the freaks.
They went out the rear of the tent as lightning flickered on the bottoms of the clouds. Tim thought he could hear far-off thunder, but just then the night freight barreled through on its way to Wichita.
They came around the side of the tent. The rumble of the train faded and was replaced by the rumble of voices. Through the line of circus wagons Tim could see a crowd of people waiting for the second show.
The door of Haverstock’s wagon opened and light spilled out, causing Tim to squint. He felt the roustabout’s hand loosen and another hand take him, and heard the door close and the sound of voices quieting almost to nothing. Then he was standing on the desk. Haverstock sat in the chair, watching him, smiling. Tim felt panic growing in him like a poisonous toadstool.
“How are you this evening, Tim?” Haverstock asked softly, still smiling.
“Okay,” Tim answered uncertainly.
“That’s good, my son. That’s very good.” Haverstock nodded several times and steepled his fingers under his chin, looking reflectively at a point six inches in front of Tim.
There was silence for a few moments, only the faint sound of the train whistling at a crossing and the soft spitting of electricity from the tent. Tim fidgeted. “What do you want to see me about?” he asked finally.
“Please call me ‘Father,’ Tim. I would appreciate it so much.”
The words stuck in Tim’s throat. He’d known it was coming. As soon as Haverstock had called him ‘my son’ he knew it was coming. He forced the words out. “What do you want to see me about, Father?”
Haverstock nodded and smiled. “Well, Tim, it seems we have a little problem.”
“A problem, Father?” He couldn’t keep the nervous edge from his voice.
“Yes.” Haverstock nodded again. “Oh, yes, a very serious problem. Angel has disappeared.” He cocked his eyebrow at Tim. “It looks very much like the poor boy has run away.”
“Oh?” Tim felt a curious mixture of terror and elation. “That’s too bad.”
“Yes, too bad.” Haverstock tapped the ends of his fingers together and then looked at Tim, his hands freezing in position. “You wouldn’t happen to have any idea where he might have gone, would you, my son?”
“How would I know, Father?”
“How, indeed.”
“I didn’t even know he was gone.”
Haverstock’s smile flickered on, then off. “Oh, yes, I can believe that. But I had the idle notion you might know where he could have gone, if you knew that he had gone.”
“No. I wouldn’t have any idea.”
“It was, as I said, an idle notion.” He sighed and put his hands on the arms of the chair. “As you and Angel are such chums… well, you can see where I might have gotten the idea.”
“Yes, I can see.”
“Good. Now we’re beginning to understand each other.” Haverstock slapped his knees and stood up. He walked around the small room, then looked out the window. The lightning danced on the horizon. “The storm seems to be moving this way. We may have to cancel the second show if there’s wind in it.” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose it matters, though, with Angel gone.”
He turned from the window and looked at Tim. “Something has happened since we arrived in this wretched little town. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will. You know I will, don’t you, my son?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you’ll help me find out, won’t you, Tim?”
“I don’t know anything to tell you.”
“I can’t believe that, Tim. That clever little brain of yours is always ticking away, adding, subtracting, calculating. Tick, tick. Tick, tick. Like a little clock with eyes, watching and ticking. I know what all my children are doing, Tim.” Haverstock sat in the chair again, leaning back. “Yes, indeed. Something has happened. This afternoon Angel wouldn’t let me put him under. He fought my control, and with some success, I must admit. Oh, by the way, it has come to my attention that you and Angel left the camp this morning. I believe you told me a lie about playing cards in your wagon.”