“So let us see you work for your absolution.”
As if coached, all of the murderers at once took their shovels in hand and attacked the grave of Dr. Lazarus Cole.
“That’s it,” bellowed St. Clare, “let us see you earn your acquittal. Let us see you sweat for this exoneration.”
The murderers went to work with a fierce spirit, putting their backs into their labor, working up a lather of sweat. In no time they began to excavate the grave, descending into the soft earth under the breathless eye of the audience.
The ringmaster had the courage to forgo any narration and the crowd seemed to appreciate the credit he gave them. There was concentrated silence under the big top as the citizenry united in collective anticipation while the diggers sank deeper and deeper into the ground, opening a large pit around the perimeter of the grave proper.
Finally, one man stopped digging, hesitated a moment, threw his shovel aside, disappeared into the hole, came back into view and said, into Renaldo St. Clare’s waiting microphone, “We found him.”
St. Clare nodded but offered no instructions. The crowd inhaled in unison. Chick looked at Bruno, who had a hand placed lightly on his bandages and was sweating as profusely as the diggers.
Several of them now vanished down into the darkness of the hole. A series of grunts and groans became audible, as if they were struggling to move something heavy and bulky. Eight of the killers emerged from the pit and stood off to the side, leaning on their shovels, looking nervously from the ringmaster to the hole and back again.
It took a few minutes for the remaining four to climb into the spotlights. They rose slowly, moving as one. And when the crowd realized that they were carrying a corpse between them, a chorus of shrieks and howls filled the air.
The four bearers placed the body of Lazarus Cole at the feet of the ringmaster, then joined their colleagues on the other side of the pit. St. Clare looked down upon the crumpled and filthy pile of flesh and shook his head sadly. He cleared his throat and the noise of the clearing washed over the grandstand and silenced the audience.
“He was once the greatest magician on the circuit,” St. Clare said solemnly. “And it was my honor and my privilege to know him as I did and to call him my friend.”
Children could be heard crying despite their mothers’ efforts to silence them.
“The lesson we can all draw from this tragedy,” the ringmaster said, “is that sometimes the trick doesn’t work.”
Now the mothers were crying. The fathers were crying. Brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins were crying. Friends and neighbors were bawling. The entire audience was sobbing, heaving, awash in a sea of instant grief.
Which turned into shocked relief when the corpse at the ringmaster’s feet suddenly jumped up, nonchalantly brushed down its tuxedo, rolled its head around its neck, stretched its arms out in the air, and loudly proclaimed, “And sometimes it works like a charm.”
Then he gave a theatrical bow and the crowd exploded into an ovation that shook the grandstand and the big top and vibrated in the heart of every person gathered together for this macabre Jubilee.
Lazarus Cole was alive and well and no worse for the wear of a vicious beating and what appeared to be a week buried beneath the earth. He bowed twice more, once to the left and once to the right. Then in a gesture both grand and classy, he moved to greet his killers, embracing them one by one and planting a kiss on the cheek of each.
The action was too much for his murderers to bear and their shock and sorrow and joy blended and overflowed. The lot of them broke down, sobbing like infants at a harrowing birth. They embraced Dr. Cole and they embraced one another, until Dr. Taber appeared with a gazonie who led the absolved men out of the tent.
Taber received a smattering of applause but his shtick was fairly anticlimactic. He and Cole went through a pantomime of a physical exam, listening for a heartbeat, taking a pulse, checking ears, nose, and throat for normalcy.
When it was over, Taber faced the audience and proclaimed, “I find this man, Lazarus Cole, to be animate, healthy, and entirely alive.”
This set off a new burst of applause and cheering and triggered the show’s finale. The house lights came up, confetti descended, the band struck up the Bedlam Brothers anthem and the closing parade got under way, led this time by both Renaldo St. Clare and Lazarus Cole, joined arm in arm, high-stepping out of the big top, waving to an exultant crowd that had been remade into a vibrant and unified people by the ritual they had shared.
Milena was the first freak to speak. Over the ovation, she said, “Quite a trick, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t at all clear to whom s/he was speaking, but it was Nadja who answered. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He wasn’t under there all week, was he?”
“Of course not,” snapped the one-armed strongman. “It’s an illusion. That’s what magic is. It’s nothing but another trick.”
“But how—” began Vasco, before Bruno cut him off.
“I don’t know how,” he said. “How the hell would I? I’m not a magician.”
“But we saw him pummeled,” said Milena. “It sure looked to me like they beat him to death.”
“There isn’t a scratch on him,” Marcel pointed out. “Not a single bruise.”
“I’m sure there’s a tunnel under the midway,” said Aziz. “Isn’t that right, Chick?”
There was no answer, and when they all looked to the chicken boy, he was on the ground, twitching and drooling.
Kitty went to him at once, but before she could manage to position his head in her lap, he was already coming out of the seizure.
“That was a short one,” Milena observed.
“Bruno,” Chick said, fighting off Kitty’s attempts to calm him.
“What is it?” asked the strongman.
“The money and the truck,” Chick croaked, choking on bile and fighting for air. “We have to leave now.”
Bruno looked from Chick to Kitty, who raised her eyebrows to indicate her confusion.
“Now, Bruno,” Chick tried to yell. “We have to go.”
The strongman put a hand over the massive dressing taped from his shoulder to his ribs. Then he ran from beneath the grandstand.
THE BROTHERS, to their credit, did not attempt to cheat Bruno and his freaks. St. Clare had an envelope waiting, filled with cash and the keys to a semi that had been used to transport several of the elephants.
The ringmaster attempted to convince Bruno and the clan to stay for the wrap party, but seeing the strongman’s urgency, he didn’t try very hard.
Bruno found the truck, managed to get it going and pulled across the fairgrounds to the camptown where the freaks were waiting for him. He left the engine idling and ran around the back to unlatch the truck’s gate.
The clan filed into the cargo box silently, most aware that something was wrong but afraid to ask anyone for details. Even Milena remained quiet despite the stench of elephant dung rising up from the floorboards.
Chick was the last to get on board, but before he could, Bruno secured the gate and put his last hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You’re riding up front with me,” Bruno said.
Chick didn’t argue. He moved to the cab and climbed up to the passenger seat. Bruno joined him on the driver’s side, slipped the vehicle into gear and steered for the county road.
After a few moments, the strongman handed the envelope across the seat to Chick, who took it and began to count the currency within.
When he was done, Bruno asked, “What was it? What did he tell you?”
Chick sighed and made a terrible sucking noise inside the beak.
“It’s the Resurrectionist,” he said.