REVENGE
JACK CROW
"That thieving, goddamn magician!" Fredo growls, clenching his fingers and slamming them onto his vanity, sending paints crashing to the floor. "I knew that story about you falling off the train didn’t add up! You practically learned how to walk on that steam engine—there’s no way you’d fall from it..."
He jumps off his stool, jaw clenched, taking a deep breath and rubbing his face, fury consuming him after I told him what happened ten years ago in Louisiana.
"We searched. Over and over again, we searched for your body. There wasn’t a single night I didn’t stay awake, begging every saint and god who would listen to my prayers, hoping your death was a lie." He lowers his hand, lifting his eyes to me. "The circus died the day the search was called off and the Louisiana police declared you dead. Spook himself screamed in front of everyone, outraged by the police’s negligence in stopping the search."
He laughs bitterly, looking at me, running his fingers through his hair, his shoulders slumping.
"That bastard lied with every word, and deep down I knew it. I knew it wasn’t an accident, and now I understand why that snake wanted you dead—to take the circus..." He lowers his hand, growling. "But Dior and Belmonte—what they did was pure betrayal! Miserable scoundrels—I want their heads, along with that wretched snake Spook!"
"That’s exactly why I came back, my friend." I look away from him toward the mirror, staring at my face—the image of the walking corpse I’ve become. "I came back for revenge, to make them pay for what they did to me and what they stole. But most of all, for what Spook did to my father."
"What do you mean?"
Fredo walks slowly, stopping beside me and watching me through the mirror of his vanity as I press my lips together, remembering that bastard’s confession—a confession that haunted me for years.
"Spook killed my father," I confess to Fredo. "He didn’t die of a heart attack. Spook killed him. And before I watch the life leave his eyes—when I kill him—he’s going to tell me how he did it."
"Son of a bitch... bastard!" Fredo lowers his head and closes his eyes.
A tear rolls down his cheek. My father wasn’t just my father—he was a father to every soul he welcomed into the circus. I see the same pain I felt reflected in Fredo’s eyes when he opens them and looks at me—the pain of losing the only good, decent man we ever had in our lives.
"Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it." He draws in a deep breath, puffing out his chest as he looks at me. "There aren’t many of us left from your time, but the ones who are still here will follow you the moment they know you’re alive..."
"No." I shake my head. "For now, only you will know I’ve returned."
I turn on the stool to face him, raising an eyebrow.
"What do you mean there aren’t many left?" I ask, confused.
Fredo looks even more heartbroken. His face appears tired and worn down—and not even the clown makeup can hide the years of suffering my friend has endured.
"What happened to my family, Fredo?" I ask, serious.
"After your death, the circus went quiet. Your mother fell into a deep depression, and two weeks after the search ended, Spook gathered everyone and said he and your mother had gotten married in a quiet ceremony, with only the two of them and a judge present." I grit my teeth in anger, hearing how that bastard wasted no time to strike. "No one saw her anymore. She never left his trailer. Baba was the only one allowed near. She told me your mother barely looked like herself, like she’d aged twenty years overnight. She was bedridden, barely recognized Baba. Her mind was slipping. Baba told me she thought Spook was doing it to her—that she saw him injecting things into her..."
Fredo goes silent, lowering his head in sorrow. And deep inside, I know Baba was right—Spook was killing my mother slowly.
"There was no way to prove it. And when we confronted him about it, he brought in a doctor who spewed a bunch of nonsense, claiming she was depressed and needed medication. But she didn’t get better. One morning, a gunshot rang out from Spook’s trailer. He came out covered in blood, holding her in his arms, and said she had taken her own life."
I rise to my feet, gripped by rage, the pain inside me spreading like the darkness that commands me as I hear how my mother died.
"He killed her," I say, my voice thick with hatred. "Spook killed my mother," I snarl with fury.
I knew her better than anyone. My mother was faithful to her religion, a devout Catholic who never missed Sunday mass. No matter where we traveled, my father always stopped somewhere on Sunday so she could attend church. She would never take her own life. It went against everything she believed in—her faith, her principles. To her, life was a gift from God.
"She didn’t kill herself, Fredo," I say, my lips trembling with rage.
I can picture her—alone, wasting away in that bastard’s hands, while he took over my father’s circus—my circus—only to kill her when she was no longer useful.
"He destroyed everything out of greed, just to get the circus..."
"Actually..." Fredo’s quiet voice stops me. "I don’t think it was the circus itself, but what the circus could offer him."
I stare at him, not understanding what he means. Fredo walks closer to me, and I sit back down to meet his eyes.
"Your mother’s death changed everything..." He inhales deeply, eyes closed. "Spook took over completely, claiming to be the new owner, saying the rules were changing. Some people didn’t like it, didn’t want to work for him. They said there should be a vote. And those who resisted… started turning up dead in their tents..."
Fredo opens his eyes, now red, tears sliding down his cheeks.
"I found Delaró dead in his bed myself..." he whispers in grief.
I inhale sharply, remembering the Frenchman who had worked with the circus since my father was just a boy. He was the elder of the troupe after Baba—one of the oldest from my grandfather’s time, back when he ran the Crow Circus.
"The ones who didn’t rebel but didn’t agree with him ran away. I’d see them at night, but by morning, they were gone without a trace." Fredo gives a sorrowful smile. "And the ones who stayed—the condemned ones like me—who had nowhere else to go, who only ever knew the circus, lived through hell when he took us to Europe. Once there, he said we’d change the way we operated. He brought in rides and exotic animals, which could have been good, if it weren’t..."
I place my hand on his shoulder, seeing the pain in his eyes.
"If it weren’t?" I ask softly.
"Spook used the circus to mask drug and weapon trafficking. He did it all over Europe, keeping everyone chained with tight collars, and Belmonte was the worst executioner our souls could’ve faced."
"He killed my father, that murderer..."
"No, he killed himself." Spook’s voice echoes in my memory, his eyes locked on mine as he stepped closer. "He chose his end when he stood against me, when he refused the chance I gave him to salvage the last shred of dignity this wretched circus had left. He was too noble to get his hands dirty, like I did..."
The memory of Spook’s words on that train—as I bled in front of him, just before he struck the final blow and threw me off—returns with piercing clarity, making everything make sense.
"That’s why he killed my father," I whisper. "My father wouldn’t do the dirty work he wanted to bring into the circus—so Spook killed him."
My father would never agree to such filth. Even in the worst crisis, he would never sacrifice our dignity or put anyone in danger for filthy money.
"With the drugs and weapons came strange, dangerous men—men who brought lost souls, trapping them inside the circus with us," Fredo sighs with regret. "Poor people who had nothing to eat, who sold their souls for a roof and a plate of food."
"He’s enslaving everyone," I growl, feeling the rot Spook brought into my home—defiling it, destroying it, just like he destroyed me. "I’ll make every single one of them pay, Fredo. Every l
ast one. Dior, Belmonte, and Spook will regret what they did when my revenge begins..."
I pat my friend’s shoulder firmly, a cold smile forming at the corner of my lips.
"But for that, I’ll need your help, my dear friend."
"Just tell me what you need," he says quickly, firm and determined.
"I need a job." I grin wickedly, turning to look at his vanity, grabbing the white paint from the table and rolling it between my fingers. "Do you think there’s a spot here for a poor, miserable soul?"
Fredo falls silent, watching me with concern before taking a step back, letting me see his expression shift from worried to serious as he studies my face.
"You look worn out. Unkempt." I raise an eyebrow at him.
"I could even say you look like a beggar, with that hair brushing your ears, those scars on your face, and the tattoos that do a good job of hiding the marks. I think there’s a chance you won’t be recognized. Maybe the eyes will give you away, because it was only because of them that I recognized you… With some luck, we might pull this off. But we’ll need a plan..."
He glances nervously toward the entrance of the tent, then lowers his gaze to his wrist, checking his watch.
"I have a plan I think might work," he says quickly. "But you’ll have to wait until the end of the show, when everyone leaves. I’ll take you to Spook and say you’re an old friend of mine from a circus that shut down. That excuse will be easy for him to believe, since several circuses have recently closed. Spook’s been having ideas for a new show, and I think your new macabre look might interest him..."
Fredo stomps his oversized clown shoe on the floor, watching me with worry.
"Do you still remember how to use your knives?" He bites the corner of his lip as he asks.
"Believe me, I never forgot," I say quietly, not telling him I spent countless nights throwing knife after knife at my bedroom door, imagining Spook as my target.
"Do you remember when we were young, and we went to a circus run by a friend of your father’s in Alabama, and there was that terrifying clown..." I nod as he asks, recalling that man’s dark makeup.
"Well then, do something even more grotesque than that makeup. I have to go now, but when I come back, I’ll bring your knives. I kept them for you."
He chuckles softly, winks at me, then turns in a hurry, heading toward the tent’s entrance. But he stops, spinning back around to give me a brotherly look.
"I missed you, Jack. I missed my old friend."
I nod, watching him leave, and smile.
I could’ve told Fredo that Jack was gone—that Jack died ten years ago, stabbed, and that what’s left isn’t anything like who I once was.
But I’d rather stay silent, letting him find that out for hi
mself through my actions.