The Pillar is silent. I hope he is thinking it over. "Okay. I will give it until one minute in." He sighs. It's the first time I force him to succumb to my wishes. "Let's see. The names you read on the toe tags do not have anything in common. All we know for sure is the kids' ages, which isn't much of a lead we can follow. Boys and girls, so there is no gender issue here. I checked a few names while you were talking; all kids are either poor or middle class. None are from rich families. But then, most crimes are committed against the poorer people in the world—"
"Could it be the Cheshire didn't stuff the muffins inside?" I interrupt, clicking thumb and middle finger. "Could it be that the kids bought the muffins themselves first?"
"I don't know of kids who like to bite on
muffins. Doesn't sound so tasty."
"You're not following, Pillar. The Cheshire later
the muffins they bought." I'm not stating facts; I am thinking out loud. "What I am saying is the kids might have been chosen because they bought a Meow Muffin—or wanted one so badly."
"Could be," the Pillar says. "So?"
I try to figure it out, staring at the kids again. Why would he kill kids who buy these muffins?
"Two minutes."
"Wait!" I raise a numb finger in the air. "Forget about what I just said. I was wrong."
"Admitting failure is a rare virtue."
"But I'm right about something else," I say in a louder voice. "The kids!"
"What about them?"
"They are..." I squint to make sure. Could it be that the clue has been so easy to figure from the beginning? Damn you, Cheshire.
"
"What is it, Alice?" The Pillar is both worried and excited.
"The clue isn't in the heads!" I shriek.
"How so?"
"The same way the watermelons are designed to elude the police so we could find the muffin, the kids' heads are also a misleading trick to elude the police," I explain. "The real clue is in the bodies." All of the disconnected bodies are intact, with not one drop of blood visible. "The bodies are dressed neatly." I tell him what I see. "I don't suppose the kids wore those at the time of the crimes. The kids have been dressed up later. I mean the kids'
"So, the heads were more of an 'x that marks the spot.' Makes sense, since the police located the bodies in their houses, a few hours after locating the heads." The Pillar is excited. "So what is the clue? Almost one minute, Alice. You better get going."
"The kids' pockets are filled with endless candy, bars, and tarts."
The Pillar is silent.
"Snicker Snackers chocolate bars, Tumtum cans, and Queen of Hearts Tarts," I say, reading the labels. "Are these known snacks sold in Britain now?" I don't remember any of those two years ago, but then again, I don't remember anything two years ago.
"They are. Everything Wonderland is trending in the food industries since the Cheshire's killing last week. Less than one minute, Alice. Hurry. Tell me about the clue."
"At first, I thought the suits were too large for the kids, and then now I find the pockets stuffed with candy."
"How large is too large?"
"Considerably large. XXL, I think," I say. "I mean, a fourteen-year-old boy or girl shouldn't be that—"
"Are the kids overweight, Alice?" the Pillar asks bluntly.
"Almost as the overweight kids I saw in Richmond Elementary School. What's up with that?"
"Are
The signal fades.
"Pillar," I pant as I take off my shoes and duster and throw them behind a desk. "Can you hear me?" I get into the bag and start zipping myself from inside, which is really complicated, but I manage to zip up to my forehead as I lie on my back.
Inside the bag, I tuck the phone in my pocket and silence it, afraid it will ring while the mortician is present.
I begin breathing as slowly as I can.
I take a deep breath and try to think of something relaxing so I won't panic. I can only think of one person who makes me feel that way. The one person I think gives meaning to my life, and the one I really care for, even it makes no sense, and even if he is mad enough to call himself Jack Diamonds.
Heavy steps. Very slow. Trudging.
I try to slow my breathing, as there isn't enough air inside the bag. This should be over soon. I need her just to roll my table out of the room. She's probably looking for my ID or something to identify my
The mortician stops a few tables away and waits.
Then she walks again. I hear her tap what I assume is a paper chart. Her breathing is heavy, like a shivering gas pipe about to explode.
I try to occupy my mind again with anything that will calm me down. In the beginning it is Jack.
But then Jack's image fades to the sound of music outside my bag.
The mortician woman probably uses an iPod with small speakers. A song I know well: "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult.
Interesting.
This might take some time. I don't think she is in a hurry. All I can do is wait for her to pick me up.
A flick of the mortician's cigarette lighter drags things into an even slower pace. I don't blame her. Time is probably worthless for a woman who spends her days
Dead people usually don't
Don't fear the reaper...la la la la la la.
Two slices, chopped-off heads topping, and some mayonnaise, please. I'll tip generously if you slide me a Meow Muffin from under the table.
"Alice Wonder," the woman mutters, flipping the chart. "Where art thou?" She taps her heavy feet, and then sucks on the cigarette.
I am imagining her in a white coat, a bit too tight for her size. Big-boned, almost square; red curls of thick hair with a pencil lost inside the bush. Fat cheeks, bubbly and wavy, too.
The waiting is killing me. I am about to zip up and scream at her:
arse
A heavy thud causes a ripple through my metallic table. The rollers skew sideways. The woman chokes.
The tune of Don't Fear the Reaper continues in the background, but the woman stopped whistling, if not breathing.
"Help!" she barely pronounces, while her fat hand slaps like a heavy fish on the side of my bag.
What am I supposed to do? Help her, right?
And blow my cover?
What is happening to her?
Surprisingly, the woman stops choking.
"Bloody cigarettes," she mumbles. I hear her stand up. Her voice is a bit rustier, the music in the background making the whole incident sound like a joke.
There is a long moment of silence, only interrupted by her heavy breathing. She should also stop smoking. And eating—what's that smell again? Yeah, she somehow reeks of baking.
She decides to change the song on the iPod. Am I ever going to get out of here?
I am not familiar with the new tune. An American sixties song. A merry song, actually. Funny and quirky.
"'I am a Nut' by Leroy Pullins," the mortician documents. Then the lighter flicks again. "I love this song!"
What? She is smoking again?
This time she takes a long drag, as if her near-death experience rewarded her with an additional lung.
She moves toward me again, tapping her paper chart. Her feet aren't as heavy. I wonder how.
She takes another drag and whistles along with the song. The singer is a
Beedle-dee-bah, beedle-dee-bah, beedle-dee-ree-pa-dom.
She approaches my bag and taps a hand on it. "Here you are, Alice Wonder," she says. I picture her with a big smile on her face, pushing against those chubby cheeks. "Time to take you were you belong."
Finally! I sigh. This took forever.
The smell of baking on her breath makes me hungry. I should have had a big meal back in the asylum. What's with all the mentioning of food today?
I don't care. I just want to get out of here.
Instead of being rolled outside, the woman's hand reaches for the bag's zipper. Maybe she wants to check out my face. I wonder if I will look dead enough to her.
"Very paradoxical, I must say," the woman says with a satirical tinge to her voice. "If you hold your breath long enough, you're dead. If you give up and start breathing, you're mad. Isn't that so, Alice from Wonderland?"
My eyes snap open.
I inhale all the air it can. I am in utter shock. A silent shiver pinches through all of my limbs, and madness almost blinds my vision.
What did she just say?
Although the mortician looks exactly like I imagined her, the smell of baking on her mouth says otherwise.
It's the smell of a Meow Muffin.
I am paralyzed with horror. All my wishes to rid the world of the Cheshire evaporate in his presence. His grin, plastered on the poor mortician's face, is unmistakable. Damned are those who lay eyes upon that grin too many times, for it's unforgettable and will guarantee a lifetime of nightmares.
"What do you want from me?" I scatter the syllables on my tongue. I wish there was a way to camouflage my fear—maybe some hookah smoke like the Pillar's that I'd hide my real fears behind.
There is none.
"Love you, too." The Cheshire flashes a chubby grin and then takes a long drag from his cigarette. His view from down here makes me feel like an ant. His posture is like a towering building of nightmares.
Instinctually, I slide myself out of the bag and jump off the other side of the table.
The Cheshire doesn't move. He watches as I wound my left knee and almost twist my ankle. I run toward the faraway bulb, the one I hadn't come near before. It turns out it leads to a metallic double door leading outside. I limp a few times, fall, and pick myself up again. Part of my escape is me hopping on all fours like a rabbit.
The Cheshire still stands still. I know because of the muffin smell. He is behind me, dragging on the mortician's cigarette, enjoying the show.
I am such a coward, running away like that. I reach for the door's heavy handles. I don't think I am ready for the Cheshire yet.
"
I give up on the handle and turn around to face the Cheshire. This is what I should do. I shouldn't run. I am here to catch him, not escape from him.
I don't know what Carroll's dream was about, but I know I don't want to end up regretful like him. I don't want to say,
I stand with my back to the door, grimace, and shake my head, wondering why he says that.
"A Real Alice wouldn't run away from me," he elaborates. "The door is locked, however. But you didn't know that, did you?" He jingles a keychain in his hands. "Someone could still open it from outside, but no one knows you're here, Alice."
"How do you know that?" Frankly, I am shocked the door is locked. I don't know if he is lying to me. Maybe he is tricking me to see if I'll go back and try to open it. I stand my ground, fists clenched.
"Nobody cares for you, Alice." He grins. "You know that."
I can't argue with that. Only Jack seems to care. Where is he when I need him?
"You've always been like that," he continues. "Even in the books, you were a lonely, possibly mad, girl wandering Wonderland—which was probably all in her head." He laughs and smirks and grins and confuses the hell out of me when he says that. "You never made a real friend in that book, remember?"