“Too late, Inspector,” The Pillar smirked.
“You killed him,” Dormouse said. “You killed Mr. Fourteen.”
“Had to be done,” The Pillar said. “It took me a long time to find him.”
“What kind of beast are you?”
“Call it what you want. I made my choice.”
“You call killing an innocent man a choice?”
“What makes you think he is so innocent?”
“I know all about you, Pillar. I know about your deal. You and Alice. The ritual to gain more lives than the Cheshire.”
“Really?” The Pillar considered. “Is that what you know?”
“You killed the Fourteen because they betrayed you and wouldn’t let you collect your souls.”
“That’s one side of the story.” The Pillar rubbed something inside his ear with his little pinky, his other hand gripping the gun, pointed at the Inspector.
“There is no other side to it,” Dormouse said. “You will not walk out of this building alive.”
“I came and went as I pleased in the asylum. No one could ever stop me,” The Pillar said. “Besides, you should really lower your voice, Inspector. Everyone’s asleep.”
“You got that part wrong, Professor,” Dormouse smiled victoriously, as the people in the hall were starting to wake up. “Because Alice killed the Chessmaster. People are about to wake up.”
And for all the conflicting reasons in the world, Dormouse saw The Pillar smiling in broad lines, his eyes wide, and it looked like his heart was fluttering. Dormouse didn’t know what to make of this. If The Pillar was this brutal beast, how come he was so happy Alice was still alive?
Chapter 78
The Last Chess Game, Chess City, Kalmykia
“You think you beat me?” The Chessmaster writhed on the ground, gasping for his last few breaths. “I never lose.”
“Don’t fight it,” I tell him. “The world is a better place without you. The world is safe now.”
“And ironically you’ll be the hero?”
“Trust me, no one ever thinks I’m the hero. I’m a nineteen-year-old mad girl at best. Most of my boyfriends die, or I make silent sacrifices for them. I have no friends. Neither do I have idols. Everything around me is a purple haze of madness, but you know what? I save a few people from time to time.”
“You killed my family. You’re not supposed to win.”
“Even if I did, I’m really, really sorry, but that wasn’t me. That was someone else.”
“I still can’t believe I’m dying after all these years of planning to get you and The Pillar,” he coughs and slurs.
I kneel down beside him. “About The Pillar,” I say, “how come the Executioner was one of the Fourteen when I saw The Pillar missing two fingers, like every other child the Executioner enslaved in Mushroomland?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it seems like The Pillar was a man, enslaved by the Executioner as a kid in Colombia at some point,” I say. “Even though the whole timeline is messed up, but it still seems to me the Executioner tortured The Pillar as a kid.”
“You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Maybe it’s you who is lying and made it all up.” I want to believe The Pillar isn’t that bad. I really want to.
“You don’t get it.” The Chessmaster’s eyes flutter. “The Pillar used to meet the Fourteen in a secret place underneath Oxford, in the kitchen. There is a reckless cook called Chopin who accidentally chops off people’s fingers. He’s even chopped his own finger once.”
“So?”
“The Pillar once caught him eavesdropping. They had a fight. Chopin escaped, and chopped off The Pillar’s two fingers on the way out.”
“You expect me to believe this story?”
“I don’t expect anything from you.” The Chessmaster’s eyes fling open with all the power left in him. “It’s you who is blind. It’s you who wants to believe The Pillar is a good man. Can’t you see?”
“No, I can’t,” I say. “I’ve never seen The Pillar want to mass murder people. It’s the monsters like you I come across each week who do this.”
“What if I can prove it to you?” The Chessmaster grips my arm. His need to tell me something far outweighs his weakness to the poison he’s just gulped.
“What is it?” Something tells me I don’t want to hear it.
“Say my name,” he demands.
“Pardon me?”
“Say my name, Alice.”
“Okay, if that’s your last wish. You’re the Chessmaster.”
“Not that name.” His grip tightens. “My real name.”
“Ah, that. Your Russian name,” I try to recall it. “What was it? Yes, your name is Vozchik Stolb. Why?”
“Can’t you see what my name means?”
“I’m not into Russian.”
“Vozchik is a rough Russian translation to the word Carter in English,” he begins, and the world begins to dizzy again. “Stolb means…”