An hour later, the Pillar’s chauffeur drops me off at the so-called crime scene.
It’s seven thirty in the morning on a foggy Sunday. After my psychiatry session, I fainted to the sight of my crippled self in the mirror. When I awoke, I wasn’t crippled anymore. Waltraud informed me I would be transported to “outside counseling” again. This time, my ruthless warden had looked highly suspicious of the matter, but she couldn’t intervene.
The chauffeur picked me up from the asylum’s entrance. All through the drive, in the ambulance he still drove from my last adventure, from Oxford to the outskirts of London, he said nothing useful, just that the Pillar had called for me.
A new Wonderland Monster seemed to have arrived.
The rest of the ride I watched the chauffeur drive recklessly and comb his thin whiskers while listening to both his ambulance’s siren and the “White Rabbit” song by Jefferson Airplane from the radio. Eventually, I looked away and continued bandaging the wounds on my arms. When will I ever learn this None Fu thing?
Now, I am standing in front of an old circus with a single red, white, and black tent. The circus, if you could call it that, is surrounded with gravel and sand from all sides. No houses or buildings are in sight. The police are everywhere, looking into some crime. I really don’t know what I am doing here.
“Take this.” The chauffeur pulls out a fake card and hands it over.
“Amy Watson?” I read, furrowing my brow. “Director’s assistant at the White Rabbit Animal Rights Movement in London?”
“Pin it to your jacket,” the chauffeur demands without explaining. “You’ll need it to get past the police.”
“What should I actually look for once I get past them?”
“Your boss, Professor Cornelius Petmaster, of course.” The chauffeur rubs his whiskers. “The one and only.” he winks.
Standing in my place, I watch him drive away recklessly, like a spoiled rich kid with his daddy’s new ambulance.
Now I have the police’s full attention.
“Alice—I mean Amy Watson.” I point at my card and approach them confidently, waving my magic umbrella in the other hand. “White Rabbit Animal Rights Movement.” I have no idea what I am saying.
“You’re looking for Professor Petmaster, I presume.” A young, chubby officer sighs, hands on her belt.
I nod.
“Why are those guys even on the crime scene?” She points at me and scowls at another officer. “This is a crime scene. What is an animal rights organization doing here?”
“Crime scene?” a tall, overly thin officer says. His flirting eyes are all over me already. He is cute, but lanky, like a flipping broom. Strangely, I fidget. Am I favoring a stranger’s random interest in me in the absence of Jack? “You can’t call it a crime scene without a body. Besides, a rabbit is on the loose. I know most people care for the bomb. Still, some care for the rabbit. Come in, Ms. Amy.” He flashes his teeth at me. That fake grin I notice most boys use to impress girls. I don’t have time for this. I shouldn’t have any interest in boys. I don’t know what the heck is going on.
Averting my eyes, I spot the Pillar a few strides away from the circus’s tent. He is pretending he is a music maestro to a few kids who seem to have been in the circus when whatever crime took place. He is singing, “London Bridge is falling down. Falling down.” The children reply enthusiastically, “Down down down!”
“A very handsome young fellow.” A ninety-year-old grandmother winks at me, hands clapped together, pointing at the Pillar.
“I’m sure he is,” I mumble. Young fellow? I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Everyone seems to like the Pillar wherever I go. If they only knew what a fruitcake he is.
I approach him and the children.
“Watson!” The Pillar welcomes me with his usual theatrical gestures, as if it’s the happiest day of his life.
“Professor Petmaster.” I nod, hands behind my back, playing my part. Calling me “Watson” reminds me of Sherlock Holmes. I don’t know if it’s intentional on the Pillar’s behalf, although we do have some similarities in the way we solve cases, and the Pillar does smoke a lot, like Sherlock. “What do we have here?” I ask, hoping I’ll finally understand the situation.
“A white rabbit on the loose.” He excuses himself from the kids and their parents. “You know how much my heart aches for a stray animal,” he says, his voice loud enough so everyone hears. “Poor white rabbit, thrown out in the cruel world of humanity.” He pulls me toward the circus, as I spread my fake smiles at the police, parents, and the kids.
“Sorry you caught me singing that awful song,” he whispers as we walk in.
“Sorry? Why?”
“Who in the world sings ‘London Bridge is falling down’ for young kids?” he says. “Such a depressing song.”