The Complete Alice Wonder Series - Insanity - Books 1 - 9

by Cameron Jace

  “Does it say to try to kill yourself and stick a carrot in your behind in the book?”

  “Of course not! There are certain moves, similar to karate, that are supposed to work, but I end up falling on my hips or hitting the wall.” I try to sound casual, but I am utterly embarrassed. Even to the Pillar, this None Fu thing seems off the rocker. “I’ll have to keep doing this until it works."

  “You know, only insane people do the same thing over and over again, expecting the same results, over and over again, right?”

  “What’s so wrong with insane people?” A half-smile surfaces on my lips.

  “Nothing.” The Pillar smiles. “They can do whatever they want... and that is the fun of it.”

  Suddenly, a noise interrupts us.

  Someone is snoring in the tiers behind me. I turn around and see a man in his fifties, sitting with his neck resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a long brown duster and is sleeping on the bank in the highest row in the back. I turn back and shoot the Pillar an inquisitive look.

  “Nothing to worry about. That’s Chief Inspector Dormouse,” the Pillar says. “Sherlock Dormouse.” He raises one eyebrow and shields his mouth with one gloved hand.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I follow the Pillar as he climbs up toward the sleeping inspector.

  “I’m not kidding, Alice.” The Pillar rolls his eyes. “You sound overly American; you know that?” He steps right over Inspector Dormouse, who is still snoring rhythmically, his chest rising and falling, and his lips clapping. “So you can tell he’s very enthusiastic about the case,” the Pillar remarks.

  “Dormouse?” I say. “Is he a Wonderlander? The Dormouse?”

  “Haven’t seen him before.” The Pillar shakes his shoulders. “His first name is Sherlock. The man is certainly a mystery. The officers outside say he’s been chief inspector for ten years. Never solved a case, yet he gets to keep his job—I love Britain. A talented sleeper, I must admit.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I mumble. “I mean, a police officer asleep at the crime scene?”

  “There are politicians asleep at their desks, doctors at the operating table, and irresponsible parents drunk at the wheel,” the Pillar says, amusing himself. “I’d say this man isn’t that guilty. There is no real crime scene here, after all. We’re just looking for a missing rabbit.” The Pillar knocks his cane hard against the floor. “Let’s see if the inspector can be of any help.”

  Inspector Dormouse flips awake, rubbing his beady eyes.

  4

  SUNDAY, 8:40 A.M.

  “So, you two are from the animal rights movement?” Inspector Dormouse rubs his eyes. He seems like a decent man to me. Hardly a Wonderland Monster. “My daughter has a hamster, a turtle, and a lizard. She loves animals.” He chuckles, rubbing his thick neck. “I hate it when they follow me to the bathroom, but I can’t break my daughter’s heart.”

  Pretending we’re from the animal rights movement now makes sense to me. Otherwise, we would not have been allowed into the crime scene. As animal enthusiasts, it makes sense to look after the rabbit. Someone should care for the animal, not just humans. Ironically enough, it’s the insane who care.

  “Amy Watson, my assistant, loves rabbits a lot,” the Pillar says—partially making fun of me.

  I wonder if we’ll be solving crimes with the police from now on. Not a bad idea. We could use some help, as long as they don’t know who we really are.

  “Amy Watson has been in a rabbit hole once,” the Pillar whispers to Inspector Dormouse, then smiles broadly at me.

  Unexpectedly, Inspector Dormouse doesn’t respond to that. He falls asleep while standing up. His lips ripple like a reluctant wave when he snores.

  “Inspector?” I tilt my head, trying to be nice.

  “Huh.” His eyes flip open again. He rubs them and yawns. “Apologies. How rude of me. Haven’t slept much lately,” he says. “Have been working twenty-four-seven since they invented the DOI.”

  “DOI?” the Pillar says.

  “Department of Insanity,” Inspector Dormouse says.

  “Department of Insanity?” I exchange looks with the Pillar.

  “Aye.” Inspector Dormouse pulls out a bottle of eye drops and uses it on his eyes. “A few years ago, the police noticed a lot of crimes with an unusual insanity factor. Crimes which no one had ever heard of before; like this one, a bunny sent out with a bomb.” He chuckles again. His hands shake, and he drops the liquid on his cheek. “The world has gone insane.”

  “I’m glad you noticed.” The Pillar squints, but I know what he is thinking. If the police have noticed the absurdity of crimes recently, then it probably has to do with the Wonderland Monsters being set loose.

  “So have you found any leads to the rabbit’s whereabouts?" the inspector asks.

  “I think we have,” the Pillar says, pointing his cane at the sand in the circle, now that he has a much better view from up here. “The Hatter’s first clue.”

  I focus immediately on the ring, trying to figure out the message. Inspector Dormouse yawns, utterly perplexed.

  Then I see the clue.

  Someone used a stick or something and wrote a message in the sand. The letters are enormous—the Pillar couldn’t read them standing too close at the foot of the tiers. Now, we both see it clearly. It’s a one-word message:

  “Piccadilly?” I say.

  “Is this intentional?” Inspector Dormouse scratches his head.

  “It is.” The Pillar’s face looks serious. “This isn’t just about a lost rabbit with a bomb. I assume we’ll be introduced to a series of clues once we get past this one.”

  “But there is no clue,” Inspector Dormouse counters. “It’s just a word. Someone’s name, probably.”

  “You think it’s the Hatter’s real name?” I cut in, facing the Pillar.

  “No,” the Pillar says. “The word ‘Piccadilly’ is written inside a circle. Not the ring, but the one carved with the stick around the word.”

  I tiptoe and look down to grasp the whole picture. “I see it. A code? Part word and part drawing?”

  The Pillar nods.

  “Piccadilly Circle?” I interpret. “Is that somewhere we need to go?” Then I get it. “This is where we should look for the rabbit if we want to stop it.”

  “Yes,” the Pillar says. Inspector Dormouse looks at us like two loons from outer space—which we might be. “But it’s not Piccadilly Circle. There is no place called Piccadilly Circle. It’s Piccadilly Circus, the famous road junction in London.”

  “How do you know it’s ‘Circus,’ not ‘Circle’?” I say.

  “Circus is Latin for circle,” the Pillar explains. “The so-called Hatter wants to play a game.”

  “Are you saying the bomb, I mean the rabbit, is in Piccadilly Circus in London?” Inspector Dormouse has awakened again.

  “Looks like it,” the Pillar says.

  “Then we have to go there,” I insist. “How much time do we have before the bomb goes off?”

  “666 minutes.” Inspector Dormouse finally knows something. “That’s what the children said the digital timer showed on the bomb.”

  “That’s eleven hours and six minutes.” The Pillar looks at his pocket watch. “The rabbit was set loose at 12:00 p.m. yesterday, so the bomb should explode at 11:06 a.m. today. It’s 8:46 a.m. now. We’ve only got very little time before the bomb goes off!”

  5

  8:49 A.M.

  Inspector Dormouse allows us to ride along in the back seat with the police force to Piccadilly Circus. The police force, or rather the Department of Insanity, is frantic, dispatching, and calling other institutions.

  A bomb about to explode in about an hour and a half.

  The police make sure the press doesn’t know about it. They call 999 and confirm no one is allowed to pass the news of a loose rabbit with a bomb. No need to turn Piccadilly Circus and London into a real circus. At least not now.

  “But how can he know the rabbit is i
n Piccadilly Circus?” I ask in the back seat. “I mean, it’s a rabbit, not something you control with a remote.”

  Although I am expecting insight from Inspector Dormouse, I don’t get any. He is already comatose, snoring in the passenger seat. The officer driving smiles feebly at me in the mirror.

  “I have no idea,” the Pillar replies. “This Hatter wants to play a game. Right now, it’s his rules, until we figure out what’s on his mind.” He pokes Inspector Dormouse with his cane from the back. He still doesn’t wake up. “Dedicated sleeper,” the Pillar comments, almost admiringly. “Is he always like that?” he asks the driving officer.

  “Most of the time.” The officer is embarrassed too. “But he is a bloody good inspector.”

  The Pillar rolls his eyes. “Tell me”—he turns to me—“what happened with Jack?”

  “That’s none of your business.” I don’t know why I’m defensive about it. Maybe because I don’t want to remember.

  However, the Pillar shoots me another admiring look, as if he likes the way I fired back at him.

  “So, are we there yet?” Inspector Dormouse snaps awake.

  “Soon enough, sir,” the officer replies.

  “Do you dream when you sleep, or do you just pass out?” The Pillar is curious.

  “Was I asleep?” The inspector scratches his head and yawns.

  I smile. The inspector seems to possess the rare capability to shock the Pillar.

  “Did I tell you the Hatter told the children about that one girl that could stop the bomb?” Inspector Dormouse says.

  “One girl?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Is her name Alice?” The Pillar doesn’t waste time.

  “No.” Inspector Dormouse’s beady eyes promise he’ll fall asleep again. But before he passes out, he answers us. “Mary Ann, the children said.”

  “Mary Ann?” I look at the Pillar.

  “Who is Mary Ann?” we both utter in one breath.

  6

  PICCADILLY CIRCUS, LONDON, 9:06 A.M.

  Piccadilly Circus isn’t a real circus. It’s some sort of a traffic junction, more of a public space at London’s West End. It’s a busy meeting place. Sometimes, a tourist attraction for those who love noisy and overcrowded places.

  “It’s been said that a person who stays long enough at Piccadilly Circus will eventually bump into everyone they know.” The Pillar sighs as the vehicle stops. The police officer wakes up the inspector, telling him we’ve arrived. He also tells the inspector to wipe away the words written with a marker on his forehead:

  Inspector Sherlock Dormouse

  Was miraculously awake from 9:02-9:04.

  May he sleep in peace.

  “Who did that!” the inspector barks, staring in the rearview mirror.

  “It was him.” The Pillar points at the officer when it was him who did it a second ago. “But we’re in a hurry. Let’s get out.” He takes my hand, and I follow him outside while the inspector punishes the innocent officer in the car.

  “Now we’re free to begin our investigation alone,” the Pillar says. “Tell me if you see anything out of the ordinary in the circus.”

  Piccadilly Circus is full of video displays and neon signs mounted on every building on the northern side. Even this early, it throngs with all kinds of people.

  In a hurry, I glimpse a few notable buildings, including the London Pavilion, Criterion Restaurant, and Criterion Theatre. How are we supposed to find a rabbit in this humongous place?

  “I don’t know what I am looking for,” I say.

  “You’re right. Come with me,” the Pillar demands. “There is no way we’re going to find clues in all this mess.”

  “Don’t you think Mary Ann is the clue, not Piccadilly Circus?” I ask.

  “I don’t know who Mary Ann is,” he says. “Until we do, this crowded place is all we’ve got.”

  I follow the Pillar, glimpsing the time on my watch. It’s already 9:07 a.m.

  As we snake our way through the crowd and cars, I see a tube station, part of the London Underground system. I wonder if the rabbit ventured down there. I hope not.

  “We have to get a better look from the top.” The Pillar enters a building and runs up the stairs.

  Climbing up, we’re trying not to infect others with our panic. So far, no one knows about the bomb that is about to explode in London.

  The view from the top is even more confusing. It’s like a Caucus Race down there. People walking in every direction. I can’t seem to locate most of the police officers.

  “This doesn’t look good.” The Pillar sighs. “It doesn’t look like there are clues for us here. And I wouldn’t expect to see the rabbit if it’s hopping down there.”

  I concentrate, trying to find the next clue, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I wonder if the Pillar is right about this. Are we really supposed to find the rabbit here? And why hasn’t this Hatter contacted us if he wants to play games?

  9:09 a.m.

  “What’s that?” I point at a notable statue in the middle of the circus. It’s of a winged, nude man, pointing a bow and string down at the tourists. “Is that Eros?”

  “Eros to the Greek, Cupid to the Roman,” the Pillar says, still looking lost. “It’s one of London’s most famous landmarks. But you must know that.”

  “I know a little about it,” I say, although I hardly remember being here before. “Tell me more about it.”

  “We don’t have time, Alice,” the Pillar scoffs.

  “But what if it’s the clue?” I argue. “As far as I see, it’s the most eye-catching landmark in this crowded place. It certainly stands out.”

  “You’ve got a point.” The Pillar stares with interest. “The statue is one of London’s icons.” He starts reciting facts in case they may lead us somewhere. “It was the first in the world to be cast in aluminum. It’s set on a bronze fountain, designed by Alfred Gilbert. It’s the symbol of love, but everyone knows that.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something the Hatter wants us to inspect.” I rub my chin, disappointed.

  An imaginary bomb is ticking in the back of my head. The sight of a blown-out rabbit drives me crazy. Who would do such a thing?

  “Wait,” the Pillar says. “The statue is erected upon a fountain, which is called Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain. It commemorates the philanthropic works of Lord Shaftesbury, a famous Victorian politician.”

  “Victorian?” I say. “You mean he lived in Lewis Carroll’s time?”

  “True.” The Pillar’s eyes glitter. “Lord Shaftesbury was also very interested in children, like Lewis. He was one of the first people who argued with Parliament that children shouldn’t be working so many hours like they did back then.”

  “And?” I am excited we might be closing in on the next clue.

  “And nothing.” The Pillar pouts again. “All similarities stop here. I told you, this statue can’t be the clue.” He glances at his pocket watch. “It’s 9:10. That’s so Jub Jub.”

  “Why send us to such a crowded place?” I look down at the circus, wishing I could see a man with a huge hat and teacups. I remember seeing such a man in the Fat Duck restaurant, where Sir Elton John was playing. “Could the Cheshire be involved in this again?”

  “Nah,” the Pillar says. “This is... I don’t know... different.”

  “How are we supposed to find more clues here?” I mumble. “This all seems too out there.” Then it strikes me. I hope I’m not too late. “Unless...!”

  “Unless what?” He looks defeated, angry he can’t solve the puzzle.

  “Unless the Hatter has no intention of letting us stop the bomb,” I say. “What if he is like the Muffin Man? Maybe we’re here to witness something.”

  The Pillar cuts me off. “Are you saying we’ve been led here to die in the bombing?”

  7

  QUEEN’S GARDEN, BUCKINGHAM PALACE, LONDON,

  9:08 A.M.

  “Off with its head!” The Queen of England mo
aned at her flamingo, the one that was choking in the grip of her chubby hands.

  This was the third time she’d ordered a flamingo’s head chopped off today, and she was starting to lose her patience.

  The Queen was fond of using her flamingos instead of mallets in her favorite game, croquet. She’d flip the flamingo upside down and swing it against the ball with a flat grin on her face.

  But in this new world, nothing worked the Queen’s way—the Wonderland way.

  “What seems to be upsetting you, My Queen?” Margaret Kent, the Duchess, asked, hands politely behind her back while admiring her queen kicking balls.

  “These flamingos are of no use to me.” The Queen huffed. “Whenever I swing and am about to hit the ball, the stupid bird flips its head up to avoid the hit. This is nonsense!” She stamped her feet, which made her whole body boing since she was noticeably short.

  Margaret Kent took a moment before saying anything. In truth, this wasn’t nonsense. Being able to hit a ball with a flamingo’s head, like in Wonderland, that was nonsense. But how could she persuade someone used to nonsense that what actually made sense was only nonsense to them? Margaret Kent winced at the last thought. It was mind-boggling.

  “The flamingos in this world are just animals,” Margaret explained. “They will instinctually pull their head back when it’s about to hit the ball. It’s the normal thing to do.”

  “Is it normal to disobey the Queen in this world?” The Queen pouted like a spoiled six-year-old.

  “Of course not, My Queen,” Margaret said. “It’s just that we’re not in Wonderland anymore.”

  “You make it sound like we’re aliens who’ve landed on earth.”

  Margaret didn’t comment, but it was a plausible metaphor. Wonderlanders suffered in this world. The real world’s nonsense was certainly different from Wonderland’s nonsense. Not all nonsense was actually nonsense. “Would you like me to order you real mallets instead, My Queen?”