Part 28 (1/2)

”When you came,” he asked, ”was there anyone here then?”

”No,” she answered. ”No one was here.”

”That's not possible,” said Panda, without concealing the fury in his voice. ”There had to be someone here. You must have seen someone?”

”No one,” Hummingbird promised. ”There was no one here.”

But she felt afraid. She got up. The panda came slowly toward her, and she started to back away. Suddenly there was something threatening about the scene. They noticed the change at the same time. Panda grasped the box cutter, which was still in his jacket pocket.

He wants to hurt me, thought Hummingbird. He wants to hurt me.

The next moment she turned and ran.

Outside Boathouse 3 the police had not left anything to chance. Ten police cars stood arranged like a convex wall fifteen feet from the one door, and more than thirty police officers had taken their positions with drawn weapons. Captain Jan Buck had given strict orders. Before he got to the scene himself, no one could so much as sneeze. Igor Panda would be Buck's trophy, and no one else's. Now the captain stood with a megaphone in hand, at a safe distance from the door of the boathouse, and raised his arm just as the door was thrown open and Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago came running out. police had not left anything to chance. Ten police cars stood arranged like a convex wall fifteen feet from the one door, and more than thirty police officers had taken their positions with drawn weapons. Captain Jan Buck had given strict orders. Before he got to the scene himself, no one could so much as sneeze. Igor Panda would be Buck's trophy, and no one else's. Now the captain stood with a megaphone in hand, at a safe distance from the door of the boathouse, and raised his arm just as the door was thrown open and Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago came running out.

Nervous police officers' trigger fingers twitched, but the artist was so tangibly small and thin that not even the most psychotic police officer-and there were a few of those standing with their rifles steadied on the hoods of the cars-could perceive Hummingbird as a threat.

The next moment Igor Panda came out through the door.

If the situation had not been so intense, it would have been a parody. Panda came rus.h.i.+ng out of the boathouse but refused to understand the obvious. He didn't seem to see the police officers, the cars, the drawn weapons, or hear Captain Buck screaming in his megaphone, either. Igor Panda ran after Esperanza-Santiago: he was chasing his salvation and his dream, he was chasing his last hope.

”STOP, OTHERWISE WE'LL SHOOT!” Buck screamed again.

But Panda continued running inside his own destiny.

7.6.

Jasmine Squirrel hadn't taken the bus for years. Now she was sitting on the Route 3, which went between Rosdahl in Lanceheim and Parc Clemeaux in Tourquai. She observed that they had taken away the little b.u.t.tons you pressed for the next stop; these were replaced with a strip that ran along the windows. She did not recall the turquoise tint of the seats, the gravel on the floor, or the advertising messages on the ceiling, but, as always, she felt nauseous from all the braking and accelerating. Outside, the breeze had just set in and the Evening Weather colored the sky a gentle red. Except for a few bears sitting in front, she was alone on board.

She was still furious.

Monday morning, when Mouse called, her first reaction had been suspicion. What he'd said was impossible to understand, impossible to accept; it was the sort of thing that happened only in melodramatic novels sold at Monomart.

”I've cut the head off Oswald Vulture,” he had said. ”Jasmine, my darling, I have cut the head off Oswald.”

She'd been sitting on the couch in her cozy living room and didn't move from the spot. She breathed into the telephone receiver and listened to his breath on the other side. It was not fear or anxiety that made the words get stuck and refuse to cross her lips; when she realized that he was telling the truth, surprise was replaced by fury. She went crazy.

”Where are you?” she finally forced out.

”I'm still here,” he answered. ”At Nova Park.”

”Where?”

”Inside Vulture's office.”

The image immediately entered her mind: the impersonal, lavish, and dark office where Philip Mouse stood perplexed by the desk, where the headless Vulture sat in his pin-striped suit.

It was heinous. It was incomprehensible. It was her fault.

”Mouse, you are one h.e.l.l of an idiot,” she whispered.

She didn't know why she lowered her voice.

”Darling, I ... did it,” he whispered back.

He sounded like a lunatic. He was in a state of shock. But before she let the madness get the upper hand she concentrated on the practical.

”You are one silly, silly idiot,” she repeated slowly. ”Listen to me now. When we're through talking, you put down the receiver, Philip. Go over to the door, peek out through the keyhole, and wait until Cobra leaves her seat. Then you open it and leave.”

He had not answered a word; there was only his breathing on the phone.

”Philip, did you hear what I said?”

With a grunt he confirmed it at last.

Squirrel hung up, picked up the receiver again, and dialed Emanuelle Cobra's direct extension.

”Emanuelle, it's me. Don't ask. Leave there. Leave the office. Take a smoke break. I'll explain later.”

Without surprise or making any objections, Emanuelle Cobra did as Squirrel said. She got up and left the office. It was not the first time she had obeyed orders, and it would be far from the last. On her way out, in the corridor, she also realized that Squirrel would never explain what was behind the request; their relations.h.i.+p was not like that.

Outside the windows of the bus, evening was settling carefully over Mollisan Town. It was the street lighting that revealed the darkness: from one moment to the next, Jasmine Squirrel noticed that the neon signs above the display windows demanded attention and the light that fell across the sidewalks from inside the shops suddenly seemed warm and inviting. the bus, evening was settling carefully over Mollisan Town. It was the street lighting that revealed the darkness: from one moment to the next, Jasmine Squirrel noticed that the neon signs above the display windows demanded attention and the light that fell across the sidewalks from inside the shops suddenly seemed warm and inviting.

The bears sitting at the front of the bus got off at North Avenue, and a hyena with a dark green hoodie got on and took one of their seats. In the large rearview mirror Jasmine caught a glimpse of the bus driver's stern visage. With the regulation cap pulled down over his forehead, he sat staring straight ahead. He couldn't be bothered to give her a glance.

Philip Mouse got on at orange-colored rue Leblanc. Jasmine shut her eyes. It pained her to see him. The wrinkled white trench coat, the narrow face, the curious gaze. In conflict with her nature, she felt endlessly sorry for him.

Philip had always chosen not to understand. He had chosen not to see and hear. It was pathetic, but it was his own choice.

Jasmine had already started Domaine d'Or Logistics when she met Philip Mouse the first time. Even if she seldom talked about work, he must have understood. She a.s.sumed that; anything else seemed unreasonable.

The main reason the escort operation could go on year after year without involvement from the police or Mafia was because Jasmine never got greedy. She maintained a small stable of clients; she tied her females close to her. Emanuelle Cobra was a perfect example. Cobra had been around a long time, and the last few years she had only a single customer. Oswald Vulture. It was Vulture himself who suggested that Cobra should become his secretary, something that gave Domaine d'Or many advantages. For one thing, Jasmine was paid for Cobra's services, and besides she could simply blackmail Vulture for extra money when such tactics were required. What she didn't know today about his business deals wasn't worth knowing. But she never pushed too much, never too hard. She had a long-term perspective on her operation.

Her telling Philip Mouse about Oswald Vulture a week ago had been a mistake. A gigantic mistake. She had done it without thinking about it; in the context, Vulture had been a natural a.s.sociation, a cheap shot. And when she realized what she'd done ... it was too late. For the first time Philip had not been content with evasion.

Jasmine had finally told about her life in a way that was close to the truth. A truth that she knew Philip could accept. She depicted herself as a victim, and Vulture as a s.a.d.i.s.tic lunatic.

But it had been a fatal mistake.

The bus accelerated and Philip went carefully back and sat in the row ahead of Jasmine. Philip went carefully back and sat in the row ahead of Jasmine.

”He guessed it,” was the first thing Mouse said.

”Who?”

”Bloodhound. He knows. Or, he doesn't know, but he senses. He knows about you and me.”

”That's not my fault,” she answered quickly.