Part 28 (2/2)

Mouse thought about disputing this, but realized that it would only lead to meaningless bickering.

”Bring out his head,” whispered Jasmine. ”Philip, for the last time, I'm begging you. Don't be such a fool.”

”Don't start-” he begged.

”This is ridiculous!” she burst out. ”I spent the night in jail at rue de Cadix. You're asking me to sit on this d.a.m.n bus and-”

”I don't dare see you anywhere else,” he interrupted. ”I don't know what Larry is thinking. Maybe he's already put out a search for me. I want to stay mobile.”

”The last thing I want to be doing tonight is sitting here,” she repeated. ”And the only reason I'm doing it is to convince you. Bring out the head, Philip. I know an ape who can sew on the head without the st.i.tches showing. We can-”

”It can never be undone,” he replied.

The bus careened around a curve, and they were both forced to take hold of the seats to counter the movement.

”I promise,” she whispered loudly as the driver turned and stopped at the bus stop at the corner, ”I can convince Vulture not to file charges. I can get him to do anything at all.”

Philip was about to answer when an elderly couple, an ostrich and a llama, got on and sat down a few rows ahead.

”And then everything goes back to how it was,” he whispered.

The bitterness in his voice was not to be mistaken.

”Yes, and is that so bad?” she hissed.

He didn't answer. They had had this conversation earlier in the week.

”You're not my guardian angel,” she said.

She was talking too loud. Mouse was certain that the couple sitting ahead of them could hear what she said. With a gesture he tried to quiet her.

”It's my life you're destroying,” she said. ”My life. Who gave you the right to do that? Who gave you the right to interfere in things that have nothing to do with you?”

He wanted to answer but didn't dare. She got up and pressed the strip under the window. The bus driver reacted immediately and slowed down. They were already at the next stop.

”Bring out the head, Philip,” she said, and he saw the llama and ostrich turn around. ”Until you do, I don't want to see you again. I mean it. Either you bring out the head or else this is the last time.”

And with these words she left him on the bus, which drove farther into Tourquai's ever-darker heart.

If Philip Mouse knew that the Route 3 bus to Parc Clemeaux went via oil black Boulevard de la Villette, he'd forgotten it that evening. He sat staring out through the window as if paralyzed in the vacuum Jasmine created by leaving. When he saw the dark silhouette of Bourg de la Villette towering up against the dramatic twilight sky a few minutes later, it was a surprise. that the Route 3 bus to Parc Clemeaux went via oil black Boulevard de la Villette, he'd forgotten it that evening. He sat staring out through the window as if paralyzed in the vacuum Jasmine created by leaving. When he saw the dark silhouette of Bourg de la Villette towering up against the dramatic twilight sky a few minutes later, it was a surprise.

He decided immediately.

He had to remove the remaining evidence; anything else was impossible.

Nova Park might of course have changed all the codes after everything that had happened, but they might just as well have forgotten to do so for the same reason.

That was why Philip Mouse relived his Sunday night exactly one week later. Many times he had laughed at the a.s.sertion that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime: Who could be so stupid?

Now he had the answer.

He went into Bourg de la Villette's ma.s.sive lobby without hesitating, and raised his paw in greeting to the bored guard in reception. The guard hardly looked up from his book. After office hours the elevators, stairwells, and doors were locked and alarmed; only the authorized could make their way into the building.

Philip went up to the elevators and punched in the code. It worked. The doors glided apart and Philip stepped into the elegant, mirrored metal box.

The office was empty and dark, just as empty and dark as a week ago, and just like then Philip punched in the security code on the little box that sat hidden behind the computer in reception.

The black night sky outside generously reflected the illuminated city and, thanks to the large windows, he avoided turning on lights as he went down the corridor toward Cobra's and Vulture's offices.

Oswald Vulture's office had been locked last Sunday, but the lock was an ordinary one and for an experienced private detective with a set of skeleton keys it was no challenge. This evening the door was unlocked. When he opened it and looked over toward the desk, the image of the headless Vulture appeared in his memory. Confused, Philip took a few steps into the room and sat down on the armchair by the sofa, as far from the desk as possible.

What is freedom?

Is it moving through a room unhindered, in any direction you want, fast or slow? Or is it being able to think any thought whatsoever, high or low, without shame or fear? Is freedom being able to openly express your convictions, and then trying to influence others to think the same thing? Or is freedom having the possibility to choose, being able to say no to what you don't want?

But Mouse, who had been able to and still could do all this, did not think any of these words described what he defined as freedom.

During his entire life he had felt bound by external circ.u.mstances. Expectations and obligations. How this mental yoke had developed-and whether it was self-a.s.sumed-was the therapist's business to decide. Mouse experienced what he experienced. Often it felt as if he were behind a wall of compulsion, unable to make his way out to reality.

It was suffocating to carry the hope of being able to reach further, and achieve more, but never finding the way out of the labyrinth of life. Sometimes the frustration created an aggressive energy, which could be positive, but more often over the years he felt a disillusioned melancholy.

Freedom, thought Philip Mouse, would be to outwit the limitations fate had once given him. To break out of the social, intellectual, and emotional framework that the factory and his youth had defined.

Freedom, thought Mouse, was to surprise life by placing yourself above your fate.

What he felt was not regret. He could not feel regret. He had tried, but it wasn't possible. not regret. He could not feel regret. He had tried, but it wasn't possible.

Deep inside he had always known how Jasmine Squirrel lived. But with the years he had begun to doubt. He had established a charade that felt most comfortable. He stopped asking himself where the money came from. He made sure not to surprise her, never demanding details about who she met or what she had done; he pretended he was showing trust.

Why had he forced a confession from her last Sunday? Why hadn't he-like so many times before-simply let it go? Talked about something else?

He didn't know.

When she confessed, his anger mostly consisted of shame. Not disappointment, not judgment, only a glowing hatred that he chose to direct at Oswald Vulture, even if it might just as well have been directed inward, toward himself.

When he forced her to give him the codes to the elevator and office, he had not had a plan. He found himself in an almost hallucinatory state; all the years of insinuations and half-truths came rus.h.i.+ng toward him, and he understood how easy it would have been to expose her secret earlier. If he had only wanted to.

When he stepped into Oswald Vulture's office late Sunday night, or rather early Monday morning, he still had no plan. En route from Squirrel to Bourg de la Villette, he had stopped at a number of late-night bars and drank himself into courage and confusion.

He had walked around in Vulture's large office, looked through the contents of the bookshelves, investigated the globe, started the computer on the desk and turned it off again. Time had pa.s.sed, faster than he thought, and suddenly he'd heard sounds outside the office. He felt panic-he'd almost forgotten why he was there-and he threw himself behind one of the curtains hanging from ceiling to floor.

There he remained standing while Oswald Vulture took possession of his office.

If nothing more had happened after that, maybe everything would be different today. But as Mouse stood sweating behind the curtain for half an hour and almost decided to swallow his pride and leave the vulture to a different fate, Emanuelle Cobra stepped into the room. The private detective didn't know who Cobra was, he had never met her and did not see her now, either. At a distance of a few feet, though, he heard a scene play out, a scene so perverse, so obscene, that the emotions from the night returned with full force.

He heard Cobra flatter and entice, moan and sigh, and he knew that this might just as well have been Jasmine.

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