Part 20 (1/2)

”Oh, for G.o.d's sake.”

Skink said, ”We're in dangerous territory now.”

”I don't care,” Winder said. ”Tell me what happened. It had something to do with the mango voles, I'm sure.”

”Yes,” said Skink.

Nina announced that she was leaving. ”I'm getting eaten alive, and we're going to miss the movie.”

”Screw the movie,” said Joe Winder, perhaps too curtly.

For Nina was suddenly gonea”down the trail, through the woods. Snapping twigs and m.u.f.fled imprecations divulged her path.

”Call me Mr. Charm,” Winder said.

Skink chuckled. ”You'd better go. This can wait.”

”I want to know more.”

”It's the voles, like you said.” He reached into his secondhand trousers and took out a bottle so small it couldn't have held more than four ounces. He pressed it into the palm of Joe Winder's right hand.

”Ah, the magic bug goop!”

”No,” Skink said. ”Now take off, before Snow White gets lost in the big bad forest.”

Blindly Winder jogged down the trail after his girlfriend. He held one arm across his face to block the branches from slas.h.i.+ng him, and weaved through the low viny trees like a halfback slipping tacklers.

Nina had given up her solo expedition forty yards from Skink's campsite, and that's where Winder found her, leaning against the slick red trunk of a gumbo-limbo.

”Get us out of here,” she said, brus.h.i.+ng a squadron of plump mosquitoes from her forehead.

Out of breath, Winder gave her a hug. She didn't exactly melt in his arms. ”You were doing fine,” he said. ”You stayed right on the trail.”

They were in the car, halfway to Homestead, when she spoke again: ”Why can't you leave it alone? The guy's nothing but trouble.”

”He's not crazy, Nina.”

”Oh right.”

”A man was murdered. I can't let it slide.”

She picked a b.u.t.tonwood leaf from her sleeve, rolled down the window and flicked the leaf away. She said, ”If he's not crazy, then how come he lives the way he does? How come he wears that electric collar?”

”He says it keeps him on his toes.” Joe Winder plugged a Zevon tape in the stereo. ”Look, I'm not saying he's normal. I'm just saying he's not crazy.”

”Like you would know,” Nina said.

FIFTEEN.

On Sunday, July 22, Charles Chelsea got up at eight-thirty, showered, shaved, dressed (navy slacks, Cordovan loafers, blue oxford s.h.i.+rt, burgundy necktie), trimmed his nose hairs, splashed on about three gallons of Aramis and drove off to work in his red Mazda Miata, for which he had paid thirty-five hundred dollars over dealer invoice.

Chelsea had two important appointments at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. One of them would be routine, and one promised to be unpleasant. He had not slept well, but he didn't feel exceptionally tired. In fact, he felt surprisingly confident, composed, tough; if only he could remain that way until his meeting with Joe Winder.

A crew from Channel 7 was waiting outside the main gate. The reporter was an attractive young Latin woman wearing oversized sungla.s.ses. Chelsea greeted her warmly and told her she was right on time. They all got in a van, which was driven by a man wearing a costume of bright neoprene plumes. The man introduced himself as Baldy the Eagle, and said he was happy to be their host. He began a long spiel about the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills until Charles Chelsea flashed his ID badge, at which point the bird man shrugged and shut up. Chelsea slapped his arm when he tried to b.u.m a Marlboro off the Channel 7 cameraman.

When they arrived at the killer-whale tank, Chelsea stepped from the van and held the door for the reporter, whose first name was Maria. Chelsea led the way inside the marine stadium, where the TV crew unpacked and began to set up the equipment. Chelsea sat next to Maria in the front row, facing the empty blue pool. Above them, men on scaffolds were sandblasting the word ”Orky” from the coral-colored wall.

Chelsea said, ”I guess the others will be along soon.”

Maria removed her sungla.s.ses and brushed her hair. She took out a spiral notebook and flipped to a blank page.

”The other stations,” Chelsea said, ”they must be running a little late.”

Five others had received the same fax as Channel 7 had. Surely more crews would show upa”it was Sunday, after all, the slowest news day of the week.

Maria said, ”Before we go on the aira””

”You want some background,” Chelsea said helpfully. ”Well, to be perfectly frank, Orky's death left us with a rather large vacancy. Here we have this beautiful salt.w.a.ter tank, as you see, and a scenic outdoor stadium. A facility like this is too special to waste. We thought about getting another whale, but Mr. Kingsbury felt it would be inappropriate. He felt Orky was irreplaceable.”

Charles Chelsea glanced over Maria's shoulder to see the Minicam pointed at him. Its red light winked innocuously as the tape rolled. The cameraman was on his knees. Squinting through the viewfinder, he signaled for Chelsea to keep talking.

”Are we on?” the PR man said. ”What about the mike? I don't have a mike.”

The cameraman pointed straight up. Chelsea raised his eyes. A gray boom microphone, the size of a fungo bat, hung over his head. The boom was controlled by a sound man standing to Chelsea's right. The man wore earphones and a Miami Dolphins warm-up jacket.

Maria said, ”You mentioned Orky. Could you tell us what your staff has learned about the whale's death? What exactly killed it?”

Chelsea fought to keep his Adam's apple from bobbing spasmodically, as it often did when he lied. ”The tests,” he said, ”are still incomplete.”

Maria's warm brown eyes blinked inquisitively. ”There's a rumor that the whale died during an encounter with an employee of the Amazing Kingdom.”

”Oh, that's a good one.” Chelsea laughed stiffly. ”Where did you hear that?”

”Is it true?”

The camera's blinking red light no longer seemed harmless. Charles Chelsea said, ”I'm not going to dignify such a question by responding.”

The reporter said nothing, just let the tape roll. Let him choke on the silence. It worked.

”We did have a death that night,” Chelsea admitted, toying with his cuffs. ”An employee of the park apparently took his own life. It was very, very tragica””

”What was the name of this employee?”

Chelsea's tone became cold, reproachful. ”It is our strict policy not to discuss such matters publicly. There is an issue of privacy, and respect for the family.”

Maria said, ”The rumor isa””