After the meeting, Molly took the lawyer aside and said, "Next time I want to see some results. I want the names of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"What about the lawsuit?"

"File a new one," Molly said. "You ever considered going federal?"

"How?" asked s.p.a.cci. "On what grounds?"

Pinching his elbow, Molly led him to an easel behind the rostrum. Propped on the easel was an aerial map of North Key Largo. Molly pointed and said, "See? There's where they want the golf course. And right here is a national wildlife refuge. That's your federal jurisdiction, Counselor."

The lawyer plucked a gold pen from his breast pocket and did some pointing of his own. "And right here, Ms. McNamara, is a two-thousand-acre amus.e.m.e.nt park that draws three million tourists every year. We'd be hard pressed to argue that one lousy golf course would be more disruptive to the habitat than what's already therea"a major vacation resort."

Molly snapped, "You're the d.a.m.n attorney. Think of something."

Bitterly she remembered the years she had fought the Kingsbury project; the Mothers of Wilderness had been the only group that had never given up. Audubon and the others had realized immediately that protest was futile; the prospect of a major theme park to compete with Disney World carried an o.r.g.a.s.mic musk to local chambers of commerce. The most powerful of powerful civic leaders clung to the myth that Mickey Mouse was responsible for killing the family tourist trade in South Florida, strangling the peninsula so that all southbound station wagons stopped in Orlando. What did Miami have to offer as compet.i.tion? Porpoises that could pitch a baseball with their blow-holes? Wisecracking parrots on unicycles? Enjoyable diversions, but scarcely in the same high-tech league with Disney. The Mouse's sprawling self-contained empire sucked tourists' pockets inside out; they came, they spent until there was nothing left to spend; then they went home happy. To lifelong Floridians it was a dream concept: fleecing a s...o...b..rd in such a way that he came back for more. Astounding! So when Francis X. Kingsbury unveiled his impressive miniature replica of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrillsa"the Wet w.i.l.l.y water flume, the Magic Mansion, Orky the Killer Whale, Jungle Jerry, and so ona"roars of exultation were heard from Palm Beach to Big Pine.

The only cry of dismay came from the Mothers of Wilderness, who were (as usual) ignored.

"No golf course," Molly told s.p.a.cci the lawyer, "and no more chickens.h.i.t excuses from you." She sent him away with the wave of a blue-veined hand.

After the rank and file had gone home, Molly gathered the board of directors in the back of the library. Five women and two men, all nearly as gray as Molly, they sat in molded plastic chairs and sipped herbal tea while Molly told them what had happened.

It was a bizarre and impossible scheme, but no one asked Molly why she had done it. They knew why. In a fussy tone, one of the Mothers said: "This time you went too far."

"It's under control," Molly insisted. "Except for the voles. They're not under control." Another Mother asked: "Any chance of finding them?"

"You never know," said Molly.

"Horses.h.i.t," said the first Mother. "They're gone for good. Dead, alive, it doesn't matter if we can't locate the d.a.m.n things."

Molly said, "Please. Keep your voice down."

The second Mother: "What about these two men? Where are they now?"

"My condo," Molly replied. "Up at Eagle Ridge."

"Lord have mercy."

"That's enough," said Molly sharply. "I said it's under control, and it's under control."

A silence fell over the small group. No one wished to challenge her authority, but this time things had really gotten out of hand. This time there was a chance they could all go to jail. I'll have some more tea," the first Mother said finally, "and then I'd love to hear your new plan. You do have one?"

"Of course I do," said Molly McNamara. "For heaven's sake."

When Joe Winder got to work, Charles Chelsea was waiting in yet another blue oxford shirt. He was sitting on the edge of Winder's desk in a pose of casual superiority. A newspaper was freshly folded under one arm. "Fine job on the press release," Chelsea said. "I changed a word or two, but otherwise it went out just like you wrote it."

Calmly Joe Winder said, "Which word or two did you change?"

"Oh, I improved Mr. Kingsbury's comments. Couple of adverbs here and there."

"Fine." Winder wasn't so surprised. It was well known that Chelsea invented all of Francis X. Kingsbury's quotes. Kingsbury was one of those men who rarely spoke in complete sentences. Didn't have to. For publicity purposes this made him perfectly useless and unquotable.

Chelsea said, "I also updated the info on Robbie Racc.o.o.n. Turns out he got a mild concussion from that blow to the head."

Winder forced a smile and set his briefcase on the desk. "It's a she, Charlie. And she was fine when I spoke to her last night. Not even a bruise."

Chelsea's voice took on a scolding tone. "Joey, you know the gender rule. If it's a male character, we always refer to it with masculine p.r.o.nounsa"regardless of who's inside the costume. I explained all this the day you were hired. It comes straight from Mr. X. Speaking of which, weren't you supposed to get a haircut?"

"Don't be a dork, Charlie."

"What's a dork?"

"You're not serious."

Charles Chelsea said, "Really, tell me. You called me a dork, I'd like to know what exactly that is."

"It's a Disney character," said Joe Winder. "Daffy Dork." He opened the briefcase and fumbled urgently for his sinus medicine. "Anyway, Charlie, the lady in the c.o.o.n suit didn't have a concussion. That's a lie, and it's a stupid lie because it's so easy to check. Some newspaper reporter is going to make a few calls and we're going to look sleazy and dishonest, all because you had to exaggerate."

"No exaggeration," Charles Chelsea said, stiffening. "I spoke with Robbie Racc.o.o.n myself, first thing this morning. He said he got dizzy and sick overnight. Doctor said it's probably a concussion."

Winder popped two pills into his mouth and said, "You're amazing."

"We'll have a neurologist's report this afternoon, in case anybody wants to see. Notarized, too." Chelsea looked pleased with himself. "Mild concussion, Joe. Don't believe me, just ask Robbie."

"What'd you do, threaten to fire her? Bust her down to the elf patrol?"

Charles Chelsea stood up, shot his cuffs, gave Joe Winder his coldest, hardest look. "I came down here to thank you for doing such outstanding work, and look what I get. More of your cynicism. Just because you had a rotten night, Joey, it's no reason to rain on everyone else's parade."

Did the man really say that? Winder wondered. Did he really accuse me of raining on his parade? "That's the only reason you're here?" Winder said. "To thank me?"

"Well, not entirely." Charles Chelsea removed the newspaper from under his arm, unfolded it and handed it to Joe Winder. "Check the last three paragraphs."

It was the story about the theft of the blue-tongued mango voles. The Herald had stripped it across the top of the Local News page, a feature play. "Hey," Winder said brightly, "they even used one of our pictures."

"Never mind that, just read the last three graphs."

The newspaper story ended like this: An anonymous caller identifying himself as an animal-rights activist telephoned the Miami office of the a.s.sociated Press late Monday and took credit for the incident at the popular theme park. The caller claimed to be a member of the radical Wildlife Rescue Corps.

"We freed the voles because they were being exploited," he said. "Francis Kingsbury doesn't care about saving the species, he just wanted another stupid tourist attraction."

Officials at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills were unavailable for comment late Monday night.

Joe Winder gave the newspaper back to Charles Chelsea and said, "What a kick in the nuts. I'll bet the boss man is going bats.h.i.t."

"You find this amusing?"

"Don't you?" Winder asked. "I guess not."

"No," said Chelsea. He refolded the newspaper and returned it to his armpit. "What do you suggest in the way of a response?"

"I suggest we forget the f.u.c.king voles and get on with our lives."

"This is serious."

Winder said, "So I was right, Kingsbury's on a tear. Then I would suggest you tell him that we're waiting to see if there's any truth to this claim. Tell him that if we say anything now, it might turn around and bite us in the rat hole."

Chelsea started rubbing his chin, a sign of possible cognition. "Go on," he told Winder. "I'm listening."

"For instance, suppose the real Wildlife Rescue Corps calls up and denies any involvement. h.e.l.l, Charlie, there's a good chance the caller was a crank. Had nothing to do with the group. To play it safe, we don't respond for now. We say absolutely nothing."

"But if it turns out to be true?"

"Then," said Joe Winder, "we express outrage that any organization, no matter how worthy its cause, would commit a violent felony and endanger the lives of innocent bystanders."

Chelsea nodded enthusiastically; he liked what he was hearing. "Not just any bystanders," he said. "Tourists."

Winder went on: "We would also recount Mr. Kingsbury's many philanthropic gifts to the ASPCA, the World Wildlife Fund, Save the Beavers, whatever. And we would supply plenty of testimonial quotes from eminent naturalists supporting our efforts on behalf of the endangered mango vole."

"Excellent," Charles Chelsea said. "Joe, that's perfect."

"Pure unalloyed genius," Winder said.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Chelsea said. "You don't want to spend the rest of the week writing about rodents. Too much like covering City Hall, right?"

Joe Winder chuckled politely. He could tell Chelsea was worried about pitching it to Kingsbury.

In a hopeful voice, Chelsea said, "You think the guy was really just a nut? This guy who called the AP?"

"Who knows," Winder said. "We've certainly got our share."

Charles Chelsea nodded hopefully. A simple nut would be fine with him, PR-wise; it's the zealots you had to worry about.

"The only thing to do is wait," said Joe Winder. Already he could feel his sinuses drying up. He felt suddenly clearheaded, chipper, even optimistic. Maybe it was the medicine flushing his head, or maybe it was something else.

Like having a real honest-to-G.o.d story, for a change. A story getting good and hot.

Just like the old days.

FIVE.

Chelsea had a stark, irrational fear of Francis X. Kingsbury. It was not Kingsbury's physical appearance (for he was gnomish and flabby) but his volcanically profane temper that caused Chelsea so much anxiety. Kingsbury long ago had practically ceased speaking in complete sentences, but his broken exclamations could be daunting and acerbic. The words struck venomously at Charles Chelsea's insecurities, and made him tremble.

On the afternoon of July 17, Chelsea finished his lunch, threw up, flossed his teeth and walked briskly to Kingsbury's office. Kingsbury was leaning over the desk; the great man's sleeves were rolled up to reveal the famous lewd tattoo on his doughy left forearm. The other arm sparkled with a gold Robbie Racc.o.o.n wrist.w.a.tch, with emerald insets. Today's surfer-blond hairpiece was longish and curly.

Kingsbury grunted at Charles Chelsea and said: "Wildlife Rescue Corps?" He raised his hands. "Well?"

Chelsea said, "The group exists, but the phone call could be a crank. We're checking it out."

"What's this exploitationa"s.h.i.t, we're talking about, what, some kind of rodent or such G.o.dd.a.m.n thing."

Not even close to a quotable sentence, Chelsea thought. It was astoundinga"the man spoke in over-torqued, expletive-laden fragments that somehow made perfect sense. At all times, Charles Chelsea knew exactly what Francis X. Kingsbury was talking about.

The publicity man said, "Don't worry, sir, the situation is being contained. We're ready for any contingency."

Kingsbury made a small fist. "Damage control," he said.

"Our top gun," Chelsea said. "His name is Joe Winder, and he's a real pro. Offering the reward money was his idea, sir. The AP led with it this morning, too."

Kingsbury sat down. He fingered the florid tip of his bulbous nose. "These animals, there's still a chance maybe?"

Chelsea could feel a chilly dampness spreading in deadly crescents from his armpits. "It's unlikely, sir. One of them is dead for sure. Shot by the highway patrol. Some tourists apparently mistook it for a rat."

"Terrific," said Kingsbury.

"The other one, likewise. The bandits threw it in the window of a Winnebago camper."

Kingsbury peered from beneath dromedary lids. "Don't," he said, exhaling noisily. "This is like...no, don't bother."

"You might as well know," said Chelsea. "It was a church group from Boca Raton in the Winnebago. They beat the poor thing to death with a golf umbrella. Then they threw it off the Card Sound Bridge."

There, Chelsea thought. He had done it. Stood up and delivered the bad news. Stood up like a man.

Francis X. Kingsbury entwined his hands and said: "Who knows about this? Knows that we know? Anybody?"

"You mean anybody on the outside? No." Charles Chelsea paused. "Well, except the highway patrol. And I took care of them with some free pa.s.ses to the Kingdom."

"But civilians?"

"No, sir. n.o.body knows that we know the voles are dead."

"Fine," said Francis X. Kingsbury. "Good time to up the reward."

"Sir?"

"Make it a million bucks. Six zeros, if I'm not mistaken."

Chelsea took out a notebook and a Cross pen, and began to write. "That's one million dollars for the safe return of the missing voles."

"Which are dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Simple, h.e.l.l. Very simple."