It struck with a white flash and a deafening rip. Twenty yards away, a dead mahogany tree split up the middle and dropped a huge leafless branch. "God," Carrie whispered. "That was close."

Raindrops hammered on the roof. Joe Winder turned around in the seat and looked in the back of the car. "They're gone," he said.

"What, Joe?"

"The books. This is where he kept all his books."

She turned to see. Except for several dead roaches and a yellowed copy of the New Republic, the station wagon had been cleaned out.

Winder was vexed. "I don't know how he did it. You should've seen – there were hundreds in here. Steinbeck, Hemingway. Jesus, Carrie, he had Garcia Marquez in Spanish. First editions! Some of the greatest books ever written."

"Then he's actually gone."

"It would appear to be so."

"Think we should call somebody?"

"What?"

"Somebody up in New York," Carrie said, "at the prison. I mean, just in case."

"Let me think about this."

"I can't believe he'd try it."

The thunderstorm moved quickly over the island and out to sea. Soon the lightning stopped and the downpour softened to a drizzle. Carrie said, "The breeze felt nice, didn't it?"

Joe Winder wasn't listening. He was trying to decide if they should keep looking or not. Without Skink, new choices lay ahead: bold and serious decisions. Winder suddenly felt responsible for the entire operation.

Carrie turned to kiss him and her knee hit the glove compartment, which popped open. Curiously she poked through the contents – a flashtight, a tire gauge, three D-sized batteries and what appeared to be the dried tail of a squirrel.

And one brown envelope with Joe Winder's name printed in small block letters.

He tore it open. Reading the note, he broke into a broad smile. "Short and to the point," he said.

Carrie read it:

Dear Joe,

You make one hell of an oracle.

Don't worry about me, just keep up the fight.

We all shine on!

Carrie folded the note and returned it to the envelope. "I assume this means something."

"Like the moon and the stars and the sun," Joe Winder said. He felt truly inspired.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills reopened with only a minimal drop in attendance, thanks to a three-for-one ticket promotion that included a free ride on Dickie the Dolphin, whose amorous behavior was now inhibited by four trainers armed with electric stun guns. Francis X. Kingsbury was delighted by the crowds, and emboldened by the fact that many customers actually complained about the absence of wild snakes. Kingsbury regarded it as proof that closing the Amazing Kingdom had been unnecessary, a costly overestimation of the average tourist's brainpower. Obviously the yahoos were more curious than afraid of lethal reptiles. A thrill is a thrill, Kingsbury said.

The two persons forced to sit through this speech were Pedro Luz and Special Agent Ron Donner of the U.S. Marshal Service. Agent Donner had come to notify Francis X. Kingsbury of a possible threat against his life.

"Ho! From who?"

"Elements of organized crime," the marshal said.

"Well, fuck em."

"Excuse me?"

"This is just, I mean really, the word is horseshit!" Kingsbury flapped his arms like a tangerine-colored buzzard. He was dressed for serious golf; even his cleats were orange.

Agent Donner said: "We think it would be wise if you left town for a few weeks."

"Oh, you do? Leave town, like hell I will."

Pedro Luz spun his wheelchair slightly toward the marshal. "Organized crime," he said. "You mean the Mafia?"

"We're taking it very seriously," said Agent Donner, thinking: Who's the freak with the IV bag?

With the proud sweep of a hand, Francis Kingsbury introduced his chief of Security. "He handles everything for the park and so on. Personal affairs, as well. You can say anything in front of him, understand? He's thoroughly reliable."

Pedro Luz casually adjusted the drip valve on the intravenous tube.

The marshal asked, "What happened to your foot?"

"Never mind!" blurted Kingsbury.

"Car accident," Pedro Luz volunteered affably. "I had to chew the damn thing off." He pointed with a swathed, foreshortened index finger. "Right there above the ankle-bone, see?"

"Tough luck," said Agent Donner, thinking: Psycho City.

"It's what animals do," Pedro Luz added, "when they get caught in traps."

Kingsbury clapped his hands nervously. "Hey, hey! Can we get back to the issue, please, this Godfather thing. For the record, I'm not going anyplace."

The marshal said, "We can have you safely in Bozeman, Montana, by tomorrow afternoon."

"What, do I look like fucking Grizzly Adams? Listen to me – Montana, don't even joke about something like that."

Pedro Luz said, "Why would the Mafia want to kill Mr. Kingsbury? I don't exactly make the connection." Then his chin dropped, and he appeared to drift off.

Agent Donner said, "I wish you'd consider the offer."

"Two words." Kingsbury held up two fingers as if playing charades. "Summerfest Jubilee. One of our biggest days, receipt-wise, of the whole damn year. Parades, clowns, prizes. We're giving away...I forget, some kinda car."

"And I suppose you need to be here."

"Yeah, damn right. It's my park and my show. And know what else? You can't make me go anywhere. I kept my end of the deal. I'm free and clear of you people."

"You're still on probation," said the marshal. "But you're right, we can't force you to go anyplace. This visit is a courtesy – "

"And I appreciate the information. I just don't happen to believe it." But a part of Francis Kingsbury did believe it. What if the men who stole his files had given up on the idea of blackmail? What if the damn burglars had somehow made touch with the Gotti organization? It strained Kingsbury's imagination because they'd seemed like such jittery putzes that night at the house. Yet perhaps he'd misjudged them.

"Where'd you get the tip?" he demanded.

Agent Donner was briefly distracted by the cartoon depiction of rodent fellatio that adorned Kingsbury's forearm. Eventually the marshal looked up and said, "It surfaced during another investigation. I can't go into details."

"But, really, you guys think it's on the level? You think some guineas are coming after me?" Kingsbury struggled to maintain an air of amused skepticism.

Soberly the marshal said, "The FBI is checking it out."

"Well, regardless, I'm not going to Montana. Just thinking about it hurts my mucous membranes – I got the world's worst hay fever."

"So your mind is made up."

"Yep," said Kingsbury. "I'm staying put."

"Then let us provide you with protection here at the park. A couple of men, at least."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I got Pedro."

At the mention of his name, Pedro Luz's swollen eyelids parted. He reached up and squeezed the IV bag. Then he tugged the tube out of the needle in his arm, and fitted the end into the corner of his mouth. The sound of energetic sucking filled Francis Kingsbury's office.

Agent Donner was dumbfounded. In a brittle voice he assured Kingsbury that the marshals would be extremely discreet, and would in no way interfere with the Summerfest Jubilee events. Kingsbury, in a tone approaching politeness, declined the offer of bodyguards. The last thing he needed was federal dicks nosing around the Amazing Kingdom.

"Besides, like I mentioned, there's Pedro. He's as tough as they come."

"All right," said Agent Donner, casting his eyes once again on the distended, scarified, cataleptic, polyp-headed mass that was Pedro Luz.