No more door! Flattened.

What a fine feeling, to be free again.

The Security Office is empty, which is a mystery. Pedro checks the time cards and sees that none of the other guards have clocked in; something's going on here. Outside, the morning sun burns through a milky August haze, and the park is crawling with customers. There's a middle-aged lady at the security window complaining how somebody swiped her pocketbook off the tram. Behind her is some guy from Wisconsin, red hair and freckles, says he locked his keys in the rental car. And behind him is some bony old man with a shnoz that could cut glass. Claims one of the animals is walking around the park with a gun. Which one? Pedro asks. The possum? The raccoon? We got bunches of animals, says Pedro Luz. And the old guy scratches his big nose and says he don't know the difference from animals. Was Wally Wolverine for all he knows, but it damn sure was a gun in its paw. Sure, says Pedro, whatever you say. Here's a form to fill out. I'll be back in a few minutes.

Between the whiny tourists and all that banging with his head, Pedro's finally waking up. On the floor near the broken door he spots something shiny, and checks it out: a new Master padlock, still fastened to the broken hasp.

Pedro never would've imagined it was the lovely Princess Golden Sun who'd locked him in the storage room with his drugs and beer. He figured it was Spence Mooher or one of the other security guards, playing a joke.

He could deal with those jerk-offs later. Now it was time to haul ass over to Mr. Kingsbury's office and see what was wrong. For a moment Pedro Luz thought he heard the alarm go off again, but then he realized no, it was just the regular buzzing in his eardrums. Only it seemed to be getting louder.

THIRTY-THREE

"First things first," Joe Winder said. "Who killed Will Koocher?"

Francis X. Kingsbury was rolling a shiny new Titleist from hand to hand across the top of his desk. The brassy strains of a marching band rose from the street below; the Summerfest Jubilee was in full swing.

"This Koocher," Kingsbury said, "he was threatening to go public about the voles. Pangs of conscience, whatever. So what I did, I told that fucking Pedro to go talk sense with the boy. See, it would've been a disaster – and Charlie'll back me up on this – a goddamn mess if it came out the voles were fake. Especially after the stupid things got stolen – talk about embarrassing."

Winder said, "So the answer to the question is Pedro. That's who committed the murder."

Kingsbury smothered his nose with a handkerchief and snuffled like a boar. "Damn hay fever!" The handkerchief puckered with each breath. "Far as I'm concerned, Koocher drowned in the Orky tank. Plain and simple. Case closed."

"But everyone knew the truth."

"No!" Chelsea protested. "I swear to God, Joey."

"Tell me about the blue-tongued mango voles," said Joe Winder. "Whose clever idea was that?"

From behind the veil of the soggy hanky, Kingsbury said: "I figured wouldn't it be fantastic if the Amazing Kingdom had an animal we could save. Like Disney tried to do with the dusky sparrow, only I was thinking in terms of a panda bear. People, I've seen this, they go fucking nuts for pandas. Only come to find out it's too hot down here, they'd probably croak in the sun.

"So I call this connection I got, this old friend, and I ask her what's endangered in Florida and she says all the good ones are taken – the panthers and manatees and so forth. She says it'd be better to come up with an animal nobody else had or even knew about. She says we might even get a government grant, which it turns out we did. Two hundred grand!"

Chelsea tried to act appalled; he even made a sound like a gasp. Impatiently, Winder said, "Charlie, this might come as a shock, but I don't care how much you knew and how much you didn't. For the purposes of settling this matter, you've become superfluous. Now show Mr. Kingsbury what we've prepared."

From an inside pocket Chelsea withdrew a folded sheet of Amazing Kingdom stationery. He handed it across the desk to Francis X. Kingsbury, who set aside both the handkerchief and the golf ball in order to read.

"It's a press release," Chelsea said.

"I see what it is. Horseshit is what it is." Kingsbury scanned it several times, including once from the bottom up. His mouth moved in twitchy circles, like a mule chewing a carrot.

"You ought to consider it," Winder advised him, "if you want to stay out of jail."

"Oh, so now it's blackmail?"

"No, sir, it's the cold fucking hand of fate."

Nervously Kingsbury fingered the bridge of his nose. "The hell is your angle, son?"

"You arranged an elaborate scientific fraud for the purposes of profit. An ingenious fraud, to be sure, but a felony nonetheless. Two hundred thousand is just about enough to interest the U.S. Attorney's Office."

Kingsbury shrugged in mockery. "Is that, what, like the end of the world?"

"I forgot," Winder said, "you're an expert on indictments. Aren't you, Frankie?"

Kingsbury turned color.

"Frankie King," said Winder. That's your real name, in case you don't remember."

Kingsbury shrank into the chair. Winder turned to Charles Chelsea and said, "I think somebody's finally in the mood to talk."

"Can I leave?"

"Certainly, Charlie. And thanks for a terrific job on the publicity release."

"Yeah, right."

"I mean it," Winder said. "It's seamless."

Chelsea eyed him warily. "You're just being sarcastic."

"No, it was perfect. You've got a definite flair."

"Thanks, Joe. And I mean it, too."

The rescue of Francis Kingsbury was further delayed when a disturbance broke out near the front gate of the Amazing Kingdom; a tense and potentially violent dispute over the distribution of prizes, specifically a Nissan 300-Z.

The security-guard uniform is what gave Pedro Luz away. As he crutched toward Kingsbury's office, he was spotted and intercepted by a flying wedge of disgruntled customers. Something about the Summerfest contest being rigged. Pedro Luz insisted he didn't know about any damn contest, but the customers were loud and insistent. They led the security man back to the stage, where a short plump tourist named Rossiter had just been presented the keys to the sleek new sports car. Draped around Mr. Rossiter's neck was a shiny streamer that said: "OUR FIVE-MILLIONTH SPECIAL GUEST!" In response to questions from a tuxedoed emcee, Mr. Rossiter said he was visiting the Amazing Kingdom with his wife and mother-in-law. He said it was only his second trip to Florida.

Mr. Rossiter gave the car keys to his wife, who squeezed her torso into the driver's seat and happily posed for pictures. Several persons in the crowd began to hiss and boo. Somebody threw a cup of frozen yogurt, which splattered against one of the car's wire wheels.

This was too much for Pedro Luz's jangled, hormone-flooded sensory receptors. He grabbed the microphone from the emcee and said, "Next person that throws food, I break their fucking spine."

Instantly a lull came over the mob. Pedro Luz said, "Now somebody explain what's going on."

At first no one spoke up, but there was a good bit of whispering about the bloody purple knots on the security chief's forehead. Finally a man in the crowd pointed at the Rossiters and shouted, "They cheated, that's what!"

Another male voice: "He cut in line!"

Pedro Luz said, "Jesus, I can't believe you people."

He turned to the Rossiters. "Is it true? Did you cut in line?"

"No, Officer," Mr. Rossiter answered. "We got here first, fair and square."

Mrs. Rossiter popped her head from the car and said, "They're just a bunch of sore losers." Mrs. Rossiter's mother, a stubby woman wearing sandals and a Petey Possum T-shirt, said she'd never seen such rude people in all her life.