Halfway up the rise, she tugged on his hand and told him to turn around.

There it was: the eastern sky aglow, fat clouds roiling unnaturally under a pulsing halo of wild pink and orange. Baleful columns of tarry smoke rose from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.

Joe Winder whistled in amazement. "There's arson," he said, "and then there's arson."

Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were surprised to find Molly McNamara wide awake, propped up with a stack of thin hospital pillows. She was brushing her snowy hair and reading the New Republic when the burglars arrived.

"Pacemaker," Molly reported. "A routine procedure."

"You look so good," said Danny Pogue. "Bud, don't she look good?"

"Hush now," Molly said. "Sit down here, the news is coming on. There's a story you'll both find interesting." Without being asked, Danny Pogue switched the television to Channel 10, Molly's favorite.

Bud Schwartz marveled at the old woman in bed. Days earlier, she had seemed so weak and withered and close to death. Now the gray eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, her cheeks shone, and her voice rang strong with maternal authority.

She said, "Danny, did you get the bullets?"

"Yes, ma'am." He handed Molly the yellow box.

"These are .22-longs," she said. "I needed shorts. That's what the gun takes."

Danny Pogue looked lamely toward his partner. Bud Schwartz said, "Look, we just asked for .22s. The guy didn't say nothin" about long or short."

"It's all right," Molly McNamara said. "I'll pick up a box at the range next week."

"We don't know diddly about guns," Danny Pogue reiterated. "Neither of us do."

"I know, and I think it's precious." Molly put on her rose-framed glasses and instructed Bud Schwartz to adjust the volume on the television. A nurse came in to check the dressing on Molly's stitches, but Molly shooed her away. She pointed at the TV and said, "Look here, boys."

The news opened with videotape of a colossal raging fire. The scene had been recorded at a great distance, and from a helicopter. When the TV reporter announced what was burning, the burglars simultaneously looked at one another and mouthed the same profane exclamation.

"Yes," Molly McNamara said rapturously. "Yes, indeed."

Danny Pogue felt mixed emotions as he watched the Amazing Kingdom burn. He recalled the gaiety of the promenade, the friendliness of the animal characters, the circus colors and brassy music, the wondrous sensation of being inundated with fun. Then he thought of Francis X. Kingsbury killing off the butterflies and crocodiles, and the conflagration seemed more like justice than tragedy.

Bud Schwartz was equally impressed by the destruction of the theme park – not as a moral lesson, but as a feat of brazen criminality. The torch artist had been swift and thorough; the place was engulfed in roaring, implacable flames, and there was no saving it. The man on TV said he had never witnessed such a fierce, fast-moving blaze. Bud Schwartz felt relieved and lucky and wise.

"And you wanted to stay," he said to Danny Pogue. "You wanted to ride the Jungle Jerry again."

Danny Pogue nodded solemnly and slid the chair close to the television. "We could be dead," he murmured.

"Fried," said his partner. "Fried clams."

"Hush now," Molly said. "There's no call for melodrama."

She announced that she wasn't going to ask why they'd gone to the Amazing Kingdom that night. "I don't like to pry," she said. "You're grown men, you've got your own lives."

Danny Pogue said, "It wasn't us who torched the place."

Molly McNamara smiled as if she already knew. "How's your foot, Danny?"

"It don't hardly hurt at all."

Then to Bud Schwartz: "And your hand? Is it better?"

"Gettin" there," he said, flexing the fingers.

Molly removed her glasses and rested her head against the pillows. "Nature is a wonder," she said. "Such power to renew, or to destroy. It's an awesome paradox."

"A what?" said Danny Pogue.

Molly told them to think of the fire as a natural purge, a cyclical scouring of the land. Bud Schwartz could hardly keep a straight face. He jerked his chin toward the flickering images on television, and said, "So maybe it's spontaneous combustion, huh? Maybe a bolt a lightning?"

"Anything's possible," Molly said with a twinkle. She asked Danny Pogue to switch to the Discovery Channel, which just happened to be showing a documentary about endangered Florida manatees. A mating scene was in progress as Danny Pogue adjusted the color tint.

Not tonight, thought Bud Schwartz, and got up to excuse himself.

Molly said, "There's a Dodgers game on ESPN. You can watch across the hall in Mr. McMillan's room – he is in what they call a nonresponsive state, so he probably won't mind."

"Swell," Bud Schwartz muttered. "Maybe we'll go halfsies on a keg."

Danny Pogue heard none of this; he was already glued to the tube. Bud Schwartz pointed at his partner and grinned. "Look what you done to him."

Molly McNamara winked. "Go on now," she said. "I think Ojeda's pitching."

Trooper Jim Tile braked sharply when he saw the three green Jeeps. The wildlife officers had parked in a precise triangle at the intersection of Card Sound Road and County 905.

"We'll be out of the way in a minute," said Sergeant Mark Dyerson.

The rangers had gathered between the trucks in the center of the makeshift triangle. Jim Tile joined them. He noticed dogs pacing in the back of one of the Jeeps.

"Look at this," Sergeant Dyerson said.

In the middle of the road, illuminated by headlights, was a battered red collar. Jim Tile crouched to get a closer look.

"Our transmitter," the ranger explained. Imprinted on the plastic was the name Telonics MOD-500."

"What happened?" Jim Tile asked.

"The cat tore it off. Somehow."

"That's one tough animal."

"It's a first," Sergeant Dyerson said. "We've never had one that could bust the lock on the buckle."

Another officer asked, "What now?" It was the wretched plea of a man being devoured by insects.

"If the cat wants out this bad," said Sergeant Dyerson, "I figure we'll let him be."

From the south came the oscillating whine of a fire truck. Sergeant Dyerson retrieved the broken panther collar and told his men to move the Jeeps off the road. Minutes later, a hook-and-ladder rig barreled past.

Jim Tile mentioned that the theme park was on fire.

"It's breaking my heart," Sergeant Dyerson said. He handed the trooper a card. "Keep an eye out. My home number is on the back."

Jim Tile said, "All my life, I've never seen a panther."

"You probably never will," said the ranger, "and that's the crime of it." He tossed the radio collar in the back of the truck and slid behind the wheel.

"Not all the news is bad," he said. "Number Nine's got a litter of kittens over in the Fokahatchee."

"Yeah?" Jim Tile admired the wildlife officer's outlook and dedication. He was sorry his old friend had caused the man so much trouble and confusion. He said, "So this is all you do – track these animals?"

"It's all I do," Sergeant Dyerson said.

To Jim Tile it sounded like a fine job, and an honorable one. He liked the notion of spending all day in the deep outdoors, away from the homicidal masses. He wondered how difficult it would be to transfer from the highway patrol to the Game and Fish.

"Don't you worry about this cat," he told Sergeant Dyerson.

"I worry about all of them."

"This one'll be all right," the trooper said. "You've got my word."

As soon as he spotted the police car, Joe told Carrie to hike up her gown and run. She followed him down the slope of the bridge and into a mangrove creek.

Breathlessly they clung to the slippery roots; only their heads stayed dry.