On the night he went after Joe Winder, the angle was exactly zero degrees. Pedro Luz blamed it on the beer.
Inside the trailer, Winder finished typing another counterfeit press release, which said:
The widow of a young scientist killed at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills has been offered a settlement of $2.8 million, officials of the popular amusement park have announced.
The payment would be made in a single installment to Deborah Koocher, age 31, of New York. Her husband, Dr. William Bennett Koocher, was a noted wildlife biologist who helped supervise the Endangered Species Program at the Amazing Kingdorn. Dr. Koocher died two weeks ago in a tragic drowning at the park’s outdoor whale tank. That incident is still under investigation.
Charles Chelsea, vice president of publicity, said the cash offer to Mrs. Koocher “demonstrates our sense of loss and sorrow over the untimely death of her husband.”
Added Chelsea: “Will was instrumental in our rare-animal programs, and his heroic efforts to save the blue-tongued mango vole won international acclaim.”
In a statement released Sunday morning, Francis X. Kingsbury, founder and chairman of the Amazing Kingdom, said that Dr. Koocher’s death “was a tragedy for all of us at the park. We had come to love and admire Will, who was as much a part of our family as Robbie Raccoon or Petey Possum.”
The $2.8 million settlement offer is “a gesture not only of compassion, but fairness,” Mr. Kingsbury added. “If Dr. Koocher’s family isn’t satisfied, we would certainly consider increasing the payment.”
Joe Winder reread the announcement, inserted the word “completely” before “satisfied,” and fed the paper into the fax machine. He considered phoning Nina again, but decided it was no use; the woman was groping recklessly for male companionship. What else could explain her irrational attraction to a disembodied masculine voice?
Besides, Joe had Carrie now—or she had him. The dynamics of the relationship had yet to be calibrated.
Winder was in the mood for acoustic guitar, so he put on some Neil Young and fixed himself four eggs, scrambled, and two English muffins with tangerine marmalade. Glancing out the kitchen window, he noticed a tow truck parked crookedly on the shoulder of the dirt lane. He didn’t see a driver.
The shower had been running for some time. Winder cracked the door and saw Skink curled in a fetal snooze, cold water slapping on the blaze weather suit. Winder decided not to wake him.
Suddenly he heard a pop like a car backfiring, and a hole the size of a nickel appeared in the tile six inches above Skink’s face. Then came another bang, another hole.
Joe Winder yelled and dived out of the doorway.
In a way, Carrie Lanier was glad that the Amazing Kingdom was closed. It meant an extra day to work on her singing, which was still rusty, and to design a new costume for Princess Golden Sun.
Driving back toward the mainland, she couldn’t wait to tell Joe about all the TV trucks and helicopters at the park’s main gate. A reporter from Channel 10 had approached the car and thrust a microphone in her face and asked if she had seen any snakes. Quickly Carrie had improvised a story about a teeming herd—she wasn’t sure it was the right term—slithering across County Road 905 near Carysfort. The fellow from Channel 10 had marshaled his camera crew and sprinted off toward the van.
Carrie was impressed by the immediate and dramatic effect of Joe Winder’s hoax: everyone was wearing sturdy rubber hip boots.
On the way home, she practiced another song from the show:
You took our whole Indian nation,
Stuck us on this reservation.
Took away our way of life,
The garfish gig and the gator knife.
Seminole people! Seminole tribe!
It was a variation of a song called “Indian Reservation,” which was recorded by Paul Revere and the Raiders, a band not generally remembered for its biting social commentary. Carrie Lanier thought the new lyrics were insipid, but she liked the simple tune and tom-tom rhythms. She was singing the third verse when she turned into the trailer park and spotted a bloated bodybuilder firing a pistol into the side of her double-wide.
Without hesitating, without even honking the horn, Carrie Lanier took aim.
Pedro Luz was so thoroughly engrossed in assassinating Joe Winder in the shower that he didn’t hear the 1979 Buick Electra until it mowed a row of garbage cans ten feet behind him. Pedro Luz started to run but tripped over a garden hose and pitched forward, arms outstretched; it seemed as if he were tumbling in slow motion. When he stopped, the Buick was parked squarely on his left foot.
He lay there for a full minute, bracing for agony that never came. Each of the twenty-six bones in Pedro Luz’s foot had been pulverized, yet the only sensation was a mildly annoying throb. Four thousand pounds of ugly Detroit steel on his toes and not even a twinge of pain. Incredible, Pedro thought; the ultimate result of supreme physical conditioning! Or possibly the drugs.
Apparently the driver had abandoned the Buick with the engine running. Steroids and all, Pedro Luz could not budge the sedan by himself. Meanwhile, the gunfire and crash had awakened other denizens of the trailer park; bulldogs yapped, doors slammed, babies wailed, a rooster cackled. Probably somebody had phoned the police.
Pedro Luz probed at the bloody burrito that was now his left foot, protruding beneath a Goodyear whitewall, and made a fateful decision.
What the hell, he mused. Long as I’m feeling no pain.
* * *
Dr. Richard Rafferty’s assistant called him at home to say there was an emergency, he’d better come right away. When he arrived at the office, the doctor sourly observed a tow truck parked in the handicapped zone. Inside the examining room, a husky one-eyed man with a radio collar lay prone on the steel table.
Dr. Rafferty said: “Is this some kind of joke?”
The couple who had brought the injured man said he had been shot at least twice.
“Then he’s got a big problem,” said Dr. Rafferty, “because I’m a veterinarian.”
The couple seemed to know this already. “He won’t go to a regular doctor,” Joe Winder explained.
Carrie Lanier added, “We took him to the hospital but he refused to get out of the truck.”
Dr. Rafferty’s assistant pulled him aside. “I believe I saw a gun,” he whispered.
Skink opened his good eye and turned toward the vet. “Richard, you remember me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The night that panther got nailed by the liquor truck.”
Dr. Rafferty leaned closer and studied the face. “Lord, yes,” he said. “I do remember.” It was the same fellow who’d charged into the office with a hundred-pound wildcat in his bare arms. The doctor remembered how the dying panther had clawed bloody striations on the man’s neck and shoulders.
Skink said, “You did a fine job, even though we lost the animal.”
“We gave it our best.”
“How about another try?”
“Look, I don’t work on humans.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Skink said.
“Please,” Joe Winder cut in, “you’re the only one he’ll trust.”
Skink’s chest heaved, and he let out a groan.
“He’s lost some blood,” Carrie said.
Dr. Rafferty slipped out of his jacket and told the assistant to prepare a surgical tray. “Oh, we’ve got plenty of blood,” the doctor said, “but unless you’re a schnauzer, it won’t do you much good.”
“Whatever,” Skink mumbled, drifting light-headedly. “If you can’t fix me up, then put me to sleep. Like you would any old sick dog.”
26
Charles Chelsea decided that “dapper” was too strong a word for Francis X. Kingsbury’s appearance; “presentable” was more like it.
Kingsbury wore a gray silk necktie, and a long-sleeved shirt to conceal the lewd mouse tattoo. The reason for the sartorial extravagance was an invitation to address the Tri-County Chamber of Commerce lun
cheon; Kingsbury intended to use the occasion to unveil a model of the Falcon Trace Golf and Country Club Resort Community.
Impatiently he pointed at Charles Chelsea’s belly and said: “So? The damn snake situation—let’s hear it.”
“The worst is over,” said Chelsea, with genuine confidence. He had countered Joe Winder’s moccasin attack with a publicity blurb announcing that most of the reptiles had turned out to be harmless banded water snakes that only looked like deadly cottonmouths. For reinforcement Chelsea had released videotape of a staged capture, peppered with reassuring comments from a local zoologist.
“By the end of the week, we can send back all those boots,” Chelsea said in conclusion.
“All right, that’s fine.” Kingsbury swiveled toward the window, then back again. Restlessly he kneaded the folds of his neck. “Item Number Two,” he said. “This shit with the doctor’s widow, is that cleared up yet?”
Here Chelsea faltered, for Joe Winder had stymied him with the Koocher gambit. The publicity man was at a loss for remedies. There was no clever or graceful way to recant a $2.8 million settlement offer for a wrongful death.
Anxiety manifested itself in a clammy deluge from Chelsea’s armpits. “Sir, this one’s a stumper,” he said.
“I don’t want to hear it!” Kingsbury clasped his hands in a manner suggesting that he was trying to control a homicidal rage. “What was it, two-point-eight? There’s no fucking way—what, do I look like Onassis?”
Chelsea’s jaws ached from nervous clenching. He pushed onward: “To rescind the offer could have very grave consequences, publicity-wise. The fallout could be ugly.”
“Grave consequences? I’ll give you grave, Charlie. Two million simoleons outta my goddamn pocket, how’s that for grave?”
“Perhaps you should talk to the insurance company.”
“Ha!” Kingsbury tossed back his head and snorted insanely. “They just jack the rates, those assholes, every time some putz from Boise stubs his little toe. No way, Charlie, am I talking to those damn insurance people.”
In recent years the insurance company had tripled its liability premium for the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. This was due to the unusually high incidence of accidents and injuries on the main attractions; the Wet Willy water slide alone had generated seventeen lawsuits, and out-of-court settlements totaling nearly three-quarters of a million dollars. Even more costly was the freakish malfunction of a mechanical bull at the Wild Bill Hiccup Corral—an elderly British tourist had been hospitalized with a 90-degree crimp in his plastic penile implant. The jury’s seven-figure verdict had surprised no one.
There was no point rehashing these sad episodes with Francis Kingsbury, for it would only appear that Charles Chelsea was trying to defend the insurance company.
“I think you should be aware,” he said, “Mrs. Koocher has retained an attorney.”
“Good for her,” Kingsbury rumbled. “Let her explain to a judge what the hell her old man was doing, swimming with a damn killer whale in the middle of the night.”
Chelsea was now on the precipice of anger himself. “If we drag this out, the Herald and the TV will be all over us. Do we really want a pack of reporters investigating the doctor’s death?”
Kingsbury squinted suspiciously. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m simply advising you to take time and think about this. Let me stall the media.”
The swiveling started again, back and forth, Kingsbury fidgeting like a hyperactive child. “Two-point-eight-million dollars! Where the hell did that crazy number come from? I guess he couldn’t of made it a hundred grand, something doable.”
“Winder? No, sir, he tends to think big.”
“He’s trying to put me out of business, isn’t he?” Francis Kingsbury stopped spinning the chair. He planted his elbows on the desk and dug his polished fingernails into his jowls. “The fucker, this is my theory, the fucker’s trying to put me under.”
“You might be right,” Chelsea admitted.
“What’s his—you hired him, Charlie—what’s his angle?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you. For now, my advice is to get the insurance company in touch with Mrs. Koocher’s lawyer. Before it blows up even worse.”
Kingsbury gave an anguished moan. “Worse? How is that possible?”
“Anything’s possible.” Chelsea was alarmed by the weariness in his own voice. He wondered if the tempest of bad news would ever abate.
The phone buzzed and Kingsbury plucked it off the hook. He listened, grunted affirmatively and hung up. “Pedro’s on his way in,” he said. “And it better be good news or I’m gonna can his fat ass.”
Pedro Luz did not look like a cheery bundle of good tidings. The wheelchair was one clue. The missing foot was another.
Kingsbury sighed. “Christ, now what?” He saw a whopper of a worker’s comp claim coming down the pike.
“An accident,” Pedro Luz said, wheeling to a stop in front of Kingsbury’s desk. “Hey, it’s not so bad.”
Chelsea noticed that the security man’s face was swollen and mottled like a rotten melon, and that his massive arms had exploded in fresh acne sores.
Kingsbury drummed on a marble paperweight. “So? Let’s hear it.”
Pedro Luz said, “I shot the bastard.”
“Yeah?”
“You better believe it.”
Charles Chelsea deftly excused himself; talk of felonies made him uncomfortable. He closed the door softly and nearly sprinted down the hall. He was thinking: Thank God it’s finally over. No more dueling flacks.
Kingsbury grilled Pedro Luz on the details of the Joe Winder murder, but the security man edited selectively.
“He was in the shower. I fired eleven times, so I know damn well I hit him. Besides, I heard the shouts.”
Kingsbury asked, “How do you know he’s dead?”
“There was lots of blood,” said Pedro Luz. “And like I told you, I fired almost a dozen goddamn rounds. Later I set the place on fire.”
“Yeah?” Kingsbury had seen footage of a trailer blaze on Channel 4; there had been no mention of bodies.
Pedro Luz said, “It went up like a damn torch. One of them cheap mobile homes.”
“You’re sure the bastard was inside?”
“Far as I know. And the bitch, too.”
Francis Kingsbury said, “Which bitch? You’re losing me here.”
“The dumb bitch he was staying with. The one who ran me over.” Pedro Luz gestured at the bandaged stump on the end of his leg. “That’s what she did to me.”
The puffy slits made it difficult to read the expression in Pedro Luz’s eyes. Kingsbury said, “She hit you with a car?”
“More than that, she ran me down. Parked right on top of me.”
“On your foot? Jesus Christ.” Kingsbury winced sympathetically.
Pedro Luz said: “Good thing I’m in shape.” Self-consciously he folded his bulging arms and spread his hands in a way that covered the pimples.
Kingsbury said, “So what happened?”
“What do you mean? I told you what happened.”
“No, I mean with the car on your foot. How’d you get free?”
“Oh, I chewed it off,” said Pedro Luz, “right below the ankle.”
Kingsbury stared at the stump. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Animals do it all the time,” Pedro Luz explained, “when they get caught in traps.”
Francis Kingsbury nodded unconsciously. His eyes roamed the office, searching for a convenient place to throw up.
“The hard part wasn’t the pain. The hard part was the reach.” Pedro Luz bent down to demonstrate.
“Oh Lord,” Kingsbury muttered.
“Like I said, it’s a good thing I’m in shape.”
At the campsite, Joe Winder told Molly McNamara it was nice to see her again. Molly congratulated Joe for blowing up Kingsbury’s bulldozers. Skink thanked Molly for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and briefly r
elated how it had been utilized. Carrie Lanier was introduced to the burglars, whom she instantly recognized as the scruffy vole robbers. Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were stunned to learn that Robbie Raccoon was a woman, and apologized for knocking Carrie down during the heist.
The heat was throbbing and the hammock steamed. No breeze stirred off the water. A high brown haze of African dust muted the hues of the broad summer sky. Skink handed out cold sodas and tended the fire; he wore cutoff jeans, the panther collar and a thick white vest of tape and bandages.
“You were lucky,” Molly told him.
“Guy was aiming high,” Skink said. “He assumed I’d be standing up.”
As most people do in the shower, thought Joe Winder. “He also assumed that you were me,” he said.
“Maybe so.” Skink smeared a stick of EDTIAR bug repellent on both arms. Then he sat down under a buttonwood tree to count the mosquitoes biting his legs.
Carrie Lanier told the others about the breakneck ride to the veterinarian. “Dr. Rafferty did a great job. We’re lucky he knew somebody over at the Red Cross.”
Between insect frenzies, Danny Pogue struggled to follow the conversation. “You got shot?” he said to Skink. “So did me and Bud!”
Sharply, Molly cut in: “It wasn’t the same.”
“Like hell,” mumbled Bud Schwartz miserably. The humidity made him dizzy, and his arms bled from scratching the bugs. In addition, he wasn’t thrilled about the lunch menu, which included fox, opossum and rabbit—Skink’s road-kill bounty from the night before.
Joe Winder was in a lousy mood, too. The sight of Carrie’s burned-out trailer haunted him. The fax machine, the Amazing Kingdom stationery, his stereo—all lost. Neil Young, melting in the flames. Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.
Skink said, “It’s time to get organized. Those damn John Deeres are back.” He looked at Winder. “Now they’ve got cops on the site.”
“What can we blow up next?” Molly asked.