"And you're going to catch me in the act, and shoot me."
"Yeah," Pedro Luz wheezed, "in the back."
"Pretty sloppy. The cops'll have plenty of questions."
"I'm still thinking it through." His head lolled and he shut his eyes. Joe Winder sprang for the door and regretted it instantly. Pedro Luz was on him like a mad bear; he grabbed Winder at the base of the neck and hurled him backward into the stock shelves.
"And that was one-handed," Pedro Luz bragged. "How much do you weigh?"
Winder answered, with a groan, "One seventy-five."
The security man beamed. "Light as a feather. No problem."
"I'd like to speak with your boss one more time."
"No way." Pedro Luz hoisted Winder from a tangle of intravenous tubes and set him down in a bare corner. He said, "Remember, I still got that gun you were carrying I figure that's my throwdown. The story is, I had to shoot you because of the gun."
Winder nodded. "I'm assuming there'll be no witnesses."
"Course not. They'll all be at the parade."
"What about the rain, Pedro? What if the parade's washed out?"
"It's August, asshole. The rain don't last long." Pedro Luz hammered the heel of his hand against the side of his skull, as if trying to knock a wasp out of his ear. "God, it's loud in here."
"I don't mean to nag," Joe Winder said, "but you ought to lay off the steroids."
"Don't start with me!" Pedro Luz cracked the door and poked his head out. "See, it's stopped already. Just a drizzle." He gripped Joe Winder by the shoulder. "Let's go, smartass."
But Winder could barely walk for the pain. Outside, under a low muddy sky, the tourists rushed excitedly toward Kingsbury Lane, where a band had begun to play. Pedro Luz marched Winder against the flow of yammering, gummy-faced children and their anxious, umbrella-wielding parents. The ticket office was on the other side of the park, a long hike, and Joe Winder had planned to use the time to devise a plan for escape. Instead his thoughts meandered inanely; he noticed, for example, what a high percentage of the Amazing Kingdom's tourists were clinically overweight. Was this a valid cross-section of American society? Or did fat people travel to Florida more frequently than thin people? Three times Winder slowed to ponder the riddle, and three times Pedro Luz thwacked the back of his legs with the dreaded crutch. No one stopped to interfere; most likely they assumed that Winder was a purse snatcher or some other troublemaker being rousted by Security.
Eventually the crowds thinned and the light rain stopped. The two men were alone, crossing the walkway that spanned the dolphin tank. The swim-along attraction had closed early because the trainers were needed at the parade, in case the lion got testy. Joe Winder heard a burst of applause across the amusement park fireworks blossoming over Kingsbury Lane. The pageant had begun!
Winder thought of Carrie Lanier, and hoped she had the good sense not to come looking for him. He felt Pedro Luz's crutch jab him between the shoulder blades. "Hold it," the security man commanded.
A hoary figure appeared at the end of the walkway ahead of them. It was a tall man carrying two red containers.
"Now what?" said Pedro Luz.
Joe Winder's heart sank. Skink didn't see them. He went down two nights of stairs and stacked the gas cans on the back of a Cushman motor cart. He ran back up the steps, disappeared through an unmarked door near the Rare Animal Pavilion and quickly emerged with two more cans of gasoline.
"The Catacombs," Pedro Luz said, mainly to himself.
Joe Winder heard him unsnap the holster. He turned and told Pedro Luz not to do anything crazy.
"Shut up, smartass."
As they watched Skink load the second pair of cans onto the Cushman, Winder realized his own mistake: he had tried too hard to be reasonable and civilized and possibly even clever. Such efforts were wasted on men such as Francis X. Kingsbury. Skink had the right idea.
Pedro Luz aimed his .45 and shouted, "Freeze right there!" Skink stopped at the top of the steps. Pedro Luz ordered him to raise his hands, but Skink acted as if he didn't hear.
"Don't I know you?" Skink said, coming closer.
Pedro Luz found it difficult to look directly at the bearded stranger because one of the man's eyeballs seemed dislodged from the socket. As Skink approached, he gave no indication of recognizing Joe Winder.
"Hello, gentlemen," he said. Casually he bent to examine the taped stump of Pedro Luz's leg. "Son, you're dropping more parts than a Ford Pinto."
Flustered, Pedro Luz fell back on standard hardass-cop colloquy: "Lemme see some ID."
Skink reached into the blaze-orange weather suit and came out with a small kitchen jar. He handed it to the security man and said, "I believe this belongs to you."
Pedro Luz felt his stomach quake. At the bottom of the jar, drifting in pickle juice, was the tip of his right index finger. It looked like a cube of pink tofu.
"The old woman bit it off," Skink reminded him, "while you were beating her up."
Beautiful, Joe Winder thought. We're both going to die long horrible deaths.
Hoarsely, Pedro Luz said, "Who the hell are you?"
Skink gestured at the soiled bandages around his chest. "I'm the one you shot at the trailer!"
All three of them jumped as a Roman candle exploded high over KingsBury Lane. A band was playing the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. It sounded dreadful.
In the tank below, Dickie the Dolphin rolled twice and shot a light spray of water from his blowhole. A few drops sprinkled the barrel of Pedro Luz's gun, and he wiped it nervously on the front of his trousers. The circuits of his brain were becoming badly overloaded; assimilating new information had become a struggle the drugs, the finger in the jar, the one-eyed stoner with the gas cans, the fireworks, the god-awful music. It was time to kill these sorry bastards and go to the gym.
"Who first?" he asked. "Who wants it first?"
Joe Winder saw no evidence of urgency in Skink's demeanor, so he took it upon himself to ram an elbow into the soft declivity beneath Pedro Luz's breastbone. Winder was stunned to see the bodybuilder go down, and idiotically he leapt upon him to finish the job. Winder's punching ability was hampered by the searing pain in his rib cage, and though Pedro Luz was gagging and drooling and gulping to catch his wind, it was a relatively simple exercise to lock his arms around all hundred and seventy-five pounds of Joe Winder and squeeze the breath out of him. The last thing Winder heard, before blacking out, was a splash in the tank below.
He hoped like hell it was the pistol.
Marine biologists debate the relative intelligence of the Atlantic bottle-nosed dolphin, but it is generally accepted that the graceful mammal is extremely smart; that it is able to communicate using sophisticated underwater sonics; that it sometimes appears capable of emotions, including grief and joy. Noting that the dolphin's brain is proportionally larger and more fully developed than that of human beings, some experts contend that the animals are operating in a superior cognitive realm that we simply cannot comprehend.
A more skeptical view (and one endorsed by Joe Winder) is that dolphins probably aren't quite as smart as tourist lore suggests. Otherwise why would they allow themselves to be so easily captured, subjugated, trained and put on public display? It seemed to Winder that somersaulting through hula hoops in exchange for a handful of sardines was not proof of high intellect. Given fins and some Milk-Bones, your average French poodle could master the same feat.
It is certainly true, however, that captive dolphins exhibit distinct and complex personalities. Some are gregarious and easily tamed, while others are aloof and belligerent; some are happy to perform stunts for cheering tourists, while others get ulcers. Because each dolphin is so sensitive and unique, curators must be extremely careful when selecting the animals for commercial aquarium shows.