Time to go to work. It’s the Summerfest Jubilee and Mr. Kingsbury’s in some kind of trouble.
And the damn door won’t open.
Pedro can’t fucking believe it. Okay, now somebody’s either locked the damn thing from the outside, which don’t make sense, or maybe welded it shut, which is even crazier. Pedro lowers one shoulder and hits the door like a tackle dummy. Nada. Now he’s getting pissed. Through the steel he yells for Cano or Spence or Diamond J. Love, and gets no answer. “Where the hell is everybody?” hollers Pedro Luz.
Next logical step is using his skull as a battering ram. Wedging the crutch against the baseboard, he uses it to vault himself headfirst at the door. Amazing thing is, it don’t hurt after a while. Tense the neck muscles just before impact and it acts like a spring. Boom, boom, boom. Boing, boing, boing.
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.