“Look at the big picture,” Skink said. With a tin fork he cleaned out the insides of the turtle shell. The wind was dying quickly, and the rain was turning soft on the leaves. The clouds broke out west, revealing raspberry patches of summer sunset. The coolness disappeared and the air turned muggy again.
Skink put down the fry pan and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his rainsuit. “It’s beautiful out here,” he remarked. “That squall felt damn good.”
“It might be too late,” Joe Winder said. “Hell, they’ve started clearing the place.”
“I know.” The muscles in Skink’s neck tightened. “They tore down an eagle nest the other day. Two little ones, dead. That’s the kind of bastards we’re talking about.”
“Did you see—”
“I got there after the fact,” Skink said. “Believe me, if I could’ve stopped them…”
“What if we’re too late?”
“Are you in or not? That’s all I need to know.”
“I’m in,” said Winder. “Of course I am. I’m just not terribly optimistic.”
Skink smiled his matinee smile, the one that had gotten him elected so many years before. “Lower your sights, boy,” he said to Joe Winder. “I agree, justice is probably out of the question. But we can damn sure ruin their day.”
He reached under the flap of his rainsuit, grunted, fumbled inside his clothing. Finally his hand came out holding a steel-blue semi-automatic pistol.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got an extra one for you.”
The woman who called herself Rachel Lark was receiving a vigorous massage when Francis X. Kingsbury phoned. She’d been expecting to hear from him ever since she’d read in the Washington Post about the theft of the blue-tongued mango voles in Florida. Her first thought, a natural one, was that Kingsbury would try to talk her into giving some of the money back. Rachel Lark braced for the worst as she sat up, naked, and told the masseur to give her the damn telephone.
On the other end, Kingsbury said: “Is this my favorite redhead?”
“Forget it,” said the woman who called herself Rachel Lark, though it was not her true name.
Kingsbury said, “Can you believe it, babe? My luck, the goddamn things get swiped.”
“I’ve already spent the money,” Rachel Lark said, “and even if I didn’t, a deal’s a deal.”
Instead of protesting, Kingsbury said, “Same here. I spent mine, too.”
“Then it’s a social call, is it?”
“Not exactly. Are you alone, babe?”
“Me and a nice young man named Sven.”
The image gave Kingsbury a tingle. Rachel was an attractive woman, a bit on the heavy side, but a very hot dresser. They had met years before in the lobby of a prosecutor’s office in Camden, where both of them were waiting to cut deals allowing them to avert unpleasant prison terms. Frankie King had chosen to drop the dime on the Zubonis, while the woman who now called herself Rachel Lark (it was Sarah Hunt at that time) was preparing to squeal on an ex-boyfriend who had illegally imported four hundred pounds of elephant ivory. In the lobby that day, the two informants had amiably traded tales about life on the lam. Later they’d exchanged phone numbers and a complete list of aliases, and promised to keep in touch.
Rachel’s specialty was wildlife, and Kingsbury phoned her soon after opening the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Before then, he had never heard of the Endangered Species Act, never dreamed that an obscure agency of the federal government would casually fork over two hundred thousand dollars in grant money for the purpose of preserving a couple of lousy rodents. Rachel Lark had offered to provide the animals and the documentation, and Kingsbury was so intrigued by the plan—not just the dough, but the radiant publicity for the Amazing Kingdom—that he didn’t bother to inquire if the blue-tongued mango voles were real.
The government check had arrived on time, they’d split it fifty-fifty and that was that. Francis Kingsbury paid no further attention to the creatures until customers started noticing that the voles” tongues were no longer very blue. Once children openly began grilling the Amazing Kingdom tour guides about how the animals got their name, Kingsbury ordered Pedro Luz to get some food coloring and touch the damn things up. Unfortunately, Pedro had neither the patience nor the gentle touch required to be an animal handler, and one of the voles—the female—was crushed accidentally during a tongue-painting session. Afraid for his job,