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“Let’s take a break, get a drink,” Marcelin says as they leave the bright red rocket ship behind them. “I’m sure you’ve got questions.”

“A drink would be good.”

Thus far, they’ve been describing the park counterclockwise, but now Marcelin reverses direction and they’re heading northeast once more, this time along different pathways. If anything, the park has gotten more crowded since they started the tour, and the sign at the entrance to Pooch Pursuit warns that the wait is seventy-five minutes from this point, and still there are people lining up in the shadow of the enormous wooden roller coaster.

Marcelin cuts directly north, suddenly, along a narrow alleyway with shops tucked away on either side. The architecture has abruptly shifted from middle America to early-twentieth-century Europe, right down to the cobblestones beneath Bell’s feet. A jeweler’s on one side, high-end WilsonVille Clothing beside it, and opposite them, an art gallery. A bronze one-to-two scale statue of Pooch is on display in the window: asking price, six thousand dollars.

Bell can understand waiting seventy-five minutes to ride a roller coaster. He would never do it himself, but it is, at least, explicable. But six large for a glorified paperweight?

Marcelin has stopped beneath an archway, the words
GATEWAY TO ADVENTURE
chiseled into the stone above. He knocks on an almost concealed door, and immediately a wooden slat slides back, a gruff voice asking, “Password.”

“It’s a dog’s life,” Marcelin says.

Bell does his damnedest not to laugh out loud.

The door opens, and down a flight of stairs Bell finds himself in a small and rather cozy bar. The descent into cool and quiet is so sudden, in fact, that it’s only as he takes a seat in one of the booths that he realizes just how intensely noisy the park is. Some two dozen more guests are in here, all of them adults, most of them in groups, nobody drinking alone. A cocktail waitress comes to the table immediately, hands each of them a drinks menu. Marcelin orders a beer, and Bell does the same, and Marcelin upgrades to a pitcher for the two of them.

“Only place in the park to get alcohol,” Marcelin says. “Members only—you get the password when you get your membership. I find it particularly ironic that the club’s called the Speakeasy.”

“Not by accident.”

“Very little that happens in the Wilson Entertainment empire happens by accident, Jad.” Marcelin grins, straightens up in the booth as the waitress returns with the pitcher of beer, two glasses, and a bowl of pretzels. The pretzels are in the shape of Gordo, Betsy, and Pooch. “Give you an example. You saw Hendar?”

“Hendar?”

“The jaguar, when we were walking through the Wild World. The thing with the Flower Sisters.”

“Sure.”

“Hendar is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. He debuted DTV almost a decade ago.”

“DTV?”

“Direct to video. Flower Sisters—like the Flashman franchise—is on a very strict schedule. With the Flowers, it’s three DTVs a year, one feature every third year. But DTV, variable income stream. Lot of times the releases, they just fly right under the mainstream radar, it’s only the diehards who notice them. Parents buying them for their kids as presents and substitute babysitters. This one, this DTV, was called
Flowers in the Fall
.”

“Cute.”

“Hell, yes. Cute pays for my daughter at Stanford and two alimonies.” Marcelin pours beer for each of them, still speaking. “Anyway, movie came out, and we got hit from all sides. Parents groups went nuts. Accused us of trying to corrupt their pwecious wittle childwen.”

Bell grins, tastes his beer. He’s expecting something that’s been through a horse first, and is surprised by the hoppiness, the pleasantly bitter and clean taste that immediately washes away the coating of park that has caked the inside of his mouth. Marcelin nods in approval.

“Penny’s Pale Ale. We put our name on something—or the name of one of our characters on something, more precisely—we damn well make it quality. You can only get it one place. Right here.”

Bell tops off each of their glasses. “
Flowers in the Fall
.”

“Right. The primary accusation was that Wilson Entertainment was racist.”

“Racist.”

“Hendar. Jaguar. Villain. Black.” Marcelin shrugs. “I can see where it came from, but it’s a bullshit accusation. They’re
animals,
for fuck’s sake. If you’re going to call us racist for having a jaguar as a bad guy, you better accuse us of miscegenation at the same time. I mean, Jesus Christ, we’ve got a meerkat, a gazelle, and a lioness all dewy-eyed over a tiger. But nobody ever talks about
that
. Let alone the fact that Lavender should’ve quite literally had Lilac and Lily for lunch ages ago.

“But that’s not really why they got up in arms, see? It wasn’t because he was black. It’s because he was sexy.”

“Ah.”

“You see the crowd around the pavilion? You see how they changed when Hendar arrived?”

“The kids went for cover.”

“And the moms started paying attention, especially the under-thirties. See what I’m saying? I mean, in the course of the film, Hendar stalks each of the sisters separately, and he’s effectively trying to seduce them. Lilac, Lily, Lavender, they’re all supposed to be fourteen, fifteen, if we were to provide equivalent ages, right? And Prince Stripe, he’s fifteen, and very much the nonthreatening male, even if he is supposed to be a fucking tiger. That’s by design here, you get it? It’s all supposed to be presexual, just on the cusp.

“Hendar’s design breaks that mold. He’s supposed to be older, more mature. He’s supposed to be a Bad Boy. And let me tell you, Jad, Hendar was a fucking windfall. He’s been in every Flowers feature since he debuted, and he’s in at least one DTV every cycle. And all those girls we were losing when they hit their midteens, they’re back, they’re staying with us through college now.”

“Don’t see how this was an accident.”

“It wasn’t; that’s my point. No matter what we might have said at the time, no matter how many times we swore up and down that people were reading too much into it, that it was only a cartoon. It was as deliberate as sharpening a pencil.”

“Sharpening a pencil?”

“Something very deliberate, at any rate. I was going to say ‘pulling a trigger,’ but didn’t want to risk being rude.”

Bell drinks more of his beer. “Long as you’re not shooting at me, we’re good. I’ve had enough of that.”

Marcelin nods, looking at Bell, and the question is in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask. Bell appreciates that.

“Not something you’ll have to worry about here.”

“Security doesn’t go armed?”

“No one goes armed. There’s a no-weapons policy in the park and the resort. Not even nonlethal. Can’t risk using pepper spray or mace or whatnot for fear of dispersal, hitting people beside whoever you’re trying to subdue. You imagine that lawsuit?” Marcelin drains what’s left in his glass, sets it down. “Shall we wrap this up?”

“By all means.”

“Then let me show you what I hope will be your new office.”

Wilson Town, the entry to and the heart of the park, is built to look like a town square, an idealized replica of a time and place that Bell is certain never truly existed outside of dreams. Perhaps one hundred yards from the main entrance and smack in the middle of the flow of traffic sits a small, perfectly green park. In the center, a fountain surrounding a joyful statue of Gordo, Betsy, and Pooch. Cafés and ice cream parlors, boutiques full of memorabilia, everything is available on the square. The concentration of characters here is denser, too, positioned to meet guests as they enter, and it’s as Marcelin is leading the way to the park’s police station that Bell sees his first Gordo, Betsy, and Pooch.

Unlike the other characters he’s encountered so far, these are complete suits, making all three appear as if they had been plucked from their cartoon world and cruelly invested with a third dimension. All are signing autographs, no small challenge with their oversize hands. Except for Pooch. Bell sees that even with a human performer inside the costume, Pooch remains a dog, albeit a giant one. Running around on all fours, hopping up on his hind legs to dance in front of guests. When he signs an autograph, he does so with the pen in his mouth.

Marcelin stops, letting Bell take in the sight. The crowd bustles in every direction, those entering the park and those who’ve had enough of this scorching summer day. Lemonade flows into novelty cups sold from carts, sweets and treats from every side, ice cream, pretzels, cotton candy, candied apples, and sugar-dusted churros with fudge-swirl dipping sauce.

Bell thinks WilsonVille is a rough place to be a diabetic.

He tilts his head, looking at the buildings around the square. All are two to three stories. He spots camera emplacements, more of the same ones he’s been noting all around the park, despite their concealment. He’s about to ask Marcelin how they manage the video when a red-haired woman is suddenly trying to pin a badge to his lapel. She is stunning, a light Mediterranean complexion, wearing a leather flight suit and knee-high boots, one arm slung through the face of a silver space helmet, its mirrored visor raised. The flight suit looks black at first, but when the sunlight hits it full-on, a purple is revealed, and Bell thinks he sees glitter or some other sparkling material coating it as well. He’s guessing she’s midtwenties, and her beauty isn’t simply exotic, and it’s not just the costume making him think that.

“You’ve been deputized!” she tells him, straightening his coat. “Report to Commander Flashman at once!”

She motions over her shoulder, to where Clip Flashman is standing some ten feet away, his own silver space helmet hanging from his belt, handing out badges and signing autographs for a gaggle of excited children. At her voice, Clip raises his head, checking her back, then returns his attention to his eager fans. Bell hears the artificial click of shutters, digital cameras rattling off photo after photo. A lot of the lenses seem to be focused on the redhead.

“And you are?” Bell asks.

She takes a step back in surprise, reappraises him critically. “Lieutenant Penny Starr, citizen!”

“I see.”

“Earthlings.” Penny Starr tosses her blood-red hair, rolls her eyes. “You’re
so
provincial.”

“No doubt.”

She studies him, head to toe, as if evaluating his status as a recruit. A couple voices are calling out to her, asking for photographs, but she doesn’t break focus. Finally, she straightens, snapping off a crisp salute.

“As you were,” Penny Starr says, then pivots smartly on her toe and moves quickly back to Clip’s side. Bell can’t help watching as she goes, as she is immediately surrounded by a second throng of admirers, these almost entirely male, almost all of them of the young-adult-and-up variety. He absolutely understands the attraction.

“A hit with the boys,” Bell says.

“And some of the ladies, too,” Marcelin says. “We’re an equal-opportunity provider, so to speak. This way.”

Bell follows as they enter the police station, sneaking one last glance back at Penny Starr and Clip Flashman before stepping out of the sunlight and heat. The interior is like the exterior, some remembered ideal of a police precinct. A boy of perhaps eight or nine is seated on a bench to their left as they enter, raining tears in silence, a silver-haired man in a blue blazer resting on one knee in front of him. Don’t you worry, the man is saying. My parents used to get lost all the time. We’ll find them.

Marcelin moves to an unobtrusive side door, painted to blend in with the wood-paneled decor, passes his ID badge over some unseen sensor hidden in the wall. There’s the nearly subsonic
thunk
of a magnetic bolt releasing, and Bell steps through after him.

The illusion of WilsonVille shatters, and shatters utterly. The hallway they’re standing in now is concrete, the flight of stairs Bell ascends galvanized steel, and, as they reach the second floor, the room they enter is, in every way, modern. Banks of video monitors line either side, more than twenty people staffing them, headsets on and entirely focused on their screens. Voices overlapping, all speaking softly, recording and reporting, and a quick check tells Bell that at least one-quarter of this surveillance is dedicated to the park’s entrance—the exterior promenade, ticket booths, and approach. The steady thrum and whir of electronics fills the background, unseen fans working to circulate air for people and machines.

Marcelin stands, silent, while Bell takes in the command post. Bell walks the room slowly, peering over one shoulder, then another, to monitor after monitor. They’re using video primarily, images in color, high-res, though Bell is certain the cameras must have some low-light or even night-vision capacity for after the sun goes down, for those dark corners. A full bank of sixteen separate screens monitors the park’s perimeter, effectively covering every possible angle and approach. One terminal monitors air quality at multiple locations, both within attractions and facilities as well as out in the open. Another station is devoted to thermal imaging, recording results from six cameras placed along the promenade and just inside the main gate. One after another, people pass the lenses, oblivious, and one by one, their body temperatures are recorded.

“What’s the trigger?” Bell asks the woman working the station.

“One-oh-one. That’s for summer. One hundred in winter.”

“And then?”

She steals a glance away from her monitors, one eye narrowing in suspicion. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

Marcelin glides forward. “This is Mr. Bell. He’s with me.”

“If they trigger, protocol is to radio one of the units on the gate. We pull the guest out of line and escort him to the doctor’s office on the square.” She looks from her monitor to Marcelin, seeking some sort of permission, which he grants with a slight nod. “We screen for SARS or swine flu or whatever bug the CDC may be warning us about at the time. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be concentrating on this.”

Bell thanks her, turns back to the air quality station.