Alpha

Chapter Three

“You come recommended.” The man, Matthew Marcelin, smiles, shaking Bell’s hand. “Highly recommended.”

“All lies,” Bell says.

Marcelin laughs politely, raises the buff-colored folder in his free hand. The W-E of Wilson Entertainment is embossed, surprisingly subtly, on its face. “If so, you’ve got a lot of impressive people willing to lie on your behalf. Take a seat.”

Bell does, and Marcelin follows suit, dropping into a warship-gray Aeron chair behind a chrome-bordered desk. Bell puts him in his early forties, but he can’t be certain-that age thing again. The man is balding, bespectacled, and wearing a suit that puts the one Bell is wearing to shame, and Bell’s suit isn’t poorly made by any stretch. Marcelin sits with his back to the floor-to-ceiling tinted window, and through it Bell can see glimpses of Irvine and the profile of WilsonVille itself, the park visibly active even from this distance. The crests of two separate roller coasters, their trains of cars whipping in and out of view. There’s the point of a pyramid, and something that looks suspiciously like the summit of Mount Everest. A stretch of green, the canopy of some faraway and make-believe forest. Heat haze distorts it all, a sliver of the Pacific in the far distance, shimmering in the July Southern California sunshine.

Marcelin flips the folder open with one hand, uses the other to slide his mouse along a Gordo, Betsy, and Pooch mouse pad, clicks without looking at what he’s doing. Glances up at Bell with the briefly pained expression of a man who’s forgotten his manners.

“I didn’t ask: Would you like something to drink, Jon? Is Jon all right? Or do you prefer Jonathan?”

“Friends call me Jad.”

“Then I’ll take the invitation. Water? Soda? Coffee? We can do you a latte, if you like. There’s a barista in the lobby; I’m sure you passed the stand on the way in-no trouble to send someone down for something.”

Bell did indeed see the barista, a woman who in no way looked to him like the one at the Black Bean, the girl in Skagway, and yet by her presence brought her immediately back to mind. Steaming milk in a metal pitcher beneath a lobby-wide mural of the Flower Sisters and their friends, serving a line of Bluetooth-wearing executives, and Bell could swear they were all half his age.

“I’m good, thanks, Mr. Marcelin.”

“It’s Matt, please.”

“I’m good, thanks, Matt.”

Marcelin nods, drops his eyes to the folder again. His eyeglasses slide down his nose, and he uses his thumb to push them back into place, not his index finger. Bell notes it, hates himself for doing so, for thinking the gesture odd, for wondering what it might mean when it doesn’t have to mean anything. Marcelin is still reading, so Bell goes back to looking over the office.

It’s a big office, a corner office, but pretty much what Bell had been led to expect. Park memorabilia, statues of Pooch in various poses, some of Gordo and Betsy, too. A movie poster of the latest Flashman feature film, this one featuring Dread Flashman, pirate-rogue and Scourge of the Mirror Sea. A powered-down television set, and a remarkably modest glory wall of only three photographs. Bell takes that as a sign of Matthew Marcelin’s restraint, because Matthew Marcelin is chief of park operations and at a guess is pulling down seven figures annually, easy. A man like that is going to have more than just a photograph of himself with the current First Family; another with the assembled Friends of WilsonVille, taken-Bell assumes-outside the park gates; and another with the archbishop of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles.

“You talk to David Gonzalez recently?” Marcelin sits back in his chair as he asks the question, conversational. He’s got a good manner, and though they’ve only spoken once prior, by phone, he’s relaxed with Bell, as if he’s known him for years.

“You know David?”

“He does some consulting for us now that he’s left the Bureau.”

“Haven’t talked to him in two, maybe three years.”

“I gave him a call about you, you know. He tells me I can’t do better.”

“He’s being generous. I didn’t know he’d gone private.”

“About eighteen months ago.”

“He consults for you?”

“We brought him in to do a walk-through of the offices. You noticed the security, I’m sure.” For emphasis, Marcelin lifts the Wilson Entertainment IFF chip-enabled ID badge that’s clipped to his lapel.

“That’s not in the job purview, is it?”

“No, no, it’s a park position. If you’re still interested, of course.”

Bell raises his hands slightly, shrugs at the same time. “Why I’m here.”

“Have you ever been to WilsonVille before, Jad?”

“No.” He pauses, thinking about all the times he and Amy had talked about making the trip, taking Athena to see the Flower Sisters in person. But it had never reached operational planning, had stayed a theoretical family vacation. “No. Never managed to make it happen.”

Marcelin rises. “I think I can fix that for you.”

It takes just under twenty minutes to drive the five miles from Wilson Entertainment’s corporate HQ to the park, a Friday in summer’s traffic, and Bell thinks it would’ve been faster to walk. Marcelin drives a new Audi sedan, air-conditioned comfort, and they wind through acres of packed parking lot before reaching the VIP spaces. The park, even from outside, is visibly crowded, and for the first time Bell has a true sense of its scale. One thing to study the maps of 156 acres of WilsonVille; another thing entirely to meet it in person for the first time.

Marcelin parks, waits for Bell to join him, then turns and gestures toward the redbrick promenade that leads to the main gates. Ticket booths line the approach on both sides, roped walkways to guide the guests to each window, and there’s an audible buzz of excitement, children’s voices mixing with teen laughter and adult grumbling. A thin seam of music threads through the air, piped from hidden speakers, what sounds like a movie sound track to Bell’s ears. The ticket booths themselves are designed to look like oversize doghouses, Plexiglas windows at the front and back, access doors on the side.

“Normally, I’d take you through the main entrance, give you the full experience,” Marcelin is saying. “But the crowd’s a little thick today. The alternate entrance is this way; we tend to use it for VIPs or special events.”

“Those aren’t the only two accesses to the park?”

“Oh, God, no. There’s facility maintenance along the northern side, chain-link and ugly as sin, then the inner park wall, twelve feet high, concrete. We do everything in our power to hide that stuff from the guests. Normally, that’d be the way I’d have brought you in, but seeing as it’s your first time, well…” Marcelin trails off, heading toward a side gate done in what appears to be weathered wrought iron but on closer inspection Bell thinks it’s stainless steel with a very good paint job.

Before they even reach the gate, a young black woman has appeared, wearing a blue blazer with a small W-E embroidered in gold thread above the left breast, an elegant and matching name tag pinned in position right below it.

“Mr. Marcelin, always nice to see you, sir!”

Marcelin takes a fraction of a second, just long enough to note the woman’s name on her tag, responds to her cheer in kind. “Nice to see you, too, Marjorie. This is Mr. Bell.”

“Welcome to WilsonVille, Mr. Bell.” Marjorie’s smile is luminescent, almost unbelievable in its sincerity. She holds a radio in her left hand, against her thigh, so discreetly it’s easy to miss. She’s turning back to Marcelin. “Is there anything you need today, sir?”

“Can you give me the number?”

“Just a moment.” She takes a step back from the two men, still smiling, turns as she raises her radio.

Marcelin leans in. “Security staff.”

“Is that the uniform?”

“No, she’s dressed as a greeter. There’s no security uniform per se, though most support staff wear the blue blazer so they can be recognized. Outside that, as long as it’s park-approved wear, it’s fine. Most of your people will be working plainclothes, so to speak. Some in costume.”

Bell removes his sunglasses, looks back toward the main gate. A discreet redbrick path slopes from where they’re standing toward the entrance, and a quick count gives him eighteen men and women in what looks to him like “park-approved wear” circulating in the immediate vicinity of the turnstiles, and some of them are clearly cheerfully answering questions and offering directions. But not all of them-perhaps half that number, sharing the same cheerful smiles, is doing nothing but keeping a careful watch on the entering crowds.

“It’s all eyeball on entry?” he asks Marcelin.

“You mean of the guests? Yeah, we considered metal detectors post-nine eleven, but it was deemed unviable. Just too many people coming in and out. Bags are screened after ticket purchase but before reaching the entry. We’ve got a battery of sensors and the like running as well; you’ll see those when we go up to the command post.”

Marjorie is back. “They’re expecting to hit sixty-four thousand visitors today, Mr. Marcelin.”

Marcelin makes a face, then quickly hides the expression with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Have a lovely time, sir. Mr. Bell.” She moves off again, takes up a position in the shade provided by the canopy that overhangs the gate.

It’s a whirlwind tour.

Matthew Marcelin leads the way along grand walkways and semihidden paths, around kiosks and attractions, speaking all the while about the park, its history, and the history of Wilson Entertainment. They pass the Flower Sisters Theater, moving with a sudden surge of the crowd as the show lets out along the banks of the Timeless River, then through the edge of the Wild World Woods, where Lilac, Lily, and Lavender are seated in a pavilion, signing autographs and posing for pictures. Bell is surprised to see that the Flower Sisters do not wear masks but instead sport elaborate makeup with their costumes.

“Character portrayals have very stiff requirements,” Marcelin tells him quietly as they watch the three women cheerfully engage their admirers. “Lilac, for instance, must be five feet two exactly, with weight between one hundred and one ten, tops. Lily has a little more play-five seven to five eight-but cannot weigh more than one twenty-five, and she’s got to be strong enough to wear the harness for her horns. Hard to find someone tall enough who’s also strong enough and who can convey the necessary grace of a gazelle. Lavender is five five to five six, but weight is less of an issue. The part is very active, a lot of jumping and tumbling, so they tend to carry more muscle. We normally cast athletes-gymnasts are best, cheerleaders almost as good-for the part.”

“You said security officers dress as characters?”

“We actually call them safety officers, and yes, on any given day maybe ten percent of the performers are also working security.”

“Also?”

“They’re required to fulfill the needs of their role if called upon.”

Bell nods, listening as he watches the three women banter and laugh with each other as much as with their crowd of young fans. Lavender does a handstand suddenly, much to everyone’s delight, then proceeds to walk about like that to cheers and laughter. Lily scolds her for showing off, and just as quickly, Lilac reminds the other two that they’re all friends, and that they all love one another.

A sudden hush comes over the Flower Sisters. Lilac points in Bell’s and Marcelin’s direction, emitting what is, even to Bell’s ears, an alarmingly cute squeak before hiding behind Lily. Lily draws herself up to her full height, something that makes her seem even taller due to the gazelle’s horns she’s sporting, and then Lavender is taking up a protective stance in front of the other two. For a moment, Bell wonders if they’re reacting to Marcelin when he hears a growl from behind him.

“Hendar!” Lavender says. “You’re not welcome here!”

All heads turn, small voices gasp, and several children actually recoil, hiding behind parents in much the same fashion that Lilac is now hiding behind Lily. Bell turns with the rest of them, finds that he’s looking at a man, five ten, dressed in black and moving toward them with a predator’s purpose. His makeup is as black as his clothing-a jungle cat, a jaguar.

Hendar the jaguar growls, “But we could have so much fun together, Lavender.”

There’s a tittering from some of the parents, more quavering from the fans, and Marcelin is motioning to Bell that they should move on. His last glimpse of the impromptu show is of Hendar circling the pavilion as he and Lavender snarl at one another while Lily and Lilac apparently use the opportunity to concoct some cunning plan.

They visit the Pyramids of Ke-Sa, watch what appears to be an endless throng of college-age men and women queuing up to ride the attraction. From within the largest pyramid, Bell can hear unearthly laughter, gunshots, and screams of glee as passengers on the ride are assaulted and assailed by the evil that Agent Rose has unwittingly unleashed. Further along, they’re suddenly in the Old West, where Skip Flashman is having a roping contest with some tough hombres in the shadow of Dead Man’s Mine. From the side of Mount Royal, mine cars loaded with shrieking passengers appear, then vanish again into the tunnels. They stop outside the enclosure to the Clip Flashman show in Terra Space, where it’s paired with a tower ride done up as a 1950s rocket ship, the Star System Alliance Defense. The Friends working the attraction all wear retro-future period garb, the line tended by men and women in one-piece mechanic’s coveralls, caps, and belts heavy with space-age tools. One of the Friends, a man in his late twenties with an Afro-Caribbean complexion and the name Isaiah embroidered on his breast pocket, offers Bell a Clip Flashman comic from a pouch on his belt.

“No, thank you,” Bell says.

“Never too old for adventure, man!” Isaiah counters, pushing the comic into his hands. “The adventure never ends!”

He returns to working the line, and Bell keeps a straight face, watching him go, and wondering how long Chaindragger has been in place here.

“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. Cafes 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.

“Chem-bio?” he asks.

Marcelin nods. “And radiation. It’s the Spartan II system, I think it’s called. There are sensors placed throughout the park.”

“It’s that comprehensive?”

“You name it, it’s searching for it. Ricin, tabun, sarin, mustard, cyanogen, phosgene, ethylene oxide, even botulinum. The list goes on and on.”

The hint of a frown on Bell’s face. Most of these agents, he knows their vectors, has studied them, has studied their effects. He’s had to, can think of at least two dozen times in the past decade that he and his team had to deal with one or another of them. Botulinum, too, but to his knowledge no one has ever been able to weaponize it yet, and thank the gods and goddesses of warriors everywhere, because botulinum is the True Nightmare Scenario, beyond even anthrax or sarin or any of their cousins. Aerosolized, weaponized botulinum makes its biotoxin cousins look like they’re still playing in the sandbox.

Marcelin can read his expression. “You don’t like it?”

Bell chooses his words carefully. “I don’t know the system. But you’re describing a wide search, and it makes me wonder if your Spartan, in trying to do it all, may not be doing any of it well.”

Marcelin shakes his head slightly. “I’d love a better system, but as far as we know, it’s not being manufactured, not even at the military level. Agent- and vector-specific monitoring systems were considered post-nine eleven, but the cost was prohibitive, both in equipment and manpower.”

“I can imagine.” Bell can, too, but he suspects another factor at work as well. WilsonVille has gone to great lengths to keep its visitors from knowing they’re being watched. More monitors, more sensors, more cameras would be that much more difficult to hide. They would shatter the illusion, and in WilsonVille, Bell already understands, the illusion is everything.

At another station, a video is reversing, showing a young man surreptitiously yanking what looks to be a Lilac doll down the front of his pants. The screen flickers, shows real time, and the young man is now tete-a-tete with a much larger, but just as young, gentleman in a WilsonVille blazer and khakis. They leave the camera’s view together, and Bell notes that at no time did the WilsonVille employee put a hand on the shoplifter.

“He’ll bring him here,” Marcelin says in Bell’s ear. “We’ll have someone from the Irvine police department meet them.”

“You press charges?”

“We always press charges. Let’s go into the conference room.”

“So here’s the job,” Marcelin says. He’s sitting in almost the same posture, the same manner that he had earlier in the day, in his office. The chairs in the conference room are Aerons as well. “Deputy director of WilsonVille park safety. Salaried position, starts at five hundred and fifty K, and of course that gives you free year-round passes to all Wilson Entertainment venues for yourself and your family. Medical, stock, etc., we can discuss later. The job is six days a week, you get six weeks’ paid vacation annually, and paid sick leave. You would report to and work under the director of park and resort safety, Eric Porter.”

“And for all this I’m expected to do what?”

Marcelin gestures in the direction of the room full of monitors. “Primary duties are to ensure the safety and security of our employees and guests. Secondary responsibilities are to minimize breakage, vandalism, and theft, most normally in the form of shoplifting.”

“Sounds my speed,” Bell says.

“Bullshit,” Marcelin says. “You’re overqualified for the position, and we both know it.”

Bell doesn’t say anything, and this time he thinks Marcelin is going to try to wait him out. The silence stretches, brushing up against becoming awkward. He wonders idly if Chaindragger’s cover contained any mention of military service, if he had any awkward questions to avoid during his job interview. He suspects not.

“You heard about the murder?” Marcelin asks, finally.

“I did not,” Bell lies.

“One of our employees was found dead out by the northwest parking lot, the staff lot. He’d been beaten and stabbed.”

“They made an arrest?”

Marcelin shakes his head. “Investigation is ongoing.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

Marcelin studies him further, scratches the back of his neck, seems on the verge of saying something more, asking something more. Bell can see the wheels turning. He’d suspected Marcelin was smart; now he’s certain of it.

“What were you? Special Forces? Green Beret?”

“Like that.”

“But not that. And you just drop out of the sky to fill this position, and all the right people are saying that you’re my man for the job. I’m no more paranoid than the next guy, but this doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.”

“Coincidences do happen.”

Marcelin shakes his head. “Job vacates and here you are. I have to ask. Is something going to happen to my park, Jad?”

“Not as far as I know, Matt.”

It takes a couple of seconds, then Marcelin sighs.

“You’re either legit or you’re not,” he says. “But like I said, all the right people are telling me you’re a gift, and I’m not going to look that horse in the mouth. Most people in your position, they leave the military, they go either corporate or private.”

“This doesn’t count as corporate?”

“We’re not exactly KBR, Jad.”

“Not my thing.”

“No, apparently not. So what do you say?”

Bell thinks, wonders just how hard to get he should play this. Not hard at all, he decides, offering Marcelin his hand.

“When can I start?” he asks.