Angel, the trooper said. Angel Gaviria. "Don't ask me how to spell it."

"Where do you know him from?"

"He used to be a cop." Jim Tile yanked the blanket up to cover the dead man's face. "Before he got convicted."

"Convicted of what?"

"Everything short of first-degree murder."

"Jesus Christ. And here he is, out of the slammer already."

"Yeah," said Jim Tile. "Modeling neckwear."

Bud Schwartz had been a two-bit burglar since he was seventeen years old. He was neither proud of it nor ashamed. It was what he did, period. It suited his talents. Whenever his mother gave him a hard time about getting an honest job, Bud Schwartz reminded her that he was the only one of her three children who was not in psychoanalysis. His sister was a lawyer and his brother was a stockbroker, and both of them were miserably fucked up. Bud Schwartz was a crook, sure, but at least he was at peace with himself.

He considered himself a competent burglar who was swift, thorough and usually cautious. The times he'd been caught – five in all – these were flukes. A Rottweiler that wasn't in the yard the night before. A nosy neighbor, watering her begonias at three in the goddamn morning. A getaway car with bad plugs. That sort of thing. Occupational hazards, in Bud Schwartz's opinion – plain old lousy luck.

Normally he was a conservative guy who played the odds and didn't like unnecessary risks. Why he ever accepted the rat-napping job from Molly McNamara, he couldn't figure. Broad daylight, thousands of people, the middle of a fucking theme park. Jesus! Maybe he did it just to break the monotony. Or maybe because ten grand was ten grand.

Definitely a score. In his entire professional burgling career, Bud Schwartz had never stolen anything worth ten thousand dollars. The one time he'd pinched a Rolex Oyster, it turned out to be fake. Another time he got three diamond rings from a hotel room on Key Biscayne – a big-time movie actress, too – and the fence informed him it was all zircon. Fucking paste. Or so said the fence.

Who could blame him for saying yes to Molly McNamara, or at least checking it out? So when he gets out of jail, he rounds up Danny Pogue – Danny, who's really nothing but a pair of hands; somebody you drag along to help carry the shit to the car. But reliable, as far as that goes. Not really smart enough to pull anything.

So together they meet the old lady once, twice. Get directions, instructions. Go over the whole damn thing until they're bored to tears, except for the part about what to do with the voles. Bud Schwartz had assumed the whole point was to free the damn things, the way Molly talked. "Liberate" was the word she'd used. Of course, if he'd known then what he knew now, he wouldn't have chucked that one little rat into the red convertible. If he'd known there were only two of the damn things left on the whole entire planet, he wouldn't ever have let Danny take a throw at the Winnebago.

Now the voles were gone, and Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were nursing their respective gunshot wounds in the old lady's apartment.

Watching a slide show about endangered species.

"This formidable fellow," Molly McNamara was saying, "is the North American crocodile."

Danny Pogue said, "Looks like a gator."

"No, it's a different animal entirely," said Molly. "There's only a few dozen left in the wild."

"So what?" said Danny Pogue. "You got tons of gators. So many they went and opened a hunting season. I can't see getting' all worked up about crocodiles dyin" off, not when they got a season on gators. It don't make sense."

Molly said, "You're missing the point."

"He can't help it," said Bud Schwartz. "Just go on to the next slide."

Molly clicked the remote. "This is the Schaus' swallowtail butterfly."

"Now that's pretty," said Danny Pogue. "I can see wanting to save somethin" like that. Isn't that a pretty butterfly, Bud?"

"Beautiful," said Bud Schwartz. "Really gorgeous. Next?"

Molly asked why he was in such a hurry.

"No reason," he replied.

Danny Pogue snickered. "Maybe 'cause there's a movie he wants to see on cable."

"Really?" Molly said. "Bud, you should've told me. We can always continue the orientation tomorrow."

"That's okay," Bud Schwartz said. "Go on with the program."

"Amazon Cheerleaders," said Danny Pogue. "We seen the ending the other night."

Molly said, "I don't believe I've heard of that one."

"Get on with the slides," said Bud Schwartz gloomily. Of all the partners he'd ever had, Danny Pogue was turning out to be the dumbest by a mile.

A picture of something called a Key Largo wood rat appeared on the slide screen, and Danny exclaimed: "Hey, it looks just like one a them voles!"

"Not really," said Molly McNamara patiently. "This hardy little fellow is one of five endangered species native to the North Key Largo habitat." She went on to explain the uniqueness of the island – hardwood hammocks, brackish lakes and acres of precious mangroves. And, only a few miles offshore, the only living coral reef in North America. "Truly a tropical paradise," said Molly McNamara, "which is why it's worth fighting for."

As she clicked through the rest of the slides, Bud Schwartz was thinking: How hard would it be to overpower the old bat and escape? Two grown men with six functional limbs, come on. Just grab the frigging purse, take the gun – what could she do?

The trouble was, Bud Schwartz wasn't fond of guns. He didn't mind stealing them, but he'd never pointed one at anybody, never fired one, even at a tin can. Getting shot by Molly McNamara had only reinforced his view that guns were a tool for the deranged. He knew the law, and the law smiled on harmless unarmed house burglars. A burglar with a gun wasn't a burglar anymore, he was a robber. Not only did robbers get harder time, but the accommodations were markedly inferior. Bud Schwartz had never been up to Raiford but he had a feeling he wouldn't like it. He also had a hunch that if push came to shove, Danny Pogue would roll over like a big dumb puppy. Do whatever the cops wanted, including testify.

Bud Schwartz decided he needed more time to think.

A new slide came up on the screen and he told Molly McNamara to wait a second. "Is that an endangered species, too?" he asked.

"Unfortunately not," Molly said. That's Francis X. Kingsbury, the man who's destroying the island."

Danny Pogue lifted his chin out of his hands and said, "Yeah? How?"

"Mr. Kingsbury is the founder and chief executive officer of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills – the so-called amusement park you boys raided the other day. It's a tourist trap, plain and simple. It brings traffic, garbage, litter, air pollution, effluent – Kingsbury cares nothing about preserving the habitat. He's a developer."

The word came out as an epithet.

Bud Schwartz studied the jowly middle-aged face on the screen. Kingsbury was smiling, and you could tell it was killing him. His nose was so large that it seemed three-dimensional, a huge mottled tuber of some kind, looming out of the wall.

"Public enemy number one," said Molly. She glared at the picture on the screen. "Yes, indeed. The park is only a smokescreen. We've got reason to believe that Mr. Kingsbury holds the majority interest in a new golfing resort called Falcon Trace, which abuts the Amazing Kingdom. We have reason to believe that Kingsbury's intention is to eventually bulldoze every square inch of ocean waterfront. You know what that means?"

Danny Pogue pursed his lips. Bud Schwartz said nothing; he was trying to guess where the old coot was heading with this.

Molly said, "It means no more crocodiles, no more wood rats, no more swallowtail butterflies."

"No more butterflies?" Danny Pogue looked at her with genuine alarm. "What kinda bastard would do something like that?"