She ran the meetings with brusque efficiency, presiding over a membership that tended to be retired and liberal and well-to-do. For its size, the Mothers of Wilderness was exceedingly well financed; Molly knew this was why the other environmental groups wooed her, in hopes of a merger. The Mothers had bucks.

They had hired a hotshot Miami land-use lawyer to fight the golf course project, which was called Falcon Trace. The lawyer, whose name was Spacci, stood up at the meeting to update the Mothers on the progress of the lawsuit, which, typically, was about to be thrown out of court. The case was being heard in Monroe County – specifically, Key West – where many of the judges were linked by conspiracy or simple inbreeding to the crookedest politicians. Moreover, the zoning lawyer admitted he was having a terrible time ascertaining the true owners of the Falcon Trace property; he had gotten as far as a blind trust in Dallas, then stalled.

Molly McNamara thanked Spacci for his report and made a motion to authorize another twenty thousand dollars for legal fees and investigative expenses. It passed unanimously.

After the meeting, Molly took the lawyer aside and said, "Next time I want to see some results. I want the names of these bastards."

"What about the lawsuit?"

"File a new one," Molly said. "You ever considered going federal?"

"How?" asked Spacci. "On what grounds?"

Pinching his elbow, Molly led him to an easel behind the rostrum. Propped on the easel was an aerial map of North Key Largo. Molly pointed and said, "See? There's where they want the golf course. And right here is a national wildlife refuge. That's your federal jurisdiction, Counselor."

The lawyer plucked a gold pen from his breast pocket and did some pointing of his own. "And right here, Ms. McNamara, is a two-thousand-acre amusement park that draws three million tourists every year. We'd be hard pressed to argue that one lousy golf course would be more disruptive to the habitat than what's already there – a major vacation resort."

Molly snapped, "You're the damn attorney. Think of something."

Bitterly she remembered the years she had fought the Kingsbury project; the Mothers of Wilderness had been the only group that had never given up. Audubon and the others had realized immediately that protest was futile; the prospect of a major theme park to compete with Disney World carried an orgasmic musk to local chambers of commerce. The most powerful of powerful civic leaders clung to the myth that Mickey Mouse was responsible for killing the family tourist trade in South Florida, strangling the peninsula so that all southbound station wagons stopped in Orlando. What did Miami have to offer as competition? Porpoises that could pitch a baseball with their blow-holes? Wisecracking parrots on unicycles? Enjoyable diversions, but scarcely in the same high-tech league with Disney. The Mouse's sprawling self-contained empire sucked tourists' pockets inside out; they came, they spent until there was nothing left to spend; then they went home happy. To lifelong Floridians it was a dream concept: fleecing a snowbird in such a way that he came back for more. Astounding! So when Francis X. Kingsbury unveiled his impressive miniature replica of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills – the Wet Willy water flume, the Magic Mansion, Orky the Killer Whale, Jungle Jerry, and so on – roars of exultation were heard from Palm Beach to Big Pine.

The only cry of dismay came from the Mothers of Wilderness, who were (as usual) ignored.

"No golf course," Molly told Spacci the lawyer, "and no more chickenshit excuses from you." She sent him away with the wave of a blue-veined hand.

After the rank and file had gone home, Molly gathered the board of directors in the back of the library. Five women and two men, all nearly as gray as Molly, they sat in molded plastic chairs and sipped herbal tea while Molly told them what had happened.

It was a bizarre and impossible scheme, but no one asked Molly why she had done it. They knew why. In a fussy tone, one of the Mothers said: "This time you went too far."

"It's under control," Molly insisted. "Except for the voles. They're not under control." Another Mother asked: "Any chance of finding them?"

"You never know," said Molly.

"Horseshit," said the first Mother. "They're gone for good. Dead, alive, it doesn't matter if we can't locate the damn things."

Molly said, "Please. Keep your voice down."

The second Mother: "What about these two men? Where are they now?"

"My condo," Molly replied. "Up at Eagle Ridge."

"Lord have mercy."

"That's enough," said Molly sharply. "I said it's under control, and it's under control."

A silence fell over the small group. No one wished to challenge her authority, but this time things had really gotten out of hand. This time there was a chance they could all go to jail. I'll have some more tea," the first Mother said finally, "and then I'd love to hear your new plan. You do have one?"

"Of course I do," said Molly McNamara. "For heaven's sake."

When Joe Winder got to work, Charles Chelsea was waiting in yet another blue oxford shirt. He was sitting on the edge of Winder's desk in a pose of casual superiority. A newspaper was freshly folded under one arm. "Fine job on the press release," Chelsea said. "I changed a word or two, but otherwise it went out just like you wrote it."

Calmly Joe Winder said, "Which word or two did you change?"

"Oh, I improved Mr. Kingsbury's comments. Couple of adverbs here and there."

"Fine." Winder wasn't so surprised. It was well known that Chelsea invented all of Francis X. Kingsbury's quotes. Kingsbury was one of those men who rarely spoke in complete sentences. Didn't have to. For publicity purposes this made him perfectly useless and unquotable.

Chelsea said, "I also updated the info on Robbie Raccoon. Turns out he got a mild concussion from that blow to the head."

Winder forced a smile and set his briefcase on the desk. "It's a she, Charlie. And she was fine when I spoke to her last night. Not even a bruise."

Chelsea's voice took on a scolding tone. "Joey, you know the gender rule. If it's a male character, we always refer to it with masculine pronouns – regardless of who's inside the costume. I explained all this the day you were hired. It comes straight from Mr. X. Speaking of which, weren't you supposed to get a haircut?"

"Don't be a dork, Charlie."

"What's a dork?"

"You're not serious."

Charles Chelsea said, "Really, tell me. You called me a dork, I'd like to know what exactly that is."

"It's a Disney character," said Joe Winder. "Daffy Dork." He opened the briefcase and fumbled urgently for his sinus medicine. "Anyway, Charlie, the lady in the coon suit didn't have a concussion. That's a lie, and it's a stupid lie because it's so easy to check. Some newspaper reporter is going to make a few calls and we're going to look sleazy and dishonest, all because you had to exaggerate."

"No exaggeration," Charles Chelsea said, stiffening. "I spoke with Robbie Raccoon myself, first thing this morning. He said he got dizzy and sick overnight. Doctor said it's probably a concussion."

Winder popped two pills into his mouth and said, "You're amazing."

"We'll have a neurologist's report this afternoon, in case anybody wants to see. Notarized, too." Chelsea looked pleased with himself. "Mild concussion, Joe. Don't believe me, just ask Robbie."

"What'd you do, threaten to fire her? Bust her down to the elf patrol?"

Charles Chelsea stood up, shot his cuffs, gave Joe Winder his coldest, hardest look. "I came down here to thank you for doing such outstanding work, and look what I get. More of your cynicism. Just because you had a rotten night, Joey, it's no reason to rain on everyone else's parade."