by Greg Rucka
WilsonVille advertising took aim at Disney and the Magic Kingdom directly, painting the park in Anaheim as “tired” and “old.” WilsonVille, the advertising promised, was the newest, and the best, and had something for everyone. Guests could raid ancient pyramids with Lion Flashman in a desperate race to stop Agent Rose from escaping with the Mystic Eye of Ke-Sa. Parents and children were invited to float along the Timeless River with Lilac, Lily, and Lavender acting as their personal guides while they searched for the missing Prince Stripe. Children of all ages could experience screams and thrills as they rode the fastest, tallest wooden roller coaster in the world—Pooch Pursuit—based, marginally, on the Oscar-winning short cartoon of the same name.
And that was just what was featured in the brochure.
On average, WilsonVille sees more than thirty thousand visitors a day, more than twice that number during the peak summer season and on holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, and the Fourth of July all being exceptionally busy. A minimum of three thousand “Friends” staff the park, but the number can rise to just shy of six thousand during the aforementioned peak periods. “Friends” is the WilsonVille catch-all word to describe park staff, from the mostly unseen custodial crew to the performers working in costume on stage and at large in the park to the catering personnel and clerks. If you’re wearing a WilsonVille name tag, you’re everyone’s friend, whether you like it or not.
The park went nonsmoking in 1998, and alcohol is not permitted or served anywhere within its confines, save for the members-only club, the Speakeasy. The unmarked door to the club is concealed amid the apparent stonework walls adjacent to Agent Rose’s Safe House, beside a jewelry shop, and requires a password for entry. Membership is available solely to season-pass holders for an additional fee, and to select VIPs in the company of senior Wilson Entertainment officials.
WilsonVille is open from 8:00 a.m. until 1:00 a.m. seven days a week, 365 days a year, although on Fridays and Saturdays there is a “Secret Sunrise,” when individuals who have purchased the privilege can enter the park as early as 7:00 a.m.
Since its opening, the park has ceased operations on only one occasion, September 11, 2001. Rides were brought to a halt and all attractions were closed. Park guests were then escorted by Friends from the premises via preestablished evacuation routes. Outside the park, they were refunded their entry fees and given free day passes by way of apology. The WilsonVille gates were then barred, and a security sweep of the entire 156-acre park, as well as its surrounding support buildings and parking structures, was performed.
Nothing was found.
The park resumed normal operations the following morning.
Almost.
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 a
cres 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 Ter
ra 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.
