quickly as he came to a stop. Even so, he watched the woman until she vanished into some kind of curio shop on the opposite corner. An older lady scowled at him from the parking lot of one of the groceries, and Ron felt a bit guilty. He would have tipped his hat at her if he’d been wearing one.
Taking a moment to refer to his street map, he looked at it, frowning at the parade of cartoon characters along the borders who smiled and pointed at various sights. “Harmony Way,” he muttered. “Give me a break.” He noted the address again: 100 West Harmony Way, and continued on, pressing the brightly colored map into the folds in the seat.
At the next intersection, he took a right. And there he was, right in front of Town Administration. The company men were keeping it neat and orderly until such time as the town voted to form their own government. He was sure they were looking forward to that. At least there was plenty of parking. He found a space well away from the building and got out. The temperature had already climbed another degree or two, and he paused just long enough to lower the windows a couple of inches on both sides of the cab. Once again he made a mental note to requisition a truck with air-conditioning.
The parking lot was busy with tourists, he noticed. It had seemed the way in was a road to nowhere, and he had seen no other vehicles coming in or going out along the way. But here they all were, Florida’s combined curse and blessing: the tourists from points north. Everyone was a Yankee to a native Floridian. Overweight parents and their hamburger fatted broods went this way and that, going toward the curio shops and the enclosed mall and the theaters and the restaurants. Ron reckoned Salutations didn’t really need any citizens to make this place work. The green oil from the tourists would probably lubricate the money machine just fine, thanks.
As he approached the red brick steps leading up to great, wide, whitewashed pine walls, the door opened and a tall, carefully groomed man in a neat suit came out. A wide face capped by a blond buzz cut beamed down. Although he was only standing two steps above, the fellow seemed to loom there, like a giant. Ron quickly decided the man stood at about six and a half feet, considerably taller than Ron. The big man’s appropriately big hand shot out as Riggs came up the stairs.
“You must be Mr. Riggs from Fish and Wildlife.” He took Ron’s hand and squeezed it. Ron squeezed back.
“Yes, sir. And you’re Andrew Dorkin?” Dorkin was the company executive who had first called the Service, touching base with those who could be either the company’s friend or adversary, depending on the circumstances.
The big man smiled, a perfect grin in a tanned face, crow’s-feet webbing out upon skin that had spent considerable time in the sun. “Oh, nonono. I’m Bill Tatum,” he said, giving Ron’s hand a final athletic squeeze and then releasing it. “I’m in charge of security here at Salutations. Have been since the studio broke ground two years ago.” He smiled even more broadly and gazed around them. “This place was just the old base going to weed when I got here.”
“I see,” Ron said. “Well, I just assumed I’d be talking with Mr. Dorkin, since he’s the one who’s been speaking with the boys down at the office.”
“Mr. Dorkin is very busy. I usually take up the slack in minor situations like this.” He breathed in, seeming to enjoy the intake. In fact, the air was sweet, scented by the forest and wetlands that lay all about the town like a carefully painted picture.
Tatum was staring hard at something in the parking lot behind them, his smile fading ever so slightly, and Ron turned to see what it was. The expression on Tatum’s face was that severe.
A smallish man was coming their way. He was dressed in rumpled khaki, a new digital camera hanging from his neck. Ron almost smiled at the way the man bounced their way, until he realized that his odd up and down gait was probably due to some old serious injury or, perhaps, a moderate birth defect. The guy was very thin, a dark brown beard artfully covering what was a generally chinless face. Coke bottle lenses expanded a pair of friendly eyes above a