Antioch March was, more or less, in the center of the theme park, near one of the rides--a roundy-round thing for younger kids, where they sat strapped into fiberglass leaves, like lettuce wraps from a Chinese restaurant. The ride would have made him puke.
Nearby was a jungle tour--where the guests were startled by the fierce appearances of oversize carnivores. They were the characters from a huge hit film, a blockbuster. March had seen it. The movie was gruesome and simple. But effective at shocking the audience. As gruesome and simple usually were.
The fake canyon he was now walking through reminded March of the Harrison Gorge. It was strikingly similar. He could smell the moist stone, the leaves, the loam, the dirt, the water. He could see, vividly, Todd. More than the colored leaves. Far more clearly than the leaves.
Focus here, he told himself. You need to get out, and soon. In an hour there'd be a thousand officers poking under every polyvinyl triceratops and singing bush in the place.
And then he saw them.
Two young men, dressed
like tourists but clearly security guards, were glancing at printouts and scanning the crowd.
Hell. Had they gotten an image of him as he sprinted through the gate? He'd seen the dozens of security cameras hidden in trees and in the fake rocks of the installations.
March was different in appearance now; in fact, he'd done the quick change right in the middle of a crowd waiting for some insane roller coaster, Tornado Alley, not in a restroom, whose front doors he was sure would be monitored by cameras. But had they gotten a picture after he changed?
Out. You need to get out--
Then he turned and, to his shock, noted another officer walking in his direction, glancing at his sheet and then at people nearby--men, tall men. He was more than thirty feet away.
The pathway here was fairly narrow and his only option was to keep on walking, nonchalantly, with the crowd he found himself in. Or to turn and walk away, which would seem suspicious. In the shopping bag he carried was his pistol, which he'd removed from his gym bag. He didn't want to use it but he might have to. He maintained his stroll in the direction he'd started, glancing at a map he'd picked up of the park. He paused and asked a couple for directions. The husband glanced at the map and then pointed to a pathway nearby.
The officer continued in their direction, casually, too casually looking around.
March chatted with the couple--a pleasant duo with southern accents-- and he felt the cop's eyes scan them, then look elsewhere. March glanced over his shoulder and saw the officer walking away, not reaching for radio or phone. March got a brief look at the sheet.
Ah, yes, trying to trick him. It looked like an internal memo. Or maybe something they'd downloaded from the Internet. He couldn't see the face clearly but it wasn't a security camera shot; it was a press release pic. Of course, they'd expected that he'd note the cops' perusal and then turn and flee, giving himself away.
Nice try.
He wondered if the ploy had been Kathryn Dance's. Betcha, he told the Get.
March turned to the husband who had been so helpful and said, "That's odd."
"What's that?"
"Over there. Uniformed policeman in the park. With the printout?"
The couple both squinted. The husband said, "Oh, yeah. And there're some men over there too with flyers. See them?"
"Undercover security," March said.
"What's that about?" the wife asked.
"Probably nothing. I just... I hope it's not terrorists or anything."
"Terrorists," the wife whispered.
"Yeah, did you hear that story on Fox? Or CNN. There were reports of a possible terrorist attack in L.A."
"No!"
"Rumors, that's all. You know how the police always say that and then nothing happens. Most of the time." March shrugged. "Anyway, have fun."
A quarter mile down the winding paths, Antioch March found another couple that looked promising. He walked up to them, brandishing the map, and nodded.
"Hi, sorry to bother you."