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That was an interesting thought, considering he was the expedition artist, and so far, we had noticed, inspiration had yet to strike—though he did have a growing collection of materials for making pigment, including wombat scat, two types of river mud, ocher, charcoal, and various types of dirt.

“So are you going to draw something with that river mud?” we asked.

“Yeah,” he said, lying down on his sagging bed. “But not tonight. I'm off duty.”

23. QUOLLING ABOUT

The next morning we were waiting outside the Deloraine hotel in the Pajero. Alexis was still inside, placing a phone call to Dorothy back in New York. In our peripheral vision, we saw a middle-aged man in green camouflage fatigues and orange wraparound sunglasses wan dering up Deloraine's main street. We didn't pay too much attention until he pressed his nose against the driver's side window.

“Uh, yes?” We reluctantly rolled down the window.

“You're waiting for Andrew?” He nodded in a military sort of way.

“Yes …” We were confused. Had the Trowunna Wildlife Park sent someone over to collect us? Darlene had said she wouldn't let us leave the island without speaking to Androo. How had they known where we were staying?

“So,” he said. “We'll all be going over to Jackie's Marsh. Which vehicle should we take?”

This was beginning to feel like a carjacking. We eyed the guy nervously. Was it normal in Deloraine to wear full-body camouflage? “Uh … who's Jackie?”

Suddenly, our interrogator looked at us warily. “Are you waiting for Andrew Ricketts?” he said sharply.

Were we? What was Androo's last name? Panicking, we strained to remember …Kelly. That's it, like the outlaw. We're going to see Androo Kelly. And we weren't waiting for him. We were driving over to see him.

“So what are you here for?” he asked as Alexis emerged from the hotel.

We were so relieved to see Alexis—and to have some backup if neces-sary—that we almost shouted, “Quolls! We're going to see some quolls.”

“Ahh,” he said mysteriously. “Dasyurus maculatus.” Then he strolled off down the street.

We told Alexis about the strange grilling. “What do you think his story was? Why did he know the quoll's scientific name?”

Alexis thought about it for a minute. “I think he's Green,” he said finally, “unless there's a whole new level of redneck.”

Half an hour later, we were back at Trowunna and walking through a mob of free-range marsupials, including a large forester kangaroo that blocked our path in front of the zoo's café. We gave it a wide berth.

We found Androo Kelly mucking out an empty wombat enclosure. “Yeah, Darlene said you might be coming,” he said. “It's a bad day. Half my staff is off for this weekend. If you don't mind following me around when I'm doing my chores, we can talk.” He bent down to pick up a chunk of wombat scat with his gloved hand.

“Rulla, can you get me a bucket?” A young boy with blond hair emerged with a water pail. “This is Rulla, my son. He's helping me out today.”

Androo looked to be in his mid-forties. He was rail-thin, with dark hair, a scrappy beard, and intense gray eyes. In addition to rubber gloves, he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt that pictured Tasmanian devils in three different poses. Also, he was on crutches. His left ankle and foot were encased in a fiberglass cast.

“What happened to your leg?” Alexis asked.

“Oh, I took a bad step and landed on a rock. Rushing around as usual.”

Trowunna was a private wildlife park, and it operated on donations, a handful of small grants, and a backbreaking amount of hard work. Although it looked like a folksy petting zoo, appearances could be deceiving. Androo was the world's top expert in the breeding of Tasmanian devils and quolls. “Trowunna is an anomaly,” he said. “This facility is the only private operation that's a member of the zoo industry proper as far as captive breeding goes. But what makes it important is that it's in situ, in Tasmania.”

Androo hobbled out of the wombat enclosure and hopped toward a small building. The crutches and broken ankle didn't seem to slow him down much.