Native Tongue Part 2

"Like what?"

"Like their names."

"Whose names?"

"The voles," Charles Chelsea said. "Vance and Violeta"two helpless, adorable, fuzzy little furb.a.l.l.s. Mated for life. The last of their species, Joey."

With a straight face, Winder repeated the names of the missing creatures. "Vance and Violet Vole. That's lovely." He glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch, and saw that it was half past five. "Charlie," he said, "you don't happen to have any Darvons?"

Chelsea said, "I wish you were writing this stuff down."

"What the h.e.l.l for?"

"For the story. The story of how Francis X. Kingsbury tried everything in his power to save the blue-tongued mango voles from extinction."

"Only to be thwarted by robbers?"

"You got it," said Charles Chelsea. "Stay late if necessary and take a comp day next weeka"I need a thousand words by tomorrow morning. I promised Corporate a press kit." He stood up and waited for Joe Winder to do the same. "Get with Koocher for more background on the missing animals. He's got reams of pictures, too, in case you need inspiration. By the way, did you ever get to see them?"

Winder felt oddly detached. "The voles? No, not in person," he said. "I wasn't even aware they had actual names."

"They do now."

At the door, Charles Chelsea winked and shook Joe Winder's hand. "You know, Joe, some people in the organization weren't too thrilled when we brought you aboard. I mean, after what happened up at Disney."

Winder nodded politely. Chelsea's hand felt moist and lifeless, like a slab of cold grouper.

"But, by G.o.d, I knew you'd be fine. That speech today was masterful, Joey, a cla.s.sic."

"A cla.s.sic."

"I need you on this one. The other kids are fine, they can turn a phrase. But they're right out of school, most of them, and they're not ready for something so big. For this I need somebody with scars. Combat experience."

With effort, Joe Winder said, "Guess I'm your man."

Charles Chelsea chucked him on the arm and opened the door.

"What about a reward?" Winder asked. "In the press release, should I say we're offering a reward?"

Thinking about it, Chelsea nearly rubbed the tan off his chin. "I guess it couldn't hurt," he said finally. "What do you think?"

"For two rats? Ten grand is good."

"Voles, Joe. Don't ever say rats. And five grand is plenty."

Winder shrugged. "The park netted forty-two million dollars last year. I know a few reporters who'd be happy to remind us."

"All right, go for ten," said Charles Chelsea. "But don't overplay it. Otherwise every geek in Miami is going to show up at the gate with shoe boxes full of G.o.d knows what."

The thought of it made Joe Winder smile for the first time all day.

One of the few things Winder liked about his new job was the golf cart he got to drive around the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. It was a souped-up Cushman with an extra set of twelve-volts, and headlights scavenged off a real Jeep. It was the closest thing to a company car that Joe Winder had ever had, and sometimes (especially on that long downhill stretch between Magic Mansion and the Wet w.i.l.l.y) he could stomp on the tiny accelerator and forget what exactly he did for a living. At night Joe Winder tried to drive more carefully, because it was harder to watch out for the tourists. The tourists at the Amazing Kingdom seldom paid attention to where they were going; they wandered and weaved, peered and pointed. And who could blame them? There were so many colorful and entertaining distractions. Before Charles Chelsea had given Joe Winder the keys to the Cushman, he had warned him to be wary when driving near the tourists. "Whatever you do, don't hit one," Chelsea had said. "If you're going to crash, aim for a building," he had advised, "or even a park employee. Anything but a paying customer."

So Joe Winder drove with extra caution in the golf cart at night. He arrived at the Rare Animal Pavilion shortly after eight, and parked in the back. Dr. Will Koocher, the vole man, was waiting inside with handouts and glossy photographs. Winder sat on a lab stool and skimmed the material.

Koocher said, "We kept the information fairly general. They tell me the pictures usually go over big."

As Winder studied the photographs, he said, "Cute little b.u.g.g.e.rs."

"They're just rodents," the doctor noted, without malice.

"You don't understand," Winder said, "Cuteness is vital for a story like this." He explained how newspapers and television stations got much more excited about animal stories when the animal came across as cuddly and lovable. "I'm not saying it's good or bad, but that's the way it is."

Will Koocher nodded. "Like with the manateesa"everybody wants to save the manatees, but n.o.body gives a hoot about the poor crocodiles."

"Because they're not particularly cute," Winder said. "Who wants to hug a reptile?"

"I see your point." Will Koocher was a gaunt young man with the longest neck that Joe Winder had ever seen. He seemed painfully earnest and shy, and Winder liked him immediately.

"I'll tell you what I can," Koocher said, "but I've only been here a month."

Like everything else at the Amazing Kingdom, the Vole Project had begun as a scheme to compete with Walt Disney World. Years earlier, Disney had tried to save the dusky seaside sparrow, a small marsh bird whose habitat was being wiped out by overdevelopment along Florida's coastline. With much fanfare, Disney had unveiled a captive-breeding program for the last two surviving specimens of the dusky. Unfortunately, the last two surviving specimens were both males, and even the wizards of Disney could not induce the scientific miracle of h.o.m.os.e.xual procreation. Eventually the sparrow fell to extinction, but the Disney organization won gobs of fawning publicity for its conservation efforts.

Not to be outdone (although he invariably was), Francis X. Kingsbury had selected another endangered species and commanded that his staff save it, ASAP. And so the Vole Project was born.

Koocher had gotten the phone call while finis.h.i.+ng his thesis at Cornell. "I'd published two field studies on the genus Microtus, so I suppose that's where they got my name. Anyway, this guy Chelsea calls and asks if I'd heard of Microtus mango, and I said no, all my work was on the northern species. He sent me a scientific paper that had been published, and offered me a job. Forty grand a year."

"That's good money right out of school."

"Tell me about it. I burned up the interstate getting down here."

"And that's when you met Violet and Vance."

"Who's that?"

"The voles," Winder said. "They've got names now."

"Really?" Will Koocher looked doubtful. "I always called them Male One and Female One."

"Not anymore. Kingsbury's got big plans, PR-wise. The little mango curies are going to be famousa"don't be surprised if the networks show up tomorrow."

"Is that so," Koocher said, with not the wildest enthusiasm. Winder sensed that the scientist disapproved of anthropomorphizing rodents, so he decided to lay off the Vance-and-Violet routine. Instead he asked about the tongue.

"Well, it really is blue," Koocher said stiffly. "Remarkably blue."

"Could I say indigo?" Joe Winder was taking notes.

"Yeah," said Koocher, "that's about right." He started to say something more, but caught himself.

Joe Winder asked: "So what killed off the rest of them? Was it disease?"

"No, same old story. The encroachment of mankind." Koocher unfolded a map that ill.u.s.trated how the mango vole had once ranged from the Middle Keys up to Palm Beach. As the coastline surrendered to hotels, subdivisions and condominiums, the voles" territory shrank. "They tell me the last known colony was here, on North Key Largo. One of Kingsbury's foremen found it in 1988, but so did a hungry barn owl. They were lucky to save the two that they did."

"And they mated for life?" said Winder.

Koocher seemed amused. "Who told you that?"

"Chelsea."

"That figures. Voles don't mate for life. They mate for fun, and they mate with just about anything that resembles another vole."

Winder said, "Then here's another dumb question: Why were there only two in our exhibit? They'd been together, what, a year? So where're all the bouncing baby voles?"

Edgily, Koocher said, "That's been our biggest disappointment."

"I did some reading up on it," Winder said. "With your typical Microtus, the female gives birth every two months. Each litter's got eight or nine babiesa"at that rate, you could replenish the whole species in a year."

Will Koocher s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. "Female One was not receptive," he said. "Do you understand what that means?"

"Do I ever."

"This was an extreme case. The female nearly killed the male on several occasions. We had to hire a Wackenhut to watch the cage."

"A guard?" said Joe Winder.

"To make sure she didn't hurt him."

Winder swallowed a laugh. Apparently, Koocher saw no humor in the story. He said, "I felt sorry for the little guy. The female was much larger, and extremely hostile. Every time the male would attempt to mount her, she would attack."

Joe Winder put his notebook away. He'd think of a way to write around the reproduction question.

Koocher said: "The female vole wasn't quite right."

"In what way?"

But Koocher was staring past him. Winder turned and saw Charles Chelsea on the other side of the gla.s.s door. Chelsea gave a chipper, three-fingered salute and disappeared.

The doctor said, "Now's not a terrific time to get into all this. Can we talk later?"

"You bet. I'll be in the publicity office."

"No, not here. Can I call you at home in a day or two?"

Winder said sure. "But I've got to write the press release tonight. If there's something I ought to know, please tell me before I make an a.s.s of myself."

Koocher stood up and smoothed the breast of his lab coat. "That business about the networks cominga"were you serious?"

"Cute sells," Winder said. "You take an offbeat animal story on a slow news day, we're talking front page."

"Christ." Koocher sighed.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Winder said. He hadn't meant to come off as such a coldhearted p.r.i.c.k. "I know what these little critters meant to you."

Will Koocher smiled ruefully. He folded the habitat map and put it away. He looked tired and sad, and Winder felt bad for him. "It's all right," the young scientist said. "They were doomed, no matter what."

"We're all doomed," said Joe Winder, "if you really think about it." Which he tried not to.

Bud Schwartz parked the pickup truck under an immense ficus tree. He told Danny Pogue not to open the doors right away, because of all the mosquitoes. The insects had descended in a sibilant cloud, bouncing off the windows and the hood and the headlights.

"I bet we don't have no bug spray," said Danny Pogue.

Bud Schwartz pointed at the house. "On the count of three, make a run for it."

Danny Pogue remarked that the old place was dark. "She saving on the electricity, or what? I bet she's not even home. I bet she was hoping we got caught, so she wouldn't have to pay us."

"You got no faith," said Bud Schwartz. "You're the most negative f.u.c.king person I ever met. That's why your skin's broke out all the timea"all those negative thoughts is like a poison in your bloodstream."

"Wait a minute, now. Everybody gets pimples."

Bud Schwartz said, "You're thirty-one years old. Tell me that's normal."

"Do we got bug spray or not?"

"No." Bud Schwartz unlocked his door. "Now let's goa"one, two, three!"

They burst out of the pickup and bolted for the house, flailing at mosquitoes as they ran. When they got inside the screened porch, the two men took turns swatting the insects off each other. A light came on, and Molly McNamara poked out of the door. Her white hair was up in curlers, her cheeks were slathered in oily yellow cream and her broad, pointy-shouldered frame was draped in a blue terry-cloth bathrobe.

"Get inside," she said to the two men.

Immediately Bud Schwartz noticed how grim the woman looked. The curlers, cream and bathrobe didn't help.

The house was all mustiness and shadows, made darker and damper by the ubiquitous wood paneling. The living room smelled of jasmine, or some other old-woman scent. It reminded Bud Schwartz of his grandmother's sewing room.

Molly McNamara sat down in a rocker. Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue just stood there like the hired help they were.

"Where are they?" Molly demanded. "Where's the box?"

Danny Pogue looked at Bud Schwartz, who said, "They got away."

Molly folded her hands across her lap. She said, "You're lying to me."

"No, ma'am."

"Then tell me what happened."

Before Bud Schwartz could stop him, Danny Pogue said, "There was holes in the box. That's how they got out."

Molly McNamara's right hand slipped beneath her bathrobe and came out holding a small black pistol. Without saying a word she shot Danny Pogue twice in the left foot. He fell down, screaming, on the smooth pine floor. Bud Schwartz couldn't believe it; he tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.