Read Online Native Tongue by Carl Hiaasen - Free Book Online

mind off the rabbit episode, which made him heartsick. He should’ve seen it coming—naturally some greedy psychopath would mutilate helpless bunny rabbits for ten lousy thousand fucking dollars. It’s South Florida, isn’t it? Winder should’ve anticipated the worst. That’s why Chelsea had hired him, for his native instinct.
    The door to the vole lab was locked but the lights were on. Winder knocked twice and got no answer. He could hear a telephone ringing on the other side of the door. It stopped briefly, then began ringing again. He used his car keys to rap sharply on the glass, but there was no sign of Koocher. Winder figured the doctor was taking a late lunch.
    He strolled out to the pavilion, where he found a group of tourists milling around the empty mango-vole exhibit. A tarpaulin had been hung to cover the mess, but somebody had lifted a corner to peek inside the enclosure, which was littered with glass and smudged with fingerprint dust. A yellow police ribbon lay crumpled like a dead snake on the porch of the vole hutch. Some of the tourists were snapping pictures of the scene of the crime.
    A voice behind Joe Winder said, “You work here?”
    It was an old woman wearing a floppy pink Easter hat and apurse the size of a saddlebag. She eyed Joe Winder’s ID badge, which was clipped to his belt.
    “You a security man?” the woman asked.
    Winder tried to remember what Chelsea had told him about speaking to park visitors; some gooey greeting that all employees were supposed to say.
Welcome to the Amazing Kingdom. How can I help you?
Or was it:
How may I help you? No
, that wasn’t it.
How can we help you?
    Eventually Joe Winder said, “I work in Publicity. Is something wrong?”
    The old lady made a clucking noise and foraged in her enormous purse. “I’ve a little something for you.”
    In a helpful tone Winder said, “The Lost and Found is down by the killer-whale tank.”
    “This isn’t lost and it isn’t found.” The old lady produced an envelope. “Here,” she said, pressing it into Joe Winder’s midsection. “And don’t try to follow me.”
    She turned and scuttled off, one hand atop her head, holding the Easter hat in place. Winder stuffed the envelope into his pocket and started after her. “Hey! Wait a second.”
    He had taken only three steps when a fist came out of somewhere and smashed him behind the right ear. He pitched forward on the walkway, skidding briefly on his face. When he awoke, Joe Winder was staring at shoes: Reeboks, loafers, sandals, Keds, orthopedics, Hush Puppies, flip-flops. The tourists had gathered in a murmuring semicircle around him. A young man knelt at his side, asking questions in German.
    Winder sat up. “Did anybody see who hit me?” His cheek stung, and he tasted blood on his lower lip.
    “Beeg orange!” sputtered a woman wearing two cameras around her neck. “Beeg orange man!”
    “Swell,” Winder said. “Did he have a cape? A ray gun?”
    The young German tourist patted him on the shoulder and said, “You okay, ja?”
    “Yah,” Winder muttered. “Fall down go boom.”
    He picked himself up, waved idiotically at his audience and retreated to the men’s room. There he tore open the old lady’s envelope and studied the message, which was typed double-spaced on ordinary notebook paper. It said: “ WE DID IT. WE’RE GLAD. LONG LIVE THE VOLES.”
    It was signed by the Wildlife Rescue Corps.
    With copies, Joe Winder noted glumly, to every major news organization on the planet.
    Bud Schwartz shook Danny Pogue awake and said, “Look who’s here. I told you not to worry.”
    Molly McNamara was in the kitchen, fussing around. Danny Pogue was on the sofa in the living room. He had fallen asleep watching
Lady Chatterley IV on
Cinemax.
    Bud Schwartz sat down, grinning. “She brought the money, too,” he said.
    “All of it?”
    “No, just the grand. Like she said before.”
    “You mean the two grand,” Danny Pogue said. “One for each of