Part 2 (2/2)
”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.
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