Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

In the middle of the road, illuminated by headlights, was a battered red collar. Jim Tile crouched to get a closer look.

“Our transmitter,” the ranger explained. Imprinted on the plastic was the name Telonics MOD-500.”

“What happened?” Jim Tile asked.

“The cat tore it off. Somehow.”

“That’s one tough animal.”

“It’s a first,” Sergeant Dyerson said. “We’ve never had one that could bust the lock on the buckle.”

Another officer asked, “What now?” It was the wretched plea of a man being devoured by insects.

“If the cat wants out this bad,” said Sergeant Dyerson, “I figure we’ll let him be.”

From the south came the oscillating whine of a fire truck. Sergeant Dyerson retrieved the broken panther collar and told his men to move the Jeeps off the road. Minutes later, a hook-and-ladder rig barreled past.

Jim Tile mentioned that the theme park was on fire.

“It’s breaking my heart,” Sergeant Dyerson said. He handed the trooper a card. “Keep an eye out. My home number is on the back.”

Jim Tile said, “All my life, I’ve never seen a panther.”

“You probably never will,” said the ranger, “and that’s the crime of it.” He tossed the radio collar in the back of the truck and slid behind the wheel.

“Not all the news is bad,” he said. “Number Nine’s got a litter of kittens over in the Fokahatchee.”

“Yeah?” Jim Tile admired the wildlife officer’s outlook and dedication. He was sorry his old friend had caused the man so much trouble and confusion. He said, “So this is all you do—track these animals?”

“It’s all I do,” Sergeant Dyerson said.

To Jim Tile it sounded like a fine job, and an honorable one. He liked the notion of spending all day in the deep outdoors, away from the homicidal masses. He wondered how difficult it would be to transfer from the highway patrol to the Game and Fish.

“Don’t you worry about this cat,” he told Sergeant Dyerson.

“I worry about all of them.”

“This one’ll be all right,” the trooper said. “You’ve got my word.”

As soon as he spotted the police car, Joe told Carrie to hike up her gown and run. She followed him down the slope of the bridge and into a mangrove creek.

Breathlessly they clung to the slippery roots; only their heads stayed dry.

“Don’t move,” Joe Winder said.

“There’s a June bug in your ear.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” He quietly dunked his face, and the beetle was swept away by the milky-blue current.

She said, “May I raise the subject of snakes?”

“We’re fine.” He wrapped his free arm around her waist, to hold her steady against the tide. “You’re certainly being a good sport about all this,” he said.

“Will you think about Orlando?”

“Sure.” It was the least he could do.

The metronomic blink of the blue lights grew stronger, and soon tires crunched the loose gravel on the road; the siren died with a tremulous moan.

Winder chinned up on a mangrove root for a better view. He saw a highway patrol cruiser idling at an angle on the side of the road. The headlights dimmed, and the trooper honked three times. They heard a deep voice, and Winder recognized it: Jim Tile.

“We lucked out,” he said to Carrie. “Come on, that’s our ride.” They climbed from the creek and sloshed out of the mangroves. Before reaching the road, they heard another man’s voice and the slam of a door.

Then the patrol car started to roll.

Joe Winder sprinted ahead, waving both arms and shouting for the trooper to stop. Jim Tile calmly swerved around him and, by way of a farewell, flicked his lights as he drove past.

Winder clutched his aching rib cage and cursed spiritedly at the speeding police car. Carrie joined him on the centerline, and together they watched the flashing blue lights disappear over the crest of the Card Sound Bridge.

“Everyone’s a comedian,” Joe Winder said.

“Didn’t you see who was in the back seat?”

“I didn’t see a damn thing.”

Carrie laughed. “Look what he threw out the window.” She held up a gooey stick of insect repellent. The top-secret military formula.

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