Free The Anteater of Death by Betty Webb

a banana for dessert, she’d recover.
    “Look at the neck! It’s so perfect!” Zorah, for whom the giraffe was a personal favorite, almost clapped her hands, but restrained herself in time.
    Yes, the calf’s neck was perfect. So were the feet, which hung in the air below Makeba’s birth canal, as well as the head dangling between them. The calf’s eyes were still closed, which meant nothing. Sometimes the baby had to hit the ground before it awoke to the world. Its horns were nowhere to be seen, either, just two small nubs from which they would emerge in a few days.
    “Here come the shoulders.” Dr. Kate’s whisper was so ragged that I took my eyes off the calf for a second and looked over just as she snapped open her emergency bag. From its shadows, I could see the silver gleam of something sharp.
    Getting the calf’s two-feet wide shoulders out of its mother’s narrow vagina was the most difficult and dangerous part of a giraffe’s birth process, and if was going to be serious trouble, it would happen now.
    If Makeba needed help, Dr. Kate vet would hop the fence and do whatever was necessary. Fortunately for the vet, giraffes were among the gentlest of animals and not even Makeba’s mate would attack without cause. If he ever did charge someone, a blow from his dinner plate-sized rear hoof—or worse, his eight-foot-long neck—could be fatal. The same gentleness wasn’t true of the ostriches, who pecked at the ground nearby. Big D, the alpha male of the small flock which lived in the big pasture with the giraffes, was vicious and had once almost killed a keeper with a kick from his clawed foot. It would be up to us keepers to ensure that Big D stayed away if Dr. Kate had to enter the enclosure, even if it put our own lives at risk. Zookeepers were members of a mutual protection society.
    “Aaaaahhhh!” A collective sigh of relief from the keepers as the calf’s shoulders popped through. Now came the easy part, the narrow sides, the hindquarters, the rear legs…
    The calf fell.
    Six feet to the ground.
    On its head.
    No one breathed. Zorah grabbed me so hard on the forearm that I knew it would bloom with bruises tomorrow. I hung onto Dr. Kate in exactly the same way.
    The calf raised its head and opened its eyes.
    “Maaaaaah ,” it bleated.
    Makeba turned around, blinked her long-lashed brown eyes, and stared at the calf as if trying to figure out what this strange thing was. Then she lowered her elegant head and began to clean her baby with a long, sticky tongue.
    I wasn’t aware that I was holding my breath, or that everyone else was, until I expelled air with a sound that resembled the calf’s bleat.
    Sounds of snuffling. I turned to see big Zorah, as muscular as a man, with tears of joy streaming down her face. Although too coarse-featured to be considered pretty, she looked radiant. I touched my own cheek and found it as wet as hers. Glancing around at my fellow keepers, I saw that they were all smiling and crying. So were the park rangers.
    Just another day at the office.
    I hugged Zorah. She hugged back. We both hugged Dr. Kate, who was trying her professional best not to weep along with the rest of us. Not being a good actress, she failed, and a tiny tear dribbled down her cheek.
    Suddenly someone pulled Zorah away from me and a deep male voice interrupted our celebration of life.
    “Zorah Vega, I’m arresting you for the murder of Grayson Harrill. You have the right to remain silent…” The rest of the words were lost among the loud protests of the keepers as Sheriff Joe Rejas, flanked by two deputies, snapped a pair of handcuffs around Zorah’s wrists and led her away.

C HAPTER S IX
    “There’s no way she killed Grayson!” Dr. Kate stormed, as we watched the sheriff stuff Zorah into his patrol car. “She’s one of the gentlest human beings I know.”
    “With animals, maybe,” said Jack Spence, the zoo’s bear keeper, a tall, string bean of a man with light brown hair and gray