One hand was held up and away from her body. The other was tensed in a fist near her abdomen.
The loose hand swooped down toward the dirtsmeared throat of Billy Pierce.
There was enough power behind the blow to sever the aging hippie's carotid artery. Her long nails could have shredded his neck to the point that he would have bled to death before the paramedics arrived.
Of course, to do this, she would have had to make actual contact.
The hand flew down. Billy's eyes widened in shock.
The vicious, fatal contact was inevitable.
Her hand mere inches away from the creased and crusty flab, Dr. White was stunned when her narrow wrist met something powerful and unyielding. A strong hand wrapped around her forearm, locking it in place. The hand had moved much faster than her own blow. She blinked back her surprise.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Remo asked. His hand was wrapped around her wrist. Her claws were frozen three inches away from Billy's filthy neck.
Though she said nothing, her eyes shot daggers at him. She looked back to Billy and snarled. Billy fell back in fear, stumbling into an unused workbench. He dropped loudly onto a wobbly metal stool, panting madly.
"Listen, lady," Remo growled. "I don't know what kind of junk you're pumping into your veins, but it's making you a real pain in the ass."
Her head snapped around to Remo. She regarded him coldly for a moment. With surprising strength, she wrenched her hand free. Remo let her.
"I was a pain in the ass before I started shooting up," she snapped.
"There's something to be proud of," he said aridly.
Without another word, Judith skulked off to a dark corner of the basement. She stood there in the shadows, her eyes trained suspiciously on the two men. Remo felt her gaze was directed more at him now than at Billy Pierce.
He had gotten a strange sense of calm from her back at HETA headquarters when she'd assaulted Curt Tulle. It was the same here. Her heart thrurnmed low and constant in her chest. It wasn't the erratic heartbeat of someone who had just attacked another human being.
The drugs. Had to be. Whatever she was injecting must have been a weird combination of both stimulant and calmative. Probably something she had synthesized herself.
It figured. The woman who was hell-bent on feeding the world was a certifiable lunatic.
Remo turned his attention away from the lurking shape of Judith.
"Can you get in touch with your friends before tonight?" Remo asked Billy.
"No," he admitted, gulping. His eyes strayed beyond Remo to the half-shadowed face of Dr. White.
Remo could sense that he was telling the truth. "Looks like we're going to have to wait until tonight to get your overgrown lab rats back," Remo called to the scientist.
"Tonight?" she said, suddenly shocked. "What time is it?"
"Five after four," Remo said.
"Damn!" She flew out of the shadows. "I have a Hot Copy interview at five. I have to get back to the lab. Let's go, brown eyes."
"Get a cab," Remo replied flatly. "I'm staying with Stink Boy. Besides, you scare me." He sank to a lotus position on the concrete floor.
Billy's eyes were sick when he realized his guest was staying.
"But I'll miss my interview," Judith complained.
"Reschedule. If you're nice, maybe he'll let you assault him tomorrow."
Judith scowled. "But this may be the last chance I get to ingratiate myself to these media jackals." Angrily, she raced up the cellar stairs. Remo heard her on the phone a moment later. Seconds later, the screen door to the kitchen slammed, and Judith left the house. Presumably to wait at the curb for the taxi.
Remo relaxed. Finally, some peace and quiet. He smiled placidly at Billy Pierce. Billy smiled weakly back, his broad face a sheen of sweat.
Remo took a deep, calming breath. And gagged. "Try to stay downwind, would you, pal?" Remo said to Billy.
Chapter 7
They had planned to rent the truck in New Hampshire so as not to draw attention to themselves, but someone pointed out that a rental truck driving around in Massachusetts with New Hampshire plates might draw more attention than one with Massachusetts plates. The conspirators had fretted over this for a time, finally deciding to pick up a truck in Massachusetts after all, but from far away. They chose one from an agency in Worcester.
"What's your destination?" asked the bored clerk at the Plotz truck-rental station. His pen was poised over the white rental forms.
"Omaha," blurted out Clyde Simmons.
"Seattle," said Ron DePew just as quickly. They looked at one another in horror.
"We're piano movers!" Clyde Simmons shouted, as if sheer volume could mask the obvious discrepancy in their cover story.
Since it happened to be his last day, the clerk didn't care. The story worked. With enough cash to cover the fee, they were on their way. They were expected to deliver the truck to the Plotz agency in Omaha-they had settled on Clyde's cover destination-by noon three days hence. Of course, the truck would never arrive.
"Smooth as silk," Ron boasted proudly as they drove the truck from the lot. He began peeling off the obvious false mustache he had picked up at a novelty store.
"Smoother," Clyde replied in a drop-dead-cool tone. Like an even cooler Barry White.
"Oww!" Ron screamed in response. When Clyde looked over, he saw that his partner was sitting in the passenger's seat holding what appeared to be a limp caterpillar. Bits of bloody flesh clung to it.
That day, Clyde and Ron learned two things. First, they were both cool as cucumbers. Second, it was not wise to stick on a phony mustache with Krazy Glue.
The blood on Ron's face had coagulated by the time they reached the Medford collective. Clyde had opted to leave his mustache on.
The farm was set back on a busy road. A thick stand of trees blocked the eight-acre spread from prying eyes.
Clyde and Ron turned at the familiar tin mailbox and steered onto the bumpy dirt road. They were bounced and jostled crazily in their seats as they drove beneath a canopy of trees toward the distant barn.
Twilight had fallen on New England. The faint smell of an illegal outdoor fire wafted in through the open cab window, carrying with it the hint of autumns long past.
Clyde broke through the copse of trees and got his first complete view of the barn. An excited tingle fluttered at the pit of his stomach. So focused was he on his ultimate destination that he didn't see the two black-clad figures standing in the middle of the path until the last second.
"Shit!" Clyde shouted, slamming on the brakes. The big truck skidded several yards to an abrupt halt. Ron was flung forward into the dashboard, smashing his forehead painfully. He fell back into his seat, teeth bared, clutching at his newest injury. A cloud of dust poured up from the rear of the truck, blanketing the cab, swirling in through the open windows.
Through the dirty haze beside Clyde, a black ski mask appeared. A gun muzzle poked in through the window.
"Hey! Whoa! Calm down," Clyde suggested, raising his hands. The truck continued to chug softly.
"Watch it," Ron warned from the other side of the cab. Another ski-masked figure had climbed up to the passenger's door. A rifle jammed Ron's ribs.
"State your purpose," the driver's-side ski mask insisted evenly.
"Jeez, Sam, you know our purpose."
Clyde promptly reached over and pulled off the man's ski mask. The cherubic face beneath was pale and startled.
"Hey, gimme that," the man whined. The gun withdrew.
Clyde held the mask away from Sam's grabbing hands.
"Are they ready for us?" he asked while waving the mask. He nodded to the barn.
"Yes," Sam said. He snatched at the ski mask once more, this time pulling it from Clyde's grip. His expression was angry as he dragged it back down over his face.
Sam's big nose stuck through the right eye hole. He tried twisting the mask back in place--a difficult feat with an automatic rifl
e in one hand. An ear popped through the left eye hole. He poked himself in the eye with his gun barrel and yelped.
"Keep practicing," Clyde droned. "Maybe someday you'll be able to dress yourself without Mommy's help."
In the passenger's seat, Ron snorted. The facial movement split his false-mustache scabs.
"We can't be too careful in this operation," Sam cautioned through a mouthful of wool. "Command has learned that forces are already aligning against us."
"Really?" Clyde asked. "Well, if they do show up, don't stand in the road like a couple of doofuses. I almost ran you over."
Clyde stomped on the gas, and the rental truck lurched forward. Sam and his leotard-wearing friend had to hop into a fresh cloud of dust to keep from being carried along to the barn.
Yet another man in ski mask and black leotard rolled open the main barn door at Clyde and Ron's approach. After they had guided the truck inside the big interior, the door was quickly rolled shut.
Clyde shut off the engine.
The men climbed down from the cab. Stale dry hay crunched beneath their work boots as they walked around to the front of the truck. Two familiar faces greeted them.
Clyde and Ron had met Mona and Huey Janner at a HETA rally several years before. They were a couple of renegade animal-rights activists who were in charge of the East Coast division of the Animal Underground Railroad.
The couple who had slipped into the Boston HETA office after Remo and Dr. White's departure still wore their black leotards, this time without concealing jackets. They carried their ski masks in their hands.
Mona was a mousy figure with intent, unblinking eyes.
"Were you followed?" she said. She spoke in an infuriatingly precise, overpronounced, snippy fashion. Eight parts Susan Hoerchner mixed with two parts Jeremy Irons.
"No," Clyde replied. "At least I don't think so."
Mona's thin mouth grew even thinner. Her lips all but disappeared in her grimace of disapproval. "There is an agent from the Department of Agriculture looking into the liberation," Mona instructed. "He was at HETA headquarters in Boston today."
"Did he find out anything?" Ron asked, concerned.
Mona laughed derisively. "You know Tulle. What do you think?"
"I don't like this," said Clyde worriedly. "Washington wasn't supposed to be in on this so soon."
"Actually, we're not sure what Curt might have told them," Huey Janner interjected.
"Them?"
Huey glanced at his wife for permission to speak. Her eyes didn't object. "Dr. Judith White was with him," he announced somberly.
All of their faces took on the expression of people who had just learned that Grandma had been dug up and fed to the dogs down the street.
"So what do we do?" Clyde blurted.
"Continue as planned," Mona said, voice steely. She turned abruptly, marching away from the truck. The rest hurried to keep up with her purposeful stride.
"Is that smart?" Clyde asked.
"The crisis is too urgent to worry about being smart," Mona said crisply.
Ron glanced nervously at Clyde. "What if we get caught?" he asked.
"Deny everything," Mona instructed.
They had reached another wooden door leading into a separate wing of the barn. At one time, the property had been a dairy farm. Mona dragged the door open, revealing a long, dimly lit interior. Dozens of hay-filled stalls lined either side of the oldfashioned walls. Most were empty. The nearest eight were not.
Mona took a gas lantern down from the wall. She led the small group to the closest stall.
For the first time, Clyde and Ron got a look at the new species of animal known as Bos camelus-whitus. Sixteen sad eyes peered out from the stalls all around them. Ron squatted down next to the nearest BBQ.
"Wow," Ron exhaled. He tipped his head thoughtfully. "It looks so harmless. Did one of these really kill that guy in Boston?"
"That's ridiculous," Mona snapped. "We had them with us the entire time. It's a media fabrication." She looped her lantern onto a hook next to the stall. "Take this one," she said, pushing the half-open gate wide.
Huey went inside and took a leash down from the wall. He snapped it onto the collar, which he had put on the animal earlier that afternoon. Not a choke collar. Mona had been clear about that.
"Only one?" Clyde asked, surprised. "What about the others?"
"They're too hot right now," Mona explained. "We get them out one at a time. All at once risks getting them all caught. And we don't want that to happen."
"No," Clyde reluctantly agreed, knowing that if the animals were caught, so was he.
Huey led the beast out onto the floor. It wasn't clear whether the difficult time it had walking was due to its stumpy, genetically engineered legs or to complete apathy. Judging by the look on the animal's supremely uninterested face, Clyde guessed it was the latter.
Mona's husband coached the lethargic animal out into the main barn.
"I've already set up a meeting with the Midwest Underground. By the way, Billy Pierce is going to be there to help with the exchange."
"C'mon," Ron complained, "not Zit-Face Pierce."
"He is a sympathetic biped and should be treated with respect," Mona chastised. "I contacted him when I thought we would have to move all eight of the creatures."
"Call him and tell him we don't need him."
"I tried, but there was no answer. He must already be on his way."
They were at the rental truck. Ron unlocked and opened the rear door. He and the other two men hefted the creature up into the hot interior. Although it only weighed about 110 pounds, the BBQ was awkward deadweight. It took a lot of grunting and straining from the three of them to put the oddly shaped animal inside. Once they were through, the BBQ stared out at them with its large, sad eyes.
Clyde pulled the door shut on the mournful animal.
Mona marched the men around to the cab. "The exchange will take place at the Concord checkpoint at nine o'clock sharp. Remember, obey all traffic rules. You don't want to be stopped for something stupid."
"Right, right, right." Clyde nodded. He thought he had been nervous about this operation before, but he was even more anxious now that he knew someone from Washington was already on the case. He was sweating profusely. Cold droplets spilled from his armpits down the interior of his flannel shirt.
"And wear your disguises," she commanded as they climbed inside the cab. In the lamplight, Mona Janner peered up at Ron DePew, as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes narrowed. "What happened to your lip?" she asked.
In the rear of the truck, the BBQ moaned sadly. Up front, Ron also moaned.
Chapter 8
Remo knew what commuter traffic was like in this part of the state, so he had struck out early for Concord. It was a good thing, too. The methodical deconstruction of every crucial roadway in Massachusetts had reached its fourth straight decade. As a result, the traffic was bumper-to-bumper for much of the ride. The hour-or-so trip from Salem took nearly four hours.
Orange plastic safety barrels were spaced along every torn-up road. The breakdown lane had been turned into a regular traffic lane, and the regular traffic lanes had been turned into endless gravel riverbeds.
Massachusetts State workers were sluglike artists, and the highway was their canvas. Every road in the state highway system seemed to always be a work in progress.
Remo was grateful to find a stretch of relatively unscarred pavement starting about a mile away from Concord's medium-security prison.
He thought of Todd Grautski and Kershaw Ferngard as he drove past the high-walled facility. Remo regretted not picking up a newspaper. He would have enjoyed seeing the unfailingly inaccurate accounts of how the two men had met their end.
Steering onto the rotary near the prison, Remo circled halfway before heading off on Route 117. A few hundred yards beyond the rotary, Remo pulled his rental car over onto the soft shoulder of the road. Leaving the engine idling, he got out.
The pounding had stopped somewhere near Burlington. That was good. It was bad enough trying to steer through a million edgy Massachusetts drivers without the added distraction of the incessant drumming that had been coming from the rear of the vehicle.
At the back of the car, Remo pretended to be supremely interested in his taillights while waiting for a break in traffic. When there was enough space between yellow headlights coming off the rotary, Remo leaned over and popped the trunk. He was instantly enveloped in a malodorous cloud of body odors mixed with stale pizza.
A filthy, flabby hand grabbed at the lip of the trunk. A wide, balding head popped into view after it.
"I couldn't breathe in there, man!" Billy Pierce gasped. He gulped deeply at the cool night air.
"If you couldn't breathe, you'd be dead," Remo said, himself breathing shallowly at the edge of the cloud. "Which I'm going to be if I stand here one more minute."
Leaving the trunk open, Remo went back to the front of the car. He slid in behind the steering wheel. The massive shift of weight at the rear of the car a moment later told him that Billy Pierce had climbed out. The trunk slammed shut. Another moment and the door across from Remo opened. Billy slid in beside him. The car instantly listed to the right.
Remo had powered down all four windows before stopping the car. Billy's broad index finger immediately made a move to the window control switch on his door.
"Leave it," Remo commanded. He was looking over his shoulder, waiting for a break in traffic. "But I'm cold," Billy complained.
"Fat people are never cold," Remo argued.
"I'm cold," Billy repeated. "And it's glandular." The sweat from his long trip in the trunk dripped down his massive frame. It had chilled him the moment he had come in contact with the crisp night air.
"The window stays down," Remo said firmly. As Remo pulled back out onto the road, Billy Pierce crossed his arms tightly. The shivering, aging hippie settled into sullen silence.
THEY DIDN'T DRIVE FAR.
The farm came up quickly on the left. There were two large fields bisected by a dark public road that ran up between them. Remo pulled off the main route and onto the narrower side road. The black-shrouded road stretched off into darkness far ahead. Remo and Billy got out of the car.
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