"A pleasure," the driver said, bolting from the van.
Grinning, Remo retreated to the backyard of an adjacent house to await developments.
"This ought to be great," he said to himself.
To his surprise, the driver didn't even try to look for Cheeta. Instead, he jumped into the milling mass of media representatives and began spreading the joyous news.
"Cheeta's gonna drop one!" he howled.
The pack broke in all directions.
"Everyone loves good news," Remo chortled.
And as he watched, Cheeta Ching was pounced upon.
The questions flew fast and furious.
"Miss Ching, is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That you're with child."
"Who said that? My husband?"
"The lab said the rabbit died."
Cheeta turned predatory. "It did? What's your source for that? Did the rabbit have a name? Did he suffer?"
"Your driver told us. He just heard the word."
"I'm preggers!" Cheeta shrieked, throwing up her hands.
Then a strange look came over her flat face. Like an Asian Gorgon, Cheeta Ching lowered her sticky-haired head until she was looking up from under her perfect viper eyebrows into a ring of minicam lenses.
"Everybody better not be filming this," she hissed.
"Why not? It's news."
"It's my news. It's my body. It's my story, and I intend to be the first to break it!"
"Too late," a chipper voice called out. "You gave us the quote. Remember the First Amendment."
"Remember that if any of you have careers after today, you'll have to deal with me. Somewhere. In some city. In some station."
"Are you planning on taking maternity leave, Miss Ching? " a reporter asked pleasantly.
"Cut it out!" Cheeta howled.
"Do you have any ovulation tips for aging baby-boomers who want to be mothers?" another wanted to know.
"Do you have a favorite position for procreating, Miss Ching?" demanded a third.
"The first person to break this story," Cheeta Ching said in a venomous voice, "I will publicly name as the father."
"Then I guess the story's mine," said a bright female voice.
"Who said that?" Cheeta shrieked.
Out from the pack of reporters bolted Jade Ling a local San Francisco anchorwoman of Asian descent. She made for her van.
Cheeta gave chase, crying, "You Jap tart! Come back with that footage!"
The cameras followed them down the steep street on Pacific Park, filming every shriek and threat Cheeta Ching vomited from her leathery lungs.
While they were sorting out broadcast rights, Remo circled around to the blind side of the house and mounted the gingerbread and nameless wooden decorations to the roof. Amid a forest of satellite dishes, he found an unobstructed skylight and peered down.
He saw a bare attic, with Navajo blankets hanging from the rafters. In one corner there was a squat, featureless pyramid, which looked like it had been formed of concrete.
Remo looked around for a catch or fastener and, finding none, simply popped the Plexiglas from the skylight mounting. He simply pressed down on the bulbous top, until the caulking surrendered and the Plexiglas jumped up into his hands.
Remo set it in a handy satellite dish and dropped down.
As soon as his feet hit the bare flooring, he froze.
His Sinanju-trained senses instantly detected a heartbeat, and the slow, shallow inhale-exhale of human lungs.
There was no one in the attic. In fact, there was no thing in the attic. Except the pyramid.
Remo slipped up to this. The sound of respiration grew louder. There was someone inside the thing.
Remo looked for an opening. There was none. He decided to knock anyway.
"Anyone home in there?" he called.
"Who are you?" a suspicious voice demanded.
"Secret Service. You Barry Black, by any wild chance?"
"Chance," said Barry Black, "has nothing to do with how I got to be Barry Black."
"I'll buy that," Remo said quickly. "I have a few questions for you."
"I am not answering questions today," said Barry Black.
"You have to."