"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 rifle 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.