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.