He looked at the destinations over the front windshield. There was BUFFALO and PITTSBURGH and OTTAWA and NEW YORK and plenty of other places, but none of those cities was close to where he was going.
Chipper needed to see the schedule.
He darted across the street, narrowly avoiding getting run over by a taxi, its horn blaring, and dashed between a man’s legs as he opened the heavy, brass-framed door to the terminal.
“Whoa!” the man said.
The dog trotted into the terminal, craning his head upwards, looking for a schedule. His eyes landed on it.
BOSTON, TORONTO, SYRACUSE, RICHMOND, MONTREAL—
He didn’t want to go to any of those places. His eyes kept scanning the board.
PROVIDENCE, DAYTON, CANFIELD, CHIC—
Whoa! Hang on. There it was: CANFIELD.
That wasn’t the exact place he wanted to go, but it was as close as any bus was going to take him. Once he got to Canfield, he could walk the rest of the way. His GPS program told him it was eight miles from Canfield to where he wanted to be.
That might take Chipper a day or so, but he could do it.
He checked to see what time the Canfield bus left and was alarmed to see that it was due to leave the station in the next five minutes. Which meant that it was probably already here, loading with passengers.
Chipper scurried back outside and ran to the platform where the buses lined up. He looked at the destination boards posted over the front windshields. The sign on the fourth bus read CANFIELD.
Chipper had to get on that bus.
Passengers were lined up, waiting to board. Most were already on, and seated. A man Chipper figured was the driver was midway down the side of the bus, directing passengers to leave their larger bags with him. As passengers boarded, the driver, the name YABLONSKY stitched to his uniform, opened a low, large, rectangular door beneath the windows and between the front and rear wheels. He began tossing the bags into the empty, cavernous storage area.
Chipper assessed the situation. The driver, while loading the bags, was keeping an eye on the people getting on the bus, which meant he was facing forward. Chipper slunk down the other side of the bus, came across the back, and peered his head around the corner. The driver, his back to him now, was still loading bags. But there were only a few to go.
Chipper had to get in there without being seen. And that meant timing it just right.
There was a sudden squealing sound. Chipper looked towards the street that ran past the terminal, saw two large, black SUVs with windows so darkly tinted he could not see who was inside.
The Institute.
Four men jumped out of each vehicle. But these were not the White Coats, not the men and women that Chipper had seen most days — the ones who poked and prodded him, who put devices inside him and took them out again, who sat at their computers and typed and clicked and printed out results. These men and women getting out of the SUVs were like the ones who’d been looking for him on the subway. Black suits, white shirts — ties on the men — little wires running down from their ears into their jackets.
They conferred briefly, pointed up and down the street, then in his direction. They were dividing up the search.
One of them headed towards the buses.
Chipper crouched down below the massive vehicle, inching forward so that he tucked behind the wheel, hidden from sight. He peeked around the edge, saw a man coming in his direction.
Did The Institute have people searching for him all over the city, or were they tracking him? Were the implants that allowed The Institute to know where he was at all times activated? There would have been no need to have that program engaged when they had him locked up in a cage.
The bus driver loaded the last of the bags. In seconds he’d be closing the door to the luggage compartment. Chipper crept around the tire, his snout almost sticking out from under the vehicle.
The driver, who had been down on his knees pushing bags deeper into the cargo hold, stood. An arm went up.
This is it.
The broad, vertical metal door started to swing down. When it was halfway to closing, Chipper sprung out from under the bus and scooted into the cargo hold, unseen by the driver as he watched the passengers board. Chipper brought his hind legs in just as the door slammed shut, nearly closing on his still-sore tail.
It was completely dark inside the cargo compartment. Chipper, moving blindly, worked his way between and over the bags until he was near the back of the luggage hold. When the door next opened, he didn’t want to be spotted. He snuggled down between some bags and rested his head on his outstretched paws.
Moments later, the bus engine began to grumble and Chipper could feel the huge, lumbering beast back slowly out of its spot, stop, then lurch forward.
I’m getting away. I’m getting away. It’s going to be okay.
For a brief moment, Chipper felt encouraged. And then he coughed.
The smell of exhaust inside the cargo hold was strong.
He hoped he had enough air to last him till he got there.
Eight
Daggert was back in Madam Director’s office with an update.
“I’ve pulled my team together and we’re heading out.”
“Last I heard,” she said, “the animal was cornered in the subway. I thought this was wrapped up.”
“No. They think now that he may have been hiding in a cello case when they went through the car. Then he got away.”
Madam Director, seated behind her desk, touched her fingers together, making her hands into a tent. Her nails were long and painted blood red.
“So where is the dog now?”
“Unknown. Another team converged on the bus station, but they could not find it.”
“Surely you didn’t expect the beast to buy itself a ticket?”
“No.”
Madam Director’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should find out if the dog has bought a bicycle and is pedaling out of town.”
Daggert remained stone-faced as she asked, “How did they know to look in the subway in the first place? And then the bus terminal?”
“Control managed to remotely activate the GPS locater, but it’s not been working perfectly. They probably would have replaced the software in the animal if it hadn’t been slated for termination.”
“You understand, Daggert, why we must get this animal back?”
Daggert nodded.
“Even if the animal attempted to pass itself off as a normal dog, and were to be taken in by some kind family, adopted as a stray, it would be found out as not being like other dogs. They’ll find the port built into its collar. Perhaps they will, out of curiosity, try plugging in a laptop or some other device just to see what happens. Can you imagine that scenario, Daggert?”
“Yes. Although, as you know, there is the five-digit password protection.”
“Good heavens, is that the level of our sophistication? Is this dog as easy to get into as an ATM? What do you think will happen if someone gets into the program?”
“I expect they might call someone. Police, newspapers, the six o’clock news.”
“Yes. And we would risk becoming exposed. Our work would become public knowledge. A vital security program jeopardized. And once the world found out what we were doing with animals, imagine what else they might uncover? Reporters start digging, they might find out that the dogs are just the beginning of what we’re working on here. We’ve faced a crisis like this before; a threat of exposure.”