"Patches?" Remo asked. He was ignored.
A man with a blondish mustache, and a powder-blue paramilitary uniform that looked like it had been pilfered from the Universal Studios prop department, greeted them with a salute.
"I remand these antisocials into your custody, commandant," said Blaise, returning the salute.
"Commandant?" asked Remo.
"Antisocials?" said Cheeta.
"Shut up," said Blaise.
They were escorted past rows of cells. The cells were heavily barred, and all were empty except for piles of straw on the floor. Remo noticed white electronic devices attached to the ceiling of each cell. So did Cheeta Ching.
She demanded, "What are those? Burglar alarms?"
Blaise Perrin laughed.
At the end of the narrow corridor was a blank wall. On either side were facing cells. The commandant opened one cell, and Cheeta Ching and her driver were frisked at rifle-point.
"Are you crazy?" he snapped. "We aren't carrying weapons."
"We know," Blaise said smugly.
"Ah-hah!" said the commandant. "Contraband!"
A pack of menthol cigarettes was brought to light.
"Take a good look," Blaise told the unhappy driver. "Those are the last coffin nails you're going to see."
"You're going to kill us?" Cheeta blurted.
Blaise Perrin laughed without answering. Remo thought it was a crazy laugh.
Cheeta and her driver were pushed into a single cell, and the bars clapped shut.
The second door was opened and Blaise said to Remo, "In you go, sport."
"How am I supposed to get out the vote from behind bars?" Remo wanted to know.
"You don't," said Blaise Perrin.
Shrugging, Remo entered the cell. The door banged shut.
"Welcome to the wave of the future," said the powder-blue commandant in a hearty voice.
"A prison?" Remo asked.
"A reeducation camp."
Cheeta Ching exploded, "But I'm a summa cum laude journalism major!"
"It's not that kind of reeducation," said Blaise, smiling.
"What kind is it?" Remo asked in a cool, unconcerned voice.
"You'll find out in the morning."
"What if I don't want to wait?"
"In Rona Ripper's California, you wait if the Ripper organization tells you to wait."
"So I wait," Remo said.
Blaise Perrin stepped up to the bars and looked at Remo's high-cheekboned face.
"You're an awfully cool customer. Mind telling me why Rona wants you kept under wraps?"
"She thinks I'm a pain in the ass," Remo said.
Blaise frowned. "Is that a joke?"
"Not if nobody laughs."
Nobody did, so Blaise Perrin backed away from the bars and stormed off. His guards followed.
In the silence that followed, Cheeta Ching said, "I don't believe this."
"Believe it," Remo said.
"I've always admired Rona," Cheeta said unhappily. "She's a role model for aggressive women everywhere."
"Maybe if we ask nicely, they'll give us absentee ballots," Remo said.
Cheeta began pacing her cell. "We can't just sit here and let our First Amendment rights be trampled on. Even by a progressive woman."
"Not if we sleep instead," Remo said, throwing himself onto the straw in one corner of the hardwood floor.
Cheeta surged to her bars and glared at Remo. "What kind of man are you?"
"A sleepy one."
Remo willed himself to sleep. It was not easy. Cheeta Ching continued to carp and complain for the better part of an hour. That came to an abrupt halt when a guard came in with a pail of cold water and dashed it through the bars of her cell.
After that, Cheeta Ching got very quiet and eventually fell asleep. She used her driver for a pillow. He didn't complain in the least, but he didn't close his eyes either.
Remo woke up precisely at midnight. He had told his body to come awake at exactly midnight. He didn't know how he knew it was midnight when his eyes snapped open, any more than he understood the biological mechanism that brought him to full consciousness without any logy transition. It was Sinanju. It was a natural ability all members of homo sapiens possess, if only they could access it.
Remo rose to his feet, like an apparition from a fresh grave.
He took hold of the bars, testing them for strength. They were sunk into holes drilled into the floor and ceiling. He found they could be rotated. That meant they weren't sunk into anything more solid than the natural earth under the wood flooring.
Remo grinned. This was going to be easy. He grasped the two center bars and began twisting them. As he twisted, he applied downward pressure.
He took his time. Silence was more important than speed. And he didn't want to wake Cheeta Ching and her leather lungs.
It took a few minutes, but the tops of the bars dropped out of the ceiling holes. As he kept turning the bars, they sank further and further into the soft earth below, making soft grumbles of complaint.
When they were knee-high, Remo stepped out of his cell.
He moved down the narrow corridor, passed through an unguarded door, and paused at the juncture of two intersecting corridors.
Approaching footsteps warned him of a patrolling guard. Remo slipped into a storeroom and waited until the guard had passed. The storeroom was cramped for space. In the dark, Remo allowed his visual purple to adjust to the pitch-darkness until he could see shades of gray.
He picked through a box of what seemed to be medical supplies. Inside the box were smaller boxes and in them, flesh-colored circular patches resembling Band-Aids sealed in cellophane packets. They didn't smell like ordinary bandages, so Remo pocketed a bunch of them.
The guard's footsteps had moved to another part of the building, and Remo slipped out.
Remo stopped and let his senses open fully. His entire skin became a giant sensory organ. He counted heartbeats. There were eight people in the building, not counting himself. That meant four potential enemies, since Cheeta and her driver were locked down tight.
Remo resumed his search. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, but he knew he would recognize it when he found it.
What he found, when he turned the next corner, was a light framing the edges of a door, and Blaise Perrin's anxious voice coming through the veneer panel.
Perrin was saying, "They'll be secure here. And guess what? One of them's a smoker. We'll run him through the pilot program and see if he can cut it."
Remo went through the door. On the other side Blaise Perrin sat with his back to the door, his feet propped up on a desk.
"One second. I'm talking to Rona," he said impatiently.
"Give her my very best," Remo said pleasantly.
"Oh my God!" said Blaise Perrin. "Rona! He got loose!"
Through the receiver diaphragm, Rona Ripper's twisted voice could be heard barking, "Do your duty and cover my ass!"
Blaise Perrin came out of his seat without remembering to let go of the phone. He pulled it out of its base, lunging for a red lever mounted on the outside wall.
The lever was behind glass, and white letters said IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK GLASS, PULL LEVER. There was a red metal hammer hanging from a silver chain.
Blaise Perrin got his hand on the hammer. But Remo's steely fingers got him by the wrist.
"I don't smell any smoke," Remo said, grinning fiercely.
Sweating, Blaise attempted to move his hand. It wouldn't budge. Effortlessly, Remo pried his fingers loose and guided the director of the Ripper campaign back to his seat. He then pried the phone receiver from his other hand and sat him down. Hard.
"Talk," Remo said.
"I have nothing to say."
"Rona Ripper is behind the attacks on the other campaigns. Am I right?"
Blaise Perrin actually looked startled. "Are you kidding? Why would she do that?"
"Because she wants to get elected."
"Rona is a pacifist."