"Of course we do," she retorted. "Who do you think liberated them?"
"You're going to love what we have planned for them," her companion declared excitedly.
The BETA director could think only of the crazed look in Judith White's eyes. When the man opened his mouth to speak once more, Curt Tulle fixed it so he didn't hear a word of what he said.
As the couple detailed their diabolical plan, Curt clapped his hands firmly over his ears. Rubbing his nervous bare ankles against the comforting fur of the mink coat beneath his desk, Curt drowned them out by screaming the words to "Puff the Magic Dragon" at the top of his voice.
Chapter 6
When he was fifteen years old, young Billy Pierce's mother assured her son that he'd grow out of his terrible case of acne.
"Don't worry, Billy," Mrs. Pierce had said, with the quiet confidence only a parent could muster. "It shows up for maybe a few years and then it's gone forever. And I don't know what you're worried about anyway. You're still the handsomest boy at Salem High School."
As far as looks were concerned, Billy deluded himself into thinking that maybe his mother was right. Perhaps underneath the layers of oozing pustules and bloody scabs was another Rock Hudson waiting to break out. Billy never did find out.
Handsome was in the eye of the beholder, and any girl who beheld Billy from freshman all the way to senior year saw only "Zit-Face" Pierce. The acne, as well as the nickname, followed him to Salem State College.
Even when Billy graduated from college with a degree in English, the name dogged him. Perhaps it was his acne, perhaps it was his attitude, but what-ever the reason, he couldn't find a good job in town. He settled for employment in a small local fast-food establishment. Leftover pizza and as many French fries as he could filch didn't help his cratered complexion.
When he finally couldn't stand it any longer, Billy went to see a doctor. He subjected himself to ten full minutes of poking and prodding by the middle-aged physician. Finally, the doctor sat down in a chair before the twenty-three-year-old acne sufferer. He stayed a safe distance from his patient, seemingly afraid some of the worst of Billy's sad affliction might erupt with Vesuvian violence.
"Billy," the old doctor asked seriously, "when was the last time you took a bath?" He tried not to inhale too deeply.
"Baths are for the Man," Billy retorted.
The doctor shook his head somberly. "No, Billy. Baths are for people who want to be clean. You are without a doubt the filthiest thing on two legs I have ever seen."
How could Billy explain it to the old, un-hip fossil? It was the early 1970s, and fashionable dirt was in. This lack of personal hygiene among the avant-garde was so chic it predated grunge by twenty years. In 1972 everyone who was anyone had long, scraggly hair and looked like they'd just crawled out a sooty tailpipe.
Billy decided at that moment that the doctor was a quack. He also resigned himself to a life of lingering acne.
Almost thirty years later, nothing much had changed for Billy Pierce.
He still had the same job. He still lived at home with his mother. And his face still looked as if it had seen the business end of an acid-filled squirt gun. But now his long hair was greasier and thinner, his forehead stopped somewhere near the back of his head and his belly hung hugely over his belt, completely obscuring his large peace-symbol buckle.
And the single major change for Billy Pierce over the years was his allegiance. Since, sadly, there was no longer a war in Vietnam to protest, he had to find something else to occupy the self-righteous part of his moral and political soul. Necessity had forced Billy to throw his support behind the liberation of animals from their human overlords.
But it wasn't like the old days.
When he was protesting the war in Southeast Asia, he felt like part of a larger community. There were songs and sit-ins and marches on Washington. As an animal-rights activist, he toiled mostly in isolation and anonymity.
That was what he was doing today.
He had gotten the special blueprints from the Salem city hall. They were a little old, but very detailed.
A cracked coffee mug his mother used for gardening held down one curling corner of the large roll of paper. Dirt had dried in the bottom of the mug. Water-damaged paperbacks that had been stored in the basement four years ago when the cellar flooded held down two other corners. Billy was using his hand and elbow, alternately, to keep the last corner from rolling up.
As he looked over the plans, the bare fluorescent bulbs above him cast weird shadows across the table. Billy was trying to figure out what he would need.
Wire clippers. Probably. Maybe bolt cutters. Would he be able to pick the locks? He doubted it. But if he couldn't pick them, he knew the bolt cutters probably would do him no good on the locks. Billy had never had much upper-body strength. Maybe they weren't locked at all. After all, the interspecies prisoners couldn't very well escape by reaching out through the bars. Maybe they were just hooked closed.
Of course! The keys would be on the premises! It would help to know where they were. Billy vowed to do a little more reconnaissance before D day.
As his fat, grimy finger traced a path through the rooms on the blueprints, Billy heard a noise upstairs. It was the sound of someone stepping lightly across the kitchen floor.
Billy was startled by the noise. His mother was supposed to be at bingo until ten.
"Ma?" he yelled in the direction of the creaky wooden stairs. "Ma, is that you?"
No reply. At least not a vocal one. The gentle, padding footfalls became more focused. They moved in a direct path for the upstairs hallway where the cellar door was located.
Billy instantly panicked. Someone had obviously learned of his plan.
His hand sprang away from the blueprints, which immediately curled up, rolling with such force that they pushed away his mother's soiled mug. It fell to the floor, breaking into a dozen large pieces.
Billy didn't care. He had already turned away from the table and was waddling frantically toward the musty-smelling bulkhead at the rear of the basement.
The upstairs cellar door opened. Precise footfalls struck the staircase behind him.
Across the basement, Billy stumbled on the first concrete step. Toppling forward, he skinned his hands on the third. He pushed his ample girth back upright.
It was cold inside the bulkhead, with a thick earthen odor.
Billy grabbed desperately at the latch, twisting it wildly. With a single, violent push, he attempted to shove the flat door up into the yard. He found that he wasn't strong enough to budge the door more than an inch. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through the narrow crack for a tantalizing moment before the door clanged back loudly over his head, like the lid of a coffin.
He tried again. Too late.
A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder. He felt his massive frame lift off the steps. Billy's feet rose from the short concrete stairwell, and he soared backward into the cellar, landing atop the very table where he had been sketching out his great mission. The old table shattered to kindling beneath his great bulk.
Billy rolled over onto the pile of debris, eyes blinking back shock and pain. For the first time, he beheld the face of his attacker. Attackers.
"Are you trying to kill him?" Judith White demanded. She stood, her face a mask of accusation, near Remo Williams at the dark opening to the bulkhead.
"I wouldn't have had to grab him if he hadn't heard you stomping around like a drunken bison upstairs," Remo countered.
"Stomping?" Judith retorted. "I'm as silent as a cat."
"How silent do you think a 115-pound cat would be?" he asked, irritated.
"A lot quieter than you," she replied angrily.
"Listen before you answer, lady. Have you heard me scuff my foot once since you met me?" Remo demanded. "Have you even heard one single footfall?"