"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.
The couple who had slipped into the Boston HETA office after Remo and Dr. White's departure still wore their black leotards, this time without concealing jackets. They carried their ski masks in their hands.
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.