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.
"I couldn't breathe in there, man!" Billy Pierce gasped. He gulped deeply at the cool night air.
"If you couldn't breathe, you'd be dead," Remo said, himself breathing shallowly at the edge of the cloud. "Which I'm going to be if I stand here one more minute."
Leaving the trunk open, Remo went back to the front of the car. He slid in behind the steering wheel. The massive shift of weight at the rear of the car a moment later told him that Billy Pierce had climbed out. The trunk slammed shut. Another moment and the door across from Remo opened. Billy slid in beside him. The car instantly listed to the right.
Remo had powered down all four windows before stopping the car. Billy's broad index finger immediately made a move to the window control switch on his door.
"Leave it," Remo commanded. He was looking over his shoulder, waiting for a break in traffic. "But I'm cold," Billy complained.
"Fat people are never cold," Remo argued.
"I'm cold," Billy repeated. "And it's glandular." The sweat from his long trip in the trunk dripped down his massive frame. It had chilled him the moment he had come in contact with the crisp night air.
"The window stays down," Remo said firmly. As Remo pulled back out onto the road, Billy Pierce crossed his arms tightly. The shivering, aging hippie settled into sullen silence.
THEY DIDN'T DRIVE FAR.
The farm came up quickly on the left. There were two large fields bisected by a dark public road that ran up between them. Remo pulled off the main route and onto the narrower side road. The black-shrouded road stretched off into darkness far ahead. Remo and Billy got out of the car.
"Where are they?" Remo asked.
"They wouldn't be out in the open," Billy said, rolling his eyes, as if Remo knew nothing of covert operations. "They want to do this in secret. There's an access road at the edge of the woods beyond the field. The trucks will be there."
Remo looked at the nearest field. It was thick with early-autumn corn. The stalks grew high above his head.
"Okay, east or west woods?" Remo asked.
Billy scratched his grimy head. "Um..."
Remo closed his eyes. "Great," he muttered with a deep sigh. "Okay, here's what we do. I'll take east you take west. If you even think you've found your little buddies, come back to the car. I'll meet you back here in twenty minutes. And in case you have any ideas about bolting..."
Remo reached out and tweaked Billy's ear. The pain was so horrific and engulfing, the animal-rights terrorist didn't have time to scream. When Remo pulled his hand away, Billy sucked in a deep breath. He nodded his understanding.
Standing in the middle of the road, Billy began scratching his head again. "Er... just one question," he began sheepishly.
Once Remo had aimed him west, Billy started out across the road. He vanished amid the corn a few seconds later. Remo heard him crunching and stomping and swearing his way through the stalks. "Give me strength," Remo groaned. Turning, he headed into the nearer stalks of tall corn on the opposite side of the road from the animal-rights activist.
A moment later, the field swallowed him up.
CLYDE SIMMONS HAD PARKED the rental truck at the end of the access road twenty minutes before. He and Ron DePew were standing outside the truck now. Waiting.