Her staff didn't move quickly enough. "Shut it off!" Judith roared.
Someone nearby fumbled with the remote. Curt Tulle collapsed into a single pixel. The tiny spot of white faded to darkness.
She stayed very still for a long time. Finally, she raised her head. Her eyes searched for Remo. She found that he was nowhere to be seen. He had slipped away while she was watching the conference.
"HETA says they're going to fight for ownership with us in court," one of her staffers-braver than the rest-offered. "Until then, he promises they'll keep the BCW safe," he added weakly.
Ever so slowly, Judith stared at the man, dead eyes locking on the nervous assistant, who suddenly looked like a hunter confronted by a grizzly.
"Like hell," she muttered.
Chapter 11
The office had been shrouded in oppressive, lengthening shadows, seemingly for hours. At long last, day finally collapsed completely into night. When the gathering darkness became too consuming, Curt Tulle was forced to turn on his desk light.
Pieces of the green glass shade were in the trash. The result of Judith White's attack. White light from the naked bulb spilled out across walls and ceiling.
Curt's weak eyes avoided the bare bulb. The light was just another thing to fear. He'd been an absolute nervous wreck since before the press conference.
If Mona Janner hadn't forced the lone BBQ on him, he would never have gotten involved in this. But she knew his Achilles' heel. The one thing that the HETA membership would have found completely unacceptable if it were to become public knowledge-his private passion.
Lost in thought, he stroked the nutria fur choker that was clipped around his neck. It always soothed him.
Until today.
With the bandage beneath it, the choker didn't fit as snugly as usual. It bunched up awkwardly at the side of his neck, chafing slightly.
Reminded once more of Dr. White, Curt shivered. It was all Mona's fault. Curt was content to quietly head up the Boston HETA office. He'd always protested the right things. Occasionally, he'd appeared on local television. All very quiet, very subdued.
Not like Mona. She was a doer. One of the passionate loudmouths who had invaded the movement in recent years. She'd do and say anything to further their cause.
Personally, Curt didn't like the new brand of activism that had flooded the movement. As far as yesterday's confrontation was concerned, Curt would have preferred to settle his differences with Dr. White and BostonBio in a court of law. Where there would be bailiffs with side arms to keep the halfcrazed scientist in line. Now Mona had even screwed that up. All for those stupid lab animals.
The whole BBQ business made Curt intensely uncomfortable.
The agitation he was feeling toward this whole sorry enterprise had clearly and distinctly cried out for the big guns. He had been forced to break into his personal store. Sitting alone in his Boston HETA office, Curt Tulle was decked out in full, glorious regalia.
In addition to the nutria choker, he wore a pair of alligator boots. Although they made his ankles sweat, the feel was exquisite. Well worth the exorbitant cost.
Specially made sealskin trousers gently caressed his thighs. He had insisted that his seamstress use the skins of baby seals. Everyone knew they made the best material.
A suede belt held the pants up. Again, young lambs were the best choice for suede-at least as far as Curt was concerned. And he was paying the bills, after all.
He wasn't wearing his favorite mink coat, opting instead for the long black sable-which he broke out only on special occasions. A pillbox hat made of the gorgeous fur of the Arctic blue fox perched at a rakish angle atop his head.
His ermine stole lay limp across his desk blotter. Curt stroked the fur carefully and evenly as he sat at his desk.
The animal didn't respond, which was how he liked it. For although he was head of the Boston branch of the most famous animal-rights group in the nation, Curt Tulle absolutely detested animals. From a personal perspective, the only good animal was a dead, skinned and processed animal. Ideally, one that excited a powerful tactile response.
The hypocrisy he displayed in his public and private attitudes was reconciled in his mind by the fact that he cared more deeply for the world than other people. Sure, he hated having living animals around him. But he fought tooth and nail to keep them everywhere else. And if a few random housewives were mauled by mountain lions while out jogging or a couple of kids were bitten by rattlesnakes while playing in the sandbox, Curt could live with it. Just as long as every last animal in his own backyard was caught, caged and crushed.
Curt was stroking his ermine and thinking about how nice it would be to live in a giant animal-free bubble when he heard a loud thud from the hallway beyond his closed office door. Sadie.
Curt exhaled. This was Sadie Mayer's second night this month to help out behind the front desk. The old woman was supposed to leave at nine.
Curt didn't like Sadie. He much preferred the energetic young college girls with leftist political leanings who migrated to town every fall. They were certainly easier on the eyes. But Sadie and her ilk were necessary to keep around if only to cover the phones during the long summer months.
Right now it was late September, the fall semester was well under way all around Boston and Curt Tulle absolutely did not need Sadie Mayer stomping around giving him a heart attack in the middle of the night.
Frowning, Curt pulled off his fox-fur hat. He left it on his desk, stepping out into the hallway.
It was cold in the hall. The alley door was open. Sadie.
"Stupid old bat." Curt shivered. He went to close the door.
He knew where she'd be. Ever since Mona and Huey Janner had dumped off the BBQ that morning, Sadie had been sneaking back to see the animal. He'd caught her a dozen times in the storeroom near his office, petting the dull-looking creature on its long snout.
The thought of actually touching a living animal gave him a further chill. He shuddered beneath his sable as he walked past the rear storage room on his way to the alley exit.
The storage room door was ajar. Of course he'd been right. Sadie had no sense of how valuable the BBQ was. To her, it was just another animal. She'd be knitting it a sweater next.
Agitated, Curt pushed the door. Something blocked the way.
The painted wood surface was rough to the touch as he pushed again. Harder.
Whatever it was shifted clumsily. The door pushed the inert object farther into the room as Curt shoved his way inside. Grumbling, Curt stepped inside.
He found Sadie instantly. She was the thing that had been blocking the door.
Curt gasped.
The old woman sprawled on her back in the shadowy room. Her eyes were open and milky. The bundles of slick, squishy organs that had-for the last seventy-six years-resided within the delicate shell of Sadie Mayer's abdomen were now spread haphazardly around the room. The wooden floor was awash in blood.
Horrified, Curt staggered back into the wall. His heel caught part of Sadie's liver. He skittered sideways. Feet slipping out from beneath him, he crashed to his side on the sopped floor. The train of his sable coat rolled through pools of viscera as he clawed at the wall, trying desperately to get back to his feet.
His alligator boots lost their footing again, and he fell once more, this time face first into the thick puddle of blood.
Curt screamed. The noise caught in his throat, and he choked on the sound. Whimpering, crying, he pulled himself to his knees. Fumbling at the door, he dragged it through the half-congealed ooze. Like a baby, Curt crawled on his hands and knees out into the hall.
Panting, heart pounding madly, he fell to the floor outside, hands coated with Sadie's blood.