He was sobbing now, unable to hold back the panic and horror.
The blood. So much blood.
Sadie. Petting the BBQ. He remembered chasing her out of that room earlier in the day.
Now she was dead. Alone in that room. And dead. In spite of the intensity of his hysterical attack, something significant dawned in the back of Curt Tulle's reeling, confused mind.
Sadie. In that room. Alone.
Alone.
The BBQ was gone!
The thing was a killer. Mona Janner had dumped a vicious monster in his lap and taken off.
He cried, whimpered. Blood everywhere. It wasn't in the supply room.
It was free.
Somewhere else in the building. He needed to get away. To safety.
The urge to flee swelled like a surging tidal wave in the mind of Curt Tulle, suppressing all other thoughts.
He pushed himself back to his knees. Too late.
He heard the footfalls-confident, focused. Felt the pressure on his back.
It came from the direction of the alley door. The open door. Too late to run.
A blow to the neck. No. Stronger than that.
Blood erupted onto the floor beneath him. No longer that of poor Sadie. It poured as if from a running faucet from the open gash in his neck.
Another blow. This one on his back. Clothes tearing. Claws ripping into flesh.
The world slowed to a distant, lazy pace. Like a film run in slow motion.
He felt himself being lifted from the floor. The ceiling came very close. Twisting, bleeding, he was flung like a rag doll down the corridor. He arced up to the ceiling, shattering a bare hanging bulb. He felt the pain from the broken glass in his cheek. More blood.
The floor raced up quickly to meet him. He plummeted down, crashing in a bloodied ball into the corner near the bathroom.
Footsteps padded closer again. Sniffing.
Another noise. This one at the front door. Everything vague, hazy.
A snort very close. Retreating footsteps.
Weakly, Curt lifted his head. He saw the familiar black-spotted flanks of the BBQ vanishing into the shadows at the end of the corridor.
Blood ran from his forehead into his eyes. He lost focus.
"I hate animals," he wheezed.
As the pain of death dragged slowly up his battered body, Curt allowed his head to thud back to the floor.
Chapter 12
Remo had to wait until the last of the straggling reporters had left before approaching HETA headquarters. Since he lived in the area, he didn't want to run the risk of being seen. It had been eight years since his last date with the plastic surgeon's scalpel, and he had no interest in going back.
On the sidewalk, Remo tested the doorknob. Locked.
With a tight twist and gentle shove, he popped the lock. Tiny shards of metal skittered across the floor as Remo stepped inside.
The moment he entered the foyer, he was assaulted by the familiar, distinct smell of human death.
Remo slipped around Sadie Mayer's desk. He found Curt Tulle's body in the hallway beyond. The HETA director lay twisted against one wall. A streak of blood lined the floor where he'd skidded to a final, fatal stop.
At first glance, Curt didn't appear to be the victim of a BBQ attack. His stomach cavity was still intact. As he approached the body, Remo sensed a thready heartbeat. Curt coughed once, lightly. Foamy blood bubbled out between his lips. Crouching down beside the HETA director, Remo checked his pulse. Almost nonexistent. And his wounds were extensive. Curt hadn't much time left. The HETA man seemed to respond to the delicate touch of Remo's hand. His unseeing eyes rolled around. His head shifting slightly even as he stared blankly at the ceiling.
White lips parted.
The word Curt repeated would have been inaudible to every human set of ears on Earth, save two. "...ona...Mona...Mona," Curt gasped.
"Is that who did this to you?" Remo prodded gently.
Curt coughed. A string of sticky dark blood dribbled down his chin.
He seemed to want to shake his head but could not. "BBQ," he whispered. "Mona's...gonna kill me," he exhaled.
Curt's head lolled to an awkward angle. A final trickle of blood gurgled up between his lips.
Face severe, Remo left the body.
There was more blood in front of the supply room. Inside he found the remains of Sadie Mayer. The old woman's wounds were consistent with the other BBQ attacks. She had been killed first and then methodically eaten. Curt looked more like the victim of a savage assault.
Remo concluded that the BBQ had had its fill with Sadie. By the time it reached Curt, it was sated. The creature had been playing with its food. Farther down the hallway, Remo found the same tracks he had seen in the Concord cornfield. They led into the alley.
He hurried outside.
As before, the blood faded after only a few yards. This time the trail seemed to end more abruptly than before.
The BBQ was gone.
As he crouched to examine the final, bloody print, Remo wondered once more what kind of animal could change its footprint when it killed. It was baffling.
The mark he looked at now was clearly a paw print. The BBQ left hoofprints.
The creatures from BostonBio were deliberate genetic mutations, so anything was possible under the circumstances.
Still...
Privately, Remo hoped that Chiun would be done with his meditations soon. He'd hit a stone wall on his own. Maybe the Master of Sinanju could shed some light on this mystery.
Remo turned away from the last print.
As he headed from the alley out onto the street, Remo failed to notice that the alley door to the HETA headquarters had been wrenched open. From the outside.
Chapter 13
When word of the latest deaths attributed to the escaped BBQs broke on the eleven-o'clock local news, a palpable panic settled over Boston and its surrounding suburbs.
Phone lines became tangled from eleven o'clock until the wee hours of the night as viewers called friends and relatives to warn them in case they hadn't heard the latest terrifying news. Police stations all across eastern Massachusetts were flooded with unconfirmed BBQ sightings.
Assurances from BostonBio that the animals were perfectly harmless were ignored. And rightly so. The death toll was now up to ten, including one of the crazed geneticists who had actually worked on the insane project. At the moment, there were more human casualties than there were BBQs. Under the circumstances, no one in their right mind would believe BostonBio.
HETA had grown silent on the location of the remaining animals in its possession. BostonBio had retrieved only one. For all anyone knew, the other seven could be God-knew-where eating God-only-knew-whom. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.
With Curt Tulle dead, the authorities didn't even know whom in the HETA movement to arrest. But even if they'd thrown a net over the entire animal-rights group, it would still take years of court fighting, plea bargaining and actual prison sentences to get them to reveal the location of the creatures. In the meantime, Boston's citizenry hunkered down behind locked doors, fearful to even step outside lest they be attacked and consumed by one of the marauding beasts.
Nationally, the BBQ story had been backburnered the previous evening. But the latest developments would bring more notoriety. The deaths at HETA and the one confirmed at-large BBQ would doubtless be the lead story on all four networks the next day.
Already, the national press was circling. Nightline was devoting its entire program to coverage of the panic in Boston. A representative of the show had contacted BostonBio in order to get Dr. Judith White on the program. The genetics firm had bluntly informed the show that Dr. White was on indefinite suspension.
The premier geneticist of her generation had gone from brilliant genius to embarrassing outcast in just over forty-eight hours.
Flouting her suspension, Judith was sitting in her darkened lab hours after the murders at HETA HQ.