by Robin Cook
“Well, at least you looked,” Kim said. “Now get yourself out of there.”
“Not until I look at the company records,” Marsha said.
“It’s eight–fifteen,” Kim said. “You told me this was going to be a quick visit.”
“It shouldn’t take me that much longer,” Marsha said. “I’m in the record room right now. I’ll call you back in a half hour or so.”
Marsha disconnected before Kim had a chance to object. She put the phone down on a long library table and faced a bank of file cabinets along one wall. The opposite wall had a single window against whose panes the rain was beating. It sounded like grains of rice. At the far end of the room was a second door. Marsha went to it and made sure it was locked.
Feeling relatively secure, she walked back to the file cabinets and yanked out the first drawer.
After several minutes, Kim finally withdrew his hand from the receiver. He’d hoped that Marsha would have called right back. The conversation had ended so abruptly he’d thought they’d been cut off. Eventually he had to accept the fact that she’d hung up.
Kim was sitting in the same club chair Marsha had found him in. The floor lamp next to the chair was the only light on in the house. On the side table was a glass of neat whiskey that he’d poured for himself and then had not touched.
Kim had never felt worse in his life. Images of Becky kept flooding his mind and bringing forth new tears. The next instant, he found himself denying the whole, horrid experience and attributing it to an extension of his nightmare where Becky had fallen into the sea.
The sound of the refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen made him think he should try to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put anything significant in his stomach. The trouble was he wasn’t hungry in the slightest. Then he thought about taking himself upstairs to shower and change clothes, but that sounded like too much effort. In the end, he decided he’d just sit there and wait for the phone to ring.
The old Toyota pickup had no heat and Carlos was shivering by the time he turned off the paved road onto the gravel track that led around the Higgins and Hancock stockyard. He switched off the single functioning headlight and proceeded by knowledge of the route and shadowy glimpses of the fence posts to his right. He drove all the way around to the point where the stockyard funneled into the chute leading into the plant. During the day, this was where all the luckless animals entered.
He parked the truck in the shadow of the building. He took off the heavy mittens he used to drive and replaced them with tight-fitting black leather gloves. Reaching under his seat, he extracted a long, curved kill knife, the same kind he used during the day. By reflex he tested its edge with his thumb. Even through the leather he could tell it was razor-sharp.
He climbed from the cab. Blinking in the rain, he quickly climbed the fence and dropped into the trampled mud of the stockyard. Mindless of the cow dung, he sprinted down the chute and disappeared into its dark depths.
With an oyster fork in one hand and a cut-crystal glass of bourbon in the other, Bobby Bo mounted his coffee table and drew himself up to his full height. In the process, he knocked over an hors d’oeuvre plate of marinated shrimp to the delight of his two professionally cut standard poodles.
Bobby Bo loudly clanged the the fork against the glass. No one heard until the quartet stopped playing.
“All right, everyone,” Bobby Bo yelled over the heads of his guests. “Dinner is served in the dining room. Remember to bring the number you drew out of the bucket. That will be your table. If you haven’t drawn a number, the bucket will be in the foyer.”
The crowd began to move out of the living room en masse. Bobby Bo managed to step down from the coffee table without further mishap other than to scare one of the dogs, which yelped and fled into the kitchen.
Bobby Bo was on his way to the dining room, when he caught sight of Shanahan O’Brian. Excusing himself, he stepped over to stand beside his head of security.
“Well?” Bobby Bo whispered. “How did it go?”
“No problem,” Shanahan said.
“Is it going to happen tonight?” Bobby Bo asked.
“As we speak,” Shanahan said. “I think Daryl Webster should be told, so he can tell his security not to interfere.”
“Good idea,” Bobby Bo said. He smiled happily, patted Shanahan on the shoulder, then hurried after his guests.
The doorbell shocked Kim out of his melancholic stupor. For the moment, he was disoriented as to the origin of the noise. He even started to reach for the phone. He’d expected the phone to ring and certainly not for the door to chime. When he realized it was the door, he looked at his watch. It was quarter to nine. He couldn’t believe that someone would be ringing his doorbell at such a time on Saturday night.
The only person he could imagine it might be was Ginger, but she never came over without calling. Then Kim remembered he’d failed to listen to his answering machine, so she could have called and left a message. While Kim considered the possibilities of this, the doorbell sounded again.
He did not want to see Ginger, but when the doorbell sounded for the third time followed by some knocking, Kim pushed himself out of the chair. He was just thinking of what he could say, when to his utter surprise, he found himself looking at Tracy, not Ginger.
“Are you okay?” Tracy asked. She spoke quietly.
“I guess,” Kim said. He was nonplussed.
“Can I come in?” Tracy asked.
“Of course,” Kim said. He stepped back to give Tracy room. “Sorry! I should have invited you in immediately. I’m just surprised to see you.”
Tracy stepped into the dimly lit foyer. She could see that the only light in the house was in the living room, next to an easy chair. She slipped out of her coat and rain hat. Kim took them.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming over here like this,” Tracy said. “I know it was a little impulsive on my part.”
“It’s okay,” Kim said. He hung up Tracy’s things.
“I didn’t want to be with anyone,” Tracy explained. She sighed. “But then I started thinking about you and worrying, especially with how agitated you were when you ran out of the hospital. I thought that since we’ve both lost the same daughter, we’re the only ones that could have any idea of how we feel. I guess what I’m saying is I need some help and imagine you do too.”
Tracy’s words snatched away any remnants of denial Kim was entertaining. He felt a keen wave of grief he’d been doing his best to avoid. He breathed out heavily and swallowed as he choked back tears. For a moment he couldn’t speak.
“Have you been sitting here in the living room?” Tracy asked.
Kim nodded.
“I’ll get a chair from the dining room,” Tracy said.
“Let me,” Kim volunteered. He appreciated having something physical to do. He brought the chair into the living room and placed it within the penumbra of light from the floor lamp.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Kim managed. “I poured myself some scotch.”
“Thank you, but no,” Tracy said. She sat down heavily, then leaned forward, cradling her chin in her hands with her elbows on her knees.
Kim lowered himself in the club chair and looked at his former wife. Her dark hair, which was always wavy and full, was matted against the top of her head. The small amount of makeup she normally wore was streaked. She was clearly pained, yet her eyes were as bright and sparkly as Kim remembered.
“There’s also something I wanted to tell you,” Tracy said. “After I had a little time to think, I believe what you did today to Becky took a lot of courage.” She paused for a moment while she bit her lip. “I know I couldn’t have done it even if I was a surgeon,” she added.
“I appreciate your saying that,” Kim said. “Thank you.”
“I was appalled at first,” Tracy admitted.
“Open-heart massage is a desperate act in any circumstance,” Kim said. “Doing it on your own daughter is . . .
well, I’m sure the hospital isn’t looking at it the same way you are.”
“You did it out of love,” Tracy said. “It wasn’t hubris like I thought at first.”
“I did it because it was clear to me the external massage wasn’t working,” Kim said. “I couldn’t let Becky just fade away like it seemed she was doing. No one knew why she was arresting. Of course, now I know why and why the external massage wasn’t working.”
“I had no idea this E. coli could be such an awful illness,” Tracy said.
“Nor did I,” Kim said.
The phone’s jangle startled both people. Kim snapped up the receiver. “Hello,” he barked.
Tracy watched as Kim’s face registered first confusion, then irritation.
“Hold it,” Kim snapped into the receiver. “Cut the spiel. I’m not interested in your company’s Visa card, and I want you off this line.” He hung up forcibly.
“It looks like you are expecting a call,” Tracy said captiously. She stood up. “I’m intruding. Maybe I should go.”
“No,” Kim said. But then he immediately corrected himself. “I mean, yes, I’m expecting a call, but no, you shouldn’t leave.”
Tracy cocked her head to the side. “You’re acting strange,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“I’m a basket case,” Kim admitted. “But . . .”
The phone interrupted Kim’s explanation. Again he snatched the receiver off the hook and said a frantic hello.
“It’s me again,” Marsha said. “And this time I’ve found something.”
“What?” Kim asked. He motioned for Tracy to sit down.
“Something potentially interesting,” Marsha said. “On January ninth there is a discrepancy between the USDA paperwork and Higgins and Hancock’s.”
“How so?” Kim asked.
“There was an extra animal slaughtered at the end of the day,” Marsha said. “In the company’s records it’s designated lot thirty-six, head fifty-seven.”
“Oh?” Kim questioned. “Is an extra animal significant?”
“I would think so,” Marsha said. “It means the animal wasn’t seen by the USDA vet.”
“So you mean it could have been unhealthy?” Kim questioned.
“That’s a distinct possibility,” Marsha said. “And it’s supported by the the purchase invoice. This final animal wasn’t a steer raised for beef. It was a dairy cow bought from a man named Bart Winslow.”
“You’re going to have to explain,” Kim said.
“Well, dairy cows often go for hamburger,” Marsha said. “So that’s one thing. The other thing is that I recognize the name, Bart Winslow. He’s a local guy who’s what they call a ‘Four-D’ man. That means he goes around and picks up downers. Those are dead, diseased, dying, and disabled farm animals. He’s supposed to take them to the renderer to be turned into fertilizer or animal feed.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear the rest,” Kim said. “Don’t tell me that they sometimes sell them to the slaughterhouse instead of the renderer.”
“Apparently that’s what happened with this last animal,” Marsha said. “Head fifty-seven in lot thirty-six must have been a downer, probably sick.”
“This is disgusting,” Kim commented.
“It gets worse,” Marsha said. “I found a company deficiency report on the same animal that had nothing to do with its being sick or not having been seen by the vet. Are you ready for this . . . it’s revolting.”
“Tell me!” Kim urged.
“Uh-oh!” Marsha said. “Somebody is at the door. I got to get these papers back in the file!”
Kim heard a loud thump. In the background he could hear the rustling of papers and then the distinctive sound of a file cabinet drawer being slammed shut.
“Marsha!” Kim yelled.
Marsha didn’t come back on the line. Instead Kim heard the sound of shattering glass. It was loud enough to make him jump. For a split second he reflexively pulled the phone away from his ear.
“Marsha!” Kim shouted again. But she didn’t answer. Instead he heard the unmistakable sound of furniture being upended and crashing to the floor. Then there was a heavy silence.
Kim pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at Tracy. His eyes reflected the terror he felt.
“What’s going on?” Tracy questioned with alarm. “Was that Marsha Baldwin?”
“I think she’s in danger!” Kim blurted. “My God!”
“Danger from what?” Tracy demanded, sensing Kim’s frenzy.
“I have to go!” Kim cried. “It’s my fault!”
“What is your fault?” Tracy cried. “Please, what’s going on?”
Kim didn’t answer but rather spun on his heels and dashed from the house. In his haste, he left the front door ajar. Tracy ran after him, demanding to know where he was going.
“Stay here,” Kim yelled, just before jumping into his car. “I’ll be right back.” The driver door slammed. A moment later the engine roared to life. Kim gunned the car backward out into the street. Then he raced off into the night.
Tracy ran a hand through her matted hair. She had no idea what was going on nor what she should do. At first she entertained the idea of getting into her car and driving home. But Kim’s frenzy worried her, and she wanted to know what it was all about. Besides, the thought of being home was not appealing; she’d already fled from there.
The cold rain finally made up Tracy’s mind for her. She turned around and went back into the house. As Kim had suggested, she’d wait there.
The chase had started with the shattering of the door’s glass panel. A gloved hand had reached in through the jagged edges and unlocked the door. The door had then burst open, slamming against the wall.
Marsha had let out a short shriek. She’d found herself facing a gaunt, dark-complected man wielding a long knife. The man had taken a step toward her, when she’d turned and fled, tipping over chairs behind her in hopes of hindering the man’s pursuit. She instinctively knew he was there to kill her.
Frantically she unlocked the rear door. Behind her she could hear cursing in Spanish and the crashing of chairs. She didn’t dare look back. Out in the hall, she ran headlong in search of anyone, even the intimidating guard. She tried to yell for help, but, in the effort of flight, her voice was hoarse.
She dashed past empty offices. At the end of the hall, she hurried into a lunchroom. One of the many long tables held a small collection of lunchboxes and thermos bottles, but their owners were nowhere in sight. Behind her, she could hear running footfalls gaining on her.
At the far end of the lunchroom, a door stood open. Beyond it was a half flight of stairs that terminated at a stout fire door. With little choice, Marsha ran across the room, strewing her path with as many of the lunchroom chairs as she could. She mounted the stairs two at a time. By the time she got to the fire door, she was seriously sucking air. Behind her, she could hear her pursuer struggling with the upturned chairs.
Yanking open the fire door, Marsha darted into the vast, cold room beyond. This was the kill floor, and in the semidarkness created by widely spaced night-lights, it had a ghastly, alien look, especially since it had been recently steam-cleaned. A cold, gray mist shrouded the ghostly, metal catwalks, the sinister hooks hanging from the ceiling rails, and the stainless-steel abattoir equipment.
The maze of machinery hindered Marsha’s pace. Her run became a walk. Desperately she screamed for help only to hear her voice reverberate against the cold, lonely, concrete walls.
Behind her, the fire door banged open. She was close enough to hear the panting breaths of her pursuer.
Marsha took refuge behind a monstrous piece of equipment and pressed herself into the shadows created by a metal-grate stair. She tried vainly to control her own breathing.
There was no sound save for the slow drip of water someplace near. The cleaning people had to be somewhere. She just had to find them.
Marsha hazarded a glance back at the fire door. It was closed.
She didn’t see the man.
A sudden loud click made Marsha start. An instant later, the room was flooded with harsh light. Marsha’s heart fluttered in her chest. With the lights on she was sure to be found.
One more glance back at the fire door was enough to make up her mind. Her only chance was to flee back the way she’d come.
Pushing off from her hiding place, Marsha sprinted to the fire door. Grabbing its handle, she yanked it.
The heavy door began to open, but almost immediately she could move it no further. Marsha looked up. Over her shoulder was a tattooed arm bracing the door from opening.
Marsha spun around and pressed her back against the door. With abject fear, she stared into the man’s cold, black eyes. The monstrous knife was now in his left hand.
“What do you want from me?” Marsha screamed.
Carlos didn’t answer. Instead he smiled coldly. He tossed the knife from one hand to the other.
Marsha tried to flee again, but in her desperate haste she lost her footing on the wet, stained cement. She sprawled headfirst on the cold floor. Carlos was on her in an instant.
Rolling over, Marsha tried to fight by grabbing for the knife with both hands, but its razor-sharp edge sliced into her palm down to the bone. She tried to scream, but Carlos clasped his left hand over her mouth.
When Marsha tried to dislodge his hand, Carlos quickly raised his weapon and dealt her a vicious blow to the head with the heavy haft. Marsha went limp.
Carlos stood up and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he crossed Marsha’s arms so that her cut hands were on her stomach. Picking up her feet, he dragged her across the kill-room floor to the grate at the termination of the cattle chute. He stepped over to an electrical junction box and threw the switch, activating the room’s machinery.
Kim drove like a madman, oblivious to the rain-slicked streets. He agonized about what could have happened to Marsha in the Higgins and Hancock record room. He found himself hoping that she had been surprised by a security guard, even if it meant her arrest. Any fate worse than that he didn’t want to consider.