by Robin Cook
“So am I,” Tracy said. “If it gets to the point that we’re that worried, I want the option of going far away.”
“Fair enough,” Kim said. “Let’s do it.”
It took them a half hour to do everything they had in mind around the house and another half hour to stop at the bank. They used separate tellers to speed things up, but it didn’t work. Kim’s teller had been nonplussed by his appearance and had to go back to a manager to get the signature authenticated.
“I feel a little like a bank robber,” Tracy said as they walked out to the car. “I’ve never carried this much cash.”
“I was afraid they weren’t going to give me my money,” Kim said. “Maybe I’ve overdone it a little with this disguise.”
“The fact that they didn’t recognize you is the important point,” Tracy said.
It was mid-morning by the time they got on the freeway en route to Higgins and Hancock. The day that had started out so clear was already becoming veiled with high cirrus clouds. Midwestern winter weather rarely saw long periods of sunlight.
“What did you say to Mrs. English?” Kim asked from the backseat.
“I didn’t have to say much,” Tracy said. “She was delighted with the task. It’s nasty to say, but I think we’ve given her life new meaning.”
“When did you say you’d be back?” Kim asked.
“I didn’t,” Tracy said.
“Let’s review our high school Spanish,” Kim said out of the blue.
Surprised at this suggestion, Tracy glanced at Kim’s reflection in the rearview mirror. In the last twenty-four hours she couldn’t tell when he was kidding and when he was being serious.
“I want to try to speak with a Spanish accent,” Kim explained. “Marsha said that a lot of the slaughterhouse workers are Hispanic, mostly Mexican.”
For the next few minutes, they counted in Spanish and constructed simple sentences. Neither could remember much vocabulary. They soon fell silent.
“Let me ask you something,” Tracy said after they’d driven for a few miles without conversation.
“Shoot,” Kim said.
“If all goes well,” Tracy said, “and we succeed in getting Kelly Anderson to cover the story and make it a big exposé, what would you hope would happen?”
“I’d like to see no market for the twenty-five billion pounds of ground meat produced each year,” Kim said.
“And then what?” Tracy asked.
“Well,” Kim said while he put his thoughts in order. “I’d want the public to demand that meat and poultry inspection plus farm-animal feed approval be taken away from the USDA. It would be better if it were given to the FDA, which doesn’t have a conflict of interest. Or better still, I’d like to see the system privatized so that there’d be a true competitive incentive for finding and eliminating contamination.”
“You don’t put much stock in this new meat irradiation movement?” Tracy asked.
“Hell, no,” Kim said. “That’s just the industry’s way of copping out. Allowing meat irradiation is just an invitation for the industry to allow that much more contamination to get in during processing in the hopes it will all be killed with the gamma rays at the end. You’ll notice even with irradiation the industry insists the onus is on the consumers to handle and cook the meat in a way the industry considers proper.”
“That was Kathleen Morgan’s position as well,” Tracy said.
“It should be any thinking person’s position,” Kim said. “We’ve got to get the media to make people understand that contamination must not be tolerated even if it means the product will cost a little more.”
“This is all a very tall order,” Tracy commented.
“Hey, we might as well aim high,” Kim said. “And it’s not impossible. After all, meat and poultry weren’t always contaminated. It’s a relatively recent phenomenon.”
In the distance, stockyards came into view. Consistent with its being a workday, herds of cattle could be seen milling about the muddy enclosure.
“It’s kinda sad,” Tracy said, looking out over the sea of animals. “It’s like they’re all facing the death penalty.”
Tracy turned into the Higgins and Hancock parking lot. In contrast with their visit the previous morning, it was mostly full. A large proportion of the vehicles were aged pickup trucks.
“How about dropping me off near the front entrance,” Kim said. “Then I suggest you drive over to the end of the building. You won’t be so noticeable there and the entire plant will be well within two hundred yards.”
Tracy pulled over to the curb. She and Kim looked at the building. The record-room window that Kim had broken was unboarded, and its missing glass and mullions were apparent. Standing in the flowerbed in front of the window was a man in overalls and a red plaid shirt, taking measurements.
“I feel like I should offer to help,” Kim said.
“Don’t be silly,” Tracy said.
The front door opened. Tracy and Kim instinctively slid down low in their seats. Two men came out of the front door, engrossed in conversation. Then the pair walked away. The plant was obviously in operation.
Tracy and Kim straightened up. They looked at each other and smiled nervously.
“We’re acting like a couple of teenagers preparing to pull off a prank,” Kim said.
“Maybe we should talk this over some more,” Tracy said.
“Time for talk is over,” Kim said. He leaned toward Tracy and gave her a kiss. It was the first time they’d kissed for a longer time than either cared to remember. “Wish me luck,” Kim added.
“I don’t know why I agreed to all this,” Tracy said. She looked out at the slaughterhouse with misgivings.
“You agreed out of civic responsibility,” Kim said with an impish smile. “Hell, if we can pull this off, we’ll be saving a million times more lives than I could with a lifetime of surgery.”
“You know what I find the most amazing about all this?” Tracy said, looking back at Kim. “Within a couple of days, you’ve gone from a narcissist to an altruist, from one extreme to another. I used to be under the impression that personalities couldn’t change.”
“I’ll let you psychologists worry about that,” Kim said as he opened the car door.
“Be careful,” Tracy admonished.
“I will,” Kim said. He climbed out of the car but then leaned back inside. “Remember, I’m only going to put my earphone in my ear on rare occasions. For the most part this is going to be a one-way conversation.”
“I know,” Tracy said. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Kim said. “See ya!” He waved goodbye.
Tracy watched Kim saunter toward the door in character with his outrageous disguise. Despite her apprehensions, she had to smile. He had the carefree, brazen look of a punk-rock drifter.
With the car back in gear, Tracy drove down to the end of the plant as Kim had suggested and parked behind a van. After rolling down the window, she put the antenna on top of the car. With the stereo headphones in place, she turned on the amplifier. After the experience that morning with the volume, she had the dial all the way down. Carefully she turned it up. When she did, she immediately heard Kim’s voice with an overdone Spanish accent.
“I need a job, any job,” Kim was saying, drawing out his vowels. “I’m flat broke. I heard in town you were hiring.”
Tracy hit the start button on the tape recorder, then tried to make herself comfortable.
Kim had been both impressed and encouraged by the speed with which he’d been escorted into the office of the kill-floor supervisor. His name was Jed Street. He was a nondescript man with a slight paunch bulging his long white, bloodstained coat. On the corner of his desk was a yellow plastic construction helmet. In front of him was a large stack of cattle purchases receipts.
Jed had looked quizzically at Kim when Kim had first come through the door. But after a few moments, he’d seemingly accepted Kim’s appearance and made no mention of it whatsoever.
�
��Have you ever worked in a slaughterhouse before?” Jed asked. He rocked back in his desk chair and played with a pencil with both hands.
“No,” Kim said casually. “But there’s always the first time.”
“Do you have a Social Security number?” Jed asked.
“Nope,” Kim said. “I was told I didn’t need one.”
“What’s your name?” Jed asked.
“José,” Kim said. “José Ramerez.”
“Where are you from?”
“Brownsville, Texas,” Kim said with more of a southern drawl than a Spanish accent.
“Yeah, and I’m from Paris, France,” Jed said, seemingly oblivious to Kim’s verbal faux pas. He rocked forward. “Look, this is hard, sloppy work. Are you ready for that?”
“I’m ready for anything,” Kim said.
“Do you have a green card?” Jed asked.
“Nope.”
“When are you willing to start?”
“Hey, I’m ready to start right now,” Kim said. “I haven’t eaten anything for a day and a half.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” Jed said, “considering you’ve never been working in a slaughterhouse before. I’m going to have you start out sweeping the kill-room floor. It’s five bucks an hour, cash. With no Social Security card, that’s the best I can do.”
“Sounds good,” Kim said.
“One other thing,” Jed said. “If you want to work, you gotta work the three-to-eleven cleanup shift too, but just for tonight. One of the guys called in sick. What do you say?”
“I say okay,” Kim responded.
“Good,” Jed said. He got to his feet. “Let’s get you outfitted.”
“You mean I have to change clothes?” Kim asked anxiously. He could feel the gun pressing up against his thigh and the audio system’s battery packs pressing against his chest.
“Nah,” Jed said. “You only need a white coat, boots, hard hat, gloves, and a broom. The only thing you have to change are your shoes to get the boots on.”
Kim followed Jed out of the supervisor’s office and along the back corridor. They went into one of the storerooms Kim had looked into Saturday night. Kim got everything Jed had mentioned except the broom. For the boots, he had to settle for elevens. They were out of ten and a halfs. They were yellow rubber and came to midcalf. They weren’t new and didn’t smell good.
Jed gave Kim a combination lock and took him to the locker room off the lunchroom. He waited while Kim changed into the boots and stored his shoes. Once Kim had on the hard hat, the yellow gauntlet-length gloves, and the white coat, he looked like he belonged.
“That’s quite a cut you got on your nose,” Jed commented. “What happened?”
“A glass storm door broke,” Kim said evasively.
“Sorry to hear that,” Jed said. “Well, you ready for the plunge?”
“I guess,” Kim said.
Jed led Kim out through the lunchroom and up the half flight of stairs to the fire door. There he paused and waited for Kim to catch up. He took something out of his pocket and extended his hand to Kim.
“I almost forgot these buggers,” Jed said. He dropped two small, weightless objects into Kim’s waiting palm.
“What are these?” Kim asked.
“Earplugs,” Jed said. “There’s a lot of noise out on the kill floor from the overhead rails and the power skinners and saws.”
Kim examined one of the small, cone-shaped, sponge-rubberlike earplugs. They too were yellow.
“Listen,” Jed said. “Your job is to move around the floor and push the shit on the floor into the grates.”
“Shit?” Kim asked.
“Yeah,” Jed said. “You have a problem with that?”
“Real shit?”
“Well, a mixture of cow shit, barf, and gore,” Jed said. “Whatever falls down from the line. This isn’t a tea party. And, by the way, watch out for the moving carcasses suspended from the rails, and, of course, watch out for the slippery floor. Falling down is no picnic.” Jed laughed.
Kim nodded and swallowed. He was really going to have to steel himself for the gruesome aspects of this job.
Jed checked his watch. “It’s less than an hour before we stop the line for the lunch break,” he said. “But no matter. It’ll give you a chance to get acclimated. Any questions?”
Kim shook his head.
“If you do,” Jed said, “you know where my office is.”
“Right,” Kim said. It seemed Jed was waiting for an answer.
“Aren’t you going to put in those earplugs?” Jed said.
“Oh yeah,” Kim said. “I forgot.” Kim pushed the little spongy plugs into his ear and gave a thumbs-up sign to Jed.
Jed threw open the door. Even with the earplugs, Kim was initially bowled over by the cacophony of noise that exploded into the stairwell.
Kim followed Jed out onto the kill floor. It was a far different place than it had been on Saturday night. Kim thought he’d prepared himself for the experience awaiting him, but he hadn’t. Instantly he turned green at the sight of the overhead conveyer carrying the suspended, hot, thousand-plus-pound carcasses combined with the whine of all the power machinery, and the horrid smell. The thick, warm air was laden with the stench of raw flesh, blood, and fresh feces.
Kim was equally overwhelmed by the visual impact of the spectacle. The powerful roof air conditioners, vainly struggling to keep the room temperature down, caused the fifty or so skinned dead animals currently in Kim’s line of sight to steam. Hundreds of workers in blood-spattered white coats were standing on the raised metal-grate catwalks elbow to elbow, laboring on the carcasses as they streaked by. Powerlines draped about the space in a bewildering fashion, like pieces of a huge spiderweb. It was a surreal, Dantesque image of the inferno: a hell on earth.
Jed tapped Kim on the shoulder and pointed at the floor. Kim’s eyes lowered. The kill floor was a literal sea of blood, pieces of internal organs, vomitus, and watery cow diarrhea. Jed tapped Kim again. Kim looked up. Jed was about to hand him a broom, when he saw the color of Kim’s face and that Kim’s cheeks were involuntarily billowing outward.
Jed took a cautionary step backward while hastily pointing off to the side.
Kim retched but managed to slap a hand to his face. He followed Jed’s pointing finger and saw a door with a crudely painted sign that read: GENTS.
Kim made a beeline for the bathroom. He yanked open the door and dashed to the sink. Leaning forward on the cold porcelain, he convulsively vomited up the breakfast he’d shared with Tracy that morning.
When the retching finally stopped, he rinsed out the sink and raised his head to look at himself in the cracked, dirty mirror. He was paler than he’d ever remembered, emphasized by his reddened, congested eyes. Beads of perspiration rimmed his forehead.
Supporting his torso against the sink, he fumbled with the earphone that he had coiled beneath his shirt. With trembling fingers he plucked out one of the earplugs Jed had given him and pushed in the earphone.
“Tracy, are you there?” Kim questioned with a raspy voice. “I’ve got my earphone in. You can talk.”
“What happened?” Tracy asked. “Was that you coughing?”
“It was more than coughing,” Kim admitted. “I just lost my breakfast.”
“You sound terrible,” Tracy said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not great,” Kim admitted. “I’m embarrassed at my reaction. With all my medical training, I didn’t think I’d react quite so viscerally. This place is . . . well, it’s indescribable.” He looked around the room, which was the filthiest men’s room he’d ever been in. The walls were covered with stains and smutty graffiti, mostly in Spanish. The tiled floor looked like it had never been mopped and was covered with a film of blood and other debris tracked in from the kill floor.
“You want to call it quits?” Tracy asked. “I can’t say I’d mind.”
“Not yet,” Kim said. “But I’ll tell you; I was only out on the k
ill floor for twenty seconds, and I think I’ve become an instant vegetarian.”
The sudden sound of a flushing toilet in one of the two stalls lining the side of the men’s room made Kim jump. He’d not bothered to check if either of the toilets was occupied. He yanked out the earphone, tucked it and its wire back under his shirt, and turned to the sink to pretend he was washing. Behind him he heard the stall door bang open.
Kim worried what the stranger had heard, and for the moment he didn’t look in the man’s direction. In the mirror he saw the man pass slowly behind him, studying him quizzically; and Kim’s heart leaped up into his throat. It was the man who’d attacked him, first there at Higgins and Hancock and then again in his own home!
Slowly Kim turned around. The man had proceeded to the door but hadn’t opened it. He was still staring at Kim inscrutably.
For an instant, Kim locked eyes with the stranger. Kim tried to smile as he pretended to look for paper towels. There was a dispenser but its front was ripped away and its interior was empty. Kim hazarded another glance at the stranger. His enigmatic expression had not changed. Kim’s right hand sought the comfort of the gun in his pocket.
Seconds seemed like minutes to Kim. The man’s cold, black impenetrable eyes remained riveted on him. The man was like a statue. It took all of Kim’s self-control not to say something to break the uncomfortable silence.
To Kim’s utter relief, the man suddenly broke off the confrontation, pushed open the door, and disappeared.
Kim exhaled. He’d not even been aware that he’d been holding his breath. Bending his head down, he whispered into his concealed microphone: “Good Lord, the knife-wielding madman was in one of the toilet stalls. I don’t know what he heard. He stared at me but didn’t say anything. Let’s hope to hell he didn’t recognize me.”
After splashing some cold water on his face, and replacing the earplug, Kim took a deep breath and pushed out through the bathroom door to return to the kill floor. He tried to breathe shallowly through his mouth to avoid the smell. His legs felt a little rubbery. Just in case the stranger was waiting for him, he had a hand in his pocket, gripping the snub-nosed pistol.
Jed was standing close by, obviously waiting for Kim. Kim looked for the stranger, and he thought he caught sight of him off to the side, just disappearing around the edge of a distant piece of machinery.