by Robin Cook
“You all right?” Jed shouted over the din.
Kim nodded and tried to smile.
Jed gave him a wry smile in return and handed him the long-handled, stiff-bristled broom. “You must have had more in your stomach than you thought,” he said. Then he patted Kim on the back before walking off.
Kim swallowed and shuddered to stave off another wave of nausea. He put his head down to avoid looking at the line of headless, skinless carcasses moving rapidly in front of him on their way to the cooler. Grasping the broom in both hands, he tried to concentrate on pushing the offal that covered the floor toward one of the many grates.
“I don’t know if you can hear me with all this noise,” Kim said with his mouth close to his microphone. “Obviously the guy with the knife works here, which, when I think about it, doesn’t surprise me. I think I better locate him.”
Kim ducked as one of the thousand-plus-pound, steaming carcasses brushed by him. By not looking where he was moving, he’d inadvertently gotten in the way of the overhead conveyer. Now his white coat had a blood stain just like everyone else’s in the vast room.
Kim straightened up, and after judging the speed of the carcasses, stepped through the line. He was intent on following the route taken by the man who’d attacked him.
“Obviously I’ve been given the worst job in the place,” Kim commented, hoping that Tracy could hear him despite the general racket. “I’m the lowest of the low but at least it gives me the opportunity to move around. It’s like an assembly line for all the other workers. They stay in the same place while the carcasses move.”
Kim moved around the monstrous piece of machinery he’d seen the stranger disappear behind. The floor in this area of the room was relatively clean. There was only a small amount of blood that had seeped beneath the equipment. To Kim’s left was a wall.
Kim continued forward. Ahead, in a darker area of the room where there were no ceiling fluorescent lights, he could see several men working. A new sound emerged from the general background noise. It was an intermittent percussive sound that made Kim think of the kind of air gun used in carpentry to shoot nails.
Kim continued to sweep with his broom although there was little debris on the floor. After another twenty feet and rounding another piece of equipment, he could see what part of the room he was in.
“I’ve come to where the live animals enter the building,” Kim said into his microphone. “They’re funneled into single file. When the lead animal comes abreast of an elevated platform, a man presses what looks like a jackhammer against the top of its head. It sounds like a nail gun. It must shoot a bolt into their skulls because I can see brain tissue spatter out.”
Kim looked away for a moment. As a man who’d dedicated his life to saving lives, this unabated carnage made him feel weak. After a moment, he forced himself to look back.
“The cows immediately collapse onto a large rotating drum that throws them forward and upends them,” Kim continued. “Then a worker hooks them behind the Achilles tendon, and they are hoisted up onto the overhead conveyer.
“If and when we get mad-cow disease in this country, killing the animals like this will not be a good idea. It’s undoubtedly sending emboli of brain tissue throughout the cow’s body since the cows’ hearts are still beating.”
Despite his revulsion about what he was witnessing, Kim forced himself to move forward. He now had an unobstructed view.
“You know something?” Kim said. “These hapless steers somehow know what’s coming. They must smell death in here. They’re defecating all over each other as they come down the chute. That certainly can’t help the contamination . . .”
Kim stopped in midsentence. To his right and only twenty feet away was the knife-wielding stranger. Instantly he knew why the man favored knives. He was one of two people who stepped beneath the newly killed animal as it was hoisted up. With a deft flick of the wrist, he or his partner slit the throat of the animal and then jumped free of the ten-gallon shower of hot cow blood. The blood came in giant pulsating squirts as the animal’s heart pumped out its life force. The blood then disappeared into a grate in the floor.
In the next second, Kim’s heart leaped in his chest. Already tense from seeing his attacker so close, he overreacted when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Before he could stop himself he threw an arm up defensively.
Luckily it was Jed, and he didn’t look happy. Kim’s reaction had scared him as much as he had scared Kim.
“What the hell are you doing over here?” Jed shouted over the noise. The repeated concussion of the high-pressure killing instrument sounded like an evil metronome.
“I’m just trying to get oriented,” Kim yelled. He shot a glance back at his attacker, but the man either hadn’t seen Kim or didn’t care about him. He’d stepped off to the side and was in the process of sharpening his knife with a grindstone while his partner took over the throat-slitting. Kim could see the knife clearly. It was similar to the one the man had used when he’d attacked Kim.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Jed yelled irritably. He poked at Kim with an insistent finger. “I want you to get your ass around to where they’re eviscerating. That’s where the shit is, and that’s where I want you to be.”
Kim nodded.
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Jed said. He motioned for Kim to follow him.
Kim cast one last look at his attacker, who was holding up the knife to inspect its razor edge. A flash of light glinted off the blade. He didn’t look in Kim’s direction.
Kim shuddered and rushed after Jed.
They soon came to the moving line of carcasses. Kim was impressed by Jed’s nonchalance. When he ducked through he actually pushed the bodies aside like clothes on a rack rather than waiting for a moment to dart through an opening. Kim was reluctant to touch the hot bodies. He had to hesitate like a jumper waiting to enter a jump rope that was being rapidly whipped around by two friends.
“This is where I want you,” Jed yelled when Kim caught up to him. Jed made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Here’s where the dirty work is done, and this is where you and your broom should hang out. Understand?”
Kim nodded reluctantly, while fighting against another wave of nausea. He was now in the area where the internal organs were being removed. Huge snakelike coils of intestines were sloshing out of the suspended carcasses onto stainless-steel tables along with quivering masses of liver, grapefruit-sized kidneys, and friable strips of pancreas.
Most of the intestines appeared to be tied off, but some weren’t. Either they hadn’t been tied or the tie had come loose. One way or the other, there were also a lot of cow feces on the tables and on the floor mixing with the rivers of blood.
Kim lowered the head of his broom to the floor and started pushing the slop toward one of the many grates. As he worked, he was reminded of the myth of Sisyphus and the cruel king’s terrible fate. No sooner had Kim cleared an area of its filth than it became refouled with a fresh deluge of blood and offal.
Kim’s only solace was the fact that his disguise must have been adequate. He was relatively confident that the man with the knife had not recognized him.
Kim tried his best to ignore the more grisly aspects of this ghostly workplace. Instead he concentrated on his immediate task at hand. For the next step in his undercover investigation, he’d wait until the lunch break.
Out the window, Shanahan could see a jumbo jet laboriously lumber down the runway and then ever so hesitantly lift its nose. Seemingly going much too slowly it became airborne and headed off toward a distant destination.
Shanahan was at Gate Thirty-two on Concourse B, waiting for the flight from Chicago. It had not been easy getting there. The people at security had tried to deny him access to the concourse without a ticket. Since he’d made specific plans to meet Leutmann at the gate, Shanahan knew he had to get there. Unfortunately no amount of arguing or cajoling had swayed the security people. To solve the dilemma, Shanahan had had to purchase a t
icket on a flight he didn’t intend to take.
Shanahan and Derek had never met. To overcome that difficulty Shanahan had described himself so that Derek might recognize him. But to make certain Derek would identify him, Shanahan had also said he’d carry a bible. Derek had said he’d thought a bible was a nice touch. He added that he’d be carrying a black briefcase.
The door to the jetway for the Chicago flight opened and was secured by an agent. Almost immediately the passengers began disembarking. Shanahan picked up the bible and stood. He gazed at each passenger expectantly.
The tenth person looked promising, although the individual’s appearance was not anything like Shanahan had expected. The man was thirtyish, slender, blond, and deeply tanned. He was dressed in a pinstriped business suit and carried a black ostrich briefcase. Sunglasses were perched on top of his carefully coiffed head. The man halted just inside the terminal and swept the area with his blue eyes. Spotting Shanahan, he walked directly over.
“Mr. O’Brian?” Derek questioned. He had a slight English accent.
“Mr. Leutmann,” Shanahan said. He was taken aback. From Derek’s phone voice he’d expected a dark, heavyset, physically imposing individual. The man in front of him resembled an English aristocrat more than a hired killer.
“I trust you brought the money,” Derek said.
“Of course,” Shanahan said.
“Would you mind handing it over,” Derek said.
“Here in the terminal?” Shanahan questioned. He looked over his shoulder nervously. Shanahan had hoped to discuss the money issue in the privacy of his car in the parking garage. He was supposed to try to negotiate down both the down payment and the fee.
“Either we’re in business or not,” Derek said. “It’s best to find out immediately to avoid hard feelings.”
Shanahan removed the envelope he had in his inner jacket pocket and gave it to Derek. It contained five thousand dollars, half of the ten K the killer had demanded. There was no way Shanahan was going to try to bargain in public.
To Shanahan’s horror, Derek put down his briefcase, blithely tore open the envelope, and counted the money. Shanahan anxiously looked around. Although no one appeared to be paying them any attention, Shanahan was acutely uncomfortable.
“Excellent,” Derek commented, before pocketing the cash. “We’re in business. What are the details you are supposed to provide me?”
“Could we at least start walking?” Shanahan managed to say despite a dry throat. Derek’s nonchalance was unnerving.
“Of course,” Derek said. He gestured down the concourse. “Why don’t we proceed to baggage claim?”
Thankful to at least be moving, Shanahan started out. Derek stayed abreast, treading lightly on crepe-soled loafers.
“You have checked baggage?” Shanahan asked. It was something else he didn’t expect.
“Of course,” Derek said. “The airlines frown on firearms in the cabin. In my line of work, one has little choice.”
They were walking along with a stream of other arriving passengers. To their left passed an equal number of people clutching tickets and hurrying in the opposite direction. There was no privacy.
“We have a car for you,” Shanahan said.
“Excellent,” Derek said. “But at the moment I’m more interested in the identity of the quarry. What’s the name?”
“Reggis,” Shanahan said. “Dr. Kim Reggis.” Once again he scanned the faces around them. Thankfully there were no signs of interest or recognition. “Here’s a recent photo,” Shanahan said. He handed the picture to Derek. It wasn’t very good. It had been copied from a newspaper article.
“This is quite grainy,” Derek said. “I’m going to need more information.”
“I’ve put together a bio,” Shanahan said. He handed the paper to Derek. “You’ll notice it has a physical description of the man. There’s also the year, model, and type of his car along with the tag number. You have his address, but we have reason to believe he’s not staying there at the moment.”
“This is more like it,” Derek said as he scanned the sheet. “Yes, indeed. Very complete.”
“We believe Dr. Reggis spent last night at his former wife’s residence,” Shanahan said. “She bailed him out of jail yesterday morning.”
“Jail?” Derek questioned. “Sounds like the doctor has been misbehaving.”
“That’s an understatement as far as we are concerned,” Shanahan said.
They reached the baggage carousel and pressed in among the other passengers. The baggage from Derek’s flight was just beginning to appear.
“There’s one thing that I think you ought to know,” Shanahan said. “There was a botched attempt on the doctor’s life last night.”
“Thank you for your forthrightness,” Derek said. “That is indeed an important point. What you mean to say, of course, is that the man will be highly vigilant.”
“Something like that,” Shanahan said.
A shrill beeping sound made the tense Shanahan jump. It took him a moment to realize it was his pager. Surprised at being paged since Bobby Bo knew where he was and what he was doing, Shanahan snapped the pager off his belt and glanced at the small LCD screen. He was further confused because he didn’t recognize the number.
“Would you mind if I used a phone?” Shanahan said. He pointed to a bank of pay phones lining a nearby wall.
“Not at all,” Derek said. He was contentedly studying the information sheet on Kim.
Finding a few coins in his pocket en route to the phone, Shanahan quickly dialed the mysterious number. The phone was picked up on the first ring. It was Carlos.
“The doctor is here!” Carlos said in an excited, forced whisper.
“Where the hell are you talking about?” Shanahan asked.
“Here at Higgins and Hancock,” Carlos said, keeping his voice low. “I’m using the phone in the lunchroom. This has to be fast. The doctor is working here as a slop boy. He looks crazy, man.”
“What are you talking about?” Shanahan asked.
“He looks weird,” Carlos said. “He looks like an old rock singer. His hair’s cut short and what’s left is blond.”
“You’re joking,” Shanahan said.
“No, man!” Carlos insisted. “He’s also got stitches on his face where I cut him. It’s him, I know it is, although I had to look at him for a couple of minutes before I was sure. Then he came all the way around to my station and stood there for a couple of minutes until the boss came and dragged him away.”
“What boss?” Shanahan asked.
“Jed Street,” Carlos said.
“Did the doctor recognize you?” Shanahan asked.
“Sure, why not?” Carlos said. “He was staring at me. For a minute I was thinking he might come after me, but he didn’t. If he had I would have done him in. You want me to do it anyway? I can get him while he’s here?”
“No!” Shanahan shouted, losing control of himself for a moment. He knew that if Carlos killed Kim in the middle of the day with a hundred witnesses it would be a disaster. Shanahan took a deep breath and then spoke quietly and slowly. “Don’t do anything. Pretend you don’t recognize him. Just stay cool. I’ll get word to you. Understand?”
“I want to do this guy,” Carlos said. “I told you I don’t want the money.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Shanahan said. “Of course, you were the one who screwed up to begin with, but that’s not the point at the moment. I’ll get word to you, okay?”
“Okay,” Carlos said.
Shanahan hung up the phone. He kept his hand on the receiver while he looked over at Derek Leutmann. This was a quandary. For the moment he didn’t know what to do.
An unexpected tapping on the driver’s-side window made Tracy’s heart skip a beat. During the time that she’d been parked at the end of the slaughterhouse, she’d seen occasional people coming and going from their vehicles. But no one had come near her car. Hastily Tracy pulled off the stereo headphone
s and turned to look out the window.
Standing next to the car was a grisly man clad in soiled overalls and a dirty turtleneck. On his head was a baseball hat turned backwards. Glued to his lower lip was an unlit cigarette that bobbed up and down as he breathed through his open mouth.
Tracy’s first impulse was to start the car and drive away. That idea was abandoned when she remembered the antenna teetering on the roof. Feeling she had little choice, she cracked the window.
“I saw you from my truck,” the man said. He pointed over his shoulder at a neighboring van.
“Oh, really,” Tracy responded anxiously. She didn’t know what else to say. The man had a vivid scar that ran down the side of his face onto his neck.
“Whatcha listening to?” the man asked.
“Not much,” Tracy said. She looked over at the tape recorder. It was still rolling. “Just some music.”
“I like country music,” the man said. “You listening to country music?”
“No,” Tracy said with a weak smile. “This is more New Age. Actually, I’m waiting for my husband. He’s working here.”
“I’ve been doing some plumbing work here myself,” the man said. “They got more drains and pipes here than anyplace in the county. Anyhow, I was wondering if you’ve got a light. I can’t find my lighter noplace.”
“Sorry,” Tracy said. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t smoke, and I don’t have any matches.”
“Thanks anyway,” the man said. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” Tracy said.
The man walked away, and Tracy breathed a sigh of relief. She rolled up the window. The episode made her realize how tense she was. She’d been on edge from the moment Kim had disappeared inside, but her anxieties had skyrocketed ever since Kim’s confrontation with the killer in the bathroom. The fact that she’d not been able to talk to Kim didn’t help. She truly wanted to tell him to get out of there: It just wasn’t worth it.