A False Dawn

SIXTY

I drove down State Road 40, south of the bridge near Astor, and looked for the high-tension power lines. I turned off the road and onto a dirt drive almost hidden by scrub oaks. I stopped the Jeep, shoved the Glock in my pants, got out, and walked a few yards down the dirt drive. There were fresh tire tracks. Wide tires. Probably from an SUV or something like a Mercedes.

There, in a clearing, was the concrete block building. It was about the size of a small home. The cinder blocks were painted white and baked to a dull yellow under the Florida sun. There was a detached awning that would shade a car. A fishing cast net hung from one of the four wooden posts that supported the awning.

I parked the Jeep under the cover of a cabbage palm strand and then approached the building, circling around the rear before going to the front. There was a low droning noise coming from inside. It sounded like a refrigerator or freezer motor.

A rustling sound came from behind me. I raised the Glock toward the noise. A long blacksnake scurried through the dried palmettos and slid through a hole beneath the cinder-block foundation in the building.

I holstered the gun in my belt, put on plastic gloves, and tried to turn the handle on the rear door. Locked. I walked to the front door and picked the lock in less than a minute. I held the Glock, took a deep breath, and jerked the door open.

The hinges squeaked and a two-inch cockroach ran from between the joints towards my shoes. I stepped over the roach and entered the room. The light switch was to my immediate left. Fluorescents flickered and than illuminated the room. It was solid concrete. A stainless tree table stood near the center of the room. There was a single light on a large gooseneck stand in the corner. On one wall was a double stainless steel sink. A pair of rubber gloves were folded and hanging on the faucet. The concrete floor was sloped to a large drain in the center. The air in the room smelled musty, like a biology lab with a mixture of bleach, formaldehyde, and gas.

I turned the handle on another door, and it opened to an office that seemed to be a storage shipping area. There were two folding chairs next to a long table. On the shelves were dozens of small Styrofoam coolers. A dry-ice machine sat in the back of the room, the motor barely audible.

I walked back out into the concrete processing room and approached a large stainless steel door in the rear. I pulled the handle and the door opened toward me, the blast of cold air hitting my face. The air was stale and had the odor of death. I turned on the light and stepped in the cooler. There was a clear, icy liquid in a large stainless steel vat, a frostlike effervesce on the outer rim.

A pool of blood, the color of dark plums, coagulated on the floor in a near frozen state. I didn’t want to breathe the air into my lungs. I stepped out of the cooler.

A gun barrel was shoved between my eyes.

“You’re next,” Juan Gomez said.