The Fire Witness

127

The cop has no weapon. He must be afraid, the man thinks as he pushes his hair out of his face with his prosthetic hand.

He stops so he can aim his gun. He tries to peer through the row of slaughtered pigs.

He has to be afraid, he repeats to himself. He’s hiding right now, but he is going to make a run for the door facing the street.

He’s panting and the air is dry and cold in his lungs. He coughs weakly and turns completely around. He looks at his pistol and then raises his eyes. He has to blink hard. Perhaps there was just something there by the cooling unit. He starts to run alongside the row of pigs.

He has to end this. All he has to do is catch up to the cop and shoot him point-blank: first through the trunk and then a shot through the temple.

He stops. The space along the concrete wall is empty. There are a few dirty rags and a white bucket on the floor-nothing else.

He spins on his heel and begins to walk back to where he’d come from.

All he can hear is his own breathing.

He pushes a pig with his left hand. It’s heavier than he thought. He has to really heave it to get it to swing, and it hurts him where the stump of his arm presses against the prosthesis.

The gibbet’s fastener squeaks.

The pig swings to the right and he gets a glimpse into the next row.

He can’t go anywhere, the man thinks. He’s in a tiny cage. All he has to do is keep a line of fire open toward the exit in case the cop tries to get out, while also monitoring the plastic-sheeted opening.

His shoulder is getting tired and he lowers his pistol slightly. He knows he’s risking valuable seconds, but the weapon will start to shake if his arm gets too tired.

He sneaks forward and thinks he sees a human back. He aims and fires. The recoil bumps against him and the spray from the fuse burns his knuckles. Adrenaline pumps through his body and chills his face. It was only a pig hanging crookedly.

This is going to hell, he thinks. He has to shoot the cop. He can’t let him get away, not now. But where the hell is he? Where has he gone?

The ceiling creaks and he looks up at steel girders and overhead cranes. He can’t see anything. He backs up and stumbles. He grabs a pig for balance and feels the moisture of the cold meat through his shirt. The rind glitters with small drops of condensation. He feels nauseated. Something is not right. Anxiety is starting to overwhelm him. He can’t stay here much longer.

The man keeps retreating. He sees a quick shadow against the wall and raises his weapon.

All of a sudden, there’s an electric buzz from the ceiling and all the pigs start swaying. It’s hard to make out where one carcass starts and the next leaves off. Then the conveyor system roars to life. The heavy carcasses start to revolve. They are moving along the conveyor and pulling an ice-cold breeze through the room.

The man turns around and blinks. He tries to look in all directions at once and thinks that the job isn’t worth this.

It was supposed to be simple: buy a Swedish boy the police believed was dead. He’d get a good price for him without going much farther than Holland or Germany. It’s not worth all this trouble.

The pigs stop suddenly and swing in place. A red lamp glows on the wall. The cop has hit the emergency button. The room falls silent and the man feels uneasy.

What the fuck am I doing here? he asks himself.

He bends down to look beneath the carcasses and then takes two steps forward.

The exit to the street is still closed.

He turns around to check the exit with the plastic slats. The cop is standing right in front of him.

A shiver goes up his back.